Mike McNair's World

Welcome to my blog

How My Blog Works

My blog is like the old television program, The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet. Ozzie played himself, his wife played herself, and their two sons, David and Ricky, played themselves. Every now and then, one of the boys called Ozzie "Pops" and said something meant to be funny. Canned laughter followed nearly every sentence.

In my blog, I play myself. My wife, Nancy, plays herself. My children, Dundee McNair and Brooke Kemp, play themselves. My son-in-law, Chad Kemp, plays himself. And, of course, my grandsons, Kaden and Kameron, also known as "the Kemp boys," play the parts of my adorable grandsons, Kaden and Kameron Kemp. Everyone takes turns calling me "the Old Man," and various family members say things meant to be funny. Being hard-of-hearing, I laugh at almost everything because I don't want anyone to know I don't have a clue as to what they said. I'm even more annoying than Ozzie's canned laughter.

My blog has three rules:

1. Entries appear in reverse chronological order. (More recent entries appear first and older entries appear last. If you want to read it in order, start at the end and read to the beginning.)

2. Spelling and punctuation don't count.

3. I am always right.

Now that you understand how my blog works, on with the show!

April 25, 2024 Sweet Daisy Duck

Last year, a duck built a nest amongst the shrubbery by Brooke's Kimberly, Wisconsin, front porch. She laid a bunch of eggs that she faithfully sat on until they turned into ducklings. Then, when no one was looking, she led them to water somewhere. Brooke never saw her again until a couple of weeks ago when Daisy returned to the same spot to raise another bunch of eggs to duckhood. The eggs are laid, and she is sitting. In the not-too-distant future, Brooke will look for her and discover she is gone for another year.

April 19, 2024 Boyhood Memories: Squall Baby

Grandpa gave me two pure-white King pigeons when I was in fifth grade. "Rare birds," he called them. The birds, which cost a buck each, were beautiful and big, about half again the size of the common barn pigeon. Over the next several months, he bought me half a dozen more.

A couple weeks into summer vacation, I met a boy my age who had taken up residence several blocks east of my house. Tim hailed from Kentucky but was spending the summer with his grandmother. He had a bunch of barn pigeons in cages he had made himself. I liked him immediately. He was a boy's boy, which is like being a man's man only younger. He was smart and polite, yet adventurous and brave, like Tom Sawyer.

I looked over his crop of cooing birds. "You've got a lot of pigeons here."

"A dozen and a half right now," he said. "Gonna get some more tonight, though."

I stuck a finger through the chicken wire. One of the birds pecked at it. "What's the going price on barn pigeons?"

"Thirty-five cents," he said. "But I don't buy them. I catch them."

That statement surprised me. "You catch them? How in the world do you catch pigeons?"

Tim shrugged as if catching pigeons was nothing. "I wait until dark, grab a gunny sack and a flashlight, and head for an Emge barn. When I see a pigeon, I shine a light in its eyes, temporarily blinding it. Then, I grab it and stuff it into the gunny sack. On a good night, I catch four or five."

A thought struck me. Maybe I should add barn pigeons to my collection. "Would you sell me some of your pigeons?"

"I'd be happy to." Tim's face lit up. "Or you could come with me tonight. I'll share our catch fifty-fifty even if you fail to grab a single bird."

I knew that idea would never fly with Mom, to use a pigeon term. "Thanks, Tim, but I'll just buy them. Thirty-five cents each sounds fair."

I stopped by Tim's every day after that, and each time he told an amazing story about what Squall Baby, his favorite pigeon, had done since my last visit. He'd begin by saying, "You should have seen what Squall Baby did." Then, he'd tell the most remarkable story. One time, she sang to the rest of the birds, making her coos vary from high to low. Tim didn't recognize the song but said it was pretty. Another time, she performed a tap dance, which was quite well done until she got her feet tangled and fell on her beak.

One day, I stopped by Tim's with a dollar and forty cents, enough to buy four pigeons. He slipped the money into his pocket. "Which four do you want?"

"Well, let's see." I pointed at Squall Baby. "I'll take that one for sure."

Tim laughed. "Squall Baby? You gotta be kidding. There's no amount of money that could buy her."

"What do you mean?" I said. "You told me barn pigeons sell for thirty-five cents each."

He nodded. "That's right. They do, except for her. There's no other pigeon like her in the world. She's priceless. Now, which ones do you want?"

I selected four birds. On my last pick, I chose Homer, the most ordinary pigeon of all. The poor guy had no self-confidence. He was the low bird in the pecking order. I planned to change that. I figured if I treated the world's most ordinary bird in the most extraordinary way, something magical was bound to happen.

A few days before the new school year started, Tim hollered at me as I walked by his house on the way to town. I veered from my intended route. "What's up, Tim?"

He said something I thought I'd never hear him say. "How would you like to own Squall Baby?"

Confused, I hesitated. "I'd love to own her. Who wouldn't? But you said yourself there's no amount of money that could buy her.

He looked away for a second. I thought I saw a tear, but I had to be mistaken. A boy's boy doesn't cry, does he? He turned back toward me. "I'm heading home to Louisville Monday, and I can't take her with me. It's true no amount of money can buy her. I want to give her to you because you're the only person who understands how special she is."

Later that day, I became the official owner of the greatest barn pigeon in the history of the world and purchased half a dozen ordinary barn pigeons for thirty-five cents each to add to my expanding menagerie. Then, I said goodbye to Tim forever.

April 12, 2024 Boyhood Memory: Miss Rice's Rule of Remembrance

One constant in my education was Miss Rice. She became our music instructor when I began second grade and did her best to instill music appreciation in our lives. A slender woman in her thirties, she had light brown hair and a nose that appeared to have one nostril pinched tighter than the other. She was a wonderful teacher whom I got to know better than anybody else in my class. No brag. Just fact. And I owed it all to her Rule of Remembrance. That rule stated if a student forgot to bring the music book to class, which met only two or three times a week, he had to eat lunch with her instead of eating with the class and playing with friends during noon recess.

The rule was her attempt to teach responsibility, but she hadn't bargained on my innate resistance to responsibility. That year, I set a school record for forgetting the music book. It wasn't entirely my fault. We had more specialty teachers in fifth grade than ever before. We'd leave Mrs. Lampkin's room for English class with Mr. Knight, and on certain days, but by no means all days, we'd go directly from his class to music class before returning to Mrs. Lampkin's room. I always had my English book because that was where we were headed, but how was I supposed to keep track of the days we also had music?

As an adult, I realize all I had to do was to take the music book with me every time I went to English class. That way, I'd always be prepared. But as a fifth grader, I never broke the code. On average, I spent one day a week eating lunch with Miss Rice while my classmates played outside. After a while, I didn't mind because I viewed it as a part of my schedule. I did feel sorry for Miss Rice, though. I'm sure she could have found more interesting things to do than eat lunch with me, especially since the Rule of Remembrance had not improved my book-bringing memory in the least.

I enjoyed music class and always sang to the best of my ability. I remember putting my heart into singing "Red River Valley," which seemed to call for a loud, slightly offkey, and extremely nasally touch. What luck. That was my key. As we sang, my voice grew louder and more offkey and more nasally until it reached its zenith. I was in the middle of my tear-inducing concert when Miss Rice shouted, "Stop! Stop! Stop!"

Singing ground to a halt. She looked around. "Who is making that terrible noise?"

I looked around too, but that didn't throw her off because several fingers pointed at me. Her eyes zeroed in. "Mike, is that you making that awful screech?"

I felt my face flush. "Well, I wouldn't necessarily call it a screech."

"Whatever it is, don't do it anymore," she said. "This is music class, not caterwauling class."

Had I known what "caterwauling" meant, my feelings would probably have been hurt.

Two days later, I ate lunch with her in the classroom because I had forgotten my book again. I was tempted to ask her if she would like me to sing "Red River Valley" as she ate, but common sense slapped me in the face, and I didn't.

April 05, 2024 Old People

Don't you hate it when you see a seventy-year-old man walking down the street with a cane and you realize he was the most athletic boy in your seventh-grade English class your first year teaching school back in 1966?

Yeah, so do I.

This didn't really happen to me, but it could. When I began teaching, my seventh graders were ten years younger than I. In my mind, they will always be thirteen, but in actuality, they have aged along with me and are still ten years younger.

March 26, 2024 Boyhood Memory: Old Blue

Jimmy never got hired to work at the drugstore. (See my March 11 entry.) Mom continued doing all those little things in addition to the bigger things. The money she made went into the general fund to buy food and help pay the rent. She also had a side job selling Stanley products and organizing Stanley parties. She put the money she earned from Stanley into an envelope. She always said when she'd accumulated enough money, she planned to buy something special with it. No one knew what she had in mind.

On a sunny morning when my brother and sisters had to go to school and I didn't, Mom brought out the envelope. She pulled money from it and held it up. "I've saved a hundred dollars, Mike. A hundred dollars! Today, I'm going to spend it."

"Really?" I said. "On what?"

"A new car."

I couldn't believe my ears. We had never owned a car during my ten years on this good earth. "Really? A new car?"

"Well, new to us."

"Where?"

"Evansville. I have a cousin who sells used cars. I'm sure he'll give me a good deal. We have to hurry if we're going to make it to the Homestead Restaurant in time to catch the Greyhound."

Shiny cars snapped to attention and smiled their polished grills at us when Mom and I entered the car lot. A heavyset man boomed his voice at Mom. "Ruthie, is that you? Well, I declare. It is you. What brings you to my humble car lot?"

Mom shook his hand. "Believe it or not, I'm looking to buy a car."

He gestured at the smiling cars. "You came to the right place, Ruthie. I've got some outstanding cars here. Outstanding cars! How much are you planning on spending?"

Mom patted her purse. "I've saved a hundred dollars."

"A hundred dollars, huh? You know what? These shiny cars up front are all overpriced. I've got just the car for you in the back. It's a diamond in the rough. A diamond in the rough it is, Ruthie. Been saving it for just the right person."

The cars in each row we passed smiled less than those in the preceding row. We finally made it to the back where a faded blue Chevy with a flat tire had been banished. "This baby will give you years of pleasure, Ruthie. It's a 1943 Chevy. Detroit never made a finer car."

Mom stepped back and studied it.

"Now, Ruthie, I know it's not shiny like those up front, but it will give you years of reliable transportation."

"How much is it?"

"On sale today for a hundred dollars."

"That's exactly what I've got!"

"Then, Ruthie, I'd say today is your lucky day. You can't take it for a test drive because 0f the flat tire, but I'll start it up so you can hear the engine. It runs like a Swiss watch."

He sat in the driver's seat and turned the key. Awaawaawaawaa. He stomped the accelerator three times and turned the key again. Awaawaawaawaawaa. He pulled the choke about halfway out. Awaawaawaawaawaa pop awaawaawaawaa sputter-sputter-chug-chug-chug. The engine caught. He let up on the accelerator and pushed in the choke. "Purrs like a kitten," he yelled over the engine noise. "If you ever have trouble starting it, use the choke."

The next day, Mom and Grandpa caught the Greyhound to Evansville, and Grandpa drove the car home. By the time I got home from school, Old Blue was stretched out in front of our house like a passed-out wino. I had never felt sorrier for Dad in my life. He had no idea what awaited him.

We were all sitting in lawn chairs under the driveway maples when Dad's ride dropped him off. He stopped at the yard's edge and stared at the faded blue car. "Do we have visitors?"

Mom walked to where he stood and held the keys high, dangling them near his face. "We don't have visitors. This car is for you. I bought it with my Stanley money."

The dictionary contains no single word that describes the expression on Dad's face the instant he realized he owned Old Blue. A few come close, but only if used together. He had a sickly, horror-stricken, disbelieving look, with hints of denial and pain.

"You bought this ... this ..."

"Car. Yes, I did. I bought it for you. Here. Take the keys. Let's go for a ride."

We all piled in, and Dad turned the key. The engine tried halfheartedly to turn over, making the same grinding noise it made when Mom's cousin tried starting it. Mom pointed at the choke. "He said you may have to pull that thing out to start it."

Dad choked the car, and it sputtered to a start. Throughout the ride, the smile never left Mom's face. It never found Dad's.

A few months later, Dad told me Mom had made a wise choice when she bought the car. "Old Blue may not be much to look at, but it's got a solid engine. It should run for years."

And it did.

March 13, 2024 "Give My Regards to Tim Conway," a Parody

Several years ago, when I was obviously extremely bored, I wrote a parody of "Give my Regards to Broadway." It's called "Give My Regards to Tim Conway." Tim was still alive at that time. It's about two Americans who have lived in a remote foreign country for a long time, unable to watch a single television rerun. One of them is now sailing home and can't wait to binge on reruns of old TV shows. I've included Cohan's original version and my Conway version for comparison.

Give My Regards to Broadway by George M. Cohan

Did you ever see two Yankees part
Upon a foreign shore
When the good ship's about to start
For old New York once more?
With tear-dimmed eyes they say goodbye
They're friends without a doubt
When the man on the pier
Shouts "Let them clear"
As the ship starts out

Give my regards to Broadway
Remember me to Herald Square
Tell all the gang at Forty-Second Street
That I will soon be there
Whisper of how I'm yearning
To mingle with that old time throng
Give my regards to old Broadway
And say I'll be there e're long

Say hello to dear old Coney Isle
If there you chance to be
When you're at the Waldorf have a smile
And charge it up to me
Mention my name ev'ry place you go
As 'round the town you roam
Wish you'd call my gal
Now remember, old pal
When you get back home

Give My Regards to Tim Conway by Mike McNair

Did you ever see two 'mericans part
Upon a foreign shore
Who haven't seen a rerun start
For a year, maybe more?
With tear-dimmed eyes they say goodbye
They're friends without a doubt
When people on the piers
Shout "Watch them Cheers"
As the ship starts out

Give my regards to Tim Conway
Remember me to Sonny and Cher
Tell all the gang at funny Sesame Street
That I will soon be there
Whistle the tune I'm yearning
A line from that Mayberry song
Give my regards to old Conway
And say I'll be watching e're long

Say hello to old Denver Pile
If him you chance to see
When you watch the reruns have a smile
And charge it up to me
Mention my name ev'ry click you go
As 'round the shows you roam
Hope you see Barn's gal
And Andrew, his pal
When you get back home

March 11, 2024 Boyhood Memory: Jimmy the Job Applicant

[Note: Please read Jimmy, my January 10, 2024, entry and Doc Stormont, my March 01, 2024, entry before reading this post.]

Jimmy stopped by the drugstore one afternoon on his way home from school. Mom looked up when the bell above the door dinged. "What can I do for you, Jimmy?"

"It's not what you can do for me, Mrs. McNair. It's what I can do for you."

Mom's eyebrows moved up. "Beg your pardon?"

"I'll bet you go home tired every evening because of all the work you do here. What if you didn't have to do all that work? You'd have time to do all those things that need to be done that you never get around to, plus you wouldn't be tired at the end of the day."

"Jimmy, I don't know what--"

"You don't know what because you're tired. You'd know what if you hired me."

"Hire you?"

"That's right, Mrs. McNair. I'll do all the little things. That frees you up to do the big things."

"Well, I ..."

"I'll dust, keep the comic books organized, and wipe the counter clean. I'll even mop the floor and take out the trash. Just think of all the important stuff you'll be able to do when you don't have to do those things anymore. I won't charge much. I'll work for practically nothing."

"Well, I don't hire people, and those are the things I get paid to do."

"Who does the hiring?"

"Doc."

Jimmy peered toward the back. "Is he in?"

"He's in," Mom said, "but he's busy."

"That's okay. I'll check with him another time. Tell him I stopped by. And tell him I'll work for practically nothing."

Jimmy didn't get that job for two reasons. Doc didn't need another employee, and Jimmy was only in fifth grade. However, had Doc been in the market for a fifth-grade employee, Jimmy would have been perfect.

March 05, 2024 Boyhood Memory: The Last Time I Saw Doc

Doc retired when I entered junior high school. (See my March 01 entry, Doc Stormont.) I saw him only one time after that, sometime around 1964 when I was twenty-one or so. I walked into Barrett's Barbershop to have a trim, and there he was, sitting in the middle chair getting a haircut. He wore a suit and tie like always. Old Doc hadn't changed a bit.

After paying for his haircut, he opened the door and looked left and right and left again. He disappeared to the left. I knew he lived three and a half blocks to the right and wondered why he went the other way. A change of scenery maybe?

I found out why he chose that direction twenty minutes later when Mrs. Stormont pushed the door open and stepped inside. She yelled at the three barbers. Her chest heaved with each breath. "How could you do that to him? You know how he is! How could you do that to him? Would it have been too much for you to point him in the right direction?" She left, slamming the door hard.

I was wrong. Doc had changed. He was no longer the Doc Stormont I knew when I was in elementary school. He was just some stranger who looked like him.

March 01, 2024 Boyhood Memory: Doc Stormont

Doc Stormont always wore a suit and wire-rimmed spectacles with round lenses. Mom worked for him when I was in elementary school. I liked the soft-spoken pharmacist from the moment I met him because he treated me with compassion and respect. Heck, he treated everybody that way. Take Gib, for example. In his mid to late forties, Gib always wore grubby jeans, old shirts, perhaps torn, and a perpetual two-day growth of white beard stubble. He worked hard moving heavy appliances and furniture that customers bought from local merchants. His high-pitched manner of speech with its staccato syllables made understanding his words difficult.

The two things he liked most in the world were Doc Stormont and a bottle of ice-cold Coke, in that order. After a morning or afternoon of hard work, he often ambled to the drugstore to enjoy both.

The breeze blew hot the day Gib walked into the drugstore and sat on a stool at the counter, resting his arms on the marble countertop. He looked around. "Doc here?"

Mom shook her head. "No. He stepped out. Not sure when he'll be back. You here for a Coke?"

"Yeah, give me a Coke." He pulled a change purse from his pocket and fished out a quarter. "Here."

Mom took the money and returned with the drink and his change, a dime and a nickel. He took a swig and dangled the change over the opened purse for a few seconds. finally dropping the nickel. He handed Mom the dime. "Here. When Doc comes back, give him this dime and tell him I want to buy him a Coke. He's my best friend. Did you know that?"

The bell above the door dinged about half an hour after Gib left, announcing Doc's return. He placed his hat on the rack. "Anything exciting happen while I was out?"

"No. It's been rather slow." The shiny dime by the cash register caught Mom's eye. "Oh, Gib stopped in for a Coke."

"I thought he might. The heat's brutal today."

"He left this for you." She held up the dime. "Said he wanted to buy you a Coke."

Doc chuckled. "Put it by the cash register, and the next time he comes in, give him his dime back and tell him I want to buy him a Coke."

Gib came in the following day and sat on a stool at the counter. He pulled out his change purse. "I'll have a Coke."

"You can keep your money." Mom grabbed Gib's dime and held it for him to see. "Doc said he wants to buy you a Coke." She dropped it into the cash register drawer and rang up a ten-cent sale.

Gib shoved the change purse back into his pocket. "Isn't that just like Doc? He's my best friend. Did you know that?"

Mom handed Gib a Coke. He took a couple deep swallows and plunked the fizzing bottle on the counter, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He pulled the change purse from his pocket and removed a dime. "Here. When Doc comes back, tell him I want to buy him another Coke."

She placed Gib's dime by the cash register where it would remain until he came in again. For years, every time Gib stopped by, the dime he left during his last visit to buy Doc a Coke rested by the cash register to buy him a Coke "from Doc." He never figured out he was really buying his own Cokes. Each time Mom picked up Gib's dime and told him Doc wanted to buy him a Coke, he'd say, "Isn't that just like Doc? He's my best friend. Did you know that?"

February 21, 2024 Searching for the EMT

The EMT who rushed to my aid when I died Saturday (see my last entry) is a mystery man. Since he wasn't on duty and wore every-day clothes, we have no way of knowing which EMT group he works with. We know he was an EMT only because he said he was when he ran over to help.

He was a Godsend. After I died, he helped Nancy, who has bad knees, kneel beside me. Noticing my grandson was having a hard time with the situation, he asked permission to talk with him to make sure he was okay. Without that EMT, chaos would have taken over.

Yesterday, Nancy stopped by the police department to see if his name was on the police report. She discovered when police assist with an ambulance call, they do not make out a report. Then, she talked to a person at the ambulance center who showed her pictures of all the EMTs employed there. His picture wasn't among them. He either works for a nearby town or was simply passing through.

We are still holding out hope that we will find him. We'd like to personally thank him for going above and beyond what would be expected of any EMT bystander and give him a Richland Family Restaurant gift certificate so he can have an enjoyable meal to replace the one I completely ruined.

February 19, 2024 I Died Two Days Ago

Saturday, February 17, 2024, wasn't a particularly good day. I died.

This is no joke, folks. Around 1:00 pm, after eating a fine meal at the Richland Family Restaurant in Richland Center with Nancy, Dundee, Brooke, and Kameron, I went to the restroom. On the way back to our table, everything blurred. I made it to my chair and said, "I need help." Then I crumpled to the floor, dead. My eyes stared at the ceiling, and my breathing stopped.

An EMT eating at a nearby table rushed over. "He has no pulse," he said. "Do you want me to start CPR?"

"No," Nancy said. "He doesn't want that."

A few minutes after leaving this good earth, I returned. I heard myself yelling, "I can't breathe! I can't breathe!"

I tried to get up, but Dundee held me down. "The ambulance is here. Just stay down."

"I can't breathe!" I yelled louder. "And I want my hat! Where's my hat? I can't breathe and I want my hat!" I yelled when they put me on the gurney, I yelled as they pushed me out of the restaurant, and I yelled in the ambulance.

I think I heard someone say, "I liked him better when he was dead." On the positive side, I'm temporarily alive again, and I have my hat.

February 07, 2024 Boyhood Memory: Fifth Grade Welcomes Us

With fifth grade tapping its foot as it waited around the corner, the South Victor Street Gang crammed as much fun as possible into the remaining days of our 1953 summer vacation.

Joan wrote, directed, and starred in a play we put on free for anybody interested, which turned out to be a handful of younger neighborhood kids. The plot revolved around a detective trying to solve the mystery of who killed the man that lay in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor. Joan, who played the part of the man's wife, was the main suspect. The play ended when the detective discovered the dead man wasn't dead after all. He had simply slipped on something in the cluttered house and knocked himself out when he hit the floor. The blood wasn't blood, but ketchup from a bottle he was carrying that spewed everywhere when he fell on it. The detective concluded that even though Joan wasn't guilty of murder, she was guilty of being a messy housekeeper. Case closed. Yup. It was a classic.

By this time, our stomping grounds had extended beyond the South Victor Street neighborhood and even beyond the town. We rode bikes everywhere, including over dusty gravel roads to New Lake five miles away to fish. The only thing we ever caught there worth mentioning was Millard when an errant hook latched onto his face just above his right eyebrow. It wasn't funny when we tried to dislodge the hook, but once we successfully removed it with no apparent residual damage, we joked that we had just caught the ugliest fish ever. That was one catch we never told our parents about.

We hiked along Pigeon Creek to see what was around the bend and the next one and the one after that. We headed back when we knew if we didn't, we wouldn't make it home in daylight.

No matter how hard we tried, we couldn't stop the inevitable. Another summer vacation ended, and another school year began.

Mrs. Lampkin accepted, probably reluctantly, the responsibility for my fifth-grade education. Under her tutelage, I joined Ponce de Leon's search for the Fountain of Youth; I sailed around the world with Magellan; and I met the most remarkable person who ever lived, a genius named Helen Keller.

Once a week, Mrs. Lampkin handed out science newsletters that contained a bunch of amazing information. It also had a small section dedicated to fifth-grade-level jokes, which was the first section I read each week. I thought one joke was hilarious. I still find it funny. It went something like this:

A Russian couple, Rudolph and Olga, went for a stroll in downtown Moscow.
"Oh, look, dear," Rudolph said. "It's starting to rain."
Olga said, "It isn't rain, honey. It's snow."
"It's rain," he insisted. "Rudolph the Red knows rain, dear."

January 10, 2024 Boyhood Memory: Jimmy

By the time I stumbled into third grade, I could string together several short paragraphs containing an embarrassment of misspelled and misused words to create something that resembled a story. My scribblings about the adventures of Red Ryder and Roy Rogers and Gene Autry were not Pulitzer Prize quality. In fact, they weren't even lower-end third grade quality, but every time I asked, Mrs. Epperson allowed me to stand behind her desk and read my stories to the captive audience.

No one challenged my position as the unofficial third-grade storyteller until Jimmy moved to town. That kid had an imagination that knew no boundaries. We were walking home from school not long after he became a classmate when a putt-putt, a small, motorized contraption that putt-putted two or three railroad workers up and down the line, stopped on the railroad track a few yards from us. The two crewmen hopped off, and one stuck a flare into a railroad tie and lit it. It soon produced a bright flame.

For Jimmy, that was a teaching moment. "The flame on that flare is so hot, it's a zillion times colder than ice. Why, if you were to stick a finger in it, it'd freeze it off in a fraction of a second."

I didn't believe him, but the concept something could be so hot it became infinitely cold intrigued me. Another time, he shared his understanding of space, which as far as I know may be true. "Space never ends," he informed me, "but if you left this spot and traveled in a straight line through space, you'd end up back at this very spot, and you'd still be facing the same direction you were when you left."

Soon, Jimmy stood behind Mrs. Epperson's desk reading his own Red Ryder and Roy Rogers and Gene Autry stories. I found them both entertaining and annoying. I had an imagination. He had an IMAGINATION. On a good day, mine might fill the space between two words in a book. On a bad day, his would still fill the space he talked about that never ended. No matter how hard I tried, I could never make my stories as creative as his.

Athletics proved to be Jimmy's kryptonite. As bad as I was at softball, he was worse. My abilities placed me near the bottom of the pecking order during recess drafts, but Jimmy languished behind even me. When I played, a miniscule possibility existed that I'd make it to first base. With Jimmy, there was no possibility because he'd swing at anything, even at balls fifteen feet above his head. His softball weakness soon became common knowledge. Whenever Jimmy came to the plate, pitchers lobbed the ball fifteen feet over his head. Jimmy would jump as high as he could and swing as if chopping wood, missing the ball by eight feet, maybe more. It always took exactly three pitches to strike him out.

I never told anyone, but I knew why Jimmy struck at those high-in-the-sky balls. In his wildly creative mind, jumping ten to fifteen feet in the air and hitting a homerun was as routine as freezing a finger off by sticking it in a railroad flare's flame or traveling through space and ending up at the same spot you were standing when you left. I'll tell you something else I never told anyone. I half expected him to hit one of those high pitches over the fence.

December 27, 2023 Tommy Smothers Died Today

Tommy Smothers died today.

Tommy and Dick Smothers have been two of my favorite entertainers since the early 1960s. During the summer of 2009, Nancy, Dundee, and I attended their Chrystal Grand performance in Wisconsin Dells. Dundee talked us into waiting at the back door to get their autographs.

We waited for over an hour. When they finally came out, they greeted us like old friends. The stranger who waited with us took a picture of Dundee and me with the brothers. Tommy placed his arm on my shoulder and smiled. After the man snapped the picture, Tommy said, "Let's take another one." That second picture appears below.

"Is that Mom over there?" Dick nodded toward Nancy, who sat in the car watching the action.

"Yes," Dundee said. "It is."

"I'm going to talk with Mom," he said. While he talked with Nancy, Dundee and I talked with Tommy. I don't remember what we talked about, but I will remember that encounter forever.

My heart aches to day. Tommy Smothers died.

December o5, 2023 Boyhood Memory: Dog Poop

Have you ever eaten dog poop? Me neither. Well, maybe. I'm not sure. But if I did, it was only that one time in 1955 when I was a sixth grader living on West Ulen Street in Fort Branch, Indiana.

Roy Carpenter, a heavyset man in his early thirties, lived across the street. Even at age twelve, I viewed him as being different from most men. I thought of him as a teenage man-boy. He had several chihuahua-like dogs that yapped constantly and a double-jointed sister rumored to be a circus acrobat who stayed with him periodically. And he had a sports car that he delighted driving at high speeds, squealing the tires around every intersection he encountered.

He brought the small grocery store a hundred feet from my house, changing it from Marshall's Grocery to Carpenter's Grocery. The most notable change he made was to put in a comic book trading center. (He was a teenage man-boy, remember?) The comic center consisted of a huge cardboard box with comic books in it. Every kid in the 1950s had a stash of ten-cent comic books that he traded with friends. Now, kids had the option to trade with Mr. Carpenter. The problem was, they had to give him two of their comic books for every one of his that they took. His stash grew bigger and bigger.

One day, brother Don and I went to the store to pick up a few things for Mom. Mr. Carpenter shoved something wrapped in cellophane toward me. "Try this candy I made. It's delicious."

I eyed the treat. It resembled a dog turd. I shook my head.

He pressured me to taste it. "Come on, Mike. You'll love it. Made it myself."

Had it been any other adult, I would have tasted it. But you never know what a teenage man-boy is up to. He continued pressuring me until I finally pretended to taste it. In the process, it touched my lips, and a small portion broke off. I spit it out before I could even taste it.

Mr. Carpenter laughed. ""Glue hest gate bog hoop andy!" he said. "Aye nade hit drum de bog birds dim by guard!"

I had no idea what he had said. It sounded like gibberish because I was too busy spitting to understand his words. When we left, I asked Don what Mr. Carpenter had said.

"He said that you just ate dog poop candy that he made from the dog turds in his yard."

"Do you think it really was?"

Don thought for a moment. "I don't know. Maybe."

So, there you have it. I may or may not have eaten dog poop. But if I did, it was only that one time in 1955 when I was a sixth grader living on West Ulen Street in Fort Branch, Indiana.

December 01, 2023 Boyhood Memory: Even in My Hometown

My southern Indiana hometown has a dark side. All small towns do.

When I was nine, a woman ran from the Alibi Club Tavern, followed closely by a drunken man. At first, I thought she might get away, but he brought her down with a flying tackle in the parking lot. He flipped her onto her back and sat on top of her, striking her face repeatedly, changing hands and spewing profanities with each assault.

Men circled the action. After a minute or so, an elderly man managed a weak, "Stop hitting her."

The man balled his fist. "This ain't none of your concern, mister. Keep your mouth shut or you're next." He went back to beating the woman, and the old man went back to watching in silence.

I wanted to shove my way through the crowd, lift the man high above my head, slam him to the ground, and yell, "Leave her alone or you'll have me to answer to!" That's what I wanted to do, but like everybody else, I did nothing.

A block north of the beating site, downtown gave way to scrub brush and weeds. At age ten, I came across a man dressed in a suit and tie lying faceup in the mini wilderness. He appeared dead. I kicked his shoe. Nothing. I kicked it again, harder. He didn't move. Dead men seldom do. I had to tell somebody about the half-hidden corpse.

I had taken a couple quick steps toward town when Dr. Geick and another man rushed toward the scene. They pulled the man to his feet. Dr. Geick shook him and slapped his cheeks. The dead man groaned. The doctor called him by name and admonished him. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, drunk and passed out in public in the middle of the day.

Another time, I came across a sadly beautiful love letter at the spot the man had slept off his drunkenness. The neatly folded stationery appeared out of place amongst the beer cans and discolored cigarette butts. I knew the young lady who wrote it and the man she intended it for. She told of her sorrow after a recent argument and of her hope they would make up. She had cried every day since the falling-out and couldn't sleep the night she penned the letter. She closed with, "It's midnight. WGBF is signing off, so I'll sign off too and try to get some sleep."

How did a sad love letter end up at the same unsightly spot where a drunk had passed out in broad daylight? I didn't know, but I did know the writer's innermost thoughts should be private and not discarded in the weeds for drunks or kids to read. I took the letter home and put it in a safe place. When the couple married, I couldn't help but wonder if my actions had played a small part. A few years later, they divorced, and not long after that, the young woman died of cancer. Things like that shouldn't happen to nice people, but they do and always will. Even in my hometown.

November 14, 2023 Daughter and Family

That's daughter Brooke and family at an Appleton, Wisconsin, park that fronts the Fox River. Going left to right, we start with grandson Kaden. He's 20 and a junior at the University of Wisconsin -- Oshkosh. He's an outstanding student and bowler. Next is son-in-law Chad. He's a super-nice person and we're going to keep him. To his right is daughter Brooke. We're probably keeping her too. On the right is Kameron. He's a 17-year-old high school senior. In addition to being an outstanding student, he just finished a great year in volleyball. He made all-conference honorable mention, and his Kimberly High School team finished 4th at state.

November 14, 2023 Boyhood Memory: Bubblegum

"Do you like Bubblegum?"

A third grader, I had just finished Marlette Elementary's sauerkraut and franks lunch in record time and was racing up the basement stairs two steps at a time for recess when the question overtook me. I stopped outside the door and turned toward Larry, a second grader a step and a half behind me. "Sure. But I like the baseball cards that come with it even better."

"Not that kind of bubblegum, silly. I mean Bubblegum, the man."

I moved away from the door to avoid being trampled by others rushing out to play. "There's a man named Bubblegum?"

"Sure is. He works at Goodwill, and he's the neatest man in the whole world."

"What makes Mr. Bubblegum so neat?"

"He gives you stuff. And his name isn't Mr. Bubblegum. It's just plain Bubblegum."

"Well, I never heard of him. I think this Bubblegum man must be one of your imaginary friends."

Larry's voice became louder. "He's as real as you are, and he's the most generous person who ever lived."

I didn't think about the Bubblegum man again until four or five of us were walking home after school several weeks later. Larry stopped in mid step. "There he is! That's Bubblegum."

Two men in their forties walked in our direction on the sidewalk across the street. The taller one stood a slender five-feet-ten inches or so with an ironed-on smile and brown hair. The other one stood five feet six with a thick circumference that hung over his belt. He had huge, meaty hands and sported black stubble and a bald head.

"Bubblegum! Bubblegum!" Larry darted across the street. The rest of us followed.

The heavyset man knelt, making himself about our height. "Hello, buddy. And who, might I ask, are these fine young boys?"

Larry hugged the man. "They're my friends."

"Well, if they're your friends, buddy, they're Bubblegum's friends too." He extended his hand. "Glad to meet you, boys." We shook his hand.

"Bubblegum has a surprise for you boys. One of you is going to be the proud owner of this." He reached under his jacket and eased out a revolver.

The gun startled me. The only people I'd seen pull a gun from under their jacket were movie gangsters. I pointed at the weapon. "A handgun?"

"A real, honest to goodness BB pistol, kid. No boy should be without one." He looked around at us and held it up. "Who wants to own it?"

Our hands shot skyward. The man blew out a loud sigh and shook his head. "Bubblegum was afraid of that. You all want it. Now, how's Bubblegum going to decide who gets it?"

He seemed sincerely perplexed, so I offered an obvious solution to his dilemma that he had overlooked. "You could give it to me."

Bubblegum ignored my suggestion. He snapped his fingers and a figurative lightbulb flashed above is head. "Bubblegum has an idea. Bubblegum will think of a number from one to ten. Each of you try to guess the number, and the person who guesses closest to the actual number wins this fine gun. Does that sound fair?"

We all agreed it did, although I liked my suggestion better. We took turns guessing. I wished as hard as I could that I'd win it. After all, I was the only one who didn't own a BB gun. They all owned BB rifles. Owning a BB pistol would be even better. Mom used to say I couldn't have a BB gun because I was too young. After all the other neighborhood boys got one, she said I couldn't have one because we couldn't afford it. She'd be mighty pleased if I were to walk into the house waving the pistol and saying, "Good news, Mom. You don't have to scrape together money to buy me a BB gun because I have one. Look at what a stranger off the streets just gave me."

After we all guessed, Bubblegum announced the winner. "The boy who guessed closest to the actual number is this boy." He handed the gun to Larry.

Larry's smile was almost as big as he was. "Gee, thanks, Bubblegum."

I was disappointed and a little surprised my hard wishing hadn't resulted in my winning the gun. Bubblegum had screwed up and given the gun to the wrong kid, and I would have been negligent if I failed to point out his error. "He already has a BB gun. They all do. I'm the only one here who doesn't."

"Sorry, kid, but Bubblegum has made a decision. How would it look if Bubblegum went back on his word?"

I didn't care how it looked as long as I got the gun. Bubblegum and his slow-witted buddy, Smile-A-Lot, who never uttered a single word the entire time, went their way, and we went ours. I never saw either again.

An eerie feeling creeped up my spine when I met Bubblegum. Normal men don't call themselves "Bubblegum" and refuse to refer to themselves as "I" or "me." And normal men don't give young boys guns. I always figured the gun wasn't Bubblegum's to give away in the first place. It was probably donated to earn money for the needy, and he stole it to give to a young boy for reasons I don't even want to speculate about. I never told Larry, but the Bubblegum man was strange. Spooky strange.

November 03, 2023 Boyhood Memory: The McNair Super Flying Saucer

One day when I was just three blocks from school, I found a coffee can lid attempting to hide in the tall grass between the sidewalk and street. What luck! I had discovered a few months earlier that coffee can lids make excellent flying saucers. I had detected only one problem during my early testing of the McNair Super Flying Saucer, as I called it. The sharp metal where the lid was cut from the can tended to slice fingers to the point of bringing blood. Once at school, I placed the lid under the coatroom bench directly below the hook where I hung my coat. I then proceeded to my first-grade classroom.

I grabbed the McNair Super Flying Saucer when the bell sounded for morning recess and ran to the playground. If I could overcome that sharp metal problem, I could salvage a bunch of lids from the town dump to sell as toys. Maybe it wasn't as bad as I remembered. I stood by the school and launched the lid with a smart underhand snap. I released it carefully, but it still cut one finger deep enough to draw blood.

I looked up and placed my right hand above my eyebrows to keep the sun out of my eyes. I spotted the flying lid. What a beautiful flight. It kept going and going and going, and ... it hit a kid. Oh, no! He's down rolling on the ground, holding his leg. Visions of a paddling danced in my head as I ran to the writhing causality Once at ground zero, I recognized the injured boy. My muscles relaxed. You're safe, a voice in my head declared. It's only Ron.

But I wasn't safe. The voice had lied. Ron claimed to be hurt, and the blood flowing from his leg where the McNair Super Flying Saucer had sliced through his jeans suggested he was telling the truth.

He snatched the lid from the ground and uttered the four dreaded words first graders had spoken hundreds of times before. "I'm telling Miss Walling!" He limped toward the school.

I tried reasoning with him. "There's no reason to get her involved. That little scratch will heal before you know it. All it needs is a Band-Aid."

My logic didn't slow his hobbling pace nor did my dime bribe. He presented Miss Walling the lid and entered his bloody and torn trousers as evidence. He told how I had, without regard for his safety or the safety of all the other innocent children on the playground that day, recklessly thrown a dangerous weapon that struck him down in the prime of life.

Miss Walling held the lid in front of me. "Did you throw this, young man?"

"Yes, but ...

"You will stay in the classroom during recess tomorrow, and you are to never bring this dangerous weapon to school again. Understood?"

"Yes, but ..."

She tossed the McNair Super Flying Saucer into the wastebasket and led the hobbling Ron to the classroom to clean his wound. That ended my flying saucer research and feasibility studies. I sour-graped the setback. After all, tossing a toy flying saucer back and forth would get boring fast. It would never catch on

September 11, 2023 A Boy Called Bird Legs

NOTE: I wrote this true account in 2012. You'll find this story and others that relate to my Fort Branch, Indiana, hometown in Mike's World. To read them, simply click the Mike's World option at the top of the page. And now, on with the story.

Mom never was much of an outdoors person, but during the late 1960s when she was in her fifties, she and Dad bought one of those huge, heavy canvas tents, stocked up on supplies, and took up camping. Indiana's Turkey Run State Park north of Terre Haute and a little over a hundred miles from their Fort Branch home was one of their favorite destinations.

During one stay at Turkey Run, a troop of young Boy Scouts camping nearby took a liking to them and their longtime friends Bud and Edna, who were camping with them. The boys hung out with them the entire weekend and even put on a skit Saturday evening and sat around their campfire for most of the night. Larry, a good-natured boy some of the others called "Bird Legs," struck Mom as an especially nice boy. She often talked about the weekend the scout troop "adopted" them, and the boy she loved to talk about the most was Larry.

Fifteen years later, Bud and Edna stopped by my folk's home for a visit. Bud pointed to a large picture in the sports section of the Evansville Courier on the coffee table that showed Larry Bird, then a famous Boston Celtic forward, taking a jump shot. "I'd say our little Larry Bird Legs has made it big."

Mom glanced at the picture and nodded. "He certainly has." She wasn't a sports fan, but she knew who Larry Bird was, and she knew he was much more than just a basketball superstar. He was the man that good-natured boy called Bird Legs had become.

I was reminded of my parents' encounter with young Larry when I read a Jeff Eisenberg article that told of Indiana State's plans to erect a fifteen-foot bronze statue of their most famous basketball player on the Terre Haute campus. Sculptor Bill Wolfe decided to make it taller than the twelve-foot statue of longtime rival Magic Johnson that was erected at Michigan State.

Bud and Mom were right. That nice boy called Bird Legs has, indeed, made it big. A three-time NBA Most Valuable Player, he's the only person in NBA history to be named Most Valuable Player, Coach of the Year, and Executive of the Year. And he'll always be exactly three feet taller than Magic Johnson.

September 07, 2023 The Old Man

Several years ago, a man periodically visited our next-door neighbor. I never knew his name, but because of his abundant white hair and a face that reflected familiarity with many summers, I referred to him as "the old man." I'd say things like, "I see the old man's here for another visit," or "The old man's going for a walk."

One morning, I waited in the car for Nancy. She came out of our house at the exact moment the man came out of our neighbor's house. "Good morning," he said. Noticing I wasn't with her, he added, "Where's the old man?"

June 27, 2023 Boyhood Memory: Volleyball Wonders

Mom delighted telling, over and over, farfetched stories she believed to be 100 percent true. Each time, I'd pretend to believe them. One of her favorites involved a unique skill my twin sisters, Lari and Billy, had that made them superstars when they played volleyball in college physical education class.

I'm sorry. I have to pause for a moment. I cannot in good conscience continue without explaining my sisters' athletic abilities. They didn't have any athletic abilities. The fact is, they have never possessed a single athletic muscle between them. Not a single one.

Now, back to Mom's story. She said the ball would hit a special spot on their wrists when they served, resulting in a sound that resembled an explosion. Think dynamite and bombs. Really loud sounds, so loud, all the opposing players would run with their arms covering their heads because they had no idea what caused the explosions. A Russian invasion maybe? An earthquake? The opposing players ran scared every time my sisters served. And each time, the untouched ball would fall inbounds for a point. Time after time after time.

How can she believe this stuff? I thought. Do my sisters believe it too?

Lari visited recently. I asked her point blank about Mom's volleyball story. "When you and Billy were in college, did you have the ability to serve the ball in such a way that it made loud noises that caused the opposing team to duck for cover?"

"Heavens no," she said. "We were terrible at volleyball. The only players ducking were us, which we did every time the ball came in our direction. The instructor came up with a rule that one of us had to be on each team to balance things out."

Now, that I believe.

June 01, 2023 Your Phone Can "Name That Tune"

A few days ago, I was thinking of all the smart things a phone can do, when an idea struck me. If I were to touch the mic and hum a song, would my phone be smart enough to tell me the name of that song? The possibility intrigued me.

I touched the mic. "What song is this?" I asked. Two seconds later, a message appeared on my screen that said, "Play, sing, or hum a song." I hummed a song, and my phone correctly identified it as "The Star-Spangled Banner." I tried several more times with different songs. Each time, my phone correctly identified the song I had hummed.

So, the next time you have a tune playing in your head that you can't identify, ask your phone. It can name that tune even if you hum off key like I do.

May 22, 2023 Kameron's Volleyball Team

When Kameron tried out for Fox Valley Performance volleyball this past November, he didn't try out for a national team. He figured a regional team with less travel and a shorter season was good enough. But it didn't work out that way.

After the tryouts, he received a call from a coach who wanted him to play on her national team. She said she knew he wasn't trying out for nationals, but she believed his playing on a less-challenging regional team would not be in his best interest. After much soul-searching, he joined her Fox Valley Performance Volleyball Boy's 17 National team. It has been a rewarding experience. The team will play in the national tournament July 1 through July 4 in Orlando.

Recently, a professional photographer took individual and team pictures. Of all the pictures of Kameron, these are the two he and Brooke liked the best.

May 19, 2023 Boyhood Memory: The Wristwatch, Part 2

Note: This is the second part of a two-part true story. If you haven't already done so, please read The Wristwatch, Part 1 that I posted on May 2 before reading this.

Every day, my first-grade classmates admired Dad's old watch that my parents had given me to wear instead of my toy one. "Wow," they'd say. "I wish I owned a real wristwatch."

"Show your parents you're responsible, and maybe they'll get you one," I'd tell them. I had become quite the little philosopher on trust and responsibility, a characteristic I'm sure my classmates appreciated.

As I prepared for instruction before school by placing sharpened pencils on my desk and returning loose crayons to their box, a voice interrupted my concentration. "May I look at your watch?" It came from a classmate I didn't know well. His hair always needed to be cut and combed, his shirts patched, and his shoes replaced. I held out my wrist.

"It's beautiful. May I wear it?"

I jerked my arm back. "No, you can't wear it. I promised my parents I'd never take it off at school."

""Oh, please? Just for a few minutes. I'll be careful."

"No."

"At recess. What about just one time at recess?"

"No."

"Please, please, please?"

I wasn't sure what to do. This kid had practically nothing. My family was poor, but compared to his family, we were the Rockefellers. Wearing Dad's watch for fifteen minutes at recess would mean more to him than to anyone else in the room. Still, I promised my parents I'd never take it off at school. Maybe I should make an exception this one time.

"Tell you what. You can wear the watch at morning recess today only."

He jumped up and down. "Thank you. Oh, thank you."

"Wait. There's more You can wear it this one time, but I put it on your wrist, and I take it off. You never touch it. Understood?"

""Understood. And thank you."

The bell rang for recess. While the others lined up by the door, the boy came over and plopped his arm on my desk. I removed the watch from my wrist and strapped it onto his. I stared him in the eye. "Do not take this watch off for any reason. Promise?" I spoke slowly to make sure he understood my conditions.

"I promise," he said.

After recess, I waited at my desk for the boy's return. He entered the room with a kid from another class. The other kid came up to me. "He dropped the watch on the basement floor and busted it."

I knew that wasn't possible because there's no way he could drop it on the basement floor without taking it off, and he promised not to take it off. I laughed.

"I really did drop it." The boy opened his cupped hands and deposited several dozen watch parts onto my desk. Delicate pieces that once danced with synchronized perfection scattered helter-skelter on the desk, some falling to the floor.

I stared at the conglomeration of parts. "How in the world did this happen?"

He shrugged. "When I took it off to show the other kids, I dropped it. Then, someone stepped on it, twice."

I looked up from the clutter. "But you promised not to take it off."

"Well, how was I supposed to show it to everybody if I didn't take it off? Besides, you promised your parents you wouldn't take it off too. If you'd kept your promise, I would have never broken the watch. Don't blame me for dropping it. It's your fault." He walked away and sat at his desk.

That night I showed my parents the dozens of parts the watch had become. Dad verified my worst fears. The watch was unrepairable. The next day, I wore my toy watch to school again.

May 02, 2023 Boyhood Memory: The Wristwatch, Part 1

Today, we take wristwatches for granted, but they weren't common in 1949, especially for first graders from poor families. Yet, I wore one every day. The timepiece, a ten-cent toy, looked real enough to fool almost anybody. About a month after I entered first grade, I whistled my way from the cafeteria to the restroom. My cheerful ditty stopped in mid note when I noticed a known sixth-grade bully washing his hands. Quick glances verified we were alone. I went about my business quietly, hoping he'd ignore me.

The boy yanked several paper towels from the dispenser and slapped his dripping hands against them. He nonchalanted the crumpled towels toward the trash can. They floated to the floor a yard short of the target. He turned, and his eyes latched onto my timepiece. "Hey, kid. Is that watch real?"

"Uh." I stared at the yellow-stained wall above the urinals for divine guidance. If I admitted the watch wasn't real, he'd tell everybody I was a baby because I wore a toy watch. He might even insist I hand it to him so he could throw it to the floor and stomp it to death. I could lie and say, "It is, indeed, a real watch, sir, given to me by my grandfather for being such a wonderful grandson."

He might leave without further incident. Or, he might say, "Prove it, you insignificant speck of lying filth-scum." And when I couldn't prove it, for after all it was a lie, he'd beat me beyond recognition. A lose/lose situation stared me in the face.

"Well? Am I not speaking English, kid? Is it real or not?"

"Uh." My next utterance would be the answer he sought. I had no idea if it would be "yes" or "no."

The door swung open, and another sixth grader entered the restroom. The exact opposite of my tormenter, he treated everybody, even little insignificants like me, with kindness. But he stood up for what he thought was right. He looked at the bully and then at me. "Is there a problem here?"

Mr. Bully faked a smile. "There's no problem here. I just asked this kid if his wristwatch was real."

"What are you, blind? Of course it's real." The boy grabbed my wrist and whisked it to within three inches of the bully's eyes. "Look at it. Can't you tell it's real?"

"Well, I ..."

"I can't believe you even asked him that question."

The bully sputtered trying to find the appropriate reply, finally coming up with, "I'm sorry."

"You should be sorry. And embarrassed too."

"Come on, man," the bully said. "Give me a break."

Both boys left. A huge sigh escaped from deep inside me like steam from a locomotive, shaking the wall-hanging urinals and filling every corner for the Marlette Elementary School basement.

That evening, I told my parents about the incident. Mom's response surprised me. "We have an old watch your dad used to wear. We planned to give it to you when you proved you were responsible enough. You can start wearing it tomorrow, but you have to promise never to take it off at school. If you break it, we can't afford to get you another one."

"I'll never, ever take it off at school.," I said. "I promise."

A note in my defense: When I made that promise, I meant it. I didn't know I was telling a lie. Keep an eye or two open for "The Wristwatch, Part 2" post that shows what happened when I broke that promise.

April 04, 2023 Boyhood Memory: Remembering Yesterday's Smells

When I think of Marlette, the southern Indiana elementary school I began attending as a first grader in 1949, I think of smells. The smell of still-moist worksheets. The smell of sauerkraut and franks. The smell of wooden floors polished to the nth degree. The basement's stinky-foot smell during tumbling season. But most of all, I think of the basement's urine smell.

The smell, which originated in the boys' restroom, was the result of an unfortunate urinal selection. Unlike most urinals that stand upright like soldiers at attention, Marlette's two urinals hung horizontally like horse troughs. Boys confident they had what it took, lined up as far from the urinals as possible and aimed at the wall high above the horse troughs. The boy who shot the highest for the longest time won. Competitions continued throughout the day.

From the day school began in August until it ended the following spring, urine built up on the wall like pus in a festering sore. Every time a boy entered or exited the restroom, the door fanned the eye-watering buildup into the basement. I never took part in the competitions, not because I was a prude, but because I knew my limitations. Still do.

Four wooden toilet stalls emitted their own smells. Only the stall by the far wall sported a door. A few days into first grade, I rushed into the restroom, ducking a five-gun salute at the yellow-stained wall, and headed for the doored stall. I grabbed the handle.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing, kid?"

I stared at the speaker, an old-timer, perhaps a fourth or fifth grader. Weren't my intentions clear?

He spoke again, louder. "I said, 'What do you think you're doing?'"

"I gotta go to the bathroom."

Not in there, you don't," he said. "That's Mr. Messersmith's private stall. No one goes in there except the principal himself."

I released my grip. "The principal?"

"That's right, kid, and if he catches you in his private stall, he'll expel you before you have a chance to flush."

It made no sense the principal would have his own personal toilet with a door if it forced a hundred and fifty boys to share the remaining three without doors. The boy was a seasoned veteran, so he probably knew what he was talking about. I entered one of the doorless stalls, ignoring the best I could the never-ending parade of boys marching by. I vowed someday I would do my duty to God and country in the private stall with a door. I was so sure I would do that someday, I could practically smell it.

March 25, 2023 Boyhood Memory: The King, the Ants, and the Corn

In addition to introducing me to poetry when I was five (see my March 25, 2023, entry), brother Don also told me a fairytale titled "The King, the Ants, and the Corn" that showed why stories must have plots. It went something like this:

Once upon a time long, long ago in a faraway land, a king loved listening to stories more than anything else. But when the stories ended, he became sad and depressed. He wanted them to go on forever. He decided to do something about it. He offered his beautiful daughter's hand in marriage and half his kingdom to anyone who would tell him a story that never ended. However, if the storyteller failed to deliver the never-ending story, he'd be put to death on the spot. In spite of the death clause, storytellers from all corners of the kingdom attempted to tell never-ending stories because his daughter was so beautiful. They all failed and were beheaded.

One day a handsome storyteller knocked on the king's castle door. "I haven't a girlfriend or a penny to my name," he told the king, "but both conditions will change when I tell my never-ending story."

Skeptical, the king sat on his throne and told the man to begin his story. And he did.

"Once upon a time long, long ago in a faraway land, a king loved corn so much, he wanted to own more of it than anyone else. He had the biggest silo known to man built not far from the castle. Farmers hauled corn by the ton and dumped it into the silo. Ants soon learned about the corn, and when one found a crack in the foundation, it took a kernel of corn. Soon, another ant took a kernel of corn. Then, another ant took a kernel of corn. And another ant took a kernel of corn."

Weeks passed, and the story continued. "Another ant took a kernel of corn. Another ant took a kernel of corn. Another ant took a kernel of corn."

The story was still going strong after a year. "Another ant took a kernel of corn. Another ant took a kernel of corn. Another ant --"

"Stop!" shouted the king who loved stories. "You win. I give you my daughter's hand in marriage and half my kingdom." The king's beautiful daughter and the storyteller fell deeply in love, the king once again enjoyed listening to stories that ended, and everyone lived happily ever after.

Even though I was just a kid at the time, I understood why the ant story was so boring. It had no plot, no conflict, nothing to resolve. Years later, I told this fairytale to my junior high English classes to demonstrate the importance of plot and conflict.

March 10, 2023 Boyhood Memory: Big Bang Theory of Adulthood

By the time I was pushing four, I noticed from family pictures and such that boys and girls metamorphose into men and women. That meant at some point, I'd become a man. Just how would that happen? After much thought, I came up with the Big Bang Theory of Adulthood.

According to my theory, one night I'd go to bed a little boy and wake up a full-grown man in the morning. That presented a problem. I wouldn't have anything to wear. A man wouldn't be able to put as much as a toenail into my tiny shorts. I had no way of knowing when the Big Bang might hit. I had to prepare for the inevitable.

"Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom."

"I'm in the kitchen. What do you want?"

I ran to the kitchen. "Whatcha doing?"

"Making a grocery list. What do you want?"

"I was just wondering if you'd do me a favor. When I become a man, would you go to town and buy me some clothes to wear?

Mom stopped writing. "What do you mean?"

"The day I become a man, all my clothes will be too small. I just want to make sure you'll go to town and get me some man-sized clothes to wear."

Mom's wrinkled forehead smoothed out, and her lips curled slightly upward. "Of course not."

I couldn't believe my ears. "What? Why not?"

"I can't go around town buying men's clothes. How would it look? People would say, 'Are you buying clothes for Melvin?' Of course, I'd have to say 'no' and admit I was buying them for some other man. I'd be the talk of the town."

"Tell them you're buying them for me."

"They wouldn't believe me. Remember, when they saw you last, you were a little boy."

This proved harder than I had anticipated. Maybe a suggestion would help. "Buy them in Evansville. They don't care who you're buying clothes for in Evansville."

I can't take that chance. You'll have to find another way to get your new wardrobe."

Later, I approached my sisters. They also refused to buy the adult clothes I would need. They said I'd have to sneak to town naked and buy them myself.

Don was my last hope. When I told him of my predicament, he debunked my Big Bang Theory. "That's not how it happens. You don't grow into a man overnight. You're not a mushroom. It's so gradual, you won't even know it's happening."

That presented a problem. "If it's gradual, how will I know when I become a man?"

Don thought for a moment. "I'm not sure. You'll probably just know it, and you'll think, Wow! Today I am a man."

That made sense. What a relief. I wouldn't have to walk to town butt-naked to buy adult clothes after all. Still, I liked one thing about my Big Bang Theory of Adulthood. It took all the worry out of growing up.

March 01, 2023 Boyhood Memory: A Forgotten Time

I have an outstanding memory that goes way back to when I was a toddler. Yet, I have absolutely no memory of two time periods.

I remember zilch about second grade. Not the teacher, not a single student, and not one activity. In fact, I have no tangible proof I actually attended second grade, but circumstantial evidence suggests I did. I know I didn't skip that grade because I remember first and third grades in detail, and the same students who were in my first-grade class were also in my third-grade class.

The other forgotten time is kindergarten. My school district didn't have kindergarten, but Mom always told me I attended a private one. When I was a high school senior, the teacher had a tea for all of her former students. I attended the tea even though I had no memory of her or the class.

Unlike second grade's circumstantial evidence, I have physical proof I attended that private kindergarten. A picture clearly shows I was one of the three boys in the thirteen-member class. I recognize maybe a third of the children.

So, here's a challenge for you. Which boy am I? Choose wisely. The correct answer appears under the picture.

There's a lot going on in this picture. The Dollar Tree balloons left over from my birthday celebration still hover proudly. The stuffed monkey I captured from a Denny's Restaurant's claw machine a few days earlier sits atop a bust of Dad that brother Don made in the late '70s or early '80s. The card leaning on the bust is a postcard dated January 22, 1912, that tells of Dad's birth that very day.

That picture to the left is one Don painted a few months before he died. Titled "Morning Devotions," it depicts a woman praying at breakfast with Jesus standing behind her. Don claimed the woman wasn't Mom, but everyone agrees she looks exactly like her. I've always loved how the lamp appears to be emitting light.

How could I have missed all that? The only possible explanation is that Nancy is right. I don't notice anything that's going on around me.

February 03, 2023 Boyhood Memory: Get Mom's Goat

My love for playing games started at an early age. I played a lot of games with Mom when I was in my late twos and early threes. Or maybe I should say I played a lot of games at Mom. Get Mom's Goat was my all-time favorite. Mom always listened to dreamy radio music when she did housework. I'd sneak up to the radio when she wasn't looking, place my naughty little fingers on the dial, and flip it with all my might. Static would replace the music, and I'd run giggling from the room as fast as my chubby legs could carry me.

That ended my turn. Mom's turn consisted of three parts. First, she'd say, "Mike, I wish you'd quit doing that!" Next, she'd mutter something under her breath. Finally, she'd trudge to the radio and tune the station back in. What fun!

I'll never forget the last time I played the game. The radio's wistful music had kidnapped Mom's thoughts and whisked them so far away, I knew I'd easily win the game. Not taking any chances, I inched forward on catlike tiptoes and slow-motioned my hand toward the radio dial. My twitchy little fingers tingled with excitement. They were within an inch from the knob when the song ended and an announcer bellowed, "Ah, ah, ah. Don't you touch that dial!"

I experienced my first-ever anxiety attack. How did that man know I was going to touch that dial? Obviously, he could see me, and he'd been watching me all along, waiting for the perfect moment to scare the naughtiness right out of me and into my diaper. I burst into tears and ran from the room. I never played Get Mom's Goat again.

I did, however, invent other games to replace it, like Get Mom Worried. Now, that's a golden oldie I played over and over. The game began when I started playing hide-and-seek without telling Mom the game was on. At some point, she'd realize she didn't know where I was, and she'd look until she found me. I don't remember all the times I played that game, but I do remember the time I stumbled upon the perfect hiding place -- under my brother's bed, home to dirty socks, giant dust bunnies, and possible new lifeforms. I dropped to my belly and slithered in.

Like fishing, Get Mom Worried often involved periods of inactivity. Time passed. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Mom's voice shattered the silence. "Mike, where are you?" I held back a snicker. Game on!

Cabinet and closet doors creaked open and slammed shut. "Mike, I know you're in here. Come out this instant." Her voice projected worry. That was a point for me. I had taken the lead, but I had to fight the giggles. She'd win if giggles gave me away. Mom walked out of the room. Soon, footsteps of two people came closer and closer.

"You're sure he's here?" I knew that voice. Grandmother.

"I'm sure. I wish I could find him. I'm going to the dime store and thought he might want to get that toy dump truck he's had his eyes on, but if I can't find him, I'll just have to go by myself and forget the toy."

Mom had made it halfway through the word "toy" when I shot out from under the bed, jumped high in the air, and shouted, "Here me is!" I held my hand up to make it easy for her to lead me to the store.

Things took a sudden unexpected turn for the worse. She greeted me with a crinkled forehead instead of a smile. "You can just forget going to the dime store, young man. You're going to stay in your room for the rest of the day. You're a naughty boy."

She won that game with a trick play, but there would be plenty more games to come. I knew, and I knew she knew, I would win most of them.

January 26, 2023 Ed Rolen was one of my schoolmates in small-town Fort Branch, Indiana. He graduated in 1959, two years ahead of me. I remember him as an outstanding athlete, student, and person. Two days ago, his son, Scott, was selected for the baseball hall of fame in Cooperstown. Of the 28 candidates in this year's pool, he was the only one selected. He played in the majors for 17 years. I never met Scott Rolen. but because of that Fort Branch connection, I feel as if I know him in an "almost" sort of way.

January 21, 2023 Boyhood Memory: The Day I Went to School Naked

Well, I did it. I turned 80 today. To celebrate, Nancy and I and good neighbor Marlene went to the Country Garden Restaurant in Soldiers Grove. Marlene treated. I had the Works Pizza, which turned out to be the best pizza I've had in the last 50 years. To continue my birthday celebration, I'd like to share a story I thought you might like. It's about the time I went to school naked.

I was sitting at my desk in Miss Walling's first grade classroom waiting for school to start when I realized I was completely naked. I must have forgotten to get dressed after my shower. So far, no one had noticed. I had to figure a way to leave school and run a naked mile home without being seen. I came up with a plan. After everybody else left the room for morning recess, I'd sneak here and slither there until I made it all the way home where I'd put on clothes and return to school fully dressed.

Time passed slowly, but finally Miss Walling walked to the door. "Put your work away, children. Time for a break."

She stepped into the hallway to lead the class outside. Soon, I was alone. I walked to the windows and elevated myself onto naked tiptoes to explore the best escape option. If I could make it down the steps and out the front door without being seen, I might be able to blend in with the building by standing perfectly still in the corner by the front door. Then, when the others went back inside, I would run --

"Mike, why are you still in the room?"

I turned. Miss Walling stood just inside the door. Her jaw dropped. "Oh, no! You're as naked as a jaybird!" She disappeared into the hallway to call the principal. "Mr. Messersmith! Mr. Messersmith! Help! Mike McNair isn't wearing a stitch of clothes! He's as naked as a jaybird!" The room filled with dozens of pointing, laughing kids. I cupped my hands in front of me.

Mr. Messersmith pushed his way into the room. "Well, well, well. What have we here? This certainly calls for a paddling." He grabbed my hand and led me to his office where he removed the paddle from its gilded case. "Take the stance, Mike."

I bent over. The paddle sped toward my bare butt. Darkness engulfed me. I sat up and looked around. Where was I? The moonlight that glimmered through the window generated just enough illumination to provide the answer. I was in my bedroom. I fell back. My head hit the pillow. A dream. Just a dream. How do you spell relief? I didn't know how to spell it yet because I was only a first grader, but I knew how relief felt. It felt wonderful.

Feeling relief when I woke up is the good news. The bad news is that I would have that exact dream five more times before being promoted to second grade.

January 11, 2023 Boyhood Memory: A Gift for Daula Doo

Eleven more days until I turn eighty. In my January 2 post, I wrote about my earliest memory when I was a year and a half old. This is my second oldest memory. It took place a few days or weeks after that "Look Up" fiasco.

Mom pulled a small bag from, a grocery store rack. "Would you like a bag of potato chips, Mike?"

I pointed at the rack. "Daula Doo."

"You want one for Paula Sue? That's so sweet." She pulled another nickel bag.

Mom's voice was wrapped with pride when Paula Sue's mom answered her knock. "Mike has something for Paula Sue, and it was his very own idea."

She touched my shoulder, and I handed the young lady the chips. We ate while our mothers chatted. Everything went well until I gobbled my last chip. Paula Sue still had over half of hers left.

Now, I realize some will blame me for what happened next. In my defense, I offer these three facts: One, she had chips, and I didn't. Two, she wouldn't have any chips at all if it weren't for my outstanding generosity. And three, I was still hungry.

I reached for the chips. She slapped my hand. Okay, it wasn't a slap. It was a tap, but I knew what she meant. A fight ensued, maybe not a fight in the true sense of the word, but I cried a lot and took a couple hard swings that caught air. Mom swooped me up and hustled me out, suggesting over and over that I be quiet. I responded by crying louder and louder. Mom's voice was no longer wrapped with pride.

January 02, 2023 Boyhood Memory: Look Up!

I turn eighty on the twenty-first of January. Eighty! That's a lot of years and a lot of memories. I don't know how far back the average person remembers, but I recall sitting on the floor in front of a group of children and adults when I was a year-and-a-half old. Mom sat directly behind me, Paula Sue, a neighbor girl a few months older than I, sat on the floor to my right, and her mother sat behind her. For some reason, I had become painfully aware of my left shoe and couldn't stop staring at it.

"Mike! Look up!" Mom's shouted whisper projected urgency. I looked up so fast, I risked whiplash. I figured something amazing must be happening near the ceiling. I visualized red balloons hovering high above me. To my disappointment, not a single balloon floated near the ceiling, not even a yellow one.

Mom spoke again. "I didn't mean like that."

What was she talking about? How many ways are there to look up? I knew of only one, and I nailed it. To be honest, I was a little put out she didn't say, "Great job of looking up, Mike. I couldn't have done better myself. And you made it look so easy."

Years later, I happened upon a picture taken two seconds after Mom told me to look up. In it, I'm sitting on the floor in front of the group, my head tilted back, my eyes fixed on the ceiling looking for balloons, and my mouth hanging open. In other words, I look like a total little idiot. The camera caught everyone else looking straight ahead and smiling. I finally understood when Mom told me to look up, she really wanted me to look at the camera.

Well, excuse me for trying. Perhaps had she said, "Mike! Look at the camera!" instead of "Mike! Look up!" I'd be looking straight ahead and smiling like everybody else. I did the best I could with the limited information she provided. Moms should be more specific when they speak.

December 22, 2022 Boyhood Memory: Mom Blames Don for My Stupidity

Several weeks after the Santa incident that taught me Mom would blame Don for all my stupid actions (see my December 07 entry), Mom joined several other women for an all-day outing, leaving us kids, ages five, ten, and twelve, home alone. The morning passed without incident, but that changed after lunch. Every kid in the neighborhood gathered for an impromptu softball game on South Victor Street, right in front of our house. The older kids played while we littler ones watched and cheered.

Even though I could see everything perfectly from my vantage point, I decided it would be more fun to watch from the other side of the street. I began crossing the street by running between the pitcher and the batter at the exact instant the pitcher, who happened to be Don, underhanded the ball toward home plate. I figured I'd easily make it across the street before the ball reached the batter, but to be safe, I glanced to see how close the ball was to the hitter.

I had miscalculated, badly. The batter swung at that very moment, launching the ball a thousand miles an hour to my left eye. The impact slammed me to the ground. A long, blood-curdling screech began deep in my toes and intensified as it made its way to my mouth and beyond, piercing the air like an air raid siren. I pressed my hands hard against my eye to stop the pain. It didn't help. The game officially ended at that point because everybody, except us four McNair kids, ran home.

By the time Mom returned home, I had regained my composure, but my eye had swollen shut. There wasn't a spot within three inches of it that wasn't red or black or blue. Mom wasn't upset at me for being stupid enough to run in front of the batter in the middle of a swing. She was, however, angry at Don for allowing me to do it.

Don pleaded his case. "It's not my fault. He darted into the street like a wild animal. I had no control over him."

"I understand you were pitching."

Don frowned. "Yeah, so?"

"So, if you hadn't pitched the ball at the exact moment he decided to dart, none of this would have happened."

Don knew nothing he could say would convince her of his innocence. He looked to me for help. "Mike, tell her it was your fault."

I could have blamed it all on Don. I could have said, "He let me dart, Mom. It's his fault." Instead, I took the high road. "He's right. It was my fault, Mom. I did dart."

And there was that embarrassing Day of the Hearse incident. Don and I biked downtown on sidewalks to get milk. On our way back, a shiny hearse graced the street in front of one of the houses, either delivering a body for viewing or picking one up for preparation. The yard next to the hearse sloped up a couple feet higher than the sidewalk. Don rode his bike up the inclined yard and brought it back to the sidewalk. That move looked neat to me, so I decided to try it. Going up was easy. Coming down proved to be the hard part. The bike picked up speed, and I lost control when the front tire hit the sidewalk at an awkward angle. I broadsided the hearse at full speed. The collision pretzeled the bike's front wheel, blew the tire, and put a large dent into a previously mint-condition hearse.

I dragged the bike home, wailing all the way. Who got in trouble for destroying the bike and clobbering that beautiful hearse? Me? Of course not. Don did. It was his fault because, as Mom told him, "You should have known Mike would copy you." Don accepted the blame for my stupidity without rebuttal. He had grown tired of fighting Mom's logic.

December 15, 2022 Mary Tyler Moore Snow

The countryside outside my window, tranquil after yesterday's snowstorm, is now being kissed by Mary Tyler Moore snow, creating a Currier and Ives scene. I realize many are not familiar with the term "Mary Tyler Moore snow." Nancy and I have used that term ever since we came up with it over forty years ago.

Here's the scoop. The Mary Tyler Moore Show ran on CBS television from 1970 to 1977, earning twenty-nine Emmy Awards. Set in Minneapolis, storylines sometimes revolved around snowstorms and blizzards. But if you looked out the televised windows during those blizzards, the falling snow resembled light flurries that floated gently toward the ground like down feathers.

To this day, if we notice very light flurries with a gentle breeze, we'll say, "Look. It's Mary Tyler Mooring." That brings me to my Christmas wish for you. May your holiday season be filled with children's laughter, merry carols, and delicious food. And may it Mary Tyler Moore all around you every day.

December 07, 2022 Boyhood Memory: The Truth about Santa

December's flying by pretty fast. Santa will be here before you know it. I'm curious. How old were you when you learned the truth about Santa? I learned the truth in 1948 when I was five. Paula Sue, a neighbor girl about my age, and I were talking in front of her house about Christmas and presents and the Jolly One himself when she took four common words -- Santa, parents, our, and are -- and arranged them in a sequence I'd never heard before: "Our parents are Santa."

The significance of her announcement hit me hard. "What? Our parents are Santa?"

Paula Sue stiffened. "No, no. I'm wrong. It's not true. I don't know what I'm talking about. I take it back."

But she had said it. It's impossible to take something back once it's been said. I ran home and bolted into the living room. "Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!"

Don looked up from the couch where he was reading a comic book. "She's not here." He placed the book on the coffee table. "What's wrong with you?"

I spoke haltingly through sobs. "Paula Sue said Santa isn't real. Is it true?" Don was ten, practically a man. If anyone would know the truth about Santa, he'd know.

His words cut deep. "It's true. Santa isn't real."

I cried harder, stopping just long enough to ask another question that had barged uninvited into my thoughts. "What about the Easter Bunny?"

Don's answer shattered my crumbling world even more. "He's not real either."

I was still wailing when Mom got home. When she found out why, she admonished Don, insisting he should have told me both Santa and the Easter Bunny were real.

Don tried to understand why he was in trouble for being honest. "But you always told me to tell the truth."

Mom sniffed. "Well, I do want you to tell the truth. That's very important. You should always tell the truth. But I would have thought you'd be smart enough to make an exception in this case."

What I learned about Santa was devastating, but on the positive side, I discovered something that day even more important. I realized I didn't have to worry about getting into trouble as long as Don was with me. Should I do something stupid, which was always possible and often probable, Mom would blame him for my stupidity just as she had blamed him for telling the truth about Santa. And, of course, I milked it for all it was worth for the next several years. A television program premiered in 1957 that paralleled that aspect of our lives. Surprisingly, neither Don nor I received a single penny in royalties for Leave It to Beaver.

December 01, 2022 A Very Ralphie Christmas

I'm not saying the 1983 movie A Christmas Story is based on our 1982 Christmas experience. I'm just saying there are obvious similarities that make you wonder.

In the classic movie, nine-year-old Ralphie Parker wanted only one thing for Christmas, a Red Ryder Carbine Action 200-shot Range Model air rifle with a compass in the stock. Although it wasn't in the gifts he opened, he still had a good Christmas. Then, his father spied a hidden gift behind the tree. It turned out to be the exact rifle Ralphie wanted, making that Christmas the best one ever.

In 1982, Nancy, nine-year-old Dundee, eight-year-old Brooke, and I lived in a Richland County farmhouse. Nancy is the epitome of Christmas. She does it all. She buys and wraps the presents, bakes a variety of cookies, and prepares the best Christmas dinner in all of southwestern Wisconsin. Money was tight back then, but we splurged and bought the bikes that both children wanted. Even with her outstanding wrapping skills, Nancy couldn't figure a way to wrap them without it being obvious that they were bikes. We hid them in the seldom-used dirt-floor basement.

That Christmas Eve, like all the others before it, we sipped hot chocolate, gobbled cookies, laughed, and opened presents. After the final gift was opened, I said, "Wasn't there another present?"

"You're right," Nancy said. "There are two more in the basement that I forgot to bring up."

Dundee and Brooke bounded to where the shiny bikes waited. Excited shouts made it clear that the basement surprise had made our 1982 edition of Christmas the best one ever.

That night's magic never ended. To this day, after the final present is opened, Dundee, the former nine-year-old boy who was surprised with a shiny new Christmas bike four decades ago, looks around and says, "Our good presents are in the basement, right?"

November 22, 2022 Rookies Carry Playbooks

The Chicago Bears held training camp on the University of Wisconsin-Platteville campus from 1984 to 2001. Nancy and I enjoyed watching the practices, and Dundee and Brooke delighted in getting autographs. I told a high school English teacher that it was easy to tell who the rookies were because they carried their playbooks everywhere.

"That's wonderful!" she said. "I can't tell you how impressed I am."

Her enthusiasm puzzled me until I realized she had no idea what a football playbook was. She thought the rookies were studying Shakespeare in their free time.

November 10, 2022 My Amazing Feet Feat

Knowing when to walk away is a valuable skill many successful people possess. I had that skill for ten minutes many years ago. On a whim after lunch at school one day in the late 1970s, I placed my crumpled lunch bag between my feet, jumped, and swung my legs toward the wastebasket. The bag hit the basket dead center. My crumpled lunch bags soon hit that teachers' lounge target with uncanny consistency.

A teacher asked me to stop by his room to discuss a concern. When I stepped inside his classroom, a tennis ball gazed up at me just inside the door. I had no idea if I could succeed at what I was about to attempt or not -- after all, a tennis ball isn't a crumpled lunch bag, and I had never before attempted flinging anything that far with my feet -- but I had to try. I pointed at the ball and then at the wastebasket on the other side of the room. Trapping the ball between my feet, I jumped and flung it at the basket. It landed dead center with a resounding THUD. The deafening standing ovation was immediate.

"We'll talk later." I used my outside voice so the teacher could hear me above the ruckus.

"Right," he said. "Later."

With a wave and smile, I walked away. A couple teachers stuck their heads out their classroom doors trying to determine the commotion's epicenter.

The teacher and I did talk later. "You impressed the heck out of those kids," he said. He didn't mention the best part. He didn't need to because we both knew it. I had walked away at the perfect moment.

October 03, 2022 The Halloween Grandma Got Tricked

Back in 2009 when our grandsons, Kameron and Kaden, were 3 1/2 and 6 1/2, our daughter, Brooke, called me on the sly. "Chad and I want to play a trick on Mom by making a surprise Halloween visit. You guys going to be home?"

I told her we would be. She said they would make the three-hour trip from Sherwood to Richland Center before trick-or-treating ended at 7:30 that Saturday evening and stay until Sunday evening. "Keep an eye open for a knight and Superman," she said.

Nancy and I had already passed out candy to over sixty kids when Sir Lancelot followed Superman up our porch steps. "Those are adorable costumes," Nancy said, dropping candy into their treat bags.

Kameron removed his mask and pointed. "Mommy's hiding in the bushes."

Nancy handed candy to a goblin and glanced up. "Your mommy's hiding? That's nice." The boys watched her hand out candy to others for a while and then left.

Moments later, they returned with their parents. "Don't you recognize your own grandchildren?" Brooke asked.

It took a moment for Nancy to realize what was going on, but when she did, she smiled. "I thought they looked familiar," she said. "I kept thinking, where do I know these kids from."

We still laugh about the Halloween Grandma got tricked and how Sir Lancelot and Superman turned a sneaky Halloween trick into a wonderful weekend treat.

September 08, 2022 Yellow Jacket Stings Kameron

Nancy and I visited Brooke and family over the Labor Day weekend. We stayed an extra night to watch grandson Kameron, a Kimberly High School junior, play on the varsity volleyball team Tuesday night.

But it wasn't to be.

On Monday, Chad grilled steaks on the patio. (Actually, he grilled them on the grill, but you know what I mean.) Yellow jackets tend to be unfriendly neighbors. One took a disliking to Kameron and stung him on the arm. Now, for Kameron, that's a problem. He reacts to all insect bites and stings. By evening, his arm was quite swollen. By gametime Tuesday evening, it was swollen to the elbow. Of course, he was unable to play volleyball. He's now on meds and is hoping to be ready to play in a tournament this weekend.

Below are two pictures of Kameron ready to play volleyball before the sting.

September 02, 2022 The Preacher's Wife

As a guidance counselor at Richland Center High School from 1972 through 2001, I took part in twenty-nine annual parent-teacher open houses. They all blur together except for one in the late 1970s. The evening's activities were coming to an end and the last parent had exited the Guidance Center when Mrs. Rohn, the other counselor, left to talk with a teacher. A few minutes later, I noticed through the door's tiny window that she was heading back. A brilliant idea struck me.

I dropped to my knees so she wouldn't see me through that tiny window, rested my hands on the doorknob, and waited. Soon, she pulled the door open about a foot. I slammed it shut with a bang. She pulled it open about a foot a second time, and I slammed it shut again. On her third attempt, I let her pull the door wide open. I raised my hands high above my head and yelled, "TA-DAH!"

Now, there were two things I didn't know when I knelt behind the door. I didn't know Mrs. Rohn had veered to the main office to talk with another teacher she happened to see, and I didn't know a parent was walking briskly toward the Guidance Center. I wasn't personally acquainted with the lady who opened that door, but I did recognize her as the Methodist minister's wife.

I felt my face turn purple. I stood. "I'm ... I'm ... I'm sorry," I stammered. "I thought you were Mrs. Rohn."

"No need to apologize," she said. "I understand. My husband's crazy too."

August 10, 2022 Sex Education

Rocks for Fun Pasty Shop just north of Tigerton, Wisconsin, is like no other restaurant I've ever visited. Unique rock displays are everywhere, even in the men's room. As I stood by the urinal, a rock on a pedestal caught my eye. A sign above it read something like, "Am I male or female? Lift to find out."

I knew it was a joke, but I had no idea what the joke was. I lifted the rock. The pedestal shot up, and an alarm blared in the restaurant.

My wife covered her ears. "What's happening?" she asked.

The waitress' matter-of-fact tone suggested she had answered that question many times. "Some guy in the men's room is trying to determine the sex of a rock."

August 3, 2022 My Passport to Heaven

Going to heaven would be nice, but it's not a gimme by any means. I really haven't done a lot over the years, good or bad. My strong suit is relaxing.

Oh, I did give those Costco memberships to my adult children a while back. That should count for something. Both said they wouldn't use them, but I knew they would. Just the other day, my son raved about the Costco pants he was wearing "And they were only fifteen dollars," he said. And my daughter practically lives there. She calls it "My Costco." She may even have mail delivered there. Don't quote me on that because I'm not sure.

Now, back to that heaven thing. Here's the way I see it going down. I follow a bright light that leads from my hospital bed to a long line run by a white-haired man. After almost forever, I stand in front of the line, eyeing the nametag that dangles from the man's shirt. Below his picture is the name " Saint Peter."

Pete studies me for a moment. "Name?"

I stand tall. "Mike McNair, sir."

He furls his forehead and shoots his eyes skyward. "McNair ... McNair. We don't get a lot of McNairs here. Now, McNamer is another story. They're all over the place. I'd better check to see if there's been a mistake."

Pete pulls a big black book from the shelf and flips the pages, looking for my name. "Here it is. Frederick Michael McNair." He looks up and snorts. "Your first name is Frederick?"

"Yeah. Long story. Just call me Mike."

"Right." He glances over my bio. "You haven't done much with your life, have you, Fred?"

"Mike."

"Right. Well, I'm afraid you're going to have to go to the other ... Wait! What's this? You introduced your children to the joys of Costco?

I stand even taller. "Yes, I did."

"That's your golden passport to heaven. What a thoughtful father! Welcome home, Fred."

"Mike."

"Right. I'd like to mention three places you might be especially interested in, Fred. Your dad is at the ol' fishing hole with Bud Blevins. Your mom is at the church sewing legs on puppets, getting ready to put on a show for the children. And there's a place called 'Restful House' where everyone sits around doing nothing, kinda like you've done your entire life."

I look forward to seeing Mom and Dad, but that Restful House sounds like heaven to me. As I turn to leave, Pete says to the next person in line, "You know, if it weren't for Costco instead of relaxing in heaven, old Fred would be having a hot time in the old town tonight, if you know what I mean."

"I go by 'Mike,'" I shout.

"Right."

Laughter nearly drowns out Pete's snorts, but I don't care. Let them laugh. I'm in heaven, and my children are in Costco. What more could a dead man want?

July 26, 2022 Robbie

Around 2010, brother Don got a Roomba vacuum cleaner. He bragged about that vacuum cleaner as if it were alive. He even named it. Every day, Robbie's exploits became more and more amazing. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.

"You think of Robbie as a pet," I said one day after he bragged about the vacuum cleaner's latest exploit. Don denied it, but I'll let you be the judge. Take a look at these pictures and tell me what you think. The picture on the left shows Don teaching Robbie to sit up. I call the picture on the right, "Nature Calls."

July 22, 2022 The Moth

This morning, Nancy and I found this Imperial moth on our balcony screen door. Richland Center is at the far northern tip of their range. After achieving moth status, these guys live for only one week. Hardly seems worth the effort. You'll notice it has only one antenna. The other one fell off about an hour after I took the picture. He'd better have fun tonight before it's too late. The glass sliding door reflected images of me, the balcony, and the world behind me into the picture and gives the moth a 3D effect.

June 25, 2022 Denny Williams' Carvings

I recently commented to Nancy that I wished I had bought some of Denny Williams' carvings before he moved from Richland Center a few years ago. Shortly after that, an ad on her phone's newsfeed indicated four of them were to be auctioned off on Madison's public television station. She ended up with the highest bid, and they became my Father's Day gift. BTW, those of you from my Fort Branch, Indiana, hometown will notice something special about the ruler in the picture. That was one of Dundee's Father's Day gifts to me.

We each have our favorite carving. Mine is the old-time Santa. Nancy likes the bearded man to his left. Which is your favorite?

June 2, 2022 The Fossil

Below are two pictures of what is supposedly a common fossil, worth maybe thirty bucks. I had a hunch it was much more than that, so I performed months of meticulous research. Turns out, this "common fossil" is actually Fred Flintstone's television remote. It's the only known artifact that links today's reality with prehistoric fiction. I tried it on our television, and it still works. Of course, all it pulls in are programs about dinosaurs running amuck and grainy home movies of Fred working at the quarry.

In case you're wondering, yes, I will sell it. First thousand dollars cash money walks away with it. All sales are final. No returns for any reason, and yelling won't help.

May 26, 2022 Boyhood Memory: The Famous McNair Count

Most people have never heard of the Famous McNair Count. My brother, Don, invented it during a slow day fishing the southwestern Indiana river bottoms the summer of 1949 when I was six and he was eleven. Even Dad hadn't gotten a nibble that day. Don hoisted his bamboo pole high above his head. The bait lifted from the water and swung toward him, and he swung it out to a new spot. When the bait plopped into the water, he stood as still as the Statue of Liberty for several seconds. "I know how to make them bite! It's so simple, I'm surprised I didn't think of it sooner."

I threw a tiny pebble into the water's edge, about the millionth one that day. "How?"

"Something magical I just thought up. I call it ..." He squinted at his bobber and then turned back toward me. "I call it 'the Famous McNair Count.'"

"How does it work?" I asked.

Don smiled out of the right side of his mouth, a technique he thought made him look smart and humble at the same time. "Well, I begin counting backwards from 'ten.' Before I get to 'zero,' a huge fish will strike one of our poles. Ready? TEN!" He stood with his left ear angled toward the backwater. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"The sound the fish made when they all turned toward our bait. We're in for some serious action soon."

I held my pole tight so a monster fish wouldn't swim away with it.

Several minutes passed. "NINE! They're feeling the pressure now." Every five or ten minutes, Don yelled the next number in his Famous McNair Count system. Over half-an-hour had elapsed since he first started counting. During that time, a fish hadn't even accidentally swum into our bait.

"ONE!" Ten more minutes ticked into history. Don stood. "Get ready. There's going to be a huge fish explosion. ZERO!"

There was no explosion. We never did catch a fish that day. Or get a bite. Or have fun.

It struck me that eleven-year-old Don really believed his "magical" system would work. Over the years, I tried the Famous McNair Count in other situations, the most notable being an effort to speed up waitresses on slow food-serving days. It didn't work there either. Maybe I need to shout the numbers louder.

April 13, 2022 RIP Lowell Kuester

Santa Claus died of COVID pneumonia in Phoenix, Arizona, on March 15, 2022. He was a month shy of his eightieth birthday.

I knew Santa when everyone called him Lowell Kuester. That was back in Fort Branch, Indiana, where he was a year ahead of me in school. We both played the sousaphone in band. One evening, band director Bo Miley took us to see The Music Man at the Princeton Theater. It remains to this day one of my favorite movies. Mr. Miley also took Lowell and me to a Vincennes High School band concert. The band was known as one of the best high school bands in the area. When Lowell graduated in 1960, he received Fort Branch High School band's very first John Phillip Sousa Award, which recognizes superior musicianship, dependability, loyalty, and cooperation.

He went on to become an x-ray technician. When he married in 1966, I was best man. At some point, Lowell and his bride moved to Arizona where he grew a thick, long beard and let his sparce hair grow unabated. Before long, he looked like Santa. Then, the darndest thing happened. He became Santa. Over the years, I enjoyed the Facebook pictures of Santa Lowell Kuester sharing Christmas joy with countless children.

One phrase I never use when someone dies is "You will be missed," because it is a cliche. But in Lowell's case, it's true. He'll be missed by his loving family, by the scores of friends who wore red to a celebration of his life, by old schoolmates like me, by the hundreds of children who knew him as Santa, and by the hundreds of children who will never experience his Santa hugs. Yes, Santa Lowell Kuester, you will be missed.

April 01. 2022 The Apartment-Warming Gift

My first apartment after graduating from college was in a northwest Chicago suburb. My brother, Don, a Chicago resident five years my senior, gave me an apartment-warming gift to celebrate the occasion, a miniature amber glass cut in half with measurements marked on it. A hollow cork extension, obviously designed to fit into the neck of a bottle, jutted from the bottom.

I studied the object. "What is it?"

"It's a jigger."

I wasn't completely naive. I knew jiggers were small cups used to measure alcohol when mixing drinks. This looked nothing like those. "How does it work?"

He pointed at the cork extension. "You push this part into a bottle. Then you tip the bottle, and when you have the exact amount of alcohol you want in this glass part, you simply dump it into the drink you're mixing. Clever, huh? That way, if you're making several drinks for friends, you'll be done in no time."

Don had an impressive liquor collection and often had friends over for drinks. I didn't drink liquor and knew I'd never use it. I thanked him and shoved it into my silverware drawer where it remained forgotten until my parents came for a visit a few weeks later. Don stopped by too. It would have been an enjoyable get-together if Mom hadn't opened that drawer.

She didn't approve of drinking alcohol for any reason. I've always suspected that when she took church communion, she faked drinking the wine and placed the tiny glass back in the holder completely full. She opened the drawer and bristled. "This is something I hate to see." She flashed Don's gift high above her head.

Don cocked his head and angled his eyebrows. "What is it?"

I don't know what it's called," Mom said, "but you stick this cork end into a bottle of booze, and then you tilt the bottle to fill this glass section, and you ... " She studied the device for several seconds. "And then you ... and then you drink from it! Why, a person could finish an entire fifth of whiskey in no time that way."

"Drink from it, huh?" Don said. "May I look it that?"

She tossed it to him and rested her arms heavy on her hips as Don eyed it up and down and back again.He put it near his lips and pretended to drink from it. He looked at it again, turning it every which way.

Seething, I stared at Don, hoping he would have the decency to admit he had given it to me and that I had nothing to do with it. He glanced up and opened his mouth to say something. A confession maybe? A little brotherly love?

And then he spoke. "Well, I'll be jiggered."

March 12, 2022 My Fantasy

We all have fantasies. Mine involves Fonzie standing in front of the mirror in the men's room. Whoa! That sentence seemed much more G-rated in my head. Perhaps I should explain.

Fonzie is perfect in every way. Early in the Happy Days series, he goes into the men's room at Arnold's Drive-In, takes out his comb, looks in the mirror, and exclaims, "Ayyyyy!" He returns the comb to his pocket because every hair is perfect.

In my fantasy, I sell a manuscript to a magazine. The editor pulls out a pen, begins reading, and soon exclaims, "Ayyyyy!" He returns the pen to his pocket because every word is perfect.

That's my fantasy. Here's what really happens: The editor pulls out a pen, begins reading, and soon exclaims, "Ayyyyy!" He pulls out two more pens.

March 01, 2022 The Blizzard

The April 16, 2018, blizzard that blew through Wisconsin brought twenty inches of snow and school closings to the Kimberly/Appleton area. Brooke snapped this picture of Kameron (left), then a sixth grader, and Kaden, then a freshman, as they ran by the front door playing football in the snowstorm. I loved it so much, she had it made into a pillow for me (see below). The original photograph appears in the "Windows on Wisconsin" section of the February/March 2022 issue of Our Wisconsin Magazine (page 23), proving once again that anything is possible on a snow day.

February 9, 2022 The Graduate

Nancy and I pose with our oldest grandson Kaden when he graduated from Kimberly High School last spring. I don't know how he got so tall. I was always the tall one. He shot up his senior year and left me in the dust. He's now over six-two and I'm under five-seven. He gets taller; I get shorter. Go figure.

He looks good, don't you think? Nancy looks good too. I would have looked better if I hadn't left my phone case open. But then again, it's usually my fly that I leave open, so maybe I don't look so bad after all.

Kaden is a freshman at the University of Wisconsin -- Oshkosh where he's majoring in education. He'll make a great teacher. An outstanding bowler, he's the coach for the Kimberly High School Junior Varsity bowling team. Bowling is right up his alley.

January 23, 2022 Boyhood Memory: The Summer I Saved America

I was fourteen the summer of 1957, several weeks short of becoming a high school freshman. I was heading for Max's Snack Bar to ditch the summer sun when a boy stopped me. "Want to join us on the roof this Sunday?"

His question wasn't as strange as it first seemed. The Cold War was raging-hot back then, and our government figured Russians might try flying bombers under the radar to places of importance and blow them to smithereens. The Ground Observer Corps consisted of volunteers that manned strategically located towers all over the United States to keep an eye out for low-flying enemy planes. He and a few other boys my age were members of the Junior Ground Observer Corps. Every Sunday afternoon from one o'clock to four o'clock, they sat on the Ben Franklin Dime Store roof looking for enemy planes. "Defending America," he called it.

I wasn't sure why the Russians would want to fly over Fort Branch, Indiana, a town of 2,000, but the "defending America" part sounded intriguing. That Sunday, I met the boys in front of the store. A man let us in, and we followed him up the stairs to the roof. Everything was ready for us -- chairs, a couple of binoculars, and pictures of various kinds of Russian planes.

"Here," the man said. "I'm not supposed to give you this until after you served thirty hours, but I'm giving it to you now. Congratulations." He handed me my wings with the inscription, "Junior Ground Observer Corps" smartly declaring how important I was to our nation's security. I pinned it on my shirt like the others had. I sat in a chair and studied the pictures.

I never suspected defending America would be so boring. I seldom saw a plane, and when I did, it didn't resemble the ones we studied. I soon realized the action wasn't above us. It was below us. Teenagers cruised the street with their car windows open, tops down, and music blaring. Jerry Lee Lewis shouted, "Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On." Ricky Nelson sang about his "Be-Bop Baby. And, of course, Elvis was "All Shook Up." If I weren't on the roof, I might be riding in one of those cars.

Bobbysoxers were feeding the jukebox nickels in Max's Snack Bar and dancing to hip music. If I weren't in one of the cruising cars, I might be there, tapping my feet and clapping my hands to the beat. Instead, every Sunday afternoon until school started, I sat on that roof watching for planes that never came. I figured I had to put in at least thirty hours to pay for the wings.

You may laugh at the handful of ragtag kids that sat on the Ben Franklin roof over six decades ago watching for low-flyingRussian planes. But I'd like to point out that not a single enemy bomber ever made it past Fort Branch, Indiana, between the hours of one to four on Sunday afternoons during the entire summer of 1957.

You're welcome.

November 17, 2021 Then Along Came Mookie

Many people never acquire a nickname. I've acquired two. Mom named me Frederick Michael. Six weeks after I was born, she abruptly started calling me Mike because she couldn't convince anybody to call me Frederick. They called me Fred, Freddy, Freddy Boy, and Little Fred instead.

I never knew my first name was something other than Mike until I was in mid elementary school. I kept the shameful secret to myself. Nobody knew about it until my sophomore year in high school in 1959. I was eating lunch in the school cafeteria when one of my friends said, "I hear your first name isn't Mike." I was shocked. How in the world did that get out?

"Is it true?" another asked.

I hung my head. "It's true."

"What's your real name?" they demanded.

"Tell you what. If you guess it, I'll admit it. You have one guess, so think it over."

Somebody shouted, "Cosmo!"

I threw my hands into the air. "Lucky guess." Two minutes later, I told them the truth. They didn't care. At that moment, I was neither Frederick or Mike. I was Cosmo. A few weeks later, they shortened it to Cos. Until I left my hometown to seek my fortune in a Chicago suburb when I was 23, everybody called me Cos. To this day, over six decades later, when I run into old friends on visits to my hometown, they still call me Cos.

Except for those chance meetings, I'd been without a nickname for over half a century when at age seventy-seven, I decided I wanted a nickname again. I narrowed my choices to three: Skeeter, Tater, and Mookie.

I chose Mookie because that name represented everything I never was. Mookie's forever young. He's the adventuresome and athletic middle school kid all the other boys look up to. I never attended summer camp, but Mookie attended every year. He swam the fastest, hit winning homeruns, came in first in every track event, and played pranks on boys from other cabins and the counselors too. He's Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, and Jim Thorp all rolled into one.

I had decided upon a nickname, but how could I convince others to refer to me by that name? I took the straight forward, no nonsense approach. I participate in an exercise program for cardiac patients at the local hospital. I told the group members and the physical therapists that I had decided to give myself a nickname, "Mookie."

"You can't give yourself a nickname," one of the therapists said.

"I disagree," I said. "Mookie said I could."

I informed my poker group, my family, and even casual acquaintances of my new nickname. And you know what? Mookie was right. You can give yourself a nickname. Mookie soon became my alter ego, and being forever young and somewhat mischievous, he often gets me into trouble.

"Who left the top off the peanut butter?" my wife asks.

"Mookie," I answer.

"Are you sure Mookie did it?"

"Okay, he didn't. I did. But he told me to leave it off. It was his idea."

And Mookie doesn't turn the lights off when he leaves a room. He leaves dirty dishes all over the place and never puts the toilet seat down.

To be perfectly clear, I fully understand that Mookie is just a nickname and nothing more. Now, if you'll excuse us, we're going to finish that chess game we started yesterday, if I can find where he hid the queens.

September 20, 2021 Going to Town

Going to town was simpler when I was a teenager in the early '60s. Back then, I'd stop at the front door to make sure I had everything I needed. "Got my car key. Got my driver's license. Got my money." Then, I'd shout, "I'm going to town!"

I still stop at the front door to make sure I have everything, but my check takes a little longer now. "Got my car key. Got my driver's license. Got my money. Got my glasses. Got my phone.Got my Medicare card. Got my supplement card. Got my teeth. Got my hearing aids. Got my cane. Got my nitroglycerine pills. My pants are zipped. Oops. Now, they're zipped." Then, I shout, "I'm going to... Uh, I'm going... Uh, I'm... Can anybody tell me one more time just where it is I'm going?"

September 2, 2021 Where Did We Go Wrong?

Remember when we used to spend hours together without a single disagreement, my friend? Surely you remember. Those days stretched from elementary school through many decades of adulthood.

But now, we can't agree on anything. Conservatives are bad. Liberals are bad. You should wear a mask to protect yourself and other from the virus. You should never wear a mask. They're taking away your freedom. Vaccination will save the world. It will kill you. Don't do it.

Where did we go wrong? Why can't we get along like we used to? I know the answer and so do you if you watched The Bugs Bunny Show with your kids Saturday mornings in the '70s and '80s. Everything started going wrong when Bugs took that wrong turn in Albuquerque, and now, our world is out of control.

We're going to right that wrong together. You and I are going to Albuquerque, only this time, we'll take the correct turn. I'll be darned if I'm going to let all this craziness continue because some goofy cartoon rabbit took a wrong turn in Albuquerque forty years ago.

August 16, 2021 Boyhood Memory: The Night John Harwood Paid Me a Visit

There's much about my life I don't remember, like my first day in first grade, my entire second grade school year, and what I had for breakfast yesterday. But I'll always remember the night John Harwood paid me a visit in February of 1955 when I was a twelve-year-old kid home alone and sick in bed with tonsillitis.

That evening was supposed to be a milestone in my life. A few weeks earlier, my sixth-grade teacher had selected the students who would act in a play about young Abe Lincoln. She had picked me to play the part of farmer number two. I was so excited, I memorized all twenty words of my part overnight.

The next day, she called us up for our first practice and noticed I didn't have my script, which I didn't need because I had committed the entire play to memory. She wouldn't listen to reason and insisted I didn't care enough about the play to be a part of it. She kicked me out on the spot and selected another student to take over the coveted role of farmer number two.

To make matters worse, Mom, Dad, my two sisters, and my brother left me home alone and sick in bed to attend the very play I had been expelled from. Once they left, silence engulfed the house, except for creepy noises that slithered from mysterious places. My throat hurt with each swallow. What could I do to make the evening palatable? I spotted the radio.

I stopped turning the dial when excited voices flew from the speaker. I had stumbled upon an Evansville College basketball game. I had never listened to Evansville College basketball before, even though the school was only twenty miles from my Fort Branch, Indiana, home. I listened to the entire game, mesmerized by sophomore John Harwood's amazing performance. He stole the ball, led fast breaks, blocked shots, and scored time after time after time. As I listened, I forgot I was alone and sick.

Over the years, I tried to find information about Mr. Harwood. Was he a great basketball player or did he get hot that one night? Did he accomplish anything in his life or did he become a bum? Sixty-six years passed before I found the answers. On August 9, 2021, I discovered I had been spelling his name incorrectly. That was the reason I couldn't find anything about him. His last name was Harrawood, not Harwood. Turns out John Harrawood was voted one of the fifteen greatest players to ever play for Evansville College. He was the 1956 and 1957 Indiana Collegiate Conference Player the Year and tenth on the Evansville College scoring list with 1,479 points. For the three seasons he played for Evansville, he averaged 18.9 points a game, sixth best all-time. And he was in the Purple Aces Hall of Fame.

John Harrawood, outstanding basketball player and Evansville Fire Department retiree, died on June 13, 2007, at the age of 72. But I'll forever remember him as John Harwood, the talented young athlete whose surprise visit that long-ago February night made me forget all my problems.

June 21, 2021 Father's Day

Dundee treated Nancy and me to a delicious Father's day meal in Baraboo near Circus World yesterday. It was fabulous. He also presented me with my Father's Day gift, a Fort Branch, Indiana, T-shirt. Fort Branch is my hometown. My class is celebrating our 60-year reunion on Friday, June 25. The all-school reunion, which meets every other year, is slated for Saturday, June 26. I am unable to make either this year, but I'll be there in spirit. The shirt will help in that endeavor. I'm even wearing it as I write this!

January 17, 2021 This Isn't My Bed!

How did you spend your stimulus money? Nancy and I spent ours on important stuff we might not be able to afford otherwise

When Bush was President back in 2008, Congress approved a $300 per person stimulus. We spent our $600 on a pair of mail order hearing aids for me. They worked about as well as you might think mail order ones would work, but they enabled me to hear better until we could afford "real" ones a few years later.

In 2020, Congress approved $1,200 per person stimulus payments. We bought our future home with our $2,400, a plot in the Richland Center Cemetery and a headstone to match. Since we're still living, someone will have to engrave our death dates at a later time. Guess how much that costs. $200 per person. $400 for the two of us. We even prepaid for that with our money. Dad died unexpectedly when a train struck his car at a Fort Branch, Indiana, railroad crossing back in 1985. Because my parents had the foresight to purchase their plot and marker before they died, that was one thing we children didn't have to deal with during that sad and stressful time. I always appreciated that. So, this purchase was for both us and our children. You're welcome, kids! Merry Christmas!

I always wanted a funny epitaph engraved into my headstone. I liked, "I told you I was sick," but that's been used too much. I wanted something completely original. Nancy came up with the perfect idea. I've done a lot of writing in my day, including five published books. One of the books, a children's picture book titled This Isn't My Bed!, is based on a game I used to play with my children when they were young. She suggested I have a book with that title engraved into our headstone. What could be better? It refers to a game my children and I used to play, a bo0k I wrote, and my final resting place. It's a trifecta! And, because we bought the headstone now, we get to enjoy it while we're still alive.

January 8, 2021 Meet Whitey Crow. He's a neighbor of ours. As the picture shows, he has one large white feather growing from his left wing. Since he can't see it, Whitey thinks he looks like all the other crows. I tried to get a picture of him for weeks, but by the time I'd get my camera ready, he'd be gone. On this day, he perched on his favorite light pole long enough for me to crank my camera's telescopic lens as high as it would go and snap this picture. I told him to smile, but he didn't want to. Rock on, Whitey!

December 23, 2020 I had no idea when Covid 19 first hit that it would change everything, even Christmas. Especially Christmas. We have been extremely careful in our attempts to avoid the virus. We social distance, wear masks, and wash our hands often. We've hunkered down, shopping for food only when necessary and ordering from Sam's Club online whenever we can. Under these conditions, how could we possibly celebrate Christmas with our son, daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren? In a Columbus, Wisconsin, parking lot, of course.

Let me explain. Columbus is 83 miles from Richland Center where Nancy and I live, 44 miles from Middleton where Dundee lives, and 82 miles from Kimberly where Brooke and family reside. It's kinda in the middle, so to speak. So on Saturday, December 19, we all met in Columbus where we found a suitable parking lot. We laughed and opened presents. Somebody brought a Christmas tree. It wasn't ideal (I almost froze to death) but under the circumstances it wasn't bad. And I know one thing. We will forever remember how we celebrated Christmas in 2020.

Dundee took the below picture from the back of his Subaru. That's me freezing in the chair. Nancy is directly behind me. Behind her are Kaden, Brooke, Kameron, and Chad. My, aren't the boys getting tall?

Merry Christmas!

October 12, 2020 Wisconsin is now the nation's coronavirus hotspot with 158,000 cases and 1,477 deaths. Richland county has 314 cases and 4 deaths. What will the next year bring?

Everybody has been talking about the fly that sat on Mike Pence's head during the October 7 Vice Presidential Debate. I believe he knew it was there but decided to leave it alone on purpose. According to my theory, he thought to himself, Let them see what kind a person I am. I'm not even going to swat that fly. I hope they are watching ... they'll see. They'll see and they'll know, and they'll say, "Why, she wouldn't even harm a fly."

No. That's not right. Mike Pence never thought that.

Do you know who did? Crazy motel owner Norman Bates, that's who. Those were his thoughts at the very end of Alford Hitchcock's 1960 thriller movie, Psycho, highlighting the exact moment he had completely taken over his long-dead mother's personality.

Sorry about the confusion, Mike. My bad.

July 20, 2020 Much has changed since my last entry. I was hoping things would be much better by June. It hasn't turned out that way. There are now 46,294 confirmed coronavirus cases and 853 deaths in Wisconsin. Get Up and Go started up again in July, but instead of attending twice a week, half of us attend on Tuesday and half attend on Thursday. We disbanded our poker club for several months, but started it up again a couple of weeks ago. All participants wear masks. Nancy and I haven't visited a casino or eaten in a restaurant (except via the drive-thru) since this all started. Things will get better. I just don't know when, but probably after a vaccine is made available early next year. Until then, stay safe.

March 29, 2020 1,112 cases in Wisconsin now. Nancy and I plan to stay in our apartment until this blows over. I figure it will be a good month, probably longer. We don't plan to take any chances.

On a brighter note, I finished my memoir a while back. Dundee and nephew Scott edited it. I appreciate their work, as both made it better. Friends in Eagle River are now reading it. Once they get back with me, I will rewrite again. Titled A Bundle of Twigs, it begins with my 1943 birth in Fort Branch, Indiana, and ends with a coming-of-age event my freshman year of high school in 1957. It's a humorous trip back to a slower-paced era.

March 22, 2020 Well, folks, there are now over 280 cases of the virus in Wisconsin. Nancy and I celebrated our 50th wedding anniversary alone yesterday -- no children, grandchildren, or friends. Everyone is staying to themselves for protection from the virus, and all restaurants are closed.

But we ate high on the hog ... I mean cow. Our good friend Ken Thiede called and said he recently had a cow butchered and was coming to town to pick up the meat from the locker. He asked if he could bring us t-bone and sirloin steaks. He also volunteered to pick up groceries for us. People sure are nice, aren't they? Thanks for the steaks, Ken. And thanks for being our friend.

Dundee and Brooke are treating us to a great vacation in late June as an anniversary gift. If the virus is gone by then, we will have a great time. Thanks kids. We are looking forward to it.

March 18, 2020 Today there's over 90 confirmed cases of the coronavirus in Wisconsin. Yesterday the number was in the seventies, and on Monday it was in the forties. We are lucky we live where we do. Nancy and I moved into the wonderful Panorama Estates Apartments shortly after it opened a year ago. It's run by the most wonderful people in the world. This morning, we found this letter when we opened our door:

"Good Morning! Due to everything that is going on with COVID-19, if you are not comfortable leaving your apartment, and are in need of groceries, prescriptions, toilet paper or anything at all please contact us, we would love to run and pick it up for you. You can reach me at (number provided). Please take care and stay healthy."

It's signed by Rebecca, our manager. I can't imagine a better place to live.

March 17, 2020 Things have changed drastically during the last four days. As our special day gets closer, more and more things around us are shutting down. Our children will not be here on March 21 to celebrate our 50th with us. At our age and with my condition, it's best for them to stay away until coronavirus is no longer a threat. We will celebrate together then. Our apartment complex closed all common areas today, including the library, community room, public restroom, and the exercise room. The hospital is shutting down the Get Up and Go exercise program for people with heart problems that I participate in . We plan to stay in our apartment until things get better. Too bad there's no sports to watch on television.

February 7, 2020 I came across a sign near New Miner in Juneau County yesterday that made me think, This could happen only in Wisconsin. It showed Smokey Bear standing next to a sign explaining the current fire conditions. Usually, those conditions are "extreme," "high," "medium," or "low." This one used a different word to state that wild fires just aren't going to happen in Wisconsin in February. Wonder what that word could be? Take a look at the picture of our friend Smokey on the right to find out.

December 19, 2019 I admit it. I ruined Thanksgiving. On Wednesday, November 28, the day before Thanksgiving, Nancy and I drove to Walmart. She went inside for some last-minute shopping while I stayed in the car. She'd been inside for perhaps ten minutes when I realized the chest pressure I was experiencing was probably more than just that. I was pretty sure I was having a heart attack.

I grabbed my phone and texted, "I need to go to the emergency room." Several minutes passed with no response. I concluded she must not have seen my text and decided to call her. I no sooner typed in her number and pressed the call button when my phone began ringing. She's seen the text and is calling me, I thought. But that wasn't the case. The ring came, not from my phone, but from her phone, which she had left in the car. Fortunately, she walked out of Walmart a minute later and drove me to the Richland Hospital's emergency room. The doctors verified I was, indeed, having a heart attack and after stabilizing my condition, ambulanced me to University Hospital in Madison, where I stayed for seven days and three stents. The good news was that since everyone was planning to come to our house for Thanksgiving anyway, my heart attack wasn't as inconvenient as it could have been.

It's now six days before Christmas, and everyone is coming to celebrate. I'm doing the best I can to make it without having an emergency. I don't want to be known as the man who ruined Thanksgiving and Christmas.

November 6, 2019 I am writing this in my home office, occasionally glancing out the window at the vast view of the beautiful Richland County hills. Snow came early this year, and it falls now like down feathers, coloring the grass and farmers' fields white. School in the Richland District is cancelled for the day, and the high school across Highway 14 that I see every day lacks the usual parade of cars and busses rolling up and down Hive Drive. I'm listening to Christmas music to complement the outside scene.

I recently finished the first draft of a memoir titled A Bundle of Twigs about growing up in small-town America during the 1940s and '50s. It's a slice of history that begins in1944 when I was a year and a half old and ends in 1957 when I'm fourteen. I wrote it for enjoyment and have no plans of publishing it, although I never say never.

About six weeks ago, I received an e-mail from an educator named Andrea Newkirk. She introduced herself as the Ithaca School District's reading specialist and invited me to be the speaker at the school's Family Literacy Night for elementary school students and their parents the evening of October 28. I was delighted. My topic was You are never too old or too young to become a writer. I shared stories from my memoir as examples of topics young people can write about. What a great audience! They laughed at all the right places and asked good questions at the end. Thank you, Andrea, for providing such a fine program for your students and parents. I thought your giving notebooks and pens to students in attendance to help them become writers was a touch of genius.

June 4, 2019 Nancy and I have been busy since my March 22 entry. We've moved from our old apartment of five years located on the property in Richland Center where the old high school once stood. We now live in the new Panorama Estates apartment complex located high on the hill on the city's west edge across Highway 14 from the new high school (it was built over 20 years ago, but it will always be new to me) and the University of Platteville-Richland campus. We can see for miles, and the view is spectacular.

When we moved from Illinois to our ridge farm on ZZ in July of 1972, I fell in love with Richland County's beauty. For the next 20 some years, I drove the five miles to and from the old high school every day, and every day I marveled at the view that surrounded me. Now, I can enjoy it once more by simply looking out our balcony sliding glass doors. We've lived in Richland County for 47 years, and its beauty is as wondrous to this 76-year-old man as it was to the 29-year-old me who moved here in '72.

March 22, 2019 It's is official. My new children's picture book, This Isn't My Bed!, has been released. The hardcopy version is now available on Amazon. I have ordered the paperback version to sell.

It is a delightful book based on a true story. Nancy and I played This Isn't My Bed with Dundee and Brooke four decades ago. The game never got old. They laughed every time we played it, and I still smile when I remember the fun we had.

I am glad I can share this game with others. Bedtime should be fun time, and I can't think of a better way to enjoy bedtime than to play this delightful game.

December 14, 2018 It's hard to believe it has been four months since my last entry. Here's an update on what has happened during that time: I've been asked to serve on the Making a Difference awards committee again, I've been asked to make a presentation on how to become an author, I've been informed my next book is almost ready for publication, and I've gotten bionic eyes.

The Making a Difference committee selects people and organizations that have impacted the quality of life in Richland County. Categories include Business of the Year, Outstanding Organization, Civic Leadership, Non Profit of the Year, Best Face Forward, and Community Stewardship. This is the fifth or sixth year I've had the honor of serving on the committee.

For the second year in a row, I will make presentations on how to become a book author to elementary school students during the Kids' Career Exploration Day at the University of Wisconsin -- Platteville Richland in late May. I don't know how much the kids learned last year, but I had a blast!

The president of 4RV Publishing informed me last week that my next book, a children's picture book titled This Isn't My Bed, is ready for copyediting and should be released in January. I'm excited the book will soon be available for everyone to enjoy. I'll have more information once the book is released.

Now about those bionic eyes. My eyesight had gotten worse over the last two years. My eye doctor told me cataracts were to blame. Both eyes have now been operated on, the second one this past Monday, and I can already see much better. I've had to wear glasses fulltime since I got my first pair in third grade. Now, I should need them only for reading. I'll know all my options when I have my next eye exam in early January.

Nancy and I are looking forward to our children and grandchildren's visit over Christmas. Happy holidays and a fantastic New Year to all.

May 26, 2018 I was in for another surprise when I received my copy of Our Wisconsin yesterday. Last fall, I drove to the tiny hamlet of Valton in Sauk County, getting lost twice in the process, to view the Painted Forest, a folk-art mural that covers every inch of the inside walls and ceiling of the Modern Woodsmen of America (MWA) building. It was painted 1n 1899 by Earnest Hupeden, a German immigrant who painted for food, shelter, and whiskey as he wandered by foot throughout southwest Wisconsin. Several years after he painted the elaborate mural, Hupeden was found dead in a Hub City snowdrift. He was buried in a pauper's grave in the Pine Valley Cemetery just outside Richland Center.

John Heasley was the volunteer docent the day I stopped by. A former English teacher and colleague from my counseling days at Richland Center High School, he explained the secret meanings behind the paintings.

Shortly after my Painted Forest visit, I submitted my story and pictures to Our Wisconsin. I heard nothing until I opened the June/July issue yesterday to discover a two-page feature titled, Take a Walk in the Painted Forest.

I've included some pictures to give an idea what the Painted Forest is like. Of course, if you want to know the full story, you'll need to read the Our Wisconsin feature.

Left: The ceiling and wall mural

Right: Up close and personal of just one of the many wall paintings.

Bottom: John shows how members looked through the peephole to see who was at the door.

April 29, 2018 So what have I been up to since my last post? Quite a bit, actually. Nancy and I just got back from a ten-day bus trip to San Antonio a few days ago with a group from the Baraboo Senior Center. We toured LBJ's ranch, known back in the day as the Texas White House. The William Clinton Library in Little Rock was extremely interesting, and we visited the museum on the sixth floor of the book depository in Dallas where Oswald shot President Kennedy.

I've been asked to give six twenty-minute presentations on being a book author at the career day activities for grades 3, 4, and 5 at the University of Wisconsin -- Richland in late May. I'm putting together a fun and informative presentation, the kind I would have liked to haveseen when I was their age.

As winter transitions to spring, snow hangs on where it can. I recently wrote a short poem about this gradual change from winter to spring that I'd like to share.

Last White Bones of Winter by Mike McNair

The last white bones of winter lie scattered along the woods' edge And grip with frosty fingers the ground under the garden hedge. March sun. Oh, how those bones glisten! Now clouds. Thawing's in remission. Listen: "I shall hang on as long as I can," is Winter's solemn pledge.

Snow came like a young bull raging, but now timidly it goes. The remains of January's storms sneak away on tiptoes, Knowing, it seems, that the warming sun Is a fight it can't win, one-on-one. Soon, daffodils will dance in the spring breeze outside our windows.

March 23, 2018 I had a pleasant surprise in my mailbox today. My copy of the April/May 2018 issue of Our Wisconsin Magazine had arrived, and it contains not one but two of my features!

I knew Life Is Like a House of Chocolates would appear in either this issue or the next, so I wasn't surprised it had made this one. It's about a special chocolate house in Mount Horeb, a place that makes one-of-a-kind chocolate treats from cocoa beans grown around the world. However, I was surprised to discover another of my features, Dem Bones, had also made the issue. I didn't even know it was being considered. I had written it two or three years ago and had assumed the story about how the Dosch boys discovered the famous Boaz Mastodon back in 1897 would never set foot, so to speak, in Our Wisconsin Magazine. I'm delighted it did.

And now for something completely different. Nancy and I are treating Chad and Brooke to a two-day getaway on May 1 & 2. Everyone knows what it is except Chad. He won't know where he's going until he leaves his house on May 1, and he won't know what he'll be doing for the two days until he arrives at the destination. It's something he'll really enjoy. I'll tell about Chad's mystery trip once they return.

December 26, 2017 Those of you who know me, know that every year since 1992, Dundee, Peter, and I have played a game of Monopoly during the Christmas season. The loser has to run around the house barefooted. Of course, we changed that when Nancy and I moved into our apartment. Now, the loser has to run to the mailbox and back. Anyway, when Peter stopped by for this year's game, he brought a beautiful black coffee mug for each of us. But wait! There's more. When you pour a hot liquid into them, something magical happens.

November 8, 2017 I just won the Publishers Clearing House grand prize! PCH officials called my cell phone direct from their Jamaican office at 9:18 this morning to tell me I had won 2.7 million dollars PLUS $5,000 a week for life. Sweet, huh? In fact, the caller said the prize crew was in Madison, Wisconsin, at that very moment preparing to deliver the check to my Richland Center home. He just wanted to make sure I'd be home, and he had a few questions.

I'll admit I always send in those PCH entries I receive in the mail, but because of the Great Law of he Universe, I know I'm not going to win. Mailing them back is merely my humble attempt to help keep the United States Post Office afloat. I firmly believe if it weren't for the money this contest generates for the post office, it would have been bankrupt years ago. Hey, I do what I can.

I immediately knew it was a scam and told the man I wasn't interested in continuing the conversation. Then, I hung up. The fact that the phone call originated in Jamaica was a red flag. So was the fact that my cell phone number never appeared on those entries.

But the real reason I knew it was a scam was because of that Great Law of the Universe I mentioned earlier. It clearly states, "Mike McNair shall never, ever under any circumstance win the PCH contest." I always thought that was fairly straight forward.

As you can probably tell, I think I'm pretty smart realizing so quickly this was a scam. Boy, will I ever be humiliated if they actually show up with a 2.7 million-dollar check.

The two places below represent an important part of my life from 1966 to 1972. On the left is the 1,000-student Lakewood Junior High School in Carpentersville (now Lakewood Elementary) where I taught English for five years. I kept busy, serving as the memory book advisor, student council advisor, after-school recreational games advisor, basketball timekeeper, play director, and for three years, English department chair.

The East Dundee picture on the right represents a place that will forever live in my memory. Due to a fire back in the '80s or '90s, it's now just a patio for a local eating establishment, but back in the days when I taught at Lakewood, the Cow Bell, an old-time bar and grill, stood there. The Lakewood teachers met there for supper every Friday after school. We had our own room in the back where we'd spend hours eating and laughing together at a long table.

I considered the place home and my fellow Lakewood teachers a part of my extended family. It was like television's Cheers, "where everybody knows your name." If time travel were possible, I'd love to travel to the 1967 Cow Bell to see everyone exactly as they were fifty years ago, if only for a few minutes.

Nancy took us to two places that were important to her as a child growing up in the Chicagoland area. She had fond memories of going to her grandparent's house in Palatine, below left. She often told us what a fine house it was, but this was the first time Dundee and I actually saw it. She said it looked much as she remembered it.

Nancy grew up in South Elgin, which was a small town at the time. Her father, who possessed outstanding carpentry skills, had turned the place into a very nice home. I can vouch for that because I've seen it several times. He ran a milk delivery business from there called Dependable Dairy.

"We're coming up to my old house," she said, getting ready to point. "It's right ... IT ISN'T THERE! And it wasn't. A grassy field, below right, had replaced her house and her neighbor's house, too. Like the Cow Bell for me, her childhood home exists only in memories.

September 8, 2017 A while back, my nephew Scott posted on Facebook, "I saw a Lexus from Texas. I think I just witnessed the first line of a country song."

I couldn't get "A Lexus from Texas" out of my head. Soon, I was writing the lyrics to a country song, something I'd never done before, and challenging Scott to write lyrics, too. The only rule was that the song had to start with the words "I saw a Lexus from Texas." I admit Scott's song is the better than mine, but I'm going to showcase both. I'm even putting mine first. After all, this is my blog. When Scott gets his blog, he can put his first.

I did some research and discovered certain words appear in country songs more than others. That's the reason these words appear in my song: truck, girl, beer, baby, cheating, love railroad track, mama, free, trailer, ain't, God, and USA. I'm sure you will be amazed as to how cleverly I wove those words into my beautiful song.

By the way, if you are viewing the lyrics in a small screen, like a cellphone for example, the lines may appear garbled. If viewing on a regular computer, everything should appear normal.

A Lexus from Texas by Mike McNair

I saw a Lexus from Texas parked by the old trailer next door. I jumped into my Chevy truck and shoved the pedal to the floor. My thoughts were riding a tilt-o-whirl when I crossed the railroad track. That cheating girl is the reason I guzzle beer by the six pack. And now that blue-eyed gal is back. I hate that Lexus from Texas.

She's duped me a thousand times with her flirty and beguiling ways. Well, Mama didn't raise no fool. I don't care where that Lexus stays. But I wish it wasn't parked at the mildewy trailer by me. That's Bobby Joe Higgins' place, my best friend and beer-drinking buddy. Blondie don't want me to be free. I hate that Lexus from Texas.

Until I saw that shiny Lexus, I thought I was over her. But I was just fooling myself. I'll always love her, that's for sure. How else can I explain drinking beer all alone at ten a.m.? I'm the only one in the bar except for Jim and old drunk Slim. She's back, and my life's looking dim. I hate that Lexus from Texas.

After my seventh bottle of suds, I knew what I had to do. As I left, Jim said, "Come again." Slim opened one eye and said, "Moo." I beat on that trailer door to tell them anymore I don't care. She answered wearing only a smile. Now baby, that just ain't fair. She's back, and I can't help but stare. I hate that Lexus from Texas.

She said I was the only one she ever really thought was neat. Not Bobby Joe, the Thompson triplets, or even that naval fleet. She fluttered her lashes and kissed my lips. Now, why did I stop by? She's one in a million. The perfect woman. My, oh my, oh my. She's back, and I'm her special guy. I love that Lexus from Texas. And may God bless the USA.

A Lexus from Texas by Scott McNair

I saw a Lexus from Texas while on my way home. Such a strange thing to range from where buffalo roam! When he's herding his cattle to move 'em along, Is his stereo playing a Gene Autry song?

When he sits by the campfire when day's at an end, Does he hang with the cowpokes with Mercedes Benz? Does he whittle and fiddle in his leather seat? Does he use the foot warmer to toast up his feet?

I saw a Lexus from Texas while on my way home. Such a strange thing to range from where buffalo roam! I reckon the cowboy life isn't for me, Because I can only afford GMC.

August 8, 2017 Nancy and I just got back from a week-long Eagle River, Wisconsin, vacation with Kaden and Kameron. We stayed in the Mee's cabin on Spring Lake. I'll tell you something most people don't know. There's no such thing as time when you're with your grandchildren on a beautiful Eagle River lake. At that special moment, time stands still, and watches have no numbers. This is what I saw when I looked at my watch -- the blue sky and fluffy clouds, trees and leaves swaying in the breeze, the lake and dock, and, if you look very closely, a boy fishing.

We had a great time. The boys swam and fished and jumped into the lake. They tried to catch a big bass by using nets. This year, they never saw the bass that hung out under the dock a year ago, but they had fun looking for him. Kameron, with a little help from Grampy, played a prank on the others. It is common practice to place night crawlers in the refrigerator to keep them fresh. Kam found an artificial night crawler that looked exactly like the real ones we were using. We positioned it so it appeared to be coming out of one of the night crawler cartons. What fun! And that's why there are no numbers on wristwatches when grandparents and grandchildren vacation in Eagle River.

July 18, 2017 Brother-in-law Dave Trochim, Chipmunk Whisperer and Chicago Cub fan extraordinaire, stopped by the other day with two books he found at Baraboo's St. Vincent de Paul Thrift Store. One was Tales from Mike's World, the book I wrote based on my long-running Midwest News humor column, Mike's World. He asked if I would sign it , and I was glad to oblige. The other book was Aunt Bee's Mayberry Cookbook that he bought for me because he knows I love anything and everything Mayberry. The Ernest T.'s Possum and Sweet Taters dish has my mouth watering.

June 30, 2017 We had some bad weather in the area a couple of days ago. Severe thunderstorms and a couple of tornadoes hit communities just a few miles away. Shortly after the storms passed, these clouds showed up. They are called mammatus clouds and are associated with severe weather. This is the first time I've seen them. I sent this picture to WKOW TV's Weather Picture of the Day, and meteorologist Star Derry responded with an e-mail. "Cool!" she said. "Will plan on using this around 6 am." And she did.

February 1, 2017 February is a big deal here at Mike's World for two reasons. First, Dundee begins a new position on February 13 as the Associate Dean for Administrative Affairs at the University of Wisconsin -Madison School of Nursing. He has rented an apartment in Madison and will transition there from his Baraboo apartment over the next few months.

The second reason February is a big deal is because my sixth Our Wisconsin Magazine feature appears in the February/March issue. The two-page spread, titled The Town That Maps Forgot, includes six pictures. It's about Carol and Steve Stevenson who founded the Town of Stevenson, population two. Located in a beautifully secluded section of Richland County, the "town" is actually a remarkable by-reservation-only museum. Below are four pictures of the Town of Stevenson that did not appear in the feature.

I also took a picture of something much more sinister. I was trying to take a quick picture of what I thought was a dolphin, but I got a picture of something else instead. This is no joke. Something surfaced by the boat, and I snapped a picture. When I looked at the picture on the camera moments later, I said, "This isn't a dolphin. What is it?" No one knew.

I've had several days to study the picture. I'm ninety-nine percent sure I know what it is. It's the Slithery Dee. There's a poem/song about the Slithery Dee. I posted the words to it to the left of the mysterious picture. Some of you may remember Tommy Smothers singing the Slithery Dee song on the Smother Brothers Show back in the sixties.

It seems everybody wants to know who lost the big Christmas Monopoly game this year and had to walk around the house barefooted. It was I. I did everything right, but it turned out wrong. I bought every property I landed on, and I had more properties than Dundee and Pete put together.

The picture (below, left) shows that every one of my properties is mortgaged. That's the reason they're all turned over. I have two one dollar bills left to my name, as Dundee is considerately reminding me by holding up two fingers. They're just to the right of my deeds. On my next move, I couldn't pay the rent on the property I landed on, and that was all she wrote. In the picture to the right, I'm dancing the famous Cold Feet Jig.

Due to conflicts we played the game a few weeks early this year. There was no snow on the ground, but it snowed hard the next day. So I guess I lucked out even if I did lose.

November 2, 2016 4RV Publishing released my latest book, a chapter book titled Billy Beechum and the Hooticat's Secret, on October 21. It is the first book in my Billy Beechum trilogy. An article about the book and upcoming Billy Beechum related activities will appear in the November 10 edition of The Richland Observer. I'll be on WRCO's Morning Show on Tuesday, November 8, to talk about the book and discuss other writing topics. On Saturday, November 12, I'll have a book signing at Oakwood Fruit Farm. And then, on Saturday, November 19, I'll take my books to the annual craft fair at the Richland Middle School. That's a lot of activity for an old retired guy. I'm out of breath already.

Meet Andrew McNair, or Andy as he's known by family. He's the fine-looking gentleman (note the lovely McNair nose and chin) who is ringing the bell. He was the official ringer of the bell from 1759 to 1776. According to Wikipedia, he likely rang it to announce independence on July 8, 1776. The announcement was delayed four days to allow the Declaration of Independence to be printed. His services were terminated September 15, 1776, but no one knows why. Hmmm. Wouldn't have anything to do with a broken bell, would it? Anyway, the McNairs have been breaking things ever since.

March 1, 2016 I received some good news on the writing front this past week.

Our Wisconsin Magazine editor Mike Beno informed me that one of my features will appear in the April/May issue. I'm not going to give away what it is about except to say it is amazing, unbelievable, and Mayberry fans will love it.

The president of 4RV Publishing told me yesterday that the artist has finished the interior artwork for Billy Beechum and the Hooticat's Secret, the first book of my Billy Beechum chapter book series. It's next in line to be formatted and printed. The artist is currently working on the artwork for the series' second book.

January 7, 2016 We had an interesting end to 2015. Dundee began a new job on January 1 -- Campus Administrator for the University of Wisconsin -- Baraboo / Associate Dean of Administration and Finance at UW - Richland, UW - Baraboo, and UW - Janesville.

The day after Thanksgiving, Dundee and his cousin Scott, my brother Don's son who lives in Robertsdale, Alabama, met in Fort Branch, Indiana, for a few days to retrace their fathers' footsteps. I put together a tour guide for them. On Christmas day, Dundee carried in a large box from Scott. It contained a bust Don had made of our father in 1982, three years before Dad died when a train hit his car in downtown Fort Branch. Those of you who knew my father will notice it looks just like him. For Christmas 2014, Scott sent me one of Don's oil paintings. You can view it by scrolling down. Don was a talented man. Here are two views of the bust.

On January 1, 2016, three men gathered for the annual Snow Walk Monopoly game. No one is quite sure exactly when the tradition began, but it was either right before or soon after Dundee and Peter graduated from high school in 1991. Every year, we play one game of Monopoly. The loser walks around the house barefooted. Who would lose this year? Dundee the Determined, Peter the Terminator, or Michael the Short and Weak? I thought there were only 3 people in this picture. I was wrong. Do you see the 4th?

Finally revealed ... Ruth McNair's Famous Chicken & Dumplings Recipe

Mom had a secret recipe that everyone wanted. Every time she took her famous dish to a potluck, someone would shout, "Ruth brought her delicious chicken and dumplings." People would actually clap. At the end of the meal, there was never any left over to take back home. Before she died, she shared her secret recipe with us, and now, I'm going to share it with you. Her secret recipe, the dish everyone loved, was a can of Sweet Sue Chicken & Dumplings. She simply heated and served. Dundee brought us a can from his Fort Branch visit, and with it came a lot of memories.

October 1, 2015 Some things are just too cool to miss, like the eclipse of the super moon on September 27. When I heard the earth's shadow would make the satellite appear red, I knew I had to see this blood moon for myself. I even took my camera with me for the viewing, not knowing if I'd be able to capture anything worthwhile or not. Well, I did, and I'd like to share a couple of my shots with you. If you missed it, I'm sorry because it was fantastic. But not to worry. Another one is coming your way in 2033.

September 7, 2015 If you enjoy reading blogs, you'll want to follow Mary Ellen Stepanich's blog for 35 straight days beginning on September 13. Her website address is www.maryellenstepanich.com Once there, you can read about her book, D is for Dysfunctional and Doo Wop, before clicking on "Blog" at the top of the page.

Here's the deal -- Starting September 13, the book publishing group she belongs to will begin participating in a blog challenge. Each person has to post something every day for 35 days. Guest blogs written by fellow writers count as a post. Mary Ellen asked if she could post a few of the articles I wrote for my Mike's World humor column. I sent her four. So, if you follow her blog during that time, you'll read some articles that she wrote, a few that I wrote, and a few that others wrote. It should be fun.

Mary Ellen and I go waaaay back. We lived across the street from one another in Fort Branch, Indiana, during the 1950s. Sometime between those golden days and now, the writing bug bit both of us on the butt when we weren't looking.

August 1, 2015 I mentioned in my March 25 entry that I had a chapter book manuscript accepted for publication just 12 days after I sent it in on March 13, a new record for quickness. I had an even bigger surprise on July 29. I received an e-mail from the president of 4RV Publishing telling me that she is editing my children's picture book manuscript for This isn't My Bed herself. She included her first edit. The surprise is that I sent the manuscript a year ago June and didn't know it had been accepted. I rewrote it and she sent it on for formatting and illustrator assignment on July 30. It should be coming out fairly soon. I'm proud of the manuscript and know 4RV Publishing will turn it into an outstanding book.

July 8, 2015 People sometimes ask, "Where do you come up with all those ideas?" I realize the "where" in that sentence means "how," and that people are really asking how I think the way I do. I've never fully understood that myself. I do, however, understand where I come up with the ideas, and I believe that tells a lot about a writer, too. How about a tour of my office?

The first picture is as we look into the room. You'll notice it has a Mayberry atmosphere to it. I've always been a Mayberry fan, and the things I've written would fit right in there because I write stories the entire family can enjoy.

The second picture is taken from the doorway looking to the right. If you look carefully, you'll notice three pictures. The closest one is the artwork for the cover to my chapter book that will be released in the near future, Billy Beechum and the Hooticat's Secret. The picture in the bookcase is of Dundee and me with the Smothers Brothers. The painting on the wall is an oil by my brother Don. I wrote about it in February.

The first picture below is a close-up of the picture of Dundee and me with Tom and Dick Smothers.

The second picture is of my actual work area, which includes my computer and chair. I believe if you're going to sit at the computer for hours at a time, you should invest in a comfortable chair. I love mine. See Garfield to the left of the computer monitor by the phone? Dundee gave him to me about 25 years ago when the Guidance Department at Richland Center High School first began using computers. He said, "If you're going to have a computer, you have to have a Garfield," and he set it on the monitor. It stayed there until I retired, and then it sat on my home computer's monitor until I got the flat screen. It still hangs close by after all these years to make sure I'm doing things right.

June 15, 2015 We recently visited Brooke's family for a few days to attend Kaden's 6th grade band and choir concert and to celebrate his 12th birthday. I had the best seat in the house for picture-taking. Then, just before the concert began, a huge GOLDEN PORCUPINE sat in front of me and blocked out the stage (see picture below, left). That's the reason you'll find no pictures of the concert in this blog. After we got home, I told everyone about a funny incident that happened on our Memphis bus trip. Nine-year-old grandson Kameron thought it was funny, and I think you will, too. I'll tell you that incident after you look at the two pictures below.

Now, on with that funny incident. We did a lot on our Memphis bus trip. One of the activities was watching an IMAX movie at a museum. After we took our seats, hundreds of elementary school students marched in with their teachers. Shortly before the movie began, a teacher in front of me motioned for one of the students to sit next to her for a moment. The girl did, and the teacher took two selfies of them together. I knew I would also be featured in the picture, so both times, an instant before the teacher snapped their picture, I opened my eyes and mouth as wide as possible. I'm sure by now the teacher has discovered she was actually taking a picture of three people instead of two. I'm also sure she has shown the picture of her, the student, and an old man with bulging eyes and wide-open mouth to dozens of friends, wondering who in the heck he is.

Kameron thought my story was so funny, he has already ruined several of Brooke's pictures. Like the teacher who sat in front of me at the IMAX, she didn't notice his goofy looks until she viewed the pictures later. Below are two pictures I took of Kaden opening his presents. That's Kameron standing behind him imitating me. I must say, he looks exactly like I would have in the pictures the teacher took if I were 63 years younger.

March 24, 2015 The president of 4RV Publishing informed me yesterday that in addition to being available in the paperback format, Sammy the Shivering Snowblower and Tales from Mike's World are now available as eBooks. A Distant Summer has been available as an eBook for quite a while. The eBooks can be found for the following formats/locations/sites: Kindle on Amazon, Nook on Barns & Noble, iBooks on Apple, Kobo, Page Foundry, Scribd, and tolino. That means you can download my books today.

I submitted my latest Billy Beechum chapter book, Billy Beechum and Paul Revere's Surprise, to 4RV Publishing on March 13. Hopefully, they will want to publish it. It goes with the other two Billy Beechum books to make the series a trilogy.

February 1, 2015 I finished the final edits on Billy Beechum and the Redheaded Bully, the second book in my Billy Beechum chapter book series. The editor-in-chief of 4RV Publishing released it for formatting on January 22. Hopefully, the series first book, Billy Beechum and the Hooticat's Secret, will be released soon. When I learn of the release date, I'll let you know.

I turned 72 years of age on January 21. Over the last several years, I've readjusted my definition of the word "young." When I was a teenager, I thought youngness ended at age 21. I now believe it ends at age 107.

My best friend passed away last March. He was also my brother. Don was extremely talented in many areas. He had written ten books, including a book explaining how writers can edit their own work to make it "fog free." He was an outstanding artist, but for years he put his efforts in other areas. He starting painting again a year or so before he died. This picture, Morning Devotions, was one of those recent oil paintings. His children made sure it was one of my Christmas gifts. It means more to me than I can put into words

Don claimed the woman in the painting is not based on Mom, but his children and I agree he painted her with Mom in mind, even though it may have been subconscious.

So Many Pumpkins, So Little Time

This feature, my third for Our Wisconsin, appeared on the October/November 2014 issue. It's about artist Nancy Tiegs. Her canvass is the pumpkin. Every year she carves a hundred pumpkins. Some, like the ones to the right, are her own creations. It's impossible to find patterns involving more than one pumpkin. The article tells about the history of her carvings and includes her carving tips. To view pictures of several years of her remarkable carvings, go to picasaweb.google.com/ntiegs.

June 4, 2014 We recently sold our house we lived in for over 20 years and moved to an apartment with no steps. We've downsized a great deal due to the move, but we still have more "stuff" to get rid of.

I ended my long-running Mike's World humor column. I was spending too much time writing, and just as Nancy and I downsized the material things because of our move, I decided the time had come to downsize my writing, too.

I'm waiting to hear from my publisher when my first two Billy Beechum chapter books will be released. Meanwhile, I'm working on the third book in the series and a picture book geared for preschoolers.

My second Our Wisconsin Magazine feature appears in the June/July edition. My third feature will appear in the August/September edition.

October 16, 2013 I was on WRCO radio's Morning Show, a talk program, yesterday. Host Ron Fruit and I had a lively conversation. I invite everyone to listen in by going to www.wrco.com. Place the cursor over "WRCO Broadcasts," and a box will drop down. Click on "Morning Show" and follow the instructions under "Local Author Mike McNair." (Right-click on "Download" and select "save link as" or "save target as.") Then you can play it.

September 19, 2013 The editing on my latest book, a chapter book titled Billy Beechum and the Hooticat's Secret, is nearly complete. I recently sent the editor my rewrite based upon her fourth edit. She's a great editor, and she's making me a better writer. The book is scheduled for release in early 2014.

I have two book signings scheduled in the Richland Center, Wisconsin, area for my humor book, Tales from Mike's World. If you happen to be in the area, please stop by. Both are at the Oakwood Fruit Farm. The first is from 1:00 pm to 3:00 pm on Tuesday, October 15. The second is from 1:00 pm to 3:00 pm on Saturday, October 19. Also, I'll be on WRCO in Richland Center from 9:30 am to 10:00 am on Tuesday, October 15.

My first feature article (it even includes pictures) in Our Wisconsin magazine will appear in the October/November issue. Our Wisconsin is a new, high-quality magazine from the same person who founded Reminisce, Country, and Bird and Bloom.

On a recent visit to my daughter's, her seven-year-old son asked us to watch his American Ninja Warrior routine. He then climbed the hallway wall and showed off his muscles, at least he thought he had some muscles to show off.

I grabbed my camera and shot this picture. Brooke got hers and took several shots, too. "Just because I'm taking pictures of this doesn't mean I approve of it," she told him between snaps.

June 27, 2013 I just returned home from an Indiana book signing trip two days ago. Today I signed and mailed the contract for the second book in the Billy Beechum series.

My brother Don, a talented editor, is featured in the current Writer Magazine. To read the story about Don and his fantastic new book, Editor-Proof Your Writing: 21 STEPS TO THE CLEAR PROSE PUBLISHERS AND AGENTS CRAVE, click on this link: http://writermag.com/2013/06/19/lifting-the-fog.

June 19, 2013 I just learned that my publisher will send me a contract for the second book in the Billy Beechum chapter book series, Billy Beechum and the Redheaded Bully as soon as a release date is set. That means that Billy Beechum is now officially a series.

June 13, 2013 Midwest News publisher Dave Collins surprised me on Saturday when he presented me with the commendation on the right, celebrating eight years of writing my biweekly Mike's World column on Midwest News. Thank you, Mr. Collins. It means a great deal to me. I especially like the motto, Humor lifts the world.

____________________________

4RV Publishing has assigned an editor to work with me on my next book, Billy Beechum and the Hooticat's Secret. The first book in my Billy Beechum chapter book series, it's scheduled to be released in January/February 2014.

June 4, 2013 As of today, A Distant Summer is available as eBook on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. It will soon be available on Kobo and iBookstore (Apple). If you enjoy reading novels on your Kindle or similar devices, I hope you'll consider A Distant Summer.

June 3, 2013 Nancy and I spent Memorial Day weekend with Brooke and her family. Kaden celebrated his tenth birthday on Sunday, and we wanted to help. He wanted to eat at a Door County restaurant called PC Junction. They deliver food to customers by way of a miniature train that travels on the top of the oval eating area. Below, left, the train delivers the food. Below, right, Chad, Kaden, and Kameron ride the pedal go-carts in back of the restaurant. As you can probably tell, Chad has it moving at breakneck speed.

Below left: "Take a picture of this," Chad said, pointing to the ground. "With the green moss against the other colors, it looks like a work or art." I have to admit, for a picture of the ground, it is rather neat.

Below right: Brooke, Chad, Kaden, and Kameron pose for a picture. Note the tree's root system.

May 18, 2013 My brother Don's latest book has been released. It's a book every writer should have Editor-Proof Your Writing: 21 Steps to the Clear Prose Publishers and Editors Crave. To find out more about this exciting new book and the six romances and young adult novels he has written, visit his website at http://DonMcNair.com. You'll be glad you did.

May 12, 2013 I will have two book signings in Fort Branch, Indiana, my hometown, on Saturday, June 22, 2013. The first will be at the Fort Branch Public Library Learning Center, 107 East Locus Street, from 1:00 PM to 3:00 PM. The second will be at the Fort Branch High School alumni banquet that evening at the Fort Branch Community School. I graduated from FBHS in 1961. I invite everyone in the area to stop by and say "Howdy."

May 11, 2013 I recently revamped my entire website. This section used to be called Hooticat Newsletters. Since I'm not writing them anymore, I've turned this page into my blog. I hope you'll stop by often to see what the old man's been up to.

I began writing the Hooticat Newsletter in 2001 for my mother, who lived 500 miles from us, as a way of keeping her connected with our family. After a while, I began e-mailing copies to relatives. I included the last few here on my website. Mom died on April 13, 2011, at the age of 97. Hooticat Newsletter number 116, which I had written and mailed to her two weeks before her death, was my last. One of these days, I'll delete them from my blog. But not today.

Hooticat Newsletter

Number 116 March 29, 2011

Kaden to be Guest co-columnist on April 15-30 Mike's World

My seven-year-old grandson Kaden will co-author the April 15-30 Mike's World article on Midwest News (www.mwnews.net). The article, titled Kaden's World, will feature four or five examples of his writing, both prose and poetry. I expect the article to be well-written because between us we have 75 years of life experiences.

Kameron celebrates fake fifth birthday

Brooke, Chad, Kaden, and Kameron visited us for several days during March Madness. Kameron's birthday is on April 3, but we celebrated his fake birthday on March 19. On April 1 he'll celebrate another fake birthday with Chad's side of the family. Then, on April 3 he'll celebrate his real birthday, which includes more gifts and an evening at the Green Bay Gambler's hockey game, with his mom, dad and brother. I do believe that boy has this birthday thing figured out. Why celebrate birthdays only once when you can get gifts three times? I'd like to wish Kameron and all the Hooticat readers happy and lucative fake birthdays.

Wisconsin: Land of winners

Winners thrive in Wisconsin. The Green Bay Packers won the Super Bowl,Wisconsin's football team won the Big Ten conference title and played in the Rose Bowl, the Men's basketball team made it to the Sweet Sixteen in the NCAA tournament, and the women's hockey team won the NCAA title, again.

Speaking of winners, here's a picture of a couple of real winners on the right, my daughter Brooke and my wife Nancy.

Lost Christmas Monopoly pictures found

As everyone knows, my son Dundee, his old high school classmate Peter, and I play one game of Monopoly every Christmas. The loser has to walk around the house barefooted. Also as everyone knows, I lost the annual Christmas Monopoly game again this year. I thought I had skillfully deleted--excuse me, Freudian slip--accidentally misplaced all the pictures of the incident. Someone found a few that weren't lost after all and insisted I include them in the Hooticat. Here they are.

The lost pictures

Immediately after the game, Dundee expressed his condolences.

I get ready to walk the walk.

The snow was especially cold this year, my friend.

Hooticat Newsletter

Number 115 February 3, 2011

Don and Rita are great-grandparents

Harleigh Reese Brockett, Don and Rita’s first great-grandchild, was born at Thomas Hospital in Fairhope, Alabama at 5:00 pm on Monday, January 3, 2011. According to Rita, Harleigh has a piano player’s fingers, but their son Gary, the baby’s grandfather, says they are a softball pitcher’s fingers.

The proud parents are Don and Rita’s granddaughter April and her husband Cory. April is a kindergarten teacher at Magnolia Springs Elementary School and Cory works for Riviera Utilities in Foley. Pictures below show Harleigh at one hour old, mother and daughter enjoying some quality time, and a few of the people that gathered to celebrate Harleigh’s birth.

A Distant Summer voted 'best' of 2010

My Novel A Distant Summer was voted Best Mainstream Novel of 2010 in the annual Preditors & Editors Readers' Poll recently. A bittersweet love story, adventure, and mystery set primarily in 1954 southern Indiana, A Distant Summer led throughout the voting session.

Preditors & Editors is a major online resource for serious writers, composers, game designers, and artists.

Packers are in the Super Bowl . . . and related stuff

You probably know by now that the Packers beat the Bears for the NFC title and will play Pittsburgh in Denver, becoming the first number six seed in history to make it to the Super Bowl. When the Chicago Bears played the Seattle Seahawks to determine which team would be play the Packers for the NFC championship, Brooke told me she wanted the Seahawks to win because they weren’t as good as the Bears, and the Packers would have an easier time beating them. I told Brooke that I wanted the Bears to win because there are very few things in life better than a Bears/Packers football game. Win or lose, it would be a good game.

When Brooke told Kaden that I wanted the Bears to win, he said, “Grampy doesn’t think very smart sometimes, does he?”

********

Kaden is now seven years old and Kameron is four. Both boys love sports, but Kameron has been into the Packers since the day he was born. He loves it when we cut color pictures of Packer players from our newspaper for him.

Recently Chad was burning some VHS tapes onto DVDs, or whatever it is one does with tapes to transform them into DVDs, when a particular snippet caught his eye. It was a Thanksgiving Day video when Kaden was five and Kameron was two.

Prior to eating the meal, Chad asked the two boys and their cousins, six-year-old Jacob and four-year-old Erica, what they were thankful for. The scene went like this:

Chad: What are you thankful for, Kaden?

Kaden: Snow

Chad: What are you thankful for, Jacob?

Jacob: Snow

Chad: What are you thankful for, Erica?

Erica: Jesus

Chad: What are you thankful for, Kameron?

Kameron: Go Pack go.

Hooticat Newsletter

Number 114 November 5, 2011

Outstanding Alumni edition

Dundee named Richland Center High School Outstanding Alumni

On Friday, October 15 Dundee McNair and five other Richland Center High School graduates were honored during homecoming as Outstanding Richland Center High School Alumni. The six honorees took part in the homecoming parade, participated in a ceremony shortly before kickoff, at which time the school superintendent presented them with plaques depicting the honor, and were introduced to the crowd at halftime. Two were from the class of 1961, and the others were from the classes of 1964, 1967, 1989, and 1991.

Dundee (Middle) in homecoming parade

Dundee (middle back) with other honorees

A booklet Richland Center High School Outstanding Alumni Honorees 2010 provided information about each of the honorees. The following information about Dundee appeared in that booklet:

After graduating from Richland Center in 1991, Dundee attended UW-Richland for one year before transferring to UW-Eau Claire. While majoring in music education at UWEC, Dundee served as the assistant to the director of choral activities for three years. He was the president of the Blugold Ringers, the handbell choir from UWEC, was inducted into Pi Kappa Lambda, a leadership honor society, and Kappa Delta Pi, an education honor society, and received several music scholarships. He had the honor to perform for President George Bush in 1992 with the Singing Statesmen (UWEC Male Chorus), and President Bill Clinton in 1994 with the UWEC Concert Choir while on tour with the choir in Europe.

Dundee accepted a position as an elementary music teacher in the Tomah Area School District shortly after graduation, starting in February 1996. He taught in the TASD for eight years, from 1996-2003. He earned a master's degree from UW-La Crosse in 1999 and an Educational Specialist degree in Administration (certifying him to be a K-12 principal) from Winona State University in 2003. He also was very involved with the Tomah Education Association, serving as the vice-president of the union in 2000 and as the president from 2001-02. During his summer vacations from teaching from 1998 to 2002 Dundee worked at the Americal Players Theatre in Spring Green in house management. He also earned his private pilot's license in 2000, flying with Mike Kaufman at the Richland Airport.

In 2000, Dundee was awarded a Fulbright Memorial Fund Scholarship from the Japanese government to study their educational system, travelling to Japan in June and July 2000. The United States Department of Education selected him for a Fulbright Scholarship in 2002, giving him the opportunity to travel to New Zealand in July and August 2002 to study all levels of their educational system with seventeen other teachers from throughout the US.

Dundee at top of

Mt. Fuji

Dundee moved to Japan in August 2003 to teach English in a public junior high school. He lived in Minobu, Yamanashi for two years, through August 2005. During his time in Japan, in addition to teaching, he ran two half marathons and one full marathon, climbed Mt. Fuji, and travelled extensively throughout Japan, China, Singapore, Thailand, and Malaysia.

Dundee returned to the US in August of 2005 and promptly returned to work at the American Players Theatre in house management and in the box office. He accepted a full time, year-round position at APT in December of 2005 as the Director of Operations. His position has recently expanded into development, in which he is responsible for fundraising and donor events.

He has sung with the La Crosse Chamber Chorale, the Wisconsin Chamber Chorale from Madison and the Taliesin Chorus from Spring Green (and also has conducted several pieces for them), serves on the board of directors of the Spring Green Area Arts Coalition, is the vice-chair of the Richland County Democrats, and is APT's representative on the board of Theatre Wisconsin.

Kameron visits Grandma and Grampy

When Kameron visited us this fall, he insisted upon having a Packer party. Nancy made a variety of treats for the three of us to enjoy during the game and bought him a Packer tin full of popcorn. He was excited when all the popcorn was eaten because he loves cutting pictures of the Packers from the paper, and the tin was the perfect place to keep them.

Kameron with his tin and pictures

Kameron and Packer picture

Hooticat Newsletter

Number 113 August 30, 2010

Kaden’s summer visit edition

Lack of neighborhood gangs results in spoiled kids

When I was a kid growing up in southern Indiana during the late forties and early fifties, my small town’s neighborhood had over a dozen kids between the ages of four and eleven, and we all got along. At least, in my memory we did. None of us had air-conditioners that wrung the humidity and cooled the air, or televisions that snatched animated pictures from the air, or computers that used a mysterious vastness called the Internet to make a thousand miles seem a block away.

Being deprived of all those marvels, what did we do? We played outside in a neighborhood gang. We’d play red rover, cowboy, basketball, tag, and detective. We’d catch lighting bugs that we put in jars and June bugs that we tied to threads and flew like kites. Some days we’d lie on our backs and watch fluffy clouds drift by like a slow-motion parade, and some evenings we’d sit under a streetlight and talk about the fun we had that day, or our plans for the next day, or what we hoped to become at some point way in the future, a point I passed by some thirty years ago.

Often we’d play hide-and-seek at dusk when shadows made good hiding places. As those shadows got longer, parents called, and one by one Billy, Ron, Joan, Paula, and the others ran home. I’d run home, too, when I heard my own name called. Soon, darkness gobbled up the remaining shadows, and the gang evaporated completely. But we never let the end-of-day evaporation bother us because we knew the gang would reappear somewhere in the neighborhood the next day and the day after that. In fact, we thought it would go on forever. But we were wrong. Something we hadn’t counted on ended it. We grew up. We went to high school. To college. Moved away. Had careers and families.

When my own two children were neighborhood-gang age, we lived on a small Wisconsin farm. Because the country setting didn’t allow for groups of children to play together each evening, I always hoped they’d become friends with children in my Indiana hometown when we visited my parents. Then, every time we’d visit, those friends would rush over to my parents’ house shouting, “Dundee and Brooke are here!” I’d visualize a neighborhood gang forming and hear children’s laughter meander throughout the neighborhood until growing shadows forced parents to call their children home.

My neighborhood-gang fantasy never materialized for my children. Television and air-conditioning kept children inside, especially on hot, muggy days. No gang, not even a small one, ever appeared.

Nancy and I live in town now, and we have two grandchildren ages four and seven who live three-and-a-half hours away. I’d love nothing more than for them to play with neighborhood children, but it’s a rarity to see children playing outside. So, without a neighborhood gang to make him feel special, what did we do to entertain Kaden, our seven-year-old grandson, when he visited us for four days recently?

We took him swimming.

And we took him to a petting zoo.

We played Yahzee. His mother and I play each time she visits to see who is the Yahtzee Princess. I'm proud to say that I am currently the Yahtzee Princess. Kaden and I played for the honor of being the Yahtzee Toad. He won the most games, so he's currently The Toad. But just wait until next time. I'll beat him and become the Yahtzee Toad or croak trying.

Nancy read to him.

We took him fishing. He wore his special fishing outfit. Just look at the size of that fish! He caught it all by himself.

We watched the Packers play an exhibition game on TV, but not before Kaden made his good-luck mask, donned his good-luck hat, and helped grandma make a GO PACK sign. It didn't help. The Packers lost their first exhibition game of the season in the final seconds.

We took him to the mini-golf course, to the driving range, and to the batting cage. Then, of course, we bought him candy.

He rode his bike and went bowling.

We took him to Circus World in Baraboo. In the picture below, he poses with Jesse the Clown.

I call this picture "Kaden the Dog-Faced Boy."

Kaden played an elephant in the Kids Interactive Circus. In the first picture, he's the elephant on the yellow thingie with red stars. In the second picture, he's hopping backwards on a tight wire on one leg. Even though the tight wire is stretched out on the floor, I'd say that's quite a trick for an elephant.

Of course, when we got home, we had to dress up like clowns using the clown gear we purchased at Circus World.

When we took him back to his parents at the end of his visit, he was spoiled rotten. They may as well just leave him that way because when he visits next time, we'll just spoil him rotten all over again. We plan to spoil his brother Kameron when he visits in a few weeks, too. Without neighborhood gangs for the boys to join, what other options do grandparents have?

Nancy and Mike attend a Paul Anka concert

On August 20, Nancy and I atttended a Paul Anka concert at the Crystal Grand Theatre in Wisconsin Dells. Dundee got us great seats in the fifth row.

I was expecting a good concert, but Paul Anka was GREAT! I never realized what a strong voice he has. The show opened with his seven-piece band on stage, and each member of that band oozed talent. Paul entered from the rear and sang as he shook hands and danced with some of the audience members. The crowd loved it.

Hooticat Newsletter

Number 112 June 16, 2010

Special A Distant Summer Issue

Guess What. I wrote a novel!

A Distant Summer, my first novel, has just been released by 4RV Publishing of Edmond, Oklahoma. Tell you what. I’ll hold it up for you so you can get a good look. Okay?

The book sells for $17.99, and if you purchase it from me, I'll autograph it. Simply send a check made out to "Mike's World for $19.99 (includes all taxes and $2.00 S & H) to:

Mike McNair
400 East Seventh Street
Richland Center, WI 53581

A Distant Summer is a bittersweet love story that transcends time.

When college physics professor Mike Long learns The Commander has died, he feels something is missing in his life. He returns to his Potter, Indiana hometown for the first time since his 1961 high school graduation to attend the funeral, allowing one extra day from his busy schedule to see if he can discover what’s missing. Shortly after arriving, he sees a pigeon that resembles Squall Baby, a special pigeon he and his elementary school pals took on secret agent missions.

The sighting produces a flashback to his attempts to tell Heidi—the prettiest and smartest girl in Miss Schneider’s strict 1954 fifth grade classroom--that he likes her; the dangerous adventures in the secret woods, and the terrible thing that happened at the abandoned Kaden Coal Mine. Mike's 1954 world collides with the present at the funeral, forcing a decision that changes his life forever.

Kaden celebrates 7th bithday

As hard as it is to imagine, our grandson Kaden is now seven years years old. He's really growing up. When he starts school next year, he'll be in second grade.

Here's the birthday boy with his cake.

Helping him celebrate are his cousins, parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, great-grandparents, and brother.

Kameron breaks his arm

Our daughter Brooke and her boys Kaden, and Kameron visited us Monday, June 14 through Thursday, June 17. We’ve been having a rainy spell lately and had to plan our activities around it. In addition to being rainy, Tuesday was the end-of-the-school-year dinner at Richland Center High School, and retirees were invited to share in the festivities. I attended the dinner and had a chance to talk with some people I hadn’t seen for a while. I didn’t know over half the teachers. It’s hard to believe I’ve been retired for nine years.

Wednesday we all went to the Dells and rode the ducks. The kids really enjoyed that. When we boarded, there was room for three adults in the back and two kids in the copilot seat. The boys had the best seats in the house, er, on the duck. They thought they were pretty smart. They didn’t even mind getting drenched when the duck hit Lake Delton at a high rate of speed. On the way home we stopped by a place near Rock Springs that rescues big cats, like lions, tigers, and leopards. Oh, my!

Everything was going fine until Thursday. The boys were playing in the front yard a few feet from where Nancy was on the front porch. When Kameron tried to kick the soccer ball, he missed and landed on his arm, breaking it right at the elbow. The urgent care doctor at the Richland Medical Center put a cast on his arm and said he’d need to have it rechecked by his doctor within two days. His doctor referred him to an orthopedic surgeon who performed surgery early morning on Monday, June 14.

The nurse called Brooke Monday afternoon and told her that Kameron was “the best patient ever” and that when he comes back in two weeks for the doctor to check his arm’s progress, she’s going to present him a “Best Patient Ever” award. So now Kamaron’s looking forward to going back to see the doctor. Here’s a picture of him with his heavily casted arm.

Kaden and Kameron take part in a Summer Fun Run that consists of five races throughout the summer. Those who take part in all five runs receive a medal and a T-shirt. Last summer both boys received medals and T-shirts. Kameron was upset because now he wouldn’t be able to take part in the runs, which means no medal or T-shirt.

Brooke told him he could take part if she walked with him and held his hand. He had his own thought on the subject. “Maybe you could carry me.” Brooke was quick in letting him know that she wasn’t going to carry him half a mile.

Both boys have won quite a few ribbons and medals already. Here they are with a few of them.

Mike McNair's World

Little Boys and Snowmen

By Mike McNair

Little boys and snowmen play together quite well,

Even though they shout and track puddles on your floor.

Laugh along with them and ignore their shrillest yell.

One day you'll look back, and they won't be there anymore.