“I Will Not Chew Gum In Class”

Dream Shrooms

Normally, I did not want to be noticed by any teacher in my junior or senior high school classes. If offered the opportunity to choose my seat, I would sit in the back, and still do. I loved to read, but not the assigned material and sitting in the back gave me the cover I needed to freely read the paperbacks I loved. Ninth grade World Geography was no exception, I had the perfect seat, back row, in the middle, with kids on both sides of me. Coach Devereau was the teacher. I had many faults in the ninth grade (sigh, and still do) but the worst of them were chewing gum and being a smart ass. BTW, I don’t chew gum anymore.

My fourteen-year-old self chewed gum. A lot. In theory, chewing gum in school was not allowed, probably because of the under the desktop gum disposal methodology. Consequently, when in a class with a teacher who was sensitive to this “no gum rule,” I would park my gum in the side of my mouth…between cheek and gum…and then resume my chewing once class was over.

One day in World Geography, something must have distracted me, I was chewing as I read. Out of the blue I heard a loud, “Halvorsen!” Long pause as I slid my book into the desk’s cubby, “Are you chewing gum?”

What could I say? I could have swallowed it but I’d been caught. “Yes, Coach, I am.”

“Get up here and spit it out!” he said loudly. I walked to the front of the classroom and spit my gum into the trash can he’d pointed at. Today, that’d probably be a biohazard violation and not allowed.

“Halvorsen, before the next class I want you to write ‘I will not chew gum in class’ one hundred times and give them to me at the beginning of class,” Coach said, as he looked at me hard and turned slightly red.

Does anyone remember Huron’s junior high study hall in 1963? This huge cavernous room with a couple of hundred seats (small town, remember) was usually buzzing with undertones of conversation and activity. That’s where I wrote my punishment lines, “I will not chew gum in class” one hundred times. I discovered a rhythm or cadence to the writing. Admittedly, the penmanship was awful; in those days, cursive was the method, not the quasi-printing of today. I turned my two notebook pages, both sides filled, into the Coach the next day in class.

Not too many days later I must have been distracted again because I heard the bellowing, “Halvorsen! Are you chewing gum in class again? Spit out the gum and write ‘I will not chew gum in class’ two hundred times!” The next study hall I wrote my punishment and turned them into Coach the next class. A few days later, once again the gum inexplicably moved from the side of my mouth into chewing position and I heard that familiar bellow, “Halvorsen!” This time it was three hundred times. Once again study hall provided me the time to do my punishment writing but now it was easy, I’d captured the rhythm and internal melody of writing “I will not chew gum in class.” The three hundred lines came easily; I turned them in the next class. Had I learned my lesson? Sadly, no.

Distracted once again in Coach’s class, I heard the familiar bellow, “Halvorsen!” and wondered why he couldn’t use his inside voice. Predictably, he made me spit out my gum and assigned me to write the punishment sentence four hundred times. I remember that he was quite agitated.

Back in study hall, I finished my four hundred sentences relatively easily. But then, a small demon sat on my shoulder and urged me to write another five hundred sentences. And, I did.

At the beginning of the next class with Coach, I turned in my four hundred sentences and took my seat. I am pretty sure I was adrenaline enhanced and was waiting for the right moment. It came. During the lecture Coach looked at me and I very dramatically chewed my gum. He turned a little red.

“Halvorsen!! Write ‘I will not chew gum in class’ five hundred times!” And in what seems like slow motion now, I pulled my pages of 500 sentences out, marched to the front of the class, put them on his desk, and went back to my seat. No words came out of his mouth but he turned bright red, the color of a ripe tomato. I sat down. The class had started laughing but was now silent.

“Halvorsen! Come with me!” he hollered. Off we went to the principal’s office, I sat outside the office while he talked to the principal. I remember loud voices. I don’t remember what happened next, probably detention.

I feel badly that I was not a perfectly behaved student, was disruptive in class and took away the teacher’s time from other students. And, I will not chew gum in class ever again.

Prom

Prom Should Have Been…

Prom was a “big deal” in Huron High School in the 60s, perhaps it still is. Boys dressed up in something with a tie, girls had shiny, long dresses with straps and things you never saw in daily life. Boys bought corsages for their dates, girls a boutonniere for theirs. I don’t remember that wrist corsages existed, at least in Huron. The boy was required to pin the corsage on the girl’s dress, a parent would take a picture at this memorable moment. This seemingly easy, innocuous thing to do was fret with worry because the boy might poke the girl with the long pin, or, God forbid, touch her breast when doing the pinning. Now that’s a strange thing for parents to worry about since most of us were having sex anyway but, you know, this was the 60s. Ah…proms.

Huron had a rule that only juniors and seniors could attend prom. That was kind of a bummer for me because when I was a junior, I was dating a sophomore! All of my friends were going to the prom and it sounded like it might be fun. I thought, “Well, I could go on a friend date.” I asked my girlfriend if I could take Becky N to the event who sat next to me in one of my classes … we were JUST friends. Holy crap, you’d a thought that everyone in town had just stopped dead in their tracks. So, no…I did not go to the prom when I was a junior.

Proms back then were a gala event held in the Huron HS Arena. Dinner was served and then a band played for dancing. Since sophomores could not attend, the more popular among them were asked to help with the decorations, advertisement, and the dinner. They would be the servers and take the dishes to the tables and then retrieve them after dinner. I think the theme of the prom I missed was something like “Southern Magnolias” and the decorations were supposed to be from a pre-Civil War plantation. The sophomore students all wore clothes as if they were enslaved. They all had black face. I wince when I look at the yearbook.

I’m not sure we’ve learned anything in all the decades since that prom. I think I have opened myself more since then, but I’ve been ridiculed for being more aware of American history and that makes me sad.

Walking Across America

Locomotive from B&O RR Museum, Baltimore

My Great Grandfather, William Winter Lewis was youngest of four brothers. His three older brothers fought in the Civil War; all three at the Battle of Gettysburg, one was killed and the other two each lost their right arms but survived. G-Grandfather William was a little young so missed the horror of that war. He graduated from State Normal School in Erie, PA and then taught school. However, the call of the west was very loud to the young men of post-war America, and G-Grandfather William was no exception.

He headed west and stopped in Rochester and Mankato, MN, to teach school. But then the wanderlust must have hit him again for in 1866 he joined a wagon train of 56 wagons enroute to Helena, MT. The wagons were filled with supplies, women and children; the men walked. G-Grandfather William told his children he walked over 1,000 on his journey. In 1874 he rode on horseback from Helen, MT, to Walla Walla, WA. From Walla Walla he took a stage coach several hundred miles to a railhead and caught a train back to his home in Erie, PA.

Quite an adventure story…coast to coast (almost) in the harshest of conditions. Yet, that was just a thing that people were doing after the war. He married my great grandmother in 1877 in Erie, PA, but they immediately left and settled in Iowa.

This story was written by hand, by my grandmother, Florence Lewis Jones. She was born in 1883 and wrote a short record of her family’s history. She had a fascinating life and many, many children.

Sophomore Year Then 25 Years Later

Masonic Temple/Building Huron, SD

More synapses connected as I strolled down memory lane of that infamous sophomore year. Never a fast learner, I decided to try sports again in the spring of that year. I played golf and had played for several years. I wasn’t a great golfer, but I was okay. So…I thought…why not join the golf team, they traveled, they were cool, and, how hard could it be. Well, I found out.

The golf team practiced a couple of miles north of town at the Huron Country Club. This was a bit of a challenge since I didn’t have a car. After school let out I would catch a ride home or walk the mile or so, borrow mom’s car and head for the course. Coach “H,” a very tall man, was the golf coach. Now, I liked him…as much as I could like a teacher and a coach. He didn’t yell at kids in school, he seemed to be a polite man, and he was respected as a basketball coach. So for me, compared to Coach W, Coach H was a Godsend. Except he didn’t want me to be late for practice. When I arrived the first day, he told me that I had to do a lap around the golf course before I could begin. I was the only sophomore “trying out” for the golf team and the only one without a car to take to school. He said perhaps I could hitch a ride from one of the upperclassmen. No one offered. I must have been a pariah.

The next day, same thing, ten minutes late, do the lap. The Huron course wasn’t a long one but it still required almost an hour to run. When I’d finished running, the coaching part of the day’s session was over, the other kids were out playing. And, no coach.

Day three. Ten minutes late again. Coach said to do a lap. I told him that wasn’t helpful since when I finished running I received no coaching. He suggested that if I cut my hair, perhaps he’d be more flexible. And that, was my last foray into organized high school sports.

However, that reminded me of another golf story, one that took place twenty years later. I had an Air Force assignment to a year long military school in Montgomery, Alabama. Most of the classes were over by 2:00 p.m. and we didn’t have any organized after-class activities. But then I discovered that our air base had two outstanding golf courses. Several of us formed a group and played golf every single weekday. I was the best golfer I’d ever been and would ever be…still not that good, just good for me. Then, in the spring, things turned dark.

The leader of our “seminar group” of twelve or so officers decided that his seminar (me and colleagues) would enter a softball league and tournament.

“No. No. No.” I told him. “You have no right to require us to attend a non-syllabus activity on our own time!” He went all military on me and said that yes, this was his requirement and he was in charge. I wasn’t happy.

I’d never been good at baseball or softball. I could hit a ball okay but when I would go to throw the ball, the connection between my brain and my arm fails; where the ball would go is completely random. I do NOT make this up and it is not hyperbole. I can go out today to throw the dog’s ball and God only knows where it will land. So not only was this softball thing going to encroach on my personal time, it was also going to encroach on my coolness in front of my seminar mates. But, I had no option.

Our seminar leader made a rule that everyone had to play even though we typically had a couple of extra folks. He always put me in right field where there was seldom activity. I’d go to the field, stare at the batters, walk back to the bench. And then I’d do the same. And then again. Boring. Then I thought, why not make something good come out of this time in the field?

I went to my car, got out my pitching wedge and three golf balls. The next time I was sent to right field I took them with me and practiced my short pitch. The seminar leader was apoplectic. And, of course, the opposing team all tried to hit the ball to right field. I however, was relentless and would not give up my diversion. I was never ordered to not practice my golf in right field and so didn’t stop. I was only put in for one inning after the first time so it was okay. Some people actually hit it all the way out to me but I could field without a glove, and, because the entire infield was in front of me when I threw the ball, I had a reasonable chance of getting close to a person with the throw. And perhaps the second baseman played back and right a bit.

Me and sports. Not a perfect match. Me and the military. Hmmmm. Ever see the show M.A.S.H.?

High School Sports & Me, It Didn’t End Well

High School Nemesis

One snowy Friday, Coach W selected me to wrestle in my weight class against the Aberdeen team. Yes. Me. Wrestling. For some strange reason, I had decided to “go out” for wrestling; I was in tenth grade…so who knows what hormone triggered that insanity. The coach was…not his real name, Coach W.

Practices were a bitch; after exercise we wrestled our teammates and if Coach W didn’t think a wrestler was doing well, he ordered his two dogs to attack the poor performer. Yes, he brought his two German Shepherds into many of the practices, they were Max and Schnell. They never actually bit anyone, they would just race toward the victim, get close and snarl and growl. Scary. Scary. Scary.

Back to that Friday; during classes he told me to report to the stadium right after school to prepare for that evening’s match. And I did and they weighed me. I weighed several pounds above my weight class which was around 120 (I know, I know). Coach W looked at me and said “Time to sweat.” He put me into a rubber body suit and made me run up and down the steps of the stadium over and over again. No water. Another weigh in. Still over my weight. Run again. Weigh again. Run again. Weigh again. Ah…correct weight. Now I had to wait for the official weigh in. Did I mention I couldn’t drink anything? At last the formal weigh in, I was on my weight, I went off to drink a huge amount of water and rest, I was a wreck.

And then the match, my opponent was a kid named Sorenson (funny how I remember that). He was strong, bulky and mean looking. I was skinny, very skinny. And tired. I remember slippery, swirling arms and legs and sweat. Round 1. Round 2. I was amazed I’d survived that long. Round 3…he dozed off or something and I pinned him. Somehow my on fire muscles carried me back to the bench. Huron won the meet, I had contributed.

The next Monday, Coach W saw me in the hallway and said, “Good job last week. By the way, get your haircut or clean out your locker.” I was surprised, after all, I’d won my match and endured hours of grueling preparation. With the same long hair, and, I’d won. But, Coach W was a mean dragon of a man and not to be trifled with so I knew it wasn’t a joke.

I was playing in a band, The Bird Dogs, and long hair was part of the image. Of course, by today’s standards, my hair wasn’t long at all, it did go halfway down my ears and over my collar but, really, long hair. However, that was Huron in 1965. After school I went to the gym and cleaned out my locker. It wasn’t even a question what I should do. Wrestling wasn’t fun. Match prep wasn’t fun. And the match wasn’t fun. Rock and roll was fun. What had I been thinking?

The next day Coach W saw me coming out of study hall, grabbed me by the arm and said, “You haven’t cut your hair.”

“I cleaned out my locker,” I replied.

He drew back his arm, clenched his hand into a fist, and hit me hard, very hard, in the solar plexus. I fell like a rock to the floor and could not breathe. I could tell there was pain but my brain had no oxygen and that was the priority of the moment. I was curled in a fetal position, I couldn’t scream or cry or talk or curse…I had no breath. Classmates came to my side and held me while they yelled at me to breathe. I didn’t need encouragement. When I could breathe again, I felt the pain. The bruise lasted for days.

Time to head for my next class. No other teachers had seen the attack and it probably wouldn’t have made a difference if they had. I did not tell any adult. That’s what it was like in those days.

The Blizzard of March ‘66

Once upon a time in a land far, far away a blizzard descended on the small town where I lived and everything, I mean everything, ground to a halt. I grew up in Huron, smack dab in the middle of the eastern half of South Dakota, a land known as the Great Plains where flat is the geographic reality. The people of South Dakota are used to blizzards, ice storms, tornadoes, and all other sorts of unfriendly weather. But, once in a while even South Dakotans are known to wince at Mother Nature and mumble, “Holy batshit, Robin!” Early March, 1966 was one of those times.

Weather forecasts weren’t quite the same back then, no computers, no green screens, just grease pencils and maps. Dave Dedrick, the icon of Sioux Falls television was probably going out over the airways warning travelers and farmers about the storm that was headed our way. The western half of the state was being hammered, hundreds of cattle were isolated and in danger of a cold death, all of their highways were closed and the storm was headed our way.

My dad was the manager of the meat packing plant just east of town where several hundred employees worked every weekday. Dad decided to shut the plant down early and send everyone home…an unheard of event. Except for the watchman, he was the last to leave the plant, but by then the blizzard was in full force. Although the drive from the plant to home was only two or three miles, he was having great difficulty seeing and making his way on the city streets. He got out of his car about half a mile from home and walked the rest of the way. He was lucky, 18 people died and over 100,000 cattle, sheep and hogs were killed in the four day storm.

The storm is rated as one of the worst in U.S. history. Winds up to 70 mph with as much as 38 inches of snow. The flat terrain of South Dakota was no barrier to the brutal winds and snow drifts as high as 40 feet were reported. The storm ended four days after it began, about March 6. We discovered we could not get out of the house, all of our doors opened “out” and the snow had drifted to the gutters. We had to open the garage car door and literally tunnel out of the snow.

Road graders and plows were finally trying to clear the streets but only one lane was open on all but the main street of town, Dakota Avenue. The snow was so deep it wasn’t “plowable” in a normal manner. Dad was worried about his car, he wasn’t exactly sure where he’d left it. We shoveled our driveway which took most of one day and then we walked down the street where he’d been driving but found no sign of his car. There was only one “lane” of travel. We walked along and dug small chunks out of bumps in the snow drift until we hit pay dirt, one of the “bumps” was his car, a full block away from where he’d thought he’d left it. We shoveled it out and drove home.

People were digging out but very slowly. The city had to put the snow somewhere and so they created snow mountains in any available parking lot or empty lot or space. Some of those snow mountains lasted until late April.

The Spy and I

Nighttime Mystery

---

Poor grammar but I couldn’t resist the rhyme. A spy? And me? Yes, ‘tis true. For a short time in my military life I was in close and relatively routine contact with a spy. A communist spy. Did I know? Hah. Naive? Me? Yes to naive. No, I absolutely did not know he was a spy. Well, until he was arrested.

What seems like a thousand years ago I was stationed in the Pentagon as a USAF officer assigned to assist foreign nationals with their acquisition of U.S. military equipment. One of my projects was to sell F-16 aircraft and support to Belgium, Norway, Denmark, and The Netherlands. Belgium was the most active of the programs, they wanted to buy more F-16s and upgrade their current fleet. I traveled often to Brussels and their team came to the U.S. just as often. Most of the Belgians I worked with were equivalent in rank and position as I was in the USAF, the one exception was Colonel Guy Binet.

Colonel Binet was the senior acquisition officer in the Belgian Air Force and had a great deal of influence and power in the Belgian system. He did not attend all of the meetings I had with the Belgians, but he was in quite a few, especially when the meetings were in the U.S. or had to do with financial matters. The Belgians did not have a large defense budget and every franc (pre-Euro) was dear to them.

Col Binet was suave and debonair and had an exotic, Elvis Presley look. He was mysterious and oozed a knowingness as if he were the voice of Belgium. He recommended Brussels restaurants and galleries that were far beyond the means of most of the U.S. delegation. His presence was everywhere in the program reviews even if he wasn’t actually in the meetings. He sometimes asked me about my experience as an F-16 pilot and I would of course regale him with fighter pilot stories. However, never did our discussions involve classified information nor did the management of his program require access to or discussion of classified material. At least from my programs. That made my life a bit easier just a couple of years later.

Back at the cube farm, my “office” in the Pentagon, a colleague three cubes away hollered, “Didn’t you work with a Colonel Binet in Belgium?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Well, you need to take a look at this!” and he handed me that day’s ‘Washington Post’ opened to one of the inner pages. And there, right there at the top of the page was a picture of Guy Binet, with a headline “Communist Spy Arrested” or something like that. Was I surprised? Oh, yeah.

I called the Air Force Office of Special Investigation and reported my contact with the good Colonel. The next day I was sitting with a couple of suits in a small room answering questions and recounting my history with Binet and the program. That was the last “official” interaction I had regarding Binet. The OSI never called me back for more information and didn’t let me know what happened next. Imagine that.

Later, through newspapers, colleague accounts, etc., I found out more, but still not a lot. Guy Binet was known as the “Red Colonel” by his handlers and was probably recruited by the East Germans. I think I met him in 1987, he was arrested in September 1988 and convicted in June 1989. He did it for money, not ideology and it really wasn’t very much money, just a bit more than $100,000. He also had access to NATO information which was not something I knew about or had contact with in my job. Fortunately for the U.S., he was detected by the CIA early in his spy career when he first contacted communist agents in 1986. He entered a guilty plea and was sentenced to 20 years with total loss of military rank and retirement. He was released after only 5 years and died in 2000.

He didn’t seem like such a bad guy and I wonder what sent him down the wrong path. But then, I’m naive, I’d rather believe everyone has a good side. But I am curious. All the other Belgians I worked with were dedicated, hard working, professionals. I think. What made Binet tick?

My Phone(s)

Deep Thoughts

I grew up in the time of Ma Bell, party lines, long distance charges, operators, switchboards, crackling connections. etc! Once, Ma Bell symbolized the American Way; if Ma Bell wanted to raise rates, she did. If Ma Bell wanted to take away your rented phone (and they were all rented), she did. In truth, in the 1950s, Ma Bell could do pretty much whatever she wanted. There were no alternatives. None. Then the 1980s “Breakup” happened and Ma Bell became a series of Baby Bells and…well, here we are in a cellular world with no providers like those days of yesteryear. The EIGHT Baby Bells have morphed and re-morphed into only three: AT&T, Verizon, and Lumen. From one to eight to three. But no more party lines, no switchboards (with people), and few operators. And now everyone has a phone, a cell phone.

We, however, still have a “land line.” We don’t have copper wire like they did in Ma Bell’s day but rather glass or fiber cable that is somehow converted to a copper line after entering the house. I’m not sure why I ordered the service when we moved in. Well, actually I do. I have a fax machine which I now have used three times in the last two years.

You’re thinking I should dump my land line. I’ve thought of that, but the last time I tried to quit a Verizon sub-service, the person in India I was talking with increased my rates. I called India back, “Delete something and raise my rates,” I asked. “Yes,” they answered. I added the service again and my rate went back down.

If you need to send me a fax, please call me and I will switch the cable over to the fax machine and be poised to receive!!! But don’t wait too long to send your fax, the SPAM people are also poised to call and I’ll need to switch the cable back to the phone. I can’t leave the copper line snaking across hallways and bedrooms between the phone terminal and the fax machine. Smile.

Other than faxing, we do not use this land line. We don’t answer it…it’s always SPAM, some faceless bot or voice out there trying to sell me something that no one on the planet needs. But the thrice daily ringing comforts me and reminds me I’m a piece of a bigger society.

A Short Poem

Demonstration In D.C.

I DON’T SCREAM ANYMORE

I don’t scream anymore
With death just out the door.
I smile and sink deep inside
Mind seeking right, eyes open wide. 

Burn the books, call for war
Make it tough for all to score
Let voter access freely slide
So your wagon is the only ride. 

But know that deep inside
Somewhere is a rising tide
Of fairness, human to the core.
So, I don’t scream anymore.

---

Last night I used a phrase in a workshop, “I don’t scream anymore,” that seemed to want additional thought. I did a speed writing poem. I haven’t posted anything on this site in quite a while. I’m beginning to think this is where I belong.

Tyranny Crushes

Ninety years ago brown shirted thugs organized politically under the rhetoric of a demented orator who played upon their nationalistic weaknesses. “Normal” people were forced to join the movement or be killed or marginalized. Together, the normal folks and their crazed, psychopathic leaders killed over six million people in a demented race for white supremacy. “Never again,” you say.

Jim Jones popped up in Indiana and pitched his brand of righteousness as a skilled orator, an anointed one. One thousand of his followers killed their own children and then killed themselves because he asked them.

Again, the “righteous” are returning to condemn anyone different from them. The majority remained silent in Germany in the 1920s & 30s until it was too late to say or do anything. I hope it’s not the same here today.