Memories of great tragedies never seem to leave us. I still remember sitting in my high school geometry class, when the hall monitor brought in the announcement that President Kennedy had been shot. We’d all heard rumors during class break, so we were filled with conflicting emotions of fear and anticipation, while we watched our math teacher read the note the hall monitor had handed him. But still we were stunned, when we our teacher read the announcement to us, and we began to realize our world would never be the same.
9/11
I was back in Michigan on 9/11/2001. There had just been a family reunion. At that time my daughter was still in a long-term relationship. After the reunion the four of us made a vacation of it in Michigan: myself, my wife, my daughter; my daughter’s boy friend. It had disturbed me that my daughter didn’t properly understand Michigan geography, and I wanted her to see the old ``homeland" firsthand, up-close and personal.
On the evening of 9/10/2001, we checked into a pleasant beachfront motel on Lake Huron with a view of Mackinac Island in the distance. The motel owner was a real friendly chap. He suggested we come around in the morning for breakfast before we ferried over to Mackinac Island in the morning. The wife and I said that sounded like a good idea. It all depended on whether we could get the kids up early enough. The motel owner laughed. He said he had a son who thought the sun came up at noon.
My daughter and her boy friend were in the room next to us. There were sidewalks in front and and behind the rooms, and each room had doors in the front facing the parking, and in the rear facing the beach.
Everything seemed so pleasant, when we awoke on the morning of 9/11. The early morning light was easy on the eyes, and lapping of waves on the beach gave one a sense of tranquility.
I asked my wife, ``Should I wake the kids?"
``No, let them sleep awhile longer."
Right then we the door slammed next door and I heard my daughter run on the sidewalk. Then she pounded on the rear door. She shouted, ``Turn on the TV! The terrorists are attacking!"
My wife jumped out of the bed, and let my daughter into the room. My daughter ran to the TV, and grabbed the remote. Moments later we were watching a replay of the first airplane attack.
We eventually continued our tourist thing. There was nothing else we could do. One of the things we did was take a canoe trip. I love canoeing.
The Immediate Aftermath
A couple days later when we arrived in Grand Rapids, MI, it seemed like a ghost town. Everyone was inside watching TV. As we drove down the near empty streets, the town cast a desolate, hopeless spell over me.
Now
Now that eight years have passed since 9/11 I wonder where is the hope? At times it feels like we’re canoeing down a fast, endless river without paddles, and our canoe is hopelessly spinning out of control.
In my message back to Angela, I asked her if I was using Twitter lingo correctly?
Angela replied that I was. Angela also said, ``Jst use mre abbrviatns :) Only 140 characters!"
Angela's reference to 140 characters, pertains to the fact Twitter messages only allow 140 characters. This limitation makes it difficult to say much in a single message.
For example, the following message is exactly 140 characters (including spaces as characters): ``Bad accident. Car's totaled. Police on scene. Father's dead, mother's in coma, searching for children in snowbank. Call quick! Don't worry."
In the above message, because of the 140 character limitation, I wasn't able to mention the fate of the poor Poochie.
At this point, allow me to make two singular points, before I pointlessly drift too far astray from the point of this discourse. One point is simple and obvious. The other point, I should point out, does involve a little known point of historical information. (I'm just happy you don't view this a pointless endeavor.)
Nowadays virtually everyone uses abbreviations and acronyms in everyday applications such as texting, IM, and email to an amazing extent.
Very few people realize a high school classmate of mine developed the modern texting acronyms and and abbreviations back in the mid-1960s. He called this system ``Speed Writing". My classmate was Bill Jackson*.
It is time Bill Jackson received credit for the invention of Speed Writing. Yes, the time is long past overdue.
Read the story below, and find out how Speed Writing was unleashed upon the world.
Bill Jackson Starts a Revolution
I attended University High School in Kalamazoo. I was in the last senior class to graduate from U-High (1965/66). My classmates and I broke the school, and they had to shut the school down after we graduated. (No lie. It's the Google Truth!)
Being a ``University" high school, we had more than our fair share of student teachers, and we developed the skills to deal with them. When properly motivated, we could even make service in The Vietnam War look attractive.
On the day Speed Writing was presented to the world, there were about thirty of us in English class. I'm not sure what year it was, but I'm thinking it might have been 10th grade.
Class on the day of the big event was taught by a male student teacher in his late twenties (or, at least, he looked late twenty-ish to me at the time).
Now at this point in the events my vantage point was bad — it was a disadvantaged point. I was on one side of the classroom, and Bill Jackson was on the other side of the classroom — the side by the windows. I couldn't hear what Bill Jackson was saying, but nearly a third of the class was listening to the conversation Bill was having with the kids sitting near him. On the other hand, sadly, I could hear the student teacher, but I couldn't make any sense out of his lecture.
At this point, there was a sudden turn of events.
In a loud, stern voice the student teacher said, ``Mr. Jackson can you tell me what I have been discussing for the last ten minutes?"
The classroom became very quiet.
Without hesitation, Bill Jackson respectfully replied, ``No, Sir."
``Why not, Mr. Jackson?"
``Because I was having a most pleasant conversation with my friends."
``Well, then, Mr. Jackson, since you don't think you need to listen to my lecture, if you think you are so smart, would you like to take over the instruction of this English class?"
``Yes, Sir, I would very much like to do that."
Bill Jackson then stood smartly, and walked sharply to the front of the classroom. He asked the student teacher for the chalk he was holding, then Bill Jackson turned towards the class and smiled.
``Good morning, students," Bill said.
``Good morning, Mr. Jackson," the class responded in unison.
``Students, how many of you have heard of `Speed Reading'?"
Nearly everyone in class raised a hand.
``Class, you all know how speed reading can save you time. Well, today I am going to teach you something new, something that can save as much time as speed reading, perhaps even more. Today I will be teaching Speed Writing!
Bill then wrote several sentences on the blackboard. I don't recall those sentences, so I will use my own.
Bad accident. Car's totaled. Police on scene. Father's dead, mother's in coma, searching for children in snowbank. Call quick! Don't worry.
Bill then began teaching us the stages we must go through to learn speed writing correctly.
Stage 1 is easy, because beginners need lots of reassurance. In Stage 1 you learn to write without punctuation. For example:
Bad accident Cars totaled Police on scene Fathers dead mothers
in coma searching for children in snowbank Call quick Dont worry
Stage 2 is equally easy to learn. It just involves writing without capital letters, and replacing them with lowercase. (Can't you see already how much time this speed writing system will save you? Bill Jackson is a genius! A man ahead of his time, that's for sure.)
bad accident cars totaled police on scene fathers dead mothers
in coma searching for children in snowbank call quick dont worry
In Stage 3 you add vowels to the things you don't have to mess around with, when you write.
bd accdnt crs ttld plic n scn fthers dd mthers n cm srcng fr chldrn n snwbnk cll quck dnt wrr
In Stage 4 you learn to write without spaces between words.
In Stage 5 you add consonants and misc. characters to the list of things you learn to write without.
Bill Jackson then said, "Go ahead and try finishing the example for Stage 5 by yourself, then exchange your paper with your closest classmate, and see how you did."
Bill waited a few minutes, then he asked the class, ``How did everyone do? You all got it correct, excellent! I think everyone should get an ``A" for the day."
Bill looked at the student teacher, and he said, ``You will give everyone an ``A" for the day, won't you, Sir?"
I first heard the song ``Where Have all the Flowers Gone?" in 1962. I was in eighth grade.
It was probably late May. Every year the high school put on a show called ``The Red and White Revue" (red and white were the school colors).
I was a junior high kid in the cheap balcony seats, which made the stage seem distant and awesome. (In the Fall I was going to be a Freshman in high school, so seeing these high school kids perform from a location where I couldn't really see their faces made high school seem distant, awesome, and a little scary.)
One of the acts towards the end of the show was three guys doing an impression of The Kingston Trio — outfits like the trio, and two guitars with a banjo. They probably sang just two or three songs. The last song was a tune written by Pete Seeger, ``Where Have all the Flowers Gone?"
``Where Have all the Flowers Gone?" blew me away, and that was before we had the expression "blew me away". This was also during the early stage of the US involvement in The Vietnam War, so there wasn't a well organized anti-war movement. The Peace Movement, the Hippies, the Summer of Love, the assassinations, they would all come later.
On this warm spring evening I was just an eighth grader with my head in the clouds thinking about this magical song called ``Where Have all the Flowers Gone?"
A reader suggested I tell how I learned to walk. As I planned to discuss that topic in the next installment of Broken Memories, I considered the suggestion pure genius; therefore this installment will circumstances surrounding that experience.
Another reader suggested I discuss my potty training. My initial reaction was, ``What the heck do I know about my own potty training?"; however, upon reflection, an anecdote — of sorts — did come to mind. In the next installment of Broken Memories, I will make an effort to relive that experience with you (the triumphs and embarrassments).
I thank both readers for their suggestions, and I look forward to more suggestions, comments, and ideas from other Befuddled readers. Readers can contact me via email.
My Granddad and Grammie taught me to walk. I will explain why, but it's complicated.
The Road Trip
My family's first sojourn to visit my father's Kansas and Oklahoma relatives took place in the summer of 1949. This was right after my first birthday. I wasn't exactly ready for such a long road trip. I was still a crawler, and thus couldn't walk. Also, I wasn't potty trained.
Let me further set the scene
In 1949 Truman was President; thus this was a long time before Eisenhower, and the Interstate Highway System. Major highways were two lane affairs; that is, one measly lane going in each direction. There were motels, but they were rustic affairs (no ice machines, no air conditioners, the thermostats were there mainly for decoration). By the time you arrived at a motel, they usually had a "No Vacancy" sign up, so you better have a reservation. In those days people made reservations via the US mail, and they paid with checks, so trips had to be planned well in advance. My mother did all the travel planning and arrangements. My father did all the driving and navigating. He also found all the ``short-cuts".
Estimating how far one could travel in a day over unfamiliar roads was a fine art. This had to be accomplished, so you pick out the towns and cities where you needed to find a motel. In our case, if Dad overestimated how far he could drive in six hours or so, and he didn't arrive at the motel until after dark, he and Mom would have to deal with tired and irritable children for hours. If Dad underestimated the distance, he would arrive at the motel in the middle of the afternoon. Then us kids would be thrilled, but Dad would be nervous and worrisome for the rest of the afternoon and evening; feeling like he was wasting valuable time.
The worst ``seat" in the car was to be sandwiched in the middle (either between two siblings in the back, or Mom and Dad in the front). Because of the transmission hump, there was no room for your feet, and no cushion in the seat. When you sat in the middle, it would only take about 30 minutes to get your legs and butt to fall asleep and tingle with pain.
Back on the road trip
My parents decided I wasn't up to an arduous road trip of about 1,100 miles. I assume my mother wrote her parents, and it was agreed that my family would take a short side-trip to Rockford, Illinois on the first leg of their journey. At that time my maternal grandparents lived in Rockford.
I apparently survived the trip from Kalamazoo to Rockford without incident. Being just a tad over one year's old, I obviously do not remember the trip to Rockford. In fact, I do not directly remember any of the events of this tale. These are the remembrances of Granddad, Mom, and Dad, which I overheard. They were discussions amongst themselves, which I overheard. I didn't participate in the conversations. I was the proverbial fly on the wall. Because the stories were not told directly to me, you may justifiably conclude there are several layers of hearsay, and to claim this tale has veracity takes audacity.
Granddad and Grammie
I don't know too much about the early life of Granddad and Grammie.
My father derisively called Granddad, ``A self-made man."
Granddad had an eighth grade education, which, in his day, might have been considered roughly equivalent to a high school degree. (To prove he had completed eighth grade, he carefully kept his four signed eighth grade report cards throughout his life, and now I have them carefully stowed away.)
Granddad made a career as a Boy Scout Executive. He served the Boy Scouts in Kansas and Iowa.
When he retired from the Boy Scouts, Granddad moved to Rockford, IL, and took a job selling life insurance.
Granddad and Grammie were religious, and Granddad was Sunday School Superintendent of the local Baptist church.
Granddad was a suburb carpenter. He was very organized. If he was upset with us kids, or Mom and Dad, he would try to hold his tongue; but if you asked him to say grace at dinner time, he would say his piece.
Sadly, I never really knew Grammie. By the time I was old enough to remember my interactions with my grandparents, my Grammie had withdrawn within herself. She would live within her own world, and hum quietly. Naturally, Grammie's problem was diagnosed as being senile dementia, but in retrospect, I believe it was depression.
Whatever the problem, in the summer of 1949 it had not yet disabled Grammie, and Grammie and I apparently recognized in each other a kindred spirit.
Hardly 11 months old, I just took off running. Running straight towards Granddad's whirling movie camera. I was Granddad's little superstar!
The Mythology
When I was young, I had heard the stories. The stories about how I had learned to walk at a park in Rockford, IL. The stories about how I ran down this lane chasing ducks and geese. Later, when I was older, I asked my Dad about the stories. My Dad said he couldn't recall Granddad ever telling him any such stories. Dad said he was sure it was just my imagination playing tricks on me.
Jump ahead to when my siblings are grown, and I've started college. Grammie has died some years ago. Now Granddad's weak heart fails him one last fatal time, and he's gone. Mom travels to Florida to attend the funeral.
Mom has memorabilia sent to the house. We have a small family reunion at the parents' to view the memorabilia, and celebrate the lives of Granddad and Grammie.
There were two particularly memorable moments.
At one point, Mom found a photo of Grammie taken in East Moline, IL. It was a photo Grammie playfully hiding behind hanging leaves of vines. In the photo you could see a mischievous smile on her face, and a twinkle in her eye.
My mother held up the photo, and began crying uncontrollably. After all these years, my mother was finally able to mourn the loss of all the years she had been deprived of her own mother's companionship and support.
Later, Mom found a reel of film. Mom insisted Dad go into town and rent a projector that played the outdated film format used by Granddad.
Eventually Dad returned with a projector. The projector was set up, and a screen as well. With my brother Ted's help, the film was finally put in the projector, and everything was ready for the show to begin. The lights were turned off. The projector was turned on.
The show began...
Then, my goodness, there I was in all my glory. Barely past one year's old. I was running down a park lane chasing after a bunch of ducks and geese. (There were probably some pigeons, too.) I was obviously running as fast as I could, because it was clear that if I stopped running, I would topple forward onto my face.
The old fable was true, but the important thing is this, my Grammie and Granddad once let me run like the wind.
Last evening I was running late. I had been asked to participate in a focus group. I usually don't do that sort of stuff, but it paid 100 bucks, and — what with Christmas, and all, — we could use the money.
I was about to leave, when the phone rang. I was in my office. No caller ID. I almost didn't pick up.
Ron informed me that his mother, Catherine Stiles, had died the day before. He said they were going through Catherine's papers, and found a letter I had written her, so they decided to give me a call. (Actually, my letter was a reply to a newsy card Catherine had sent me.)
Ron Stiles is a descendant of Gertrude Null and Floyd Stiles. Gertrude was one of my father's sisters. (My father had two sisters, and one brother.)
Floyd and Gertrude Stiles had three children: William, Thomas, and Robert (we called him Bob). Bob married Catherine. Bob and Catherine had three children: Darrell, Ron, and Diane. Although we met William and Thomas along with their families, we got to know Bob and Catherine best, because (a) we stayed at their house, whenever we would visit, and (b) one time they traveled to Michigan to visit our family.
When I was growing up, as far as I recall, my family only visited our Kansas and Oklahoma relatives three times. I was along on two of those occasions. (On the first occasion, I was too young, and I was left with my Grandparents on my mother's side.) Those sojourns into my father's ``motherland" had a huge impact on me and my siblings.
Memories
If you bear with me, I will tell a few little memories that a small boy kept of his first cousin Catherine Stiles; but remember— due to the age difference — Catherine Stiles seemed more like an Aunt to this little boy who now has become something of an old man.
On the first evening of the first day that I ever set foot on the Bob and Catherine Stiles' farm, I had quite an awakening. Apparently Darrel, Ronnie, and I were running around in the house, while Catherine and my Mom were attempting to cook dinner. Catherine said she was tried of us three boys being underfoot, and told us to go play outside until dinner was ready.
When we got outside, Darrel and Ronnie started cutting across a field as fast as they could. I was worried. I asked if we didn't have to stay near the house? Darrel said we could go and do whatever we wanted, as long as we came back when dinner was called. I went off with them, but I was still worried.
After we had played for what seemed like a long time, Darrell suddenly announced, ``Dinner's ready. We have to go back."
I didn't hear a thing, but sure enough, when we got back to the house, Catherine told us to wash our hands, and sit down at the table.
The next surprise happened during dinner. Suddenly Darrel said, ``Tim said he was going to cut my tongue off." (It was something I had said in jest. Darrel and I hadn't quarreled.)
Without a pause long enough to sigh, Catherine replied, ``If your tongue was outside your mouth, Darrel, it should be cut off."
I was taken totally by surprise. Here was somebody coming to my defense, and it was a person who didn't even know me.
Later that night Catherine came into the small room where I was sleeping. She asked if I had enough blankets. I said I was just fine. She said she would leave two extra blankets ``just in case". About two hours later I woke up freezing my tail off, and I realized the two extra blankets were there just in case I woke two hours later freezing my tail off.
The next example is more recent, and it has to do with the magical power of Catherine Stiles. A few years ago Catherine Stiles sent me a card that was no larger than 3 inch square, if that big. All four sides of the card were filled with her writing, so the information sent along with the card was quite extensive.
There was only one problem, because of the size of the card, the postman had allowed the card to fall within the weekly neighborhood ads that go out together several times a week in a nice neat packet, which I always immediately toss into the recycling bin.
The day Catherine Stile's card arrived I went out to get the mail as usual. I was totally unaware that Catherine's card was lost within the weekly ads, nonetheless just before I threw the packet of ads into the recycling bin, I thought to myself, ``You know it might be possible for an important letter to get mixed in with all those ads."
I laid the ad packet down on the table, and carefully sorted through the packet ad by ad. About halfway through the packet I found the envelope containing Catherine Stiles' card. Man, what a fluky thing. The power of Catherine Stiles' mind could reach out across state borders and demand your attention. Heaven knows what she's up to now.
Best Wishes
I give my best wishes to Robert, Darrel, Ron, and Diane Stiles, along with everyone else who knew and loved Catherine Stiles. I am sorry for your loss. When Catherine Stiles left this world, a gap opened that cannot be filled.
Back L-R: Sue, Sandy, and Ted. Front center: Tim (born June, 1948).
Introduction
This is the first in a series of columns I will be writing that will be``based" on my life. The stories I will tell in these columns won't be based on verified facts, but rather they will be based on my own fractured memories.
In the telling of these tales, I won't attempt to write an autobiography. I won't be writing history. The information presented should not be viewed as factual.
What I will be presenting will be a personal mythology. If it is convenient I might verify a date, or the name of a location, etc, but by enlarge I will be relying entirely on my own memory, and I will not make any particular exertions to determine if my recollections are true or false.
DISCLAIMER: So, dear reader, unless proven otherwise, always assume everything I write in these Broken Memories' columns to be a boldfaced lie.
My First Christmas December, 1948
Progress Sucks
As you will come to learn, I remember more about my life between the ages of 2 1/2 and 6 years, then I do during any other period of time. During that period, it seems, my brain would make Polaroid snapshots of events, and file them away with a 3 by 5 notecard containing a snippet of dialog. This totally analog memory system was fantastically effective, and I can still remember events, storied away in my brain in this old analog system.
Unfortunately, sometime after the age of six, my brain stopped storing events in this efficient and effective analog system, and it started storing stuff using ``modern" digital video and audio. And, as you've probably guessed, from that day forward, I haven't been able to remember a damn thing.
I was There
I don't claim to remember my first Christmas, but I know I was there. I know, because my Granddad took a photo. (My Granddad took a lot of photos. Granddad was Mom's father.)
Look at the photo above. That is me front and center with the bugged-out eyes. (I got in a lot of trouble for those bugged-out eyes!)
I have two sisters, and one brother. I am the baby (as you can see from the photo above). In the back row of the photo, my sister Sue is on the far left. Sue is two years older than I am. On the far right is my brother Ted. Ted is four years older than I am. Sandy is sitting in the center. I am sitting on Sandy's legs. Sandy is nine years older than I am.
I am about six months old in the photo.
My First Thanksgiving November, 1948
To complete the initial cast of characters, please look at the photo below. It was taken by Granddad, Arch Stocker, at my first Thanksgiving. (Naturally, you can't see Granddad, because he is taking the photo; but hopefully he will pop up in a photo later on.)
From left to right, as you face the photo, you see Grammie (Granddad's wife), Mom with me on her lap, then Sue in the high-chair. After Sue, Dad is sitting at the head of the table — looking all angry and bitter. Dad is wearing a t-shirt. (``I'm a working man. A working man doesn't need to wear a dress shirt to his own dinner table.") After Dad, the cast is finished up with Ted and Sandy.
Looking closely at the photo, it appears to me that the Thanksgiving dinner consisted of mashed potatoes and gravy, chicken and turkey legs, Jell-O, and cooked carrots.
Conclusion
As you have probably guessed by now, I apparently survived both my first Thanksgiving and my first Christmas.
This story will continue on in later installments.
The story takes place in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Kalamazoo was a mythical place,... once upon a time.
The Broken Memories series is a personal mythology
What is a Personal Mythology?
Unlike genealogies, historical write ups, and even most oral histories, the Broken Memories series will be based almost entirely on the unverified personal recollections of a single individual (i.e., Tim Null), without any particular effort to verify such things as dates, names, and locations. This is why we call the series a personal mythology, rather than an autobiography.
We warn readers that the installments in the series will contain many factual inaccuracies. If there are knowledgeable parties aware of inaccurate statements made in any of the Broken Memoriesinstallments, we would welcome their input. Such parties can email Tim Null, and provide him with their information. He will pass the information along to the readers of Broken Memories.
Disclaimer
The information provided in the Broken Memories series is based purely on the memories of Tim Null, and it has not been verified as being true and factual. Readers should view the Broken Memories column as fictional entertainment.
