Hey! I've Adapted Before

Job description: "SOUTH DAKOTA Womens Prison is looking for someone to supervise female inmates. Full & part-time positions available. 605-773-3382." Think I'm suited for it? LOLOLOLOLOL!!!! ;-D

She Couldn't Mean Me

I posted six black-and-white photos yesterday in my Flickr account. All are from the fall of 1979. In each of them is a girl I knew during my freshman year of college. Every time I look at those pictures again, I suddenly remember her all over again. No, there is nothing significant about that. It is my recurring "what if" thoughts that are significant.

I feel it is necessary to preface this entry with a bit of background. [Note: No matter how much this may seem like a sob story, it really isn't. I had a lot of fun writing it, even though it may not seem that way. Besides, it is all ancient history now. I was too optimistic and full of life in those days to be bothered by it, at least on a conscious level.]
Growing Up
Many kids are very impressionable. If they are treated not so well by their peers, then it is likely to have an effect on their social skills when they become adults. There's very little that can be done about it. Even if they pretend it's not there, it's still really there.

I attended 1st grade through 3rd grade in Pierre, SD. I was just like any other kid in my class. My classmates and I had all started school together; therefore, we were all "equals." I attended 4th grade in a small town near Pierre. Suddenly, I was the new kid. I wasn't treated as an equal, yet no one was rude to me either. I became good friends with a set of twins, lukewarm friends with one boy (who later wasn't nice to me), and with one cute girl, who befriended me, at least during recess. In 5th grade, I attended school in another nearby small town. In that town I was constantly made fun of and ridiculed, etc., etc., etc. Why? Because I hadn't been part of the crowd since day one. It was as simple as that. It took a while, but I began to accept the fact that most of those kids weren't interested in giving me a chance. I wasn't unpopular, by any means, but I certainly wasn't part of the in crowd either. A couple of those kids eventually befriended me on a casual basis, and they came to know the real me, the me that was a goofy humorist, entertainer and friend. In 7th grade another new kid moved to town. As a relative outcast too, he came to my house one day, and we became true best friends.

We moved here to western Nebraska just before my sophomore year. As I've mentioned before, most of the kids here were cruel snobs. Even the girls here were cruel snobs. Even the girls who had absolutely no room to think highly of themselves were cruel snobs. During my sophomore year I was on a weekend bowling league. One day my own teammates conspired with a cute girl from a nearby town to make me believe she liked me (because I had foolishly told them I thought she was cute). She motioned for me to come talk to her. Most of her teammates were standing with her. When she finally got me to admit that I liked her, she and her friends started laughing at me in front of everyone. My own teammates were laughing too.

Nice, huh?

I was too angry to be embarrassed. In fact, I wasn't embarrassed at all, because their behavior was just too stereotypical, childish and over the top to be believed.

I'm conceited in a strange way. I have a positive opinion of myself and my abilities, but I can't break free from the thought that most other people are going to have a low opinion of me. That's the inescapable result of having been constantly made fun of as I was growing up. Therefore, my behavior around other people as an adult is sometimes so subtle that I am almost invisible. At other times, thanks to my three years of bar-tending experience, I am the life of the party.
Now That You've Got Some Background...
I began my freshman year of college in August 1979, at a junior college here in western Nebraska.

Sometime during that first month I had gotten into the habit of reading magazines in the college library between classes. I always sat in one of the comfortable lounge chairs by the magazine rack and propped my feet on the low, round table, around which the lounge chairs were situated. One day in late September I was sitting there reading and relaxing. During an absent-minded moment I turned and scanned the rest of the library. My view of the center of the room was partially blocked by a long, low bookshelf (about four feet high). From where I was sitting I could only see the heads of the people sitting at tables on the other side. This time I saw a stunningly beautiful girl sitting at one of the tables. The amazing thing is that she was staring directly at me with a huge, friendly smile. She even said "hi" to me in sort of a "It's great to meet you" way. She was behaving as if she had been waiting for me to turn and look at her.

Not believing I was the center of her attention, I quickly turned and looked around me to see if she was speaking to someone else, but she wasn't. I was the only person in that part of the library. I turned to her again and returned her smiled, but I don't remember if I spoke. I think I was speechless (suddenly paralyzed vocal cords, you know). In all of my life no unknown girl as beautiful as that had ever intentionally tried to get my attention. I didn't know what to make of her.

It wasn't in my character to approach such a girl and introduce myself, even if she seemed to want me to do so; therefore, I continued to read my magazine. Or at least I tried to read it, because, truth be told, I couldn't concentrate anymore. Why had she been staring at me like that? There had to be a catch.

Every so often I would turn and look at her again to make sure I hadn't been imagining things. At least half the time, she was still looking at me with that infectious smile. And, no, you skeptics, I wasn't merely in her line of site by accident. In order for her to be able to see me over that low bookshelf, she had to lift her head up a short distance.

I desperately wanted to talk to her, but I had no idea what to say. Besides, what if I was mistaken about her intentions? If she would just come and talk to me, I thought, then my dilemma would be fixed. But she didn't. I must have had to leave for my next class before she did, because I don't remember her walking past me to leave the library (my chair was only a few feet from the entrance).
Not Only in the Movies...
Later that day I was sitting in the commons area just outside the library's entrance (the library is up a flight of about 10 steps, with glass doors at the top of the steps). Sitting with me were five or six guys who were in various classes with me. It wasn't long before I told them about my encounter with the beautiful girl in the library. I told them how she had seemed to try to get my attention and then frequently stared at me afterward. Of course, they all scoffed and told me I was full of it. None of them believed a word of it (they were being good-natured about it, though).

I continued to argue with them, saying that it was absolutely true. They still refused to believe me. During a brief lull in the argument, in which we were all watching another pretty girl walk past, I felt a tap on my left shoulder. As I turned my head and looked up to see who it was, I could swear I caught a split-second glimpse of five or six male faces with eyes wide open, in shock. In the next instant I was looking up into the eyes of the beautiful girl from the library. My blood went to my feet.

She gave me that same beautiful smile and said, "Hi, my name is Jackie. Would you like to sign my petition to join the cheerleading squad?"

Even though there were six or seven of us sitting there, she asked only me. Of course, I signed it. I don't remember if she asked any of the other guys for their signatures or not, but it almost seems as if she didn't. I believe they had to volunteer. I had to concentrate very hard just to maintain my composure and not make a fool of myself. In short, I said very little to her, because I knew whatever I said, especially in front of all those guys, would be silly and juvenile.

As soon as she left, I turned to them with a giant grin and said, "That was her. I told you so!"

They were in awe.

Yes, there was some justice in the universe after all.

In hindsight, I wonder if she had had overheard me as I was trying to convince them that she was real, so she decided to come to my aid; because the timing seemed just too perfect to be pure chance.

But, then again, maybe it was just an amazing coincidence that she showed up at that moment.

She tried out for the cheerleading squad a week or so later, and I was lucky enough to take pictures of those tryouts for the college newspaper. She won, of course.

For the first few weeks her behavior toward me continued to make me believe she was interested in me (or had a crush on me, or whatever you want to call it). I could sense it, but I couldn't prove it. At other times, I was certain I was imagining all of it. Of course, I could have found out for sure by asking her to go on a date; but that would have required me to take a huge chance. I had not fared too well in the past when taking chances with girls. Ten years of being treated as an outcast was just too much to overcome in such a short period of time.

I also soon learned through the grapevine that she had a boyfriend. He was a senior starter on the local high-school wrestling team, in a town of almost 15,000 people. I wasn't about to get beaten up by a monster like that for asking his girlfriend out on a date. Instead, I tried to get her to tell me she liked me. If she had given me that much, then I could have lived with the risk of getting beaten up. But that wasn't her style. She was determined to have me go out on that limb first because that's how it was done in those days. Regrettably, similar limbs had broken under my weight in the past, so I had become excessively cautious by the time I met Jackie.

After a few weeks of paralysis on my part, I could tell that she was ever so slowly starting to give up on me - and possibly becoming annoyed by my nervous juvenile behavior (which would have ceased immediately if we had actually started dating; it was the not knowing that made me behave like a juvenile). The more I sensed her pulling away, the harder I tried to prevent it; and everyone knows what happens when one tries too hard.

Eventually, we drifted apart. In fact, I can't even remember seeing her in the second semester. I think she is one of the cheerleaders who is in the blurry background of one of my January 1980, basketball photos, but I can't say for sure). Besides, there were other girls in that college, and two of them showed an interest in me also. I was interested in only one of them in return (Deb). Of course, I made the same mistake with her too. My switch from unpopular to popular had simply happened too quickly. I couldn't change who I was on such short notice.

Both Jackie and Deb transferred to four-year colleges at the end of their freshman year.

The Closer

I finally watched The Closer for the first time (the movie, not the TV series).

None of the main characters were human. I almost turned the TV off about ten different times (mostly in the first 45 minutes), but the production quality and the atmosphere was good enough that I kept watching in spite of my better judgment.

Natalie Portman stole the show. She is the only reason I kept watching. Yes, she's beautiful, but that isn't why she caused me to keep watching. In fact, I saw her earlier today in Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith, and she didn't hold my attention at all. In The Closer, she just did a great job of making her character into a real human being. Her lightening-quick "falling out of love" at the end -- to the point of feeling absolutely nothing -- is a bit unrealistic, but that's the fault of the writer, not of Portman.

To repeat, those characters are not real. Or rather, if they are real, then they don't represent the vast majority of humanity. They are disturbed people, with Portman's character being the closest to normal. No normal person falls head-over-heels in love that quickly at the start of a casual affair with a complete stranger, especially if that person has an amazing lover already. In a real affair, with real people, yes, it is possible to fall in love on the spot; in a casual affair, with two-dimensional caricatures, no. If the director and producer hadn't done such a good job with the atmosphere and the dialogue (as unrealistic as the characters' conversations, behavior and interactions were -- not counting those of Portman), I suspect the movie would have been a totally obnoxious turn-off for most viewers.

Such exaggerated depictions of the shallowness of humanity annoy me to no end.

Whether I know what I'm talking about or not, I just had to get that out of my system.

A Million to One (Redux)

Song Title: High 'n' Dry (click to listen)
Artist: Black Oak Arkansas
Date that it entered the Top 100: Never
From the album: High on the Hog
Album release date: November 1, 1973
Utterly Meaningless Trivia:
Very little of importance was going on in my life in the fall of 1973. I was in the 7th grade, living in my "home county" in central South Dakota. My favorite pastime, besides reading Hardy Boys mysteries and comic books and watching our one TV channel (KPLO-TV, Channel 6, Reliance, SD), was exploring and playing in long-abandoned houses and business buildings (abandoned for decades, not just a few years) with friends. We often went on one- or two-mile hikes into the country to visit our favorite old farm houses and spend the day playing and exploring. It was tough going, walking home through plowed farm fields with arms full of "treasure."

Note of warning: Some of you may say, "Hey! I know this story!" Others won't. I cannot help it. It just fits this theme too perfectly!

Place, Date and Event with which I Associate This Song:
In the fall of 1991, I was working as a sports writer (yuck!) and photographer (not yuck) for the local weekly paper here in ______, in the Panhandle of Nebraska.

Other than that, life was dull.

The odds must have been about a billion to one that I would experience the most embarrassing episode in my life on a desolate highway thirty miles from the nearest town in "remote" western Nebraska (or anywhere else, for that matter).

But I did.

How do I convince you that such astronomical odds are not an exaggeration? Read on:

One Friday night, while I was photographing a high-school football game, a guy started talking to me on the sidelines. He was an executive with one of the region's two TV stations. As we talked, he soon learned that I was going to be tending bar the next afternoon (Saturday) at a local bar.

He showed up the next afternoon as a customer, bringing along a coworker/friend.

The more he drank, the more he kept telling me what "promise" I had and how I would really fit a particular "career" he had in mind.

Wow!

The prospect of working at a TV station, no matter how "podunk" it is, was very exciting. I asked him for more details, but he refused to say anything except "how promising" I was. He was enjoying leading me on. After about a half hour or an hour of such leading, he finally admitted that the job was not with his TV station.

What a letdown. Had he intentionally been misleading me? I should have known not to get my hopes up. Then my always suspicious brain suddenly clicked into gear. I concluded that he must be talking about some work he does "on the side."

Based on ESP skills alone, I asked him in a derogatory tone, "It's not with Amway, is it?"

"Why, yes it is!"

Blankety! Blank! Blank!

I wanted to back away from him like he had the plague, but I couldn't because I was working.

There was no way on earth I was going to let him recruit me into that line of work.

No way.

No way.

No way.

Did I say what a letdown that was?

True to the Amway stereotype, the guy wouldn't quit pestering me.

True to the MW stereotype, I kept refusing as bluntly as I could (without being rude).

After some further back and forth, he finally caught my attention.

"We'll be going to an Amway seminar in Rapid City, SD, in a few days. You should come with us."

As I say, there was no way on earth that I was going to become an Amway "disciple," but I was definitely interested in getting a free ride to Rapid City (yes, my life was that boring). I agreed to go along, but I warned him that I still had no intention of joining Amway. He was convinced that he had a new brainwashee, and I was convinced I was going to get a free ride to Rapid City.

A few days later, we departed on the four-hour drive to Rapid City in a huge Cadillac (or some other high-end car). Besides me, there were four others. They consisted of the car's owner (about age 60), who was the owner of a local jewelry store. Next came the man who was trying to recruit me (about age 35). With him was his wife (also about age 35). Finally, there was a man (age between 35 and 45) who was a low-level employee at the same TV station. This employee, like me, was also a potential Amway recruit. I'll call him Joe since I don't remember his real name. The others don't need names.

I rode in the front passenger seat, while the TV exec, his wife and Joe rode in the back (they must have been trying to butter me up by giving me the best seat). All of these people were total strangers to me, and I felt very out of place, especially since I was going to participate in something that was a total turnoff for me. I was starting to regret my decision to go along.

The five of us chatted about various nothings as we drove out of town. I soon learned that Joe (the other "recruit") was a native of New York City. I wondered how he had managed to end up at a tiny TV station in western Nebraska. I think I asked him, but I don't remember his answer.

About 30 miles out of town, in the middle of nowhere, the jewelry-store owner started talking about the barbershop quartet to which he belonged. I'm definitely not a singer and definitely not a fan of barbershop quartets, so I stayed out of that boring conversation -- for a while. [My brain starts to get dizzy, and my heart starts to pound, even now, as I reach this part of the story.] As they were discussing possible songs to sing at future events, a totally random thought entered my mind -- random, that is, according to the laws of everyday mundane reality, but fated according to the laws of the universe. I thought of a song that might sound good (in a humorous way) as sung in the four-part harmony of a barbershop quartet. During a brief pause in the conversation, I told them about High 'n' Dry, by Black Oak Arkansas. This group, as you might guess, was formed in Arkansas.

Why I thought of that particular song, out of the thousands of songs I could have thought of, I don't know. It was a certainty, though, that no barbershop quartet had ever sung it before. I knew it was a silly notion even as I said it, and I knew that the jewelry-store owner would never listen to me; however, I was just trying to make conversation with these strangers and maybe even introduce something unique into the annals of barbershop-quartet history.

The reader should know that High 'n' Dry is the only soft song on an album filled with exceptionally hard and loud rock songs, most of which have a grating edge to them. I have never been a big fan of exceptionally hard rock, and I figured a 60-year-old jewelry-store owner would be even less of a fan. Therefore, just in case he had heard of Black Oak Arkansas and was ready to dismiss me as a kook, I added an editorial comment to my suggestion:

"Everything else they sing STINKS, but that song is absolutely great."

As my utterance of the word, "stinks," was still ringing in the air, I noted an immediate and uncomfortable silence. No one looked at me or spoke a single word as we raced along that remote highway on the wide-open prairies of western Nebraska. I could tell immediately that this wasn't a normal silence, and instinct -- or, rather, ESP -- caused me to start feeling embarrassed, even though I had no idea why. Was my suggestion of a song by a hard-rock group that bad? Or had I been too crude when I used the word "stinks"?

The silence continued, and it was beginning to generate a distinctly uncomfortable quality throughout the vehicle, or so it seemed to my overactive imagination. I was growing confused and embarrassed, fearing that I had, indeed, said something terribly wrong; however, I still had no idea what exactly it might have been. I could feel my face starting to turn red. I turned around and looked at the man from New York City, as well as at the general manager and his wife.

After some more silence, I finally said something to the general manager. I can no longer remember what I said, because his reply has blotted it from my memory forever. I may have commented to him, in an extremely roundabout way, about their odd lack of a response to my suggestion. That is the only thing that makes sense now, considering his reply.

He pointed at Joe and said very uncomfortably to me, "Joe was a member of Black Oak Arkansas."

I should just stop right there and let you imagine how I felt, but that wouldn't be right. I wish I could find the right words, but I cannot.

Suffice it to say that the interior of the car started to spin as the blood drained from my head. I think I went into shock because I couldn't feel my body anymore. I couldn't see straight as I tried to look at Joe (who was from NEW YORK CITY!!!!!!!!!!! NOT EFFING ARKANSAS!!!!!!!!!!!!!) and tried to converse with him normally, as if I had said nothing at all; but my voice wasn't working, and my neck refused to hold my head upright. I kept thinking that everyone must surely see it tilting oddly to one side and slightly backward. I thought about trying to force it back upright, but I feared I would overcompensate, like a drunk trying to walk straight, and it would then tip in the other direction. So I left it where it was.

I may have said to "Joe," with as much fan-like awe as I could muster, and in spite of the absence of all oxygen in my body and near total loss of muscle control in my lips, "Really? You were? Wow!"

I knew it was too late to explain that I hadn't really meant it like that, because, no matter how well I explained it, it would sound like a lie. I had said it with way too much emphasis.

We drove along in terrible silence for a while, during which I stared across the back seat, past Joe and out the side window. I couldn't look him (or anyone) in the face, but I wanted to "emit" feelings of "sincerest apologies" by looking in Joe's general direction as often as possible.

After a sufficient amount of time had passed, I said, in general, to everyone (this is a very, very rough paraphrase), "You know, I really put my foot in my mouth. There's a reason I said that the way I did, but I don't think anyone is ever going to believe me now. I honestly didn't mean it the way it sounded."

Much to Joe's credit, he tried to ease my guilt.

He said, "I only joined the band in their later years. I'm not an original member of the group."

That didn't make me feel better at all because he had obviously chosen to join that particular band because he liked their music (music which I had just said "STINKS"). All the rest of that long, long night, while in the car, then in the seminar and later at a Perkin's Restaurant in Rapid City, I visited with Joe like there was no tomorrow. I tried to apologize for my comment several times without overdoing it, because I was driven by a guilt such as I had never experienced before. I even told him the truth of the matter when the others weren't listening. He continued to tell me not to worry about it, and he really seemed to mean it. He was a sincerely nice person, and once I dropped the subject, we had a good time discussing other topics (in fact, during the seminar, we had both had fun whispering obnoxious comments and jokes to one another about the various Amway speakers). I still felt like the lowest form of life on earth.

In conclusion, just think about it: The desolate plains of western Nebraska, 30 miles from the nearest town, 1,000 miles from Arkansas, 1,500 miles from New York City, a car heading to an Amway seminar in South Dakota, four total strangers, barbershop quartets, a rock band from Arkansas, a guy from New York City, a transient fool from South Dakota who manages to think of -- and then insult -- the one band, out of the thousands of bands on earth, that has a former member right there in the car with said transient fool.

Tell me: What are the odds of such a situation occurring, based on your calculations?

Final Note 1.) In spite of this horrible incident, High 'n' Dry, although it is somewhat of an acquired taste, remains one of my favorite "feel-good" songs of all time.

Final Note 2.) Oh, yeah..., and I never joined Amway either.

-----

Footnote for those who don't know: This story (with a few imperfections that have now been replaced by a few new imperfections) was originally published in this blog on January 8, 2005.

Serenade

Song Title: Ashokan Farewell

Artist: Jay Ungar

Copyright: 1984

Date that it entered the Top 100: Never

Date that it became famous: September 23-27, 1990, as the theme song to the hit PBS documentary, The Civil War.

In January 1998, I was working in the public library here in this western Nebraska town (I realize now what a transient I've been most of my life). An attractive young woman (age 29), an east-coast transplant, came in to sign up for a library card. I helped her to register, and we took an immediate liking to one another. I'll call her "Sarah."

For the next few months we carefully tested the waters with one another, neither one being brave enough to make a first move, but dropping lots of not-so-subtle hints to one another.

During one of our conversations Sarah talked about all of the different musical instruments she plays. She told me that she plays the violin, mandolin, flute, clarinet, piano, and probably one or two others that I have forgotten. I believe she said her favorite instrument is the violin.

I was very impressed, to say the very least.

On April 29, 1998, she came into the library again. As a conversation starter I told her about my favorite violin song, "Ashokan Farewell," and highly recommended that she listen to it sometime. She agreed to do so, and I told her I would loan it to her the next time she came to the library.

She returned three days later, and I gave her the tape.

As she was leaving she said, “We’ll have to go out for coffee sometime."

I gladly accepted her offer.

I didn’t hear from her for almost two weeks after that. I was beginning to think that maybe she had disappeared forever (and without even returning my tape!). Finally, she came to visit me in the library again one day. She told me she had been out of state on a long visit to her previous home (she had come to the library before she left to tell me she was going, but it had been my day off).

She told me she loved “Ashokan Farewell.” She then very proudly showed me the sheet music for the song. She had bought it in her favorite little music store while out of state. She said she had already begun learning to play it.

On the morning of June 11, 1998, I met Sarah at her house, as requested. We were finally going out for that "cup of coffee." Actually, we were going window shopping, but the difference between them is just semantics.

We made a minute or two of small talk in her "front parlor." She then stopped the conversation and invited me to sit on an old-fashioned parlor bench. She nervously took out her violin, told me to be kind, and began playing Ashokan Farewell...

After only two or three weeks of practice...

Wow...

As I sat on that bench and listened (and watched her face), I suddenly realized I was being "serenaded" by a beautiful young woman with a violin (a cruder person would say I was being "seduced" by a beautiful woman with a violin). I had never been in the presence of any violinist before, much less the presence of a beautiful young violinist who was playing only for me. So you can imagine how honored I felt, among other feelings.

She played with amazing skill. I was in awe.

Nonetheless, I noticed one very minor flaw during her performance. But it was a very endearing flaw. As she played, I could hear the bow vibrating ever so slightly in her hand. She had obviously noticed it too, because when she finished she immediately told me the vibrating was due to her extreme nervousness. She then confessed that she had learned to play that song only for me.

A Moment Lost in Time

Song Title: Strangers in the Night
Artist: Frank Sinatra
Date that it entered the Top 100: May 7, 1966
Peaked at No. 1 on: June 18, 1966, and remained there for one week.
Left the Top 100 on: August 13, 1966

In early 1982, I was a junior at South Dakota State University in Brookings. It was my first and only year in attendance there. I was living in Hansen Hall on the far western edge of the campus. At about 1 in the morning, the fire alarm went off. Needless to say, this was an extremely inconvenient time for a drill (or a prank). Many of the residents of the western half of the dorm, the men's side -- all four floors of them -- filed out the remote west exit of the building. Scattered amongst the crowd were one or two female students who had obviously stayed on the men's side past the midnight curfew.

As you might expect, we were all a pretty unhappy bunch of exiles as we stood there in the cold night air, many with no shoes, staring silently at the sidewalk or at one another. Several of the guys were wrapped only in blankets, as they had been deep asleep when the alarm went off. I believe I had been awake at the time, so I was lucky enough to have my clothes on. One seemingly unhappy guy from the first floor (my floor) was slowly milling around in circles, trying to keep warm, and bearing his usual ultra-deadpan expression. I had seldom ever seen this guy speak more than a few words. He just didn't seem to be the talkative type. One of his friends, a fairly tall guy, was standing silently, unhappily, in one place, just watching him mill around. Very few of us were speaking to one another. It was simply too late, and none of us wanted to be there. I wasn't thinking much of anything as I watched the people watching one another or trying not to watch one another.

Suddenly, the milling guy, who was standing about three feet in front of me, reached out from under his blanket, grabbed the sides of his friend's face with both hands, looked him directly in the eyes and sang with great meaning, "Strangers in the night, exchanging glances..." Then he let go and went on about his milling again, and the friend just continued to stare silently.

I don't remember what the rest of the crowd did, probably nothing, but I started laughing uncontrollably under my breath, the same sort of uncontrollable laugh that I am experiencing now, even as I write this, 24 years later.

It was one of those magical moments in life that make this annoying experience worth the effort.

Songs Associated With Places & Times

We all associate certain songs with certain times and places. For about 20 years, I've been wanting to create a list of those songs that remind me of very specific times and places -- just for the fun of it, of course. The internet has made the research a much less daunting task. It is still a big task, but no longer as daunting. A couple of weeks ago, I finally forced myself to get started making that list. I now have a wealth of potentially good blogging material (and some "so-so" material).

How did I do my research? Well, I spent several nights monotonously going through every weekly chart on the Cash Box Top 100 web site from 1970 to 1996. Luckily, I didn't have to reread each song title in each weekly Top 100 list just to find the newest entries. I only had to find the few songs on each weekly list that show "--" in the previous week's column. That means they had not been on the charts the previous week.

Without further ado, here is a quick sampling of what I intend to do on this blog occasionally (or frequently), for the foreseeable future.

Please click the song title to hear a short clip of the song. It will really help to set the mood (you may have to click the play button once the page loads).

Song Title: Wear Your Love Like Heaven
Artist: Donovan
Date that it entered the Top 100: December 2, 1967
Peaked at No. 26 on: January 1, 1968, and remained there for one week.
Left the Top 100 on: January 20, 1968

Utterly Meaningless Trivia:
When this song entered, peaked and left the Top 100, my family was living in Pierre, SD. I celebrated my 7th birthday during that time period. [Note: I don't remember ever hearing this song until much later in life; but it clearly has a 60s "feel" to it, so I automatically loved it immediately.]

Place, Date and Event with which I Associate This Song:
In the spring of 1991, I was a student-teacher at the high-school level a small town here in western Nebraska. I was a pretty busy person because I was teaching in two different subject areas: English and history. During my two months of teaching, I believe I was only able to show two videos to my students. In one of those instances, I showed an episode of Our World, which is one of the best TV series of all time (critics agree with me wholeheartedly). Therefore, naturally, it only survived for one season (1986-1987 on ABC).** The hosts, who are masters of their trade, were Linda Ellerbee and Ray Gandolf.

The series shows only those episodes of American history that were captured on film; therefore, it only covers topics dating back to the late 1930s. This is very good for many reasons, not the least of which is that high-school students are more fascinated with recent history, especially the history of popular culture, and "Our World" always includes plenty of that. Popular culture is the bait that entices the little buggers to watch and learn. Furthermore, each episode covers only a particular season of a particular year, for instance, Summer 1972 (please, I urge you to click that link! maybe it will jar a few of your memory cells). A number of episodes deal with the 1960s and 1970s, including the hippie movement, war protests and many aspects of our modern popular culture (such as movies, music, fashions, fads, etc.) to which most Americans are still addicted today.

On that day in April 1991, four years after the series ended, I was showing an episode on the late 1960s to one of my history classes. I believe it was the "Winter of 1968." It is one of my favorite episodes of the series. At one point, while showing the hippie fashions and dancing styles of 1968, the Donovan song, Wear Your Love Like Heaven, is playing in the background.

Shortly after that song clip ended, someone knocked on my classroom door. I paused the video and said, "Come in!"

About three students from the math class next door (seniors, I believe) opened the door and walked a few steps into the room. I didn't know any of them.

The "spokesperson" asked in a somewhat awestruck voice, "What are you watching?" I explained. He replied somewhat along these lines, "We could hear it through the wall, and it sounds really cool! Is it OK if we come in and watch too?"

Struggling to hide my happiness, I replied, "As long as your teacher says it's OK, you are perfectly welcome to come in."

He replied excitedly, "Hey, he's fine with it. He's the one who let us come over here and ask you. A few other students want to come in too. Is that OK? They're waiting for me to tell them what you said."

I replied, "You bet. I'll wait for you all to come in before I start playing it again."

I think 75 percent of that math class came into my room to watch the video.

It's extremely rare moments like that that made my student-teaching experience memorable in a nice way.

-----

Footnotes
**One of these days, I hope to do justice to the "Our World" TV series in a blog entry. I started one two or three months ago, but I haven't been able to do justice to it yet. This amazing series, which was a favorite on college campuses (that being exactly where I was located in 1986-87) is barely mentioned on the internet, and it is not available on DVD.

Anniversary Gift

I've been very busy for the past week putting together a 50th-anniversary gift for my uncle and aunt. I've barely been online in all this time. I knew I would get distracted if I did.

Since 1998, I've scanned about 4,000 family photographs in my free time. Yes, that's a lot of photographs. If you are ever of a mind to do something like that, it really helps not to have a life. Luckily, I have been so blessed.

It also helps to have lots of old family photographs, but especially to have relatives who have even more old family photographs than my family has. I have actually taken several thousand photos myself since the 1970s, but I didn't include them in my gift. My aunt and uncle wouldn't care about most of those.

Hundreds of the family photos with which I have been working date back to about 1905 through the 1920s. Hundreds more date from the 1940s through the 1960s. Those are the ones that will be going to my uncle and aunt.

In the past year and a half, I have scanned almost 2,000 photos from the collections of two aunts and one great aunt, with about that many still remaining to be scanned from the great aunt's collection. Until last week, I had kept them in separate folders, so I wouldn't get confused. In order to put this gift together, I finally put them all in one folder and spent the last week organizing them and sorting them chronologically (the best that I could), using many different methods of detective work. I found and deleted a number of duplicates. That's not as easy to do as it may seem. Many of those duplicates had different dates on them. One aunt might have mistakenly dated a photograph as 1955, while the other dated it as 1952, so they were quite a distance apart in the folder. Or else duplicates were printed a few years later, and the developing studio would put 1928 on the photos, even though they may have been taken in 1921. It took a lot of searching and heavy use of the amazing indexing/searching/"weeding" capabilities of my Mac operating system to locate them.

I just finished this evening, a few hours too late to get the nine CDs in the mail to them before they head out on an anniversary vacation. It is extremely difficult to time a project as big as this one was. Thinking of it at the last second didn't help either. Oh well, there will be over 1,700 photos waiting for them when they return home. My uncle (my dad's brother) is a big history and "family memories" nut, just as I am, and just as my dad was, so I know he will be having a lot of fun for a while. So will my aunt since almost half of the photos were taken after their marriage in 1956.

My uncle has probably never seen most of the photos from before his birth because most of them came from my great aunt's collection (she should have been a famous photographer; she was way ahead of her time, as far as creativity and subject matter go). There are also many photographs from his sisters' collections that show him as a child and young adult, and he may not have seen many of those since the era in which they were taken.

One nice thing: When I was a kid growing up in the 1960s and 1970s, my relatives got together for a lot of holidays and usually always had a wild time. I have tons of cousins about the same age as I am, so we always had a blast too. Many times, all the different families took pictures at these get-togethers. My parents might have taken fewer than anyone else, or they may have taken more than anyone else. It just depended on the situation and our level of income at a given time. As a result, there have been many photographs in my family's collection that were confusing to me. I grew up looking at them and wondering which get-together is shown in them (the same is true of photographs from before I was born). My parents were famous for never writing on the backs of their photos, so I couldn't tell. Luckily, my aunts' collections include photos of these same events, and there are dates on them. In putting them all together in one collection, I have been able to ID many photographs for the first time since I was a kid. There is some satisfaction in that -- at least for oddballs such as myself.

A Smidgen of Validation

In today's local daily newspaper, the local editorial column takes on a very intriguing topic with regard to Nebraskans:

"Rural Pessimism; Poll indicates many of us ambivalent about welcoming newcomers."

Hmmmmm.... Seems I may have mentioned something EXACTLY like that here at "Vivid Surreality" a short while back (and, no, it isn't easy for me to restrain myself at this moment). Let me just say, in all humility: See? I wasn't making it up.

The editorial goes on to say, in part:

...A new Rural Poll reveals ambivalence about newcomers, according to the Associated Press report. Only one out of three Nebraskans believe newcomers to their rural communities improve the quality of life.

Wow, talk about prejudice!

Here, the writer naturally tries to spin things as best he/she can:

"Generally, rural Nebraskans are as friendly as it gets. We attend church with our neighbors [MW asks: Why is that always a default statement, as if church-going is all it takes to make people good, kind and courteous?] and school events with fellow parents. We volunteer for civic organizations [MW interrupts: Yeah right, only the humblest of saints volunteer for these organizations.] and get along with the folks in our neighborhoods, newcomers or not [MW interrupts again: They don't get along with them in this neck of the prairie.].

The writer continues to make excuses for why Nebraskans aren't as welcoming as the common propaganda has always stated. Things like jobs, kids and, "yes, TV" keep Nebraskans preoccupied with their own lives; therefore...

It may be that we just don't have time to pay attention to the newcomers in our lives.

How incredibly humorous. That's worse than any excuse any little kid ever gave for being rude to the children of his/her parents' house guests. I guess people in the old days in other rural states, who worked far more hours than most of us ever will, were able to make friends more easily because... Why?

But the face we present to visitors and newcomers is important if we expect them to come back or stick around.

Ya think?

To give some credit to the writer, he/she does go on to say that Nebraskans had better straighten up their act (that's my interpretation of what he/she says) and start welcoming newcomers because we are losing more and more of our young people -- i.e. customers and taxable citizens -- every year, and we need to be replacing them, post haste, with new permanent customers and taxable citizens; otherwise, Nebraska will be in a world of hurt.

Awwwwwww, how sad.

No offense to Trinamick. She and the people in her neck of the Nebraska prairie are a great credit to this state --- that is, if we can fairly use her as an example of what her neighbors must be like (not counting the Wonky-Eyed Beast, of course ;-).

You'd Think I Like Food, Or Something

Trinamick filled out a "food questionnaire" yesterday. She has invited her readers to fill it out too.

As an added bit of fun, I have decided to reply to some of her responses while I fill in my own responses (they are the items I was going to comment on at her blog anyway, so I'm killing two birds with one stone). It seems that we have a couple similarities here and there.

The Food Meme

How do you like your eggs?

I like them over easy (medium), but I especially like them just ever so slightly past over easy (medium well?), so that the yoke is half runny, half hard. These days, I mostly eat egg sandwiches (two over-hard eggs, thoroughly salted and peppered, on bread). I used to love to put a slice of cheese on my egg sandwiches, but that is just too rich for my tastes these days.

How do you take your coffee/tea?

It is very refreshing to find someone else who has avoided becoming a stereotype. Trinamick's answer is nearly identical to my answer, so I shall copy most of it and add my own thoughts. Her words are in brown text; mine are in brackets:

"I don't drink tea or coffee [ever. Well, I guess I'll drink tea if that's my only option, and only if I'm dying of thirst. My mom has been addicted to tea since she was a kid. She carries a glass of it EVERYWHERE she goes. If I meet someone again after 20 years apart, one of the questions that person will eventually ask me is, "Does you mom still carry a glass of tea everywhere she goes?"] It's not possible to make tea taste decent. [I always say it tastes like dry water, for lack of a better term.] You just hold your nose and hope for the best." [Very well said. I cannot top that.]

Favorite breakfast foods:

I like the usual down-home menu (bacon, eggs, pancakes, sausage, toast). But that is almost never an option, so I eat cereal almost every morning. For me, missing breakfast is like forgetting your notes before you walk on stage to speak in front of a huge audience.

My favorite cereal, which I don't eat very often, is Golden Grahams. There are others too, but I cannot remember them at the moment.

Peanut butter: smooth or crunchy?

Both. It really doesn't matter because I love peanut butter the most when it is in some sort of recipe. I go nuts over peanut-butter cookies. I am also head over heels in love with peanut-butter malts (or shakes). I'm doing a Homer Simpson drool right now just imagining one of those delectable treats.

What kind of dressing on your salad?

Trinamick wrote: "Here in Nebraska, we have an excellent dressing known as Dorothy Lynch."

I didn't know it was only available here in Nebraska. I like it too and usually choose it over most others; however, I actually like to mix certain dressings together. It's not easy to do it just right, but I managed to accomplish it once in 1984 in Lemmon, South Dakota, after I had had a bit to drink (after a really hard day building a swimming pool). Ever since then, I have tried, with varying degrees of success, to make another salad as perfect as that one was.

Coke or Pepsi?

If those are all that's available, I will drink either one of them, but I don't like colas. I like 7-UP, root beer, Dr. Pepper (if that's a cola, then it's the only exception) and creme soda (occasionally).

You're feeling lazy. What do you make?

Trinamick wrote: "Little Juan burrito."

Exactly. I have several of them in the freezer right now. I don't really like them, though. I will also resort to making an egg sandwich, if necessary. Half the time, I will just eat a bowl of cereal.

Trinamick wrote: "...Tuna and cream cheese mixed together and eaten on crackers. Before you vomit, try it. It's good."

Too late, I'm already vomiting. I have eaten tuna and crackers a lot, but with cream cheese mixed in? Oh, my God!

You're feeling really lazy. What kind of pizza do you order?

I think I really shocked Kathleen a while back when I told her that I have never ordered a delivery pizza in my life. Friends and family members have ordered them while I am in their company, but it was never my idea (yes, I contributed to the costs if I was a willing participant in eating them; if I was an unwilling participant, then no, I didn't ;-). I like pizza, but not as much as I did when I was a kid. It was the treat to end all treats in those days. I find them to be a bit too expensive, and it isn't worth all that money to feel "blah" when I'm finally full. I am also a big fan of thin and crispy, whereas the rest of humanity, since about the 1980s, has gone with thick and chewy.

As for eating pizzas in a pizza place, I like almost every type of pizza, but it must have meat on it. I hate cheese-only pizzas and would probably hate vegetarian pizzas. I also don't like pineapples or fish on a pizza. Green peppers on a pizza once made me horribly indigested (to the point of illness) when I as was a kid, so I try to avoid them if at all possible.

You feel like cooking.

I was a cook in a cafe for a few months when I was 23 (and got compliments from the customers, even from ranchers who liked my steaks, believe it or not; I had never cooked a steak in my life before then because I didn't like steaks). But I haven't felt like cooking in a number of years. Why work for a half hour or an hour, just to spend five minutes eating? When I did feel like it, I made hamburgers, homemade burritos, goulash on rare occasions, my own gourmet brand of french fries (more involved than just frying them) and other things that I can no longer remember. One of my poor-person specialties was to fry a bunch of hamburger, boil elbow macaroni, heat up some cream of mushroom soup and mix it all together. It was quite tasty, but you didn't want to eat it as a regular habit. It's been twelve or fifteen years since I last had any of it.

Do any foods bring back good memories?

1.) The shrimp and seafood pasta (or something similarly named) at the Olive Garden is one of my favorite memories.

2.) Everything our guides cooked was fantastic during our four-day rafting trip down the Colorado River in Utah in 1979. I imagine the location and our situation probably helped to make everything taste better than it might have at home, but that cannot be all of it. Those people fixed amazingly good food.

3.) The Breakfast Frisco at Hardees was amazingly good for a fast-food delicacy.

4.) Calamari, which I ate in a very nice restaurant in Coronado, California, in 1995 (while staring across the bay at the San Diego skyline). The "catch of the day" white fish (a plate full), which I ate in a small bar/restaurat on Lake Michigan in Racine, Wisconsin, in 1993 is unforgettable.

5.) My aunt's corn-cob jelly is amazing. It is really made out of corn cobs, but it tastes somewhat like apple jelly.

6.) The Hot Pepper Sandwich (thinly sliced prime rib, cheese, oils, peppers, etc.) which was invented by one of the cooks in the bar/restaurant in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, where I was a bartender. I would eat one during my lunch break about twice a week (didn't want to get sick of them) and then have some chocolate-marble cheese cake for desert. Sigh... Those were the days...

7.) The chicken noodle soup I made from scratch when I was a cook in that cowboy cafe stands out. I used the Betty Crocker cook book as a starting point, then I improvised like crazy after that. The results were beyond anything I could ever have hoped for. But..., like Woody Boyd on Cheers, who mixed the perfect drink, I didn't write down my improvised recipe. ;-(

8.) Finally, my Iranian girlfriend in college used to make the most amazing sandwich ever devised by woman or man. Every week or three, she would bring one with her to the college library to give to me. No other food in my good food memories compares to it. She gave me the recipe at one point, but I guess it requires the just the right "je ne sais quoi" while making it, because I couldn't come close to matching what she made. The ingredients include: boiled potatoes, boiled eggs, cooked chicken cut into pieces (tuna is a good substitute if out of chicken), salt, pepper, lemon juice and mayonnaise. Mix together in a bowl and serve on toast. Based on what you are reading, I bet you cannot imagine just how delicious that sandwich was and how thoroughly thankful I was whenever she brought one with her. I gave up a long time ago on trying to make it because the results of my efforts were just too depressing. The lemon juice is completely necessary, but if you get too little, the sandwich is dull and lifeless. If you get too much, I'm sure all of you know how to say, "Yuck!" with me. Regrettably, there was almost no room for error. A milligram too much, and it was ruined. A milligram too little, and you had to guess how much more should go in it.

I'm sure there are other foods I could think of for this list, but that's a good sampling.

Trinamick wrote: "...the big family dinners we had when my grandma was alive. A seven course meal would sit before you, you'd eat until you were sick, and then my grandma would say, "You didn't eat hardly anything. You must have snacked before you got here. Have some pie."

That sounds exactly like my relatives in southeastern South Dakota. I truly believe they ate six meals a day, yet they would constantly ask me if I was hungry for a lunch-sized snack in between each of those meals. To me, that was torture.

Do any foods bring back bad memories?

Aside from that green-pepper-laden pizza I ate when I was 15 or 16? Not really.

OK, I take that back. When I was painfully in love with the Iranian woman in college, everything tasted terrible for about the first month after I met her, at least when we were not together. When swallowing anything, it felt as if I was trying to force a balloon underwater.

Do any foods remind you of someone?

Well, I guess I already gave that one away. The Iranian sandwich naturally reminds me of the Iranian.

Is there a food you refuse to eat?

Yes, Trinamick's tuna and cream cheese. ;-) Also, I agree with her on cow's tongues and brains. But I did have escargot once at La Chaumière, a fancy French restaurant near Estes Park, Colorado (in 1980-81, my college French class went on a trip to Estes Park just to eat there; I cannot believe it is still open). I must say that escargot is really very good. I figured if snooty rich people can eat it, then there must be something to it. They are right. It is well worth it. Think about it: If a person can eat clams and oysters in soup (even Rocky Mountain oysters ;-), then they shouldn't consider escargot to be that offensive.

What was your favorite food as a child?

Pizza and French fries.

Is there a food that you hated as a child but now love?

Probably, but I've drawn a blank right at the moment. I never ate broccoli as a child, but I can imagine I would have hated it. I totally love broccoli-and-cheese soup.

Is there a food that you loved as a child but now hate?

I loved Big Macs from McDonald's in high school (I almost never had one prior to high school), but now that special sauce is just too sickeningly sweet.

Favorite fruit:

Strawberries (but only when turned into topping for angel food cake) and mulberries right off of the trees at my relative's old farm in eastern South Dakota. Certain red-gold delicious apples are really good, but I'm not much of an apple eater. In fact, I'm not much of a fruit eater. That may be hard to believe when you consider that, for almost a year during high school, I worked in a giant produce in a huge grocery store here in western Nebraska. All that fruit was lying at my fingertips, yet I almost never ate any of it, unlike the rest of my coworkers.

Favorite vegetable?

Potatoes are about it for me. I absolutely love potatoes and gravy (someone once noticed that about me, which I hadn't realized was so obvious). I would include corn on the cob, but it's such a messy chore to eat it and then to pick half of it out of your teeth that I cannot YET include it in good conscience. It's a really close call, though. I love it far more now than I did when I was a kid (I loved the taste as a kid, just not the messy work). I hated getting food caught between my teeth when I was a kid, and dental floss was an exotic luxury that never crossed the minds of my parents (either that, or I didn't know what it was when I saw it in the bathroom cabinet).

Favorite junk food:

I've got to pick just one? Well, OK. Dakota Style Potato Chips (made in Clark, SD) are, without a doubt, the best potato chips ever made. I didn't even like potato chips until I discovered those in about 1987 (cheap ones used to give me indigestion). Regrettably, they aren't sold this far into Nebraska. Some towns in Nebraska along the South Dakota border are lucky enough to have them in certain stores. I used to stop at stores in South Dakota during my trips home just to buy some to bring home with me. A secretary in the school where I used to work, while visiting her daughter in a certain Nebraska college town, went out of her way a couple of times to buy some and then give them to me as a gift.

Favorite between meal snack:

Whatever is handy at the moment. I have no preferences. It can be sugary; it can be salty. It can be both at the same time.

Do you have any weird food habits:

I hate hard-frozen ice cream, so I will microwave a bowl of it for 8 to 12 seconds, depending on the strength of the microwave. I get it to a perfectly soft (drive-inn) consistency. I don't melt it to liquid form.

You're on a diet. What food(s) do you fill up on?

I don't fill up on anything. I just eat smaller portions of the same old junk food.

You're off your diet. Now what would you like?

Whatever is in the kitchen.

How spicy do you order Indian/Thai?

Trinamick said it all: "Are you kidding? I live in the middle of nowhere. We don't have Indian/Thai restaurants out here. But if I ever get the chance, it'll be spicy."

I don't know what either food is like, so I cannot say if I should order it spicy or not. A few years ago, for about a year, there was a Mongolian restaurant here. I never felt the desire to go there. Obviously, neither did a lot of other people, because they aren't open anymore.

Can I get you a drink?

Yes, a Tom Collins, please (consists of gin -- preferably Bombay Sapphire Gin -- 7-UP and Squirt). I am also very partial to Rumple Minze chilled on ice in a snifter. That is a very high-class, 100-proof German schnapps that tilts the world very pleasantly to one side, in very short order, especially if you've had at least one beer with it. ;-)

When you chill Rumple Minze over ice, it tastes as if it is only about 10 proof. If you drink it at room temperature, it has an extremely strong taste. It's hard to believe it's the same liqueur.

Red wine or white?

Red. White is too bitter. But I'll hold my breath and drink whatever is available. I much prefer champagne over wine, though.

We only have beer:

As a bar tender of three years, I am totally indifferent to beer brands. When I was tending bar in Montana in 1987, I wasn't very fond of Stroh's (I believe that was it), but neither were most of the customers. I had just gotten out of college and was still "smarting" from that old "lost love" story, so I was a bit more receptive to drinking than usual. Nice guy that I am, I decided to do my dad a favor (it was his bar in which I was working). I figured I would reduce his inventory of Stroh's before it got too old. Every day at lunch time (it became a ritual), I would drink three cans of Stroh's, each mixed with just the right amount of tomato juice and tabasco sauce. That covered the crappy flavor of the beer with a concoction that I absolutely love. When I reached my third can of beer, I would cook myself a horribly crappy Deli Express microwave sandwich (or maybe even half a Tombstone pizza). During this daily ritual, I would either read my American literature anthology from college (I had promised a professor I would do so), or I would write. I usually had the place to myself around the lunch hour, so I truly enjoyed myself.

There is one beer, though, that I consider to be my favorite of all time. It is a very hard-to-find Norwegian beer called Ringnes. I think the last time I had any was in the early 1990s. I have only been able to find it in Rapid City, SD (at the Albertson's store) and in Sioux Falls, SD, at Sid's Crown Liquor Store. Regrettably, I couldn't find any at Sids in 2005.

I discovered Ringnes by accident while tending bar in Sioux Falls in 1988-89. The lounge in which I worked had sold it regularly to customers before they remodeled, and the new owners had taken over. For over a year, a single case of Ringnes remained in the beer cooler, but I just ignored it. Finally, I asked the manager if I could buy it for cheap, and he agreed. It was quite strong at first, but by the time I was a third of the way into the bottle, I had decided it was the best beer I had ever tasted. I eventually introduced it to a best friend during a visit here in Nebraska. I warned him not to judge it too hastily. He took a couple of sips and said, "This tastes like B.O." After about ten sips, he said, right on cue, "This is the best beer I've ever had."

Favorite dessert?

Too many, but I'll name a few: 1.) Chocolate-marble cheesecake, 2.) a certain pecan pie made by the restaurant/lounge in Sioux Falls where I tended bar, 3.) tin-roof sundae ice cream, 4.) peanut butter shake, 5.) banana shake, 6.) chocolate-chip shake, 7.) upside-down banana split from Zesto (meaning simply that they serve it in a large paper drink cup). There are many deserts to die for in specialty restaurants in Omaha, NE. My educator colleagues and I would stop at these places religiously every year when we went to the NETA Conference. I had to go with them because we were all in the same van. Everything was too expensive, but I splurged just once.

The perfect nightcap?

Rumpleminze, I suppose, but why waste all that great inebriation on sleep? One needs to drink when there are still a few hours of consciousness remaining! ;-)

Response to a Windows User

Earlier today, Fermicat posted an entry (Mixed Marriages) about her constant computer-platform "debate" with her husband, "PDM." My comment on that entry grew too long, so I have decided to post it here as an entry of my own.

One or two of my one or two regular readers might not care about this entry; nonetheless, it might possibly provide you with a pleasant (if not too literary) way to pass a few minutes.

FC: "PDM is a Mac person and I use a PC."

Me: Oh, my God! You shouldn't have written this entry! But I will try not to make you regret it! I don't want you to start seeing only the words, "Blah, blah, Mac, blah, blah..." in this entry. ;-D

And, yes, my smile was *that* big while I was reading your entry. At this moment, I can say with some certainty that I am a big fan of your husband. ;-)

FYI: I was a self-taught Macintosh network administrator at a relatively large school district from 1998 to 2003 (until budget cuts eliminated my position). I was a self-taught amateur prior to that time, from 1988 to 1998, using both PCs and Macs and hating the PCs with a passion (no offense). Needless to say, I could never have been a self-taught Windows network administrator, because everything is about twenty times more complicated than it needs to be in order to do the very same things I did with Macs. Think of it this way: If Apple built fighter jets, they would make them so that the average person on the street could hop in one and fly it like a pro with minimal experience. I know this because I was one of those people (computer-wise, that is). If Microsoft built fighter jets..., well, let's just say there would be lots of training fatalities, and I'm not saying that as a joke.

FC: "It’s not the end of the world. We can (and do) use each others’ computers."

Me: I'm sure PDM is well aware that any Intel Mac you buy now will also run Windows natively. In fact, in some reviews I've read, PC users believe Windows works better on the Mac than on a PC box. For instance, take a quick peek only at the title of this article; or this one. Just think how you and your husband would have one less difference between you (hardware-wise, at least) if you were to buy one of those multi-platorm Macs. Of course, then you might be fighting over who gets to use the computer. Ha.

FC: ...Highly specialized scientific applications are usually only available for PCs...

Me: I think you'd be really surprised at the number of highly specialized scientific apps for the Mac, maybe not the exact same ones, but there are a lot of them. For instance, a few years ago, a huge number of NASA engineers used Macs and refused to use Windows. They were dead set on giving up their Macs when a new busybody, know-it-all NASA chief tried to switch them all to Windows. I do not know if he was completely successful or not. I just know they preferred their Macs for their highly complex work.

FC: "Like most (all?) Mac users, PDM is quite vocal about it."

Me: Did you ever think that there might be a legitimate reason for our being so vocal? It's not as if we drank some spiked Kool-Aid or were starved for some sort of cult to follow (I hate all "cults," whether they are obscure or mainstream). I think our vocal nature comes from a sense of disbelief, among other things (more later). Here we Mac users are, driving down a beautifully designed interstate highway, while the majority of the world's drivers are crowded onto a bumpy, poorly maintained gravel road that runs parallel to the interstate. Many of us Mac users (not all) shout over to some of you Windows users, imploring you to join us on the better road (such invitations have nothing to do with being mindlessly devoted "fanatics"). Instead, you (I mean "you" in a generic sense) call us fanatics and say, "We're not interested. Most people are on this road. It suits our needs perfectly fine. We know all the twists and turns and curves and stop signs. Besides, we need to remain in contact with everyone else" (never mind that the interstate and the gravel road are nearly 100 percent connected and lead to the very same destinations).

FC: "He even blames problems with Mac stuff on Microsoft. 'If they didn’t have to make it PC-compatible, it would work fine.'"

Me: He knows what he is talking about, FC. ;-)

FC: "...Bill Gates and Microsoft are evil, money-grubbing, unfairly competing pigs..."

Me: "Once again, he's right. You only have to read some of the various computer histories to know those statements are based on fact, not on opinion. I rave just as much about Gates and Microsoft as he does; although, now I have quieted down a lot because Apple has been making a major comeback in recent years, and Microsoft is well aware of it. I hope Gates lives long enough to be put in the position in which he once put Apple, when he stole their idea, marketed it as "Windows" and licensed it to Apple's competition (cut-rate PC companies).

Since PC companies in the 1980s and 1990s were selling "IBM compatible" computers, people naturally felt "safer" buying any computer that was associated with that "famous IBM logo." The operating system was merely an afterthought for most first-time computer buyers at that time. Apple, the little upstart company with a masterpiece of an operating system (and which had been the first company to mass market the personal computer) didn't stand a chance against the big-name (cut-rate) discount companies with cheap metal boxes using a shoddily constructed imitation operating system. The average buyer had no idea. They only saw that "IBM compatible" tag, and that's all they cared about. Bill Gates is the traitor who ripped off the little company (a company that truly believed in selling a quality product and user experience) and licensed its secret to the big discount profit makers.

I have this thing wherein I don't believe in rewarding criminals by buying their products. That belief is even easier to maintain when the criminal is selling a product that is far inferior to the original. Yes, I know that hundreds of millions (probably billions) of people are completely used to using Windows and feel totally at home with it. That's understandable, but it is not a good enough reason not to try something else. They just need to realize that there might be a bit of "unlearning" to do in the process.

FC: "...All I hear is 'Blah blah Mac blah blah blah…' and my eyes roll back in my head."

Me: :-) Please answer this question. Which one of you is more familiar with the other person's preferred platform? Do you have more experience with the Mac platform, or does he have more experience with the Windows platform? I'm willing to go out on a limb here and guess that he has more experience with Windows because this is a Windows world. If that is so, then is it possible that he might know what he is talking about when he trashes Windows and praises the Mac?

FC: "My problem with using a Mac is that because I learned how to do everything first on a PC, doing it on a Mac seems backward and unnatural."

Me: I understand what you're saying, and, I'm sure you would agree that it's merely a matter of perspective. However, that which came first should not be considered "backward" and "unnatural." The Mac operating system came first -- in January 1984; therefore, it is forward and natural :-). Windows 3.0 came second -- in 1991, after Microsoft had struggled for seven years to disguise an arcane DOS operating system with a Mac-like "look and feel" (like putting lipstick on a pig). Therefore, it is backward and unnatural. As is the case with that gravel road, you've just gotten used to it.

FC: "I don’t enjoy things that make me feel stupid."

Me: First, you are married to a Mac user! Have him teach you! That is the perfect way to kill two birds with one stone: 1.) You will learn how to use a Mac (discovering that it is far easier than you think), and 2.) You and your husband will have yet another excellent excuse to do something together. A side benefit of No. 2 (at least I imagine it might turn out this way) is: Since he is teaching you how to use a Mac, he would almost certainly be far less vocal about them (at least in an angry way) than he presently is. Part of his vocal side might just have to do with your seeming reluctance to take him seriously and to see if he possibly has a point.

Second, you are a medical physicist who is studying to take the ABR exam. You are certainly not "stupid," and you are also quite obviously not unwilling to learn complicated things. That said, learning how to use a Mac is the exact opposite of complicated.

Furthermore, if you buy a Mac that can use both operating systems side by side, you could slide back and forth between the two operating systems whenever no one is "looking." You could do your "serious" work on the Windows side and, whenever the spirit moves you, you could jump to the Mac side and just play around a little and explore. Pretty soon, you will find fewer and fewer reasons to return to the Windows side. I say this because it has been the case with the vast majority of former Windows users I've taught in recent years.

FC: "Plus there are some things I just don’t know how to do yet on a Mac..."

Me: In the past 18 years, I've taught a lot of Windows users (and beginners) to use Macs. I've also read many testimonials of Windows users who have switched to Macs. The thing I have found to be true at least 90 percent of the time is the fact that most tasks are so simple on the Mac that Windows users cannot figure out how to do them. They are convinced that there must be a "hard way to do it" (they aren't consciously thinking in those exact terms, though), so they spend a long time trying to find the hard way, when, in the end, the task could have been completed with a mouse click or two. I'm sure your husband will agree with me.

FC: "I get frustrated trying to locate an appropriate application for something so simple it would take me two minutes on a PC.

Me: I'm not really sure if you are talking only about locating the applications or if you are also referring to the tasks for which you would use them once you have found them. If it is the former, we will have to agree to disagree. Application storage on a Windows computer is incredibly confusing. I used to have to try to teach people how to use Windows computers when I worked at the local public library. It was a miserable experience. When I did find the appropriate application to do what they (or I) wanted, it could barely do one-fourth of what an equivalent Mac application could do.

The only "drawback" for Windows users and beginners when it comes to using Macs is the fact that you can store many applications anywhere you please (many are automatically installed in the Applications folder, but most 3rd-party apps may be stored anywhere the users chooses). Most computer users are neither organized nor tidy (the same is true in regular life). They end up storing some apps in very strange places (either on purpose or by accident), and then they end up blaming the computer for their own lack of organizational skills. I'm not saying that is the case with you, because you don't even own a Mac.

FC: "I’m sure that will get better the more time I spend using PDM’s Mac."

Me: Once again, does he have an Intel Mac? If so, maybe he would install Windows on it for you

FC: "In spite of our significant difference of opinion on computers, PDM and I get along very well and enjoy spending time together."

Me: "Will wonders never cease?" ;-)

FC: "We are best friends and that one thing will smooth over an awful lot of irritating differences, like his near-constant grumbling about traffic and vocal Mac superiority complex."

Me: Ask yourself why he does it? Does he do it for his health? Of course not. Does he do it to annoy you? I'm sure that's the last thing he would wish to do. Something legitimate must be motivating him to speak about Mac superiority constantly. You would think I would be more "agnostic" with all my years of experience on both platforms. But I'm not. The more I use Windows computers, the more I never want to use them again.

There is one other possible reason for your husband's vocal nature. I know it is true of me. You should ask him. From 1988 to 1996, I was critical of Windows computers and of Bill Gates, but I had nothing but my own opinion and experiences on which to base my personal preference. During that time, almost every Windows user I knew was incredibly insulting of the Macintosh platform (calling them "toys," etc.). As angry as their arrogance made me, I couldn't argue technical details because I would not have known what I was talking about. I just defended my choice and grew angrier and angrier at them for their condescending attitude. Then I discovered the internet, and soon thereafter I found endless facts (independent studies, etc.) to back me up. I began returning the insults to those condescending, insulting Windows users with a vengeance, mostly in an effort to shut them up before they even had a chance to begin attacking me. I discovered the best way to deal with them was to beat them at their own game. If any of them ever brought the topic up, I immediately took the offensive. There was no better way to kill a condescending smug attitude than to attack fast and hard and to act absolutely certain of myself. I also backed up my certainty with indisputable facts, because I finally knew what I was talking about on the technical side. I was the oppressed getting even with the oppressor for years of mistreatment, and it felt great. I'm sure the same is true of millions of other Mac users too. After a while, we just got sick of being ridiculed, especially when we were using the superior product. It's like North Koreans criticizing Canadians (for example) for practicing democracy. The astounding thing is that the North Koreans actually believe what they are saying.

FC: "...and my ever-growing shoe collection and refusal to ever cook anything."

Me: "Not even a frozen dinner? ;-)

FC: "I hope we will spend many more happy years together, during which I can tune out all that crap he says about how his Mac is better than my PC."

Me: Be a diplomat. As much as it galls you, try to take a genuine interest in what he is saying. As I wrote earlier, I think he would calm down quite a bit if you were to do this.

My Alma Mater

This was the scene at my alma mater on the evening of Friday, July 28, 2006:

Luckily, the campus was saved, but it was a really close call. Click this link to learn more. There isn't much else to add. The picture and the article pretty much say it all. P.S. The tall building is the college's eleven-story residence hall. Photo was taken by Con Marshall of Chadron State College.

Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

This entry is a "counterbalance" to my previous entry.

In September 1974, when I was 13, we made a trip to Middleville, SD (not its real name). My dad was interested in purchasing the ancient "Duff Hotel" (located on main street) and having us move there to operate it. As with our own "Earling Hotel" in Earling, SD (not the real name of the hotel or the town), the Duff Hotel's ground floor was a full residence, in which we would live.

From about September 1971, when I started the 5th grade in Earling, through early 1974, I had occasionally asked my parents if we could move away from Earling because I wasn't that fond of the place. After my future best friend's arrival in early 1974, my desire to move slowly started to disappear. By September 1974, I was probably not yet entirely opposed to moving; however, living in Earling was finally starting to become more enjoyable. If we had not been out of town so frequently that summer on vacation trips to California, eastern South Dakota and Missouri, I would have seen my new best friend even more, and so my desire to stay might have been even stronger than it was.

As we departed from Earling on a Saturday, bound for Middleville, I was probably looking forward to the adventure and maybe even to the promise of starting over in a new location.

Then we arrived in Middleville.

From that moment on, my opinion about moving, at least to Middleville, changed dramatically.

The hotel was very old, very poorly lit and, as a consequence, very depressing. The interior seemed as if it had last been remodeled in 1900. It just felt like the sort of place where social losers and 90-year-old hermits would come to hide away from the world. I couldn't imagine living in such a place (at least not until I was a 90-year-old loser hermit).

My parents and my younger brother and I sat in the living room and visited with the poorly dressed, overweight woman who owned the place. She had a somewhat attractive daughter, who was about my age. I remember being somewhat receptive to her presence, but I couldn't concentrate on her because I was more interested in getting out of that town and going back home. Knowing me, I probably whispered my opinion of the place to my parents every time the opportunity arose and was either ignored or told to be quiet.

Sometime after sunset, I went outside and stood there, frustrated with my inability to have a say in my own future. I stood in front of the hotel and inspected Main Street by the light of the street lamps. A few feet away, at the corner of the hotel, a few kids my age were standing in a group. They completely ignored me. The hotel owner's daughter was among them. They were all smoking cigarettes. To me, that made them a gang of total delinquents. My assessment of Middleville and its inhabitants was suddenly complete and completely irrevocable. There was no way on earth I would agree to our moving to a place where I would have to grow up among "those sorts of kids." In "Earling" County, I had seen practically no kids who smoked. As such, I had been very well insulated from humanity's more unpleasant realities (according to my innocent standards).

I hoped beyond hope that my dad would not be interested in buying the hotel. As soon as we were alone, I told them what I had seen outside and insisted very strongly that we not move there. I continued to insist, even though I was pushing my luck by being so demanding. I'm sure my dad lost his temper with me more than once, but I was convinced that my childhood would be going down the toilet if we moved to a town like that. Incurring the wrath of my dad for a short period of time was vastly preferable to ruining the remaining years of my youth by living it out in a dump of a hotel in a dump of a town with "trashy" kids.

We stayed that night in the hotel (I must have blotted this out in my mind because I cannot remember it at all). We left for home the next morning (Sunday).

I was completely distraught during the trip home. I continued to argue for the first hour or so (maybe more), and I'm sure my dad finally lost his temper, saying that the decision was final. We would be moving to Middleville as soon as possible. I was forced to give up for the time being. I lay in the back seat (my antagonistic younger brother must have been in the front seat between my parents), pretending to sleep while secretly shedding a few tears. I was now old enough (tears aside) that I thought my opinion should count for something.

But it didn't.

Even a brief sightseeing tour through the Badlands did not cheer me up. I could not stop thinking that I would soon be living among "delinquent" kids, and my dad didn't care.

Then, somewhere between the Badlands and Earling, as I lay in the back seat, I had an idea. It was a long shot (and then some), but it was better than doing nothing at all.

As soon as we arrived home, and the coast appeared to be clear, I went into my dad's makeshift office to put my plan into action. I knew my own handwriting was still clearly recognizable as a kid's handwriting, so I put some paper in my old Royal Typewriter.

First things first, I had to come up with both a realistic man's name and a town name. They had to seem relatively unique and authentic. It wasn't so difficult making up the man's name (although I can no longer remember what it was), but I was drawing a blank as far as a town name was concerned. As I stared at the junk on top of the desk, I saw a catalog. In the small print on the back cover, I saw "Modesto, California." It sounded like a convincing name.

I then typed something along these lines:

"Dear Mr. [MW's father],

"We are sorry to inform you that the Duff Hotel has been sold to Joseph Henderson of Modesto, California. We thank you for your interest."

Sincerely..."

That was essentially all I wrote. I then put an envelope in the typewriter and typed my dad's name and address. In the return-address spot, I typed the owner's name and "Duff Hotel, Middleville, SD." After stamping it, I walked to the post office, about a block and a half down main street from our Earling Hotel.

It was a very quiet Sunday afternoon. Everything was closed; not a soul in sight. As I contemplated what I was doing, my greatest fear was that my dad would notice that the postmark was from "Earling, SD," instead of from "Middleville, SD." It was a chance I was completely willing to take. Besides, I knew him well enough to know that he seldom paid attention to such details. If he did notice it, then it would be purely by accident. I also had to hope that neither he nor the hotel owner would decide to call one another.

Yes, my scheme was extremely risky; nonetheless, as soon as I dropped the letter in the slot, I felt a great sense of relief -- and empowerment. I, a mere 13-year-old, was taking not only my own future but also my family's future into my own hands. All that remained now was to lay low and wait.

Normally, I picked up the mail every day at the post office during my walk home from school, but this time I didn't want to be associated with that letter in any way, shape or form. I wanted it to look like a completely legitimate letter, and that could only be accomplished if my dad or my mom picked up the mail and saw that letter in the box. I believe I even stayed away from home after school for the next day or two so that I wouldn't be asked to go get the mail. Besides, I especially didn't want to be around when my dad finally read the letter.

I don't remember the next few days very well. I just kept hoping that I wouldn't suddenly hear my dad shout my name at the top of his lungs. Luckily, that didn't happen. I cannot believe my parents didn't wonder why I had suddenly stopped protesting our possible move to Middleville. They should have known that was unlike me. In fact, I didn't even tell my best friend what I had done because he might inevitably have told someone else (for instance his own parents), and they would eventually have told someone else, and ultimately the story would have reached my dad through the grapevine (as for telling my brother, that would have been like personally whispering it in my dad's ear; my idiot brother would have "tattled" on me even if he had been a co-conspirator). Not only would I be up a certain creek without a paddle, there might still have been time for my dad to call the owner and buy the hotel.

It took a while for the results of my scheme to trickle down to my ears, but.....

Guess what.....

It worked!

It actually worked!

I had outwitted my dad and changed the course of our family history. Even more importantly, I had changed the course of my own life!

I don't remember when I became aware of my success, because I had kept my distance from my dad for several days or more, and I certainly never again asked about our possible move to Middleville (you would think they might have at least noticed that little detail...). When I did learn the news (probably from my mom), I had to turn somersaults silently. Speaking of which..., you do realize just how incredibly difficult it is for a 13-year-old to celebrate anything silentlly, don't you? But that's what I did, because that's how desperate I was not to move and/or get caught.

I even continued to refuse to tell any of my friends what I had done because of my respect for the power of the grapevine. As long as I was a kid, my dad could never learn what I had done. I don't remember when I finally did spill the beans to one of my friends in Earling County (maybe I never did).

Sometime in the early 1980s, when I was in college, I decided it was safe to "confess" to my mom (she had played no real part in the Middleville deal). She was utterly shocked. She quickly warned me that it would still be unwise to confess to my dad, because he had been extremely angry when he read that letter. She told me that he (as well as she) had been completely fooled by it.

My mom eventually blew the secret herself and told my dad what I had done (she has always been a terrible secret keeper). One day a few years later, my dad or I finally mentioned the subject to the other. He told me what Mom had told him. I replied with the hugest, most sincere smile he had seen on me in years.

What else could I say? :-)

I had waited for over ten years for this moment! It was finally time to rub my dad's nose in my one-and-only "glorious" victory as a kid. And, let me tell you, I had a blast -- but all in good fun, of course.

He was still very irritated about it, because, as he explained it, there had been an economic boom near Middleville right after we had visited the town, and he might have made a lot of money by immediately turning around and reselling the hotel during the height of that boom.

I replied that I couldn't care less about any lost profits. In fact, I told him that he could have made a million dollars, as far as I was concerned, and it still would not have been worth it for me to have lived in that miserable town.

Yes, dear reader, I am still very proud of what I accomplished on that Sunday in September 1974. I had scored a victory for powerless kids everywhere.

P.S. To this day, my mom regrets that she didn't save that letter as a treasured family memento (she now gets a real kick out of my success also). I agree completely. I used to be a major pack rat (maybe I still am), but I was so intent on staying away from my dad after I mailed that letter that I wasn't about to take a chance on looking for it.

Thirty Years Ago Today

In an attempt to be profound in this entry, I must also show you my self-centered side. I know you'll indulge me, just this once.

But first, a little rambling...

One of these days, those of you who are younger than I am by ten or twenty years will be in the same place I am right now -- that vague void between young age and old age that is sometimes known as limbo (this vague void is more pronounced if you are still single). Old people will see you as young (but not for much longer), and young people will see you as old (forevermore). As for most people your own age, they will be busy with their own families and/or careers.

When you arrive here -- in this vague void -- you will finally understand just how wrong it feels to use the phrase, "It was thirty years ago today...," when referring to a day that you can remember as if it were only yesterday. For instance, ten years ago, when I was 35, I could have said, "It was thirty years ago today...," and I would not have caused myself too much mental stress. Why? Because my memories of my life at the age of five are really vague. It was still the beginning of my life. Today, at the age of 45, when I say, "It was thirty years ago today...," I am referring to myself at the age of 15. My life at that age doesn't feel like another lifetime. The memories are still really clear. In fact, it feels as if it were only yesterday in some ways. I was pretty much the same person then as I am now (only with a lot less experience and a lot more optimism because of it).

But there is more: What if time also seemed to stop for me "thirty years ago today"? Of course, I don't mean that in the literal sense. Rather it stopped in more of a metaphysical, science-fictiony sort of way, wherein the protagonist says, "Hold on a minute; I'll be right back." Then he steps through a door and into a waiting room in the Twilight Zone, never to be heard from again.

I am like that protagonist. Even now I am able to look back through that door and see that day in 1976, exactly as it was, waiting for me to return.

But, of course, I cannot return. I can only view it in sad resignation (even if I could return, what sort of bag of mixed blessings would await me?).

The main point of this rambling, pseudo-philosophical prelude is the fact that when I utter the phrase, "It was thirty years ago today...," it feels really wrong, or rather unreal. I was only supposed to be gone a minute...

Okay I suppose I'll Get to the Anti-Climactic Point.
It was thirty years ago today (Wednesday, July 21, 1976), that my family moved from our home in central South Dakota to a home here in western Nebraska. I desperately did not want to move here. We had visited this town six weeks earlier, and I did not like what I had seen. Please don't jump to conclusions, though. I didn't even know that my parents were considering moving here when we made that visit, so one cannot say that I was judging it through biased eyes. I just didn't like the general unfriendliness of the residents of this area. They seemed to exude a strong air of conceit and snobbishness, even when they were trying to be friendly.

As for a sense of humor in the local population, it was totally non-existent (and nothing has changed). That didn't bode well for a kid who had grown up in a place where good-natured sarcastic humor was everything to everyone.

As for my own generation, the kids in this area were especially rude, conceited and humorless. They were even foul mouthed right in front of adults. That was a new experience for my family, and it should have given my dad (a former teacher) pause in his plans to move here, but it didn't. His mind was already made up.

As I reread the previous three paragraphs, I can sense that everyone who reads it must surely think I am exaggerating. Regrettably, I am not.

During the last day of that short "reconnaissance" visit, while my parents were out with the "boss" and his wife, I accidentally learned that we would be moving here. I can remember the blood going to my feet and my indignation rising in my brain when I looked on the "boss's" refrigerator and saw "house hunting with the 'MW' family" scrawled on a note. That gave me six weeks in which to try to convince my dad to change his mind, while also anticipating with terrible dread "the end" of "paradise" as I knew it.

As you already know, I was unsuccessful in changing his mind, but I never stopped trying, even after we had moved here (I did it more for the sake of revenge after we had moved here, because I hated that I had been treated as if my life and goals were meaningless).

Worst of all, there had been no sense in my dad's decision to move here. He was doing extremely well at his "district manager's" job in South Dakota, consistently beating most other district managers in the region (that's why the "boss" liked him so much). The move to this town (the "boss's" home town) was purely optional and completely superfluous.

Of course, the unfriendliness of the people in this town wasn't my only reason for not wanting to move here. I desperately did not want to leave my old home and my best friends either, all of whom looked positively saintly and exciting compared to the kids here. It had taken me a long time to start liking it in that little town in South Dakota and to make real friends there. In fact, I had even started to love living in that little town, in spite of its own numerous flaws.

How It Turned Out in Nebraska
When we arrived here thirty years ago today (egad, it's hard to write that!), there was still one month of summer vacation remaining. It gave me time to acclimate myself to my new environment before dealing with a new school and new classmates. We lived a few hundred yards outside the city limits, so my brother and I were isolated from most of the rest of the town and its inhabitants. By early August, I had started to imagine that I might not hate it here as much as I originally thought I would. I was even considering the possibility that I might make even better friends here than I had in South Dakota. It's not that I was thinking maturely. I was simply a natural-born optimist in those days (as I state in the fourth paragraph). The hopeful kid in me couldn't help but fantasize that there were great friends and beautiful girls just waiting to be met once school started.

When school finally did start, I was still optimistic -- and nervous. Within two days, my optimism was out the window. I realized I had accurately described the kids here two and a half months earlier. In fact, I had been too kind in my description of them (there were very few attractive girls either).

Making matters worse (ironically), I was a friendly, naive and optimistic sort. The kids here were cold and unfriendly. They took delight in laughing in the faces of new kids who were friendly, naive and optimistic. It took me a long, long time to learn to give up trying to become friends with any of them (there were a couple of very minor exceptions). When I finally did give up, I was a lot more cynical than I had ever been before. A lot of the kids in my hometown in South Dakota may have been obnoxious troublemakers a lot of the time, but when it came right down to it, most of them, deep down, were good-natured, friendly characters who would go out of their way to make a person feel welcome.

Naturally, my parents refused to believe me when I told them about my experiences with the local kids (at least that's what my dad told me at the time). They were convinced that I was either making it up (they knew I had not wanted to move here) or that it was my fault that I couldn't make any friends. As a result, I grew to resent them more and more with every passing day for ever bringing me to this place against my will and then not believing me when I tried to tell them what it was like for me here (long story as to why I am here again at this time). This was somewhat ironic in my dad's case, because his parents had moved him from his beloved hometown in South Dakota when he was a freshman, and he had spent the next two years doing everything he could to get them to move back, to no avail. You would think he would have realized that he had become his dad and was putting me through the same situation that he had experienced.
Conclusion
I spent two long, miserable years here as a sophomore and junior. Near the end of my junior year, I was lucky enough to spend a week with friends in my old home in South Dakota (my parents let me make the trip alone). I even went to school every day as a guest. It was a truly wonderful experience. Kids who had hardly noticed me before were genuinely happy to see me again. I was treated like an honored guest. After two years of nothing but rudeness, insults and indifference, I felt as if I was in heaven.

Long story short (I'll tell it at length some other time), in August 1978, I was actually able to return to my old home in South Dakota -- alone -- and attend my entire senior year of school there. My parents were actually enlightened enough to trust me (my dad may have had enough of my continual complaining, too ;-). Besides, I stayed with some of their old acquaintances anyway, so they felt it was safe. Aside from the family with whom I stayed, it was a dream come true.
Endnote
Not long after moving here, it had become clear that my dad's "boss" had greatly exaggerated the "potential" of this area with regard to product sales. By then, my dad was too proud to admit his mistake, especially to me, because he would have been admitting that I, a mere kid, had been right about this place all along. Years later, when I was in college, and he was living in South Dakota, Montana or Wyoming, he admitted that I had been right about the people of this town all along. He had hated it here as much as I did. I refrained from screaming this question at him: "Then why did we stay?! And why did you let me think I was losing my mind all those years?!" His reply: "Because you were a pain in the ass back then. I wasn't about to let you know that you were right."]