St. Denis

It has been been a few years since Mrs T, myself and friends Steve and Jewel traveled to France.
For my spouse, it was the fullfillment of a promise I had made to her upon her retirement. Our tour took us through Normandy, Brittany and the Loire Valley. Then there was the City of Light - Paris.When we entered the city on the final leg of trip, Philip our tour guide, was pointing out the fact that people of Paris were rightly proud of their city. Also, that the millions of people who lived in the suburbs surrounding the city, were not considered to be "true Parisians." He noted that living in the city and some of its suburbs was quite expensive. Also , that there were areas where unemployment, crime, decay and other social problems were endemic. One of them was the suburb of St. Denis. I noted that last point but didn't catch the name.
That evening, we had dinner at a sidewalk cafe, alongside the famous Cathedral of Notre Dame. There, we had an important decision to make. We had a "free day" in the city the next morning. Our choices were optional tours, including the Louve or the studio's of several famous Impressionist painters or launching out on our own for the day. Three of the four of us had previously been to the Louve. Mrs T. hadn't but opted anyway for a day on our own. We left quite early the next morning by taking the underground to the end of the line, St. Denis. St. Denis is the location of a famous cathdral. I had proposed visiting there because in the long history of France, it turns out to be the burial place of all but three of their kings and queens. During the train ride we struck up a conversation with a young university student from Ghana. Upon arriving at the station, he pointed out the direction of the Cathedral and said it was about 8 blocks away. He also strongly advised us to wait and take the bus to the church because their were "drug dealers and gangs in the area." After a brief conference, with the women voting "yes" to take the bus and men voting "nay", we bravely stepped off toward the cathedral. The women were not overly impressed with this "macho decision", as they called it. It turned out to be 8 blocks of closed shops (things don't open till ten apparently)and very few people. There were some beggers, a few young men hanging on the street corners and about a dozen vendors sitting on rugs on the sidewalk with their wares spread on the ground. From the outside, the cathedral itself was not overly dramatic, compared to Chartes and some of the others we had seen. Still, when you stepped inside, you automatically look up to the rafters and can't help but being impressed. I tried to imagine solemn ceremonies, going back a thousand years, when the rulers of France were put to rest.We looked at the side chapels, memorials and the altar. Then we descended into the crypts. There were Louis XIV The Sun King, Eleanore of Aquitaine's first husband Francis and on and on including (pictured here) Louis the XVI and his queen Marie Antoinette.
I think we must have spent more than two hours there, including a walk around on the outside. Then we returned the way we had come. What a difference! The stores were open The street was jam packed with people. For a moment,I felt like I was on the Midway at the State Fair. Naturally, we had to check out some of the stores and make some purchases. There was also some big rugby tournament going on that week Finally we went back to the heart of the city and a walk down the Champs Elysees to a sidewalk cafe.
That evening, we rejoined our tour group for dinner on the Monmarte and a show at the Moulin Rouge. During the bus ride to the restaurant, Phillip had to ask where those that had gone that day on their own spent their time. We had already talked to him on this point. He prefaced his question though by pointing out that "the intrepid and daring travelers from Minnesota" had gone that morning to St. Denis. "I have led tour groups here in France (he was British by the way) for 16 years and I also talked to other tour guides and "NO ONE HAS EVER HAD ANYONE GO UP TO ST. DENIS BEFORE." They all looked around at us. There were a few giggles and then a small round of applause. We looked at each other not knowing whether to be proud or embarrased. Ok, so I had missed the part about the areas that might be unsafe for tourists!!! The country bumpkins from rural Minnesota . Hey... Troutbirder likes history. Can't you tell?

Goldy Assaulted

I reported, in the previous post, that we attended a University of Minnesota gymnastics meet, last weekend at the Sports Pavilion. Apparently, I missed the most newsworthy event taking place on that occasion, judging by the space given to it and the number of comments, on it, in the Minneapolis Star and Tribune.
The report was that a St. Thomas University Professor, U of M graduate and fervant fan, who was annoyed by the antics of "Goldy" the Gopher Team Mascot, punched him out twice, and knocked him over in front of a group of trailing, excited and then crying children. It seems that the rodent (who job is to entertain the fans, had done the old tap on someone’s shoulder on the left side, while sitting behind them on the right side trick. This was for laughs. Twice. Then Goldy got slugged. Twice. This response was because the professors "space" had been violated. The action apparently was in lieu of saying something profound like "don’t do that I don’t like it" or taking the matter to a nearby usher. Good grief.
Now the amazing thing, to me, was the response of the many "commentators" to the newspapers article. That response was about even, as to who was to blame in this bizarre situation.
What a contentious, overly angry , society we live in these days.

The victim. No photograph was available of the perpetrator....

Wild Weekend

So what do Mr. & Mrs Troutbirder do on a dreary, cold weekend in March in Minnesota? If cabin fever has taken over and they are bored silly? They head off to the Twin Cities for some fun and excitement, by visiting their good friends, Gary & Rosie.
We motored north. It’s about a two hour drive from the middle-of-nowhere to Apple Valley. Arrival meant catching up on family news and recent activities. Then we got going on summer vacations and travel ideas. We’ve camped all over the lower 48 with this couple and even did a six week trip to Alaska and back with them.

This has been going on since before kids. In other words, we’re compatible. A year ago, besides Minnesota outings, we went together, birding and Twins spring training watching in Fort Myers, Florida. With many options for this year explored, we grabbed a quick bite and headed off to the Sports Pavilion on the University of Minnesota campus.
The renamed pavilion was an old familiar venue from my college days at the U. Then it was the Golden Gophers men's hockey teams arena (Women’s college hockey hadn’t been invented yet.) Now, refurbished. it houses men's and women’s gymnastics, men’s wrestling and women’s volleyball. We were there for men's gymnastics. What fun to watch these most athletic of any athletes. The Gophers were taking on the hated Hawkeyes from Iowa and the Nittany Lions of Penn State.
Of course, getting in the collegiate spirit, after the meet we adjourned to another local establishment featuring adult beverages. Needless to say, Troutbirder and Co. stayed up much later than his usual appointed bedtime.
The next day found the crew attending a more age appropriate activity. It was a community concert featuring the Velvet Tones and starring friend Gary himself. They were in concert with the local elementary school choir. The groups consists of seniors 55 and up who just plain love to sing.

That's my "best man" Gary a few decades later, back row, far right singing his heart out. Non-profit, theVelvet Tones appear in various settings throughout the Metro area and even did a gig on the stage at the Guthrie theater in Minneapolis. They "rock" in surprising ways, doing contemporary as well as traditional music. The highlight of Sunday's performance was listening to the energetic seniors combine with the equally energetic elementary students in singing "Why We Sing. Great!".

Generals In Blue and Gray

Wilmer L Jones has written an introduction to the Civil War. After thousands and thousand and thousands of books on the subject he is introducing it? Indeed! Let me explain. This volume uses biographical sketches of twenty-one Union generals to tell the story of the Civil War and examine the implementation of Northern strategy. Among these generals are prominent figures like Ulysses S. Grant, George McClellan, and William T. Sherman, as well as Daniel Sickles, whose actions sparked intense controversy at Gettysburg, and the lesser known John McClernand, a congressman who lobbied for his own appointment. In Wilmer Jones's accounts, which focus on character, personality, leadership ability, military skill, and politics, each general comes starkly to life.
This well written volume might appeal to two widely differenct categories of people:
(1) the total Civil War novice. That is the person who was more focused on the opposite sex in 10 grade history, feel asleep there or only recently came to the realization that it could be interesting and worthwhile to know about. The book is like looking over the cast of character description in an play before you see the play. Who are these people?
(2) the total civil war buff and expert. That is the person who has read hundreds of books on the subject, can describe in detail strategy, details and consequences of nearly every battle that was fought. The interest would be in finding out where these people came from, their family background, education, romantic interests and what happened to them after the war was over. Also when they died and where they were buried, in case you want to visit any or all of the cemetaries.
Would you believe believe I read every word? And plan to check out Volume Two: Davis's Generals.
Your right. I'm a Civil War buff. It's an obsession.

Red Hatters - A Secret Cult Revisited

It has been brought to my attention recently, that a group of possible extremists may be hiding their nefarious social plots beneath the guise of a flamboyent lifestyle. Who are these people and what are they up to? On the surface they appear to be local collections of grandmotherly types. But research reveals that they have "cells" scattered all across the nation.

Yes, I have a personal connection to this suspicious group. Last summer I was invited by Mrs. T. herself to "go along" for the afternoon to a local fishing hot spot. There number of ladies wearing red hats showed up and quickly commandeered the pontoon boat moored to the dock. The hapless husbands were enticed to remain behind on the deck by coolers full of beer and other adult beverages. "What gives here", I thought, when I noticed not a single female entering the pontoon had brought a fishing pole with them. It soon became evident that they were heading off to a secretive rendezvous. Perhaps to meet others of their own persuasion?

When the group returned, some hours later, they appeared to be in a frivoulous mood. It was then that I noticed several had brought binoculars with them. Again to what suspicious purpose? During the lighthearted conversation that occured during the beer and brats picnic that followed, someone let slip that the next meeting of the group might be at a casino in Iowa, a state known for its radical corn growing and hog raising types. Obviously these women were now prepared to take great gambles in their endeavors. I tried to imagine what this was all about, but couldn't draw any definite conclusions.

It was a fellow blogger who first spotted and then photographed , for the first time, one of their semi-secret headquarters, tucked away in the hills of southeastern Minnesota. A large silo like building, gaudily painted in purple, with a red roof on the top. A secret signal, no doubt. Extreme, yes, but brazen as well. This cult must be gaining quickly in self-confidence, whatever their plans are!

Warning by Jenny Josep,

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick flowers in other people's gardens And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes

.But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

My Losing Season - Part 2

Pat Conroy wrote best sellers like the Prince of Tides, The Lords of Discipline, and The Great Santani. Some were made into popular movies. And then their was My Losing Season, a memoir of his year playing on a losing basketball team, at the Citadel, a military college in Charleston, South Carolina. He will tell you in that book, that winning is easy. Sure enough. That Americans love winners. That losing is hard.... and that it saved his life. That last part got my attention and interest.
This is not a feel good jock book. It is, though, about basketball, which I coached and love. It’s also more about growing up, and a family where the father, an authoritarian, tyrannical Marine colonel, beat his wife and children. And a son, who finds athletics his escape and avenue into adulthood. It’s describes life in a military school and the "plebe system" common to all schools of that type. It was the most demeaning type of "character building" education you could imagine. Pat is front row, second from the left, on the team picture.

There is much in this book that I found truely appalling and ordinarily would not even consider reading. The authors writing style is often over the top, with plenty of seemingly exaggerated adjectives. There is also basketball jargon and "insider" talk. And yet, it was one of those books I couldn’t put down. Perhaps, it was my curiosity as to the bottom line. Where did all the physical and mental abuse at home, in school and on the practice floor lead ? Were there any redeeming qualities in this story? How did a boy with such a background become a world renowned writer? What happened to the men, whose promising team, was broken by another authoritarian and insensitive character, their college coach? That’s why I stuck with it to end. Was it worth it? Yes. Or as Conroy claims, loss is the experience that teaches us the most about dealing with life itself. I believe that...

My Losing Season

This is a book review. It's about author Pat Conroys book, My Losing Season. It also gets personal. It's about some of my own experiences in coaching high school athletics. I'll start with that.... Small rural school districts, like the kind I taught in for nigh 40 years, often have a hard time keeping coaches. Ther are lots of reasons for this, starting with community gripes against "losing coaches & records", and parental complaints on the "fact" that my all star son or daughter doesn't get to play enough. That's always been there but the recent trend toward scapegoating public education for all the ills of modern society hasn't helped either.
When I was a young teacher, I was determined to separate myself from the image of history and social studies teachers as "jocks." Although I loved football, basketball and tennis, I wanted to focus purely on academics. I'm not even sure where that came from. But it was there and so for twenty years that's what I did. I had even turned down higher paying jobs and promotions because I was unwilling to coach.
Then, when my sons were mostly grown up and out of high school, I was ready to do something new. Our athletic directer, unable to find male teachers to coach, asked me to consider taking football & basketball. "Well if you want somerone to install a single wing offense on the football team, (that system was big in the 30's thru the 50's) I'll consider it," I replied. He laughed. I decided to take the basket ball job, of which, I knew even less of the modern game.
My reasoning was quite simple. Athletics was also under fire especially in the era of public budget cutting in education. I knew from my own experieces and that of my sons, how valuable sports could be to young people in growing up. That is, in terms of building self confidence, character, teamwork and friendships. I also was looking for a new avenue to relate to the boys in my classes. It was perfect for that. And so, halfway through my teaching career, I decided to become a jock... well sort of. This was after most of my friends and contempories had given the trade up.
I learned the modern game, in all its complexities and got, I must say, pretty good at teaching it. More important, I knew kids, their ups and downs, their families, and their hearts from classroom experiences. I shuffled them all in and out of games ,in situations where they could be successful and be the best they could be as a team. I'm often reminded by parents of games and situations they witnessed their sons grow and learn. Like the young man, of limited ability, but was a decent free throw shooter, who was sent into a game against an arch rival with a couple of seconds left. Our team was behind ( it was always "we" not I) by a single point. We set up a play inbounds under our offensive basket. Our best player got the ball and was swarmed by two defenders. He passed the ball ( as planned) to our twelfth man standing alone in the corner. That boy broke along the baseline to shoot, as instructed, gots fouled and in the final second made two freethrows to win. To this day, his mother reminds me of this and says it was the highlight of his school days.
It was so much fun. Yes, one year we lost every game. On a couple of occasions, after foul outs we had only four players left on the floor. And yet, I have fond memories of that team. They never quit. They never complained or blamed each other. It stood them well later n life. In more recent years , with several very talented teams, we won 57 straight games. And those teams played with class and humility. Which, in my roundabout way, of thinking leads me to a book about basketball and growing up. About coaches and fathers. About a military college (The Citadel) and the "plebe system." Above discipline and love. About failure and redemption. About heart and soul. Best selling author, Pat Conroy tells it all in My Losing Season. It's told in the language of athletics but it's really about life. I"ll tell you what fascinated, stunned and even appalled me about this intruiguing book.
Next......

Seabiscuit

I read and reviewed Laura Hillenbrands smash bestseller, Unbroken, here several weeks ago. I was so impressed by that true and remarkable story of survival, I decided to go back ten years in time. Hillenbrands first success was another true story, this time about a super athlete..... a horse. Seabiscuit was under sized, unappreciated and an underdog, until a few men recognized his true worth and gave him the chance to be a champion.

One little tidbit, in l938, this racehorse drew more headlines, articles and ink that Franklin Roosevelt and Adolph Hitler. If as a child you enjoyed " I think I can. I think I can. I think I can. I know I can." — Little Engine That Could , try this one for a grown up version.

Seabiscuit. Yes, I saw the movie ten years ago. The movie was good. The book is great. Including a description of the greatest race of all time - Seabiscuit versus War Admiral. I loved it

Here’s how famed sports writer Grantland Rice captured the race in his prose.
"The drama and melodrama of this match race, held before a record crowd keyed to the highest tension I have ever seen insport, set an all time mark.
You must get the picture from the start to absorb the thrill of this perfect autumn day over a perfect track. As the two thoroughbreds paraded to the post there was no emotional outburst. The big crowd was too full of tension, the type of tension that locks the human throat.
You looked at the odds flashed upon the mutual board–War Admiral, one to four, Seabiscuit two to one.Even those backing War Admiral, the great majority of the crowd, felt their pity for the son of Hard Tack and Swing On [Seabiscuit], who had come along the hard way and had churned up the dust of almost every track from the Great Lakes to the Gulf, from the Atlantic to the Pacific.
After two false starts,they were off. But it wasn’t the fast-flying War Admiral who took the lead.It was Seabiscuit, taking the whip from Woolf, who got the jump. It was Seabiscuit who had a full-length lead as they passed the first furlong. The Admiral’s supporters were dazed as the ‘Biscuit not only held this leadbut increased it to two lengths before they passed the first quarter.
The ‘Biscuit’ was moving along as smoothly as a southern breeze.And then the first roar of the big crowd swept over Maryland. The Admiral was moving up. Stride by stride, Man o’ War’s favorite offspring was closing up the open gap. You could hear the roar from thousands of throats“Here he comes, here he comes!”
And the Admiral was under full steam.He cut away a length.He cut away another length as they came to the half-mile post–and now theywere running head and head.The Admiral looked Seabiscuit in the eye at the three-quarters but Seabiscuit never got the look.He was too busy running with his shorter, faster stride.
For almost a half mile they ran as one horse, painted against the green, red and orange foliage of a Maryland countryside. They were neck and neck — head and head — nose and nose.
The great Admiral had thrown his challenge.You could see that he expected Seabiscuit to quit and curl up." .......

And then.... well, Hillenbrand tells the rest of the story.

Parade

The Grands. Ethan (Fargo, North Dakota), Leonard (Kilgali, Rwanda), Tensae (Ethiopia)