Canadian summers...

“In youth, it was always the place not the people.

Time so changes one’s perspective, for

in old age, it was never the place…”

-anonymous

South Central Ontario, Canada in the summer… there was a time when only God and a special few knew her.

More properly it was the Muskoka (Mus-ko-ka) region of Ontario that had attracted folk by its pastoral scenery and astonishingly beautiful lakes.  There were three that were linked together: Lakes Muskoka, Rosseau (Ross-so) and Joseph.  Ah Joseph, like its biblical name’s sake, this was a lake of richly deep and clear waters, around which in the fall its mantle of hardwood leaves defined the very essence of God’s vivid imagination – a cloak of such festive colors even Joseph himself would have felt some envy.

Before my time…

In the early 1900s my grandfather owned an art supply store in Toronto.  He was looking for a place to deposit the family in the summers while he went to Europe to buy brushes and other items for his inventory.  How he discovered this land, is unknown to me, but find it he did.  He purchased 212 acres (85.7 hectares) of land on the northeastern shores of Lake Joseph.  Lakes Muskoka and Rosseau had been found and occupied with summer hotels and cottagers for many years, but the Northern end of Lake Joe was more difficult to get to and had remained relatively untouched.

Buying the land was one thing, getting there another.  My mother talked about how they would take the train from Toronto to Bala – some 120 miles (193km) – and wind their way to Port Sandfield, a small town at the confluence of Lakes Joseph and Rosseau.  They would then fill a small motor driven ‘putter boat’ and make their way up the 10 or 11 mile (16-17.7km) journey to Stanley Bay where the land lay. 

The original cottage was a log cabin in a clearing around 100 yards (91 meters) or so from the lakeshore.  Twelve of the acres were on the lakeshore, while the back 200 contained a ten acre (4 hectares), beaver inhabited lake and uncharted woods. 

Summers were spent playing in the water and surrounding areas, while working to keep the raccoons and other small animals from raiding the pantry of food.  Every couple of weeks, a supply boat would come to a wharf about a quarter of a mile up the shoreline, where they would purchase supplies, and I understand, an occasional candy bar. 

My era…

By the time I arrived on the planet, the land had been in the family for nearly 37 years.  A family cottage had been built along the shore, in the middle of the 12 acres that kissed the southern shore of Stanley bay.  Family members would reserve time in the summers to take the cottage for a few weeks of campfires, corn roasts, sing-songs, fishing, Sunday church and interaction with whatever creatures of the woods ventured by to see these odd two-legged hairless animals. 

There was no electricity, no indoor plumbing, no telephone, no television…just family, a few board games we all played and our imaginations to fill the seemingly never-ending days that melted into nights.

It was during these years when family members began branching out to build their own cottages along the quarter mile (402m) shoreline.  One of my uncles had purchased the beach at the end of the bay, so it could be argued the end and entire southeastern shoreline of the bay was in family possession.

My mother was assigned a section of land, and my father began, what would become better than a decade’s odyssey of building our family cottage.  As a carpenter, my dad was a pretty good minister.  To say he had building skill, would be the grossest of overstatements.  While he served that great carpenter from Bethlehem and Nazareth, his enthusiasm exceeded his skill by a large margin.  Dad was a minister of the Gospel.  The ‘cottages’ he built for a living were “…not made with hands.”  Yet he was undeterred.

Every summer, he would borrow a little money, purchase small amounts of building materials and spend the month of August building our cottage.  Finally, on a day of celebration and great excitement we moved from the family cottage into our very own place along the bay.  There would be no more haggling for cottage time…we could be there whenever we wanted.

Thirty days a year…

Our holiday was the month of August, and we always had a lot of people visit.  Rarely a day or two went by where someone would not show up from somewhere.  It was truly ‘mi casa – es su casa’ (my home is your home).  If we didn’t have more than 50 souls visit during that month, my mother felt she had done something wrong.

Food, from the general store, was delivered a couple of times a week.  I would provide fresh fish for breakfast whenever I was lucky enough to catch some.

The family routine was pretty well set.  The evenings were generally social gatherings in the living room. We played games, told stories, laughed at silly jokes and…and…and we were circled in a love and fellowship that seemed so normal. I didn’t realize they were set in motion deliberately by parents who understood the importance community and hospitality.  We learned these life skills as naturally as young children learn a foreign language.

Nights and days…

Each night dad would lay the next morning’s firewood. Both he and mum were early risers, and as dad lit the morning fire, mother would be in the kitchen singing quietly to herself while she got breakfast ready.  She was the ultimate optimist; if dealt a poor hand, she would make something out of it. 

A lot of people from many different cultures, nations and belief systems came to the Dreisinger cottage over the years.  We were encouraged to bring our friends or invite acquaintances  - who, in the end, could not fail to become a friend.  It was a laboratory of hospitality that prepared us for ways in life we could never imagine.

Cottages are great, but mothers…

One of my favorite stories, and one my friend John has reminded me of from time to time involves some fellas from Africa visiting for a few days.  He brought them to the cottage, and they only had a couple of days to be with  us..  I had pumped up the idea of going out on the lake and doing some fishing.  The smaller lake on the property, in addition to having beaver, also had lots of frogs that could be used for fishing bait.  We spent a day catching frogs and digging for worms for the appointed day.  I could hardly wait! 

The next morning, a huge thunderstorm unexpectedly appeared, meaning we weren’t going to be doing anything but staying in the cottage, with me sulking.  I was particularly upset as I crossed the living room toward the kitchen ready to complain my heart out to mother.   As I got near the door, I heard her quietly singing to herself as she began getting breakfast ready for the small herd that was visiting.  This was her custom in the mornings.  This particular morning it was one of her favorite hymns: JL Hall’s “When morning gilds the skies.”

The tune is gently melodic, and the words of the first verse begin like this:

“When morning gilds the skies

my heart awakening cries:

May Jesus Christ be praised!

Alike at work and prayer,

to Jesus I repair:

May Jesus Christ be praised!”

The skies were darkened with clouds, rain and thunder and my mother was singing about the sun coming to the morning sky.  My heart was stung by the contrast between my darkened mood and her skill for keeping her disposition elevated.  When I entered the kitchen, she could feel my frustration.  She just smiled, said she loved me, and asked if I would begin setting the table.  She had a skill set that it would take me decades to learn, and in all honesty have not fully mastered.

As I have gotten older and benefited from the lessons of my youth, I have read lots of life enhancing things.  The scriptures have been a place of comfort for me…I enjoy a little history and philosophy for reinforcement…I embrace the laboratory of life, where the next moment is sometimes so unexpected as to take my breath away.  BUT if I really want to settle my heart, and find that place of quiet strength, I close my eyes and see my mother standing in front of the sink at the cottage gently singing to herself… "When morning gilds the skies…"

- ted

Teaching old dogs...

“That which has been is that which will be,

And that which has been done is that

which will be done. So there is 

nothing new under the sun.”

- Ecclesiastes 1:9

I’m taking a course!   

It’s a class on how to establish life habits for success.  You know, the kind where you work through a structure that helps create a framework from which to motivate yourself to a more profitable and fulfilling life.

One could argue that developing success life habits in one’s sixties might just be a little late. After all, as my professional career and life, are on a gentle…maybe not so gentle downhill slope.  Shouldn’t I be sharing life experience and lessons rather than trying to gather new ones?

That’s the thing about lifetime learning, isn’t it…you know, it just keeps going, until…well, the ‘time of life’ is over!

In addition, the concepts in this course are not new.  In fact, as a person interested in the journey, there are not many new concepts to be heard.  So why bother???

We are creatures of habit, and of little doubt, habit is built on certain principles that cultivate values, which in turn develop character…Yes sir, a lifetime of practicing habits is not a bad pursuit.

It is surprising, however, how easy it is to let certain things slip away because you think you already know them.  For example, I tell my wife I love her every day.  Do I think she doesn’t know this?  Am I concerned she might somehow forget?  Not really.  I do realize, however, how frail we really are, and how frequently we need to be reminded of the things that matter. 

Editorial comment: A cautionary note – and trust me on this…I’ve learned words are not exactly like brushing one’s teeth in the morning.  My teeth do not care how I ‘feel’ about them…my wife does care how I ‘feel’ about her.  So simply repeating words out of habit without paying attention…is not particularly wise. 

I’ll bet you like to hear people say your life is meaningful to them!  There is little doubt I do.

Old/new…borrowed/blue…

Letting things slip by while we are pre-occupied is not new.  Philosophic and religious literature is filled with ideas to guide our lives.  Yet, these concepts are as meaningfully fresh as the rising sun.

The parable of the different kinds of soil in the Bible is a favorite example.  The seed sower tosses some seeds to the earth…landing on different soils – representing different aspects of our minds.

· - Roadside soil: we hear and don’t remember at all.  Remember the information for the exam when you crammed all night?  Of course you don’t!

·  - Stony soil: words land in our minds, but don’t take root…how about that diet or exercise program you started with enthusiasm?  How did that go?

·  - Thorny soil: we get started doing something, but other priorities overcome them and we put them off…you know, that book you wanted to read or vacation you thought would be good to take…

·  - Good soil: we focus on ideas that get exercised, which in turn produce new thoughts with more options to pursue…

The point?  Think about things before jumping into them.  Pay attention…count the cost at the beginning…measure twice, cut once…get the alphabet before writing the novel…  

Cultivating words we hear have much to do with creating a workable framework within which to operate…that’s what this course is about. 

For me??  It is the opportunity to ‘check’ the engine…to see how things are running.

Back to the point…

One of the assignments is to write a personal mission statement.  Warm-up activities provide questions from which to write. For example, consider the different roles occupying your life: husband/wife, mother/father, uncle/aunt, neighbor, colleague, friend, and so on.

Next, identify goals associated with those roles.  For example, how would you like people, with whom you have these roles, to think about you?  Were you honest, thoughtful, considerate, faithful and consistent…whatever was written.

Now consider several people who have influenced your life (it could be anyone from any era). Invite them to an imaginary dinner and think about why they made the list.

Now we’re getting somewhere…

The course then provides examples of personal mission statements – some very short and some fairly long.  My favorite short example: “I want to be the person my dog thinks I am.”  I, of course, have cats and therefore would make such a mission statement not particularly edifying!

I should say, at this juncture, it is not the first time I have written such a document…there was one in my late twenties and another in my mid-fifties.  Both of them were long and wandering…attempting to distill things I felt were important. 

They reflected those who had influenced my life…mentored and guided…disciplined and loved me.  They spoke to the importance of character…consistency …virtue…justice – you know, the big things, and how I saw myself living in and interacting with the world.  I wanted to be a better listener, consistent, trusted and seen as a person who finished what they started.  I wanted to be a better man!

Nothing is straightforward…

The thing is that life is dynamic.  It does not always present itself in black and white, and can be a painful reminder that “…the best laid plans of mice and…” mission statements often find themselves in conflict.

And so, it was helpful to go through the exercise once again for any number of reasons, not the least of which to take stock as to how I thought I was doing. 

The lenses of life over time, like the eyes, need prescriptive adjustments.  It’s an odd thing though, unlike the eyes, with time life becomes clearer.  The texture of the experiences lead one to consider each word and thought through richer lens…that is the promise you know, “…if we ask, seek and knock…” we will see more clearly.

No more fooling around…

So, I dutifully wrote, and wrote, and wrote a little more – by the way, a meaningful exercise.  In the end, the mission statement came down to this.

“Try to think of others first.”

While a simple phrase, it was surprisingly difficult to distill everything I had written.  It does encompass listening better, being consistent, mature and finishing things started.  

The word "Try..." implies it is an ongoing process requiring daily reflection – a sharpening of the sword.

One would think this a revelation, but in fact, it is a principle invoked by those much wiser than I.  My favorites…

“…as you would that men should do to you, do you also to them likewise.”

- Christ (Luke 6:31)

“What I do not wish men to do to me, I also wish not to do to men.”

- Confucius (Analectics)

“…we are made for co-operation, like feet, like hands, like eyelids, like the rows of the upper and lower teeth.  To act against one another is contrary to nature;…” 

- Marcus Aurelius (Meditations)

While the ideas are not new, the exercise was excellent!  The good news?  I’m not quite halfway through the course.  Classes like this may not be the “…path less traveled,” but they surely are great priority reminders…

What’s your mission?

- ted

Downs - not out...

“Relax,” said the night man,

“We are programmed to receive.

You can check in anytime you like,

But you can never leave!”

- Felder, Frey, Henley:

Hotel California

“Honey…honey,” she squealed as she saw me come around the corner.  

She charged down the hall with that hallmark unstable gait that made her look like she was going to fall over sideways with every step.  She threw her arm around my legs, stood on my feet and hugged me for all she was worth.

When I arrived on the unit, there was little doubt Shelley was ‘my’ girl…my girl. 

It was the late 1970s and I was in the second year of my doctoral program.  I was taking a course that required I spend a couple of nights a week at the university hospital pediatric cancer ward. 

The blessing – the curse…

I have always had the capacity to not over think coming events in my life.  This has been a gift, and sometimes a curse.  It was a gift in the military, meaning I simply got up each day and faced whatever had been planned for me.  Basic training, okay…specialty training, that was fine…Vietnam, let’s do it... Since there was little I could do about the system, this attitude minimized my stress levels.  It has also been the same in matters of the heart for me.  Don’t over think…go with the flow. 

In the military, this served me well – I survived.  In matters of the heart, I have soared to the mountaintop and been crushed in the “…valley of the shadow of death!!”  Of little doubt a curse.

The circumstance…

My task wasn’t very complicated.  I showed up Tuesday and Thursday evenings for an hour and a half and played games with children, who for the most part would never see puberty.  I have always liked youngsters, so I thought this might be a good experience.

These kids were all somewhere between seven and eleven, and for the most part looked pretty much the same.  Shaven heads…sallow skin…no longer any self-consciousness…the brightness and sparkle in their eyes adding a visual contradiction.  


They had the look of some future race of children from a science fiction film, but this was no fantasy.  Each of them had a death warrant and as they slipped away one by one, would bring both closure and sorrow to the families upon whom this terminal sentence would be equally shared. 

Equally??  Not so equally, for it is the living who carry this forward, isn’t it??

The task at hand…

They were surprisingly enthusiastic when I showed up.  There was a box filled with board games for the older ones, some balls and small toys for the younger.  I told a story each evening and brought my guitar to sing a song or two, because…well, I didn’t know what else to do.  I felt somehow out of my element, but they had a kind of wisdom and a surprising amount of loving tolerance, that made me feel, by the end of most evenings together, my visits were meaningful.

I had actually compartmentalized this pretty well.  I knew they were terminal, and when I arrived for an evening and one of them had lost the battle, I was saddened, but seemed to be able to handle it and go on – you know, above the fray…or so it seemed.  However, the cumulative affect of these children’s deaths would haunt me for years.  I mean, what was the point?

The unexpected…

But then there was Shelley…damn!  Somehow she got under my skin and travelled through the circulatory system of my spiritual body, lodging herself firmly in my heart.  Something happened in my tenure at this “…hotel California…” that touched me so deeply, that as I write these words so many years later, tears gently fall.

Shelley had Down’s syndrome, and in addition to all the complications that can happen to a child born with this disorder, she had terminal cancer.  Often these kids are intellectually impaired, have seizures, hearing loss, visual impairments, upper respiratory problems and a host of other problems.  Shelley had them all, and a little more.  In addition to this, she was a behavioral problem!

The biggest difficulty was her incontinence.  As a result she was kept in a diaper, which she hated!  The nurses would put them on her and she would take them off.  Shelley was 10, of fair size and stubborn with a capital ‘S!’ Keeping her in diapers was problematic. 

One evening, I suggested to the charge nurse they put her in panties rather than the diaper to see what she would do.  For some reason known only to the gods, she put panties on the girl and Shelley never soiled herself again!  While she had cognitive problems, she wasn’t stupid.  What she really wanted – and could not express – was to simply be like the other girls.

Love at third sight…

By the second or third week of my 16-week tenure at the hospital, I had fallen hopelessly in love with this quirky little girl, who ran to me without fail every time I entered the children’s ward.  Her glasses never stayed squarely on her face…she enjoyed making bodily sounds – laughing out loud – and almost always smiled when she looked at me.  Like any situation of the heart, I cannot really say what it was or how it happened, but from that point forward I was her “…Honey, Honey…” 

I found myself looking forward to those evenings.  No matter how difficult Shelley had been during the day or week, when I showed up, she would calm down and become a model patient.  Neither the nurses nor I were sure what caused this, but they also looked forward to my visits.

Just before Christmas of that year, Shelley needed bowel surgery.  She had obstructed and they went in to remove the blockage.  I stayed with her that night at the hospital.  She was still medicated, but would open her eyes from time to time and look to see if I were still there.  She would smile and quietly say, “…honey, honey…” We held hands and she would drift away, only to open her eyes again, smile and utter those words.

She survived the surgery, much to my delight and I headed home for Christmas break.  I thought of her quite a bit those couple of weeks at home and picked up a little present for her.  I had been surprised how special and natural it had become for us to see one another.  I made a decision to continue to visit her, even though my assignment was finished.

Back from the holiday…

I got back to school on the weekend and headed to the hospital to see how my girl was doing.  When I entered the ward, the charge nurse came to me, put her arms around me and softly said, “Shelley didn’t make it…complications from the surgery.  She died over the holidays.”  I was stunned…had I not been in this woman’s arms I’m not sure I would have been able to stand.  This, of course, was not possible…this was Shelley…my girl!

That night the entire nursing staff from the day shift took me out to console me.  They had lots to say about their work and their families and I realized, while I was a small cog in the wheel of their lives, my time there had meant something.  I remember that evening with a sense of bittersweet gratitude for these heroic people whose profession was daily filled with loss.

It’s been more than 36 years since that little girl captured my heart, yet every time I think of her my thoughts drift to some magic place where I am sure she is free…where I realize how little it really takes when the spirit is clean and the love pure.

Every once and awhile, in the quiet of the night, she comes like an ill-gaited fairy princess, stumbling down the hallway of my mind to wrap her arms around the legs of her prince…a moment of secure love…a little time with her “…honey, honey…”

- ted

It's the little moments...

In every real man a child is

hidden that wants to play. 

- Nietzsche, F

His name was Michael, and he couldn’t have been much more frail for a ten year old standing on two feet.

He was a little notable as we queued up together on that sunny California morning last week.  Together wouldn’t be exactly right…there was a woman between he and I as we both embraced the day. 

The kid was cute, with short blond hair, a dark grey two-toned zipper jacket – open in front.  His tee shirt had a picture of John Cena, a world champion wrestler in the entertainment world of Professional wrestling.  Because this activity goes on year round, more people come to these live events than any other sport on the planet.  Cena at 6’1” (1.85m) and 251lbs (114kg) could not provide a greater contrast to this youngster, but of little doubt he was Michael’s hero!

The boy had thick rectangular shaped glasses that slid a bit down his nose so that looking at him was like looking at one of those pictures where the camera is partly under water and partly out.  The top rim of the glasses cut directly through his animated blue eyes, giving him a strange appearance…the bottom of his eyes seemingly twice the size of the top!

For a tiny fellow, it appeared he had big ambitions.  In his left hand he held a couple of small books.  You have seen the kind before – ¼ inch thick (.63cm), six or so inches square (38.7cm) with glossy cardboard covers displaying bright pictures.  These two books were about fighter jets - one the Lockheed Martin F-22 Raptor, and other was a General Dynamics F-16 Falcon.

Michael seemed to know a fair amount about these fighter jets, but as youngsters do, he chattered away about how great it would be to have one of them. “I mean, if I had one of these F-22s, I could fly to school, hop out and wouldn’t even have to find a place to park.  Cooooool!!  I could fly anywhere I wanted, and if anybody tried to give me a hard time – KABOOM!  I would wipe ‘em out!”  While he was looking at the woman behind him, he wasn’t really talking to anyone…his excited imagination, vision and animated monologue coming from a place known only to him.

We weren’t alone…

There were a variety of other folk with us: a fellow in a tee-shirt and shorts who had lost his left leg and most of the use of his right arm, and a 40s something fellow who drove up in a black Mercedes 600 series…windows down…music blaring…overly large Bluetooth ear piece.  When he got out of the car, he tried to cut into the line, but a few hard looks – from a few hard looking people – and a 25:1 ratio not in his favor, suggested even to him, discretion would indeed be the better part of valor.  He had the look of the bully with no one to dominate, and slipped to the back of the line with the ‘common people.’

The most unique of our little tribe was a 6’3” (1.9m) 300 pounder (136kg)…a few teeth missing, an unshaven face and long grey hair tucked under an AC/DC (rock band of the 70s) black baseball cap.  The cap had a civil war cannon on the right side of the bill.  He was big and otherwise would have drawn little notice, except…well, except for the pink fluffy rabbit ears that fluttered in the cool morning breeze.

Michael was the only one who had the courage to ask the fellow why he wore the rabbit ears on his hat – quiet, but nervous chuckles filled the air…gotta love those kids! The fellow replied, “To dispel the myth that rabbits lay eggs!”  Michael gave a curious look and asked again…same answer.  The boy’s expression was…what???  Exactly!  I didn’t get it either.

A reason for this line?

I turn 65 this summer.  In this country, at this age, a person registers with the Social Security Administration.  Social Security has many other functions and provides services for many other reasons, but for me it was registration because of my age. 

It’s one of those markers one reaches with mixed feelings.  Of little doubt, the journey to date could not have been more interesting, yet as surely as the sun begins its increasingly gentle slide to the horizon of the western sky, I am reminded the bulk of my years in service far outweigh the days ahead. Many people look forward to this…I’m not so sure…I mean is anything really secure??

One can register via the computer online, with the small technicality that you have to prove who you are.

There are two options:

1.     Mail your identification papers (e.g. birth certificate and passport) to the office of Social Security hidden in some bureaucratic building in the bowels of Washington, DC – OR,

2.     Hand deliver the documents to a local branch office where they are copied and immediately returned.

Are you kidding?  The choice seemed pretty clear, so it was off to the local branch office!

Back to the queue…

So here I was with 25 other hearty – maybe less than hearty – souls waiting for the Social Security office to open, and hence Michael!

This boy’s completely unbridled enthusiasm reminded me of a time when I had a ‘…no limits period…’ imagination…a time when reality is simply not part of the equation…a time when the dreams and energy of youth collide head on with a complete ignorance of the road ahead.  Life modifies much of this, but without it, where would we find vision?  What a gift and marvelous time of life! 

Another brief step-away…

I was just about this youngster’s age when I announced to my father I was going to be a professional athlete.  “Really?” he said. “Yes sir, “ I replied with dead seriousness, “In the spring and summer I am going to play baseball for the Cleveland Indians…in the fall, football for the Cleveland Browns, and in the winter basketball for the Boston Celtics.”  We had come to this city 20 years or so before the Cleveland Cavaliers basketball arrived, AND Robert Joseph (Bob) Cousy of the Boston Celtics was my hero on the court – so I would play for them!!  Yes indeed, there were no limits…then.

My father could have chuckled and told me they were foolish dreams – he did not!  He knew the chances his child would be an athletic prodigy were slim, but he would let me find that out myself, in my own way, in my own time. He and my mother would, love, support, encourage and never say I couldn’t do something.  They would allow me to find my place, with my dreams, in my life.  Their commitment was to be supportive and not create roadblocks.  They knew there would be enough of those without a contribution from them.

Michael and the line…

I was reminded of this as the doors opened and we made our way into the Social Security offices to each take care of the business for which we had come.  In some ways, I was a little envious of the unbridled imagination of this young boy.

Michael handed the books to his grandmother, who was a hemi-plegic with foam handled aluminum cane decorated like the most elegant images of Native American Totem Poles.  She took the books and slipped them between her useless right arm and her body to keep them safe.

Then Michael turned toward the door and shuffled forward a little at a time pushing the walker a few inches and catching up with it for the next cycle of slow deliberate and difficult movement.  The ankle/foot orthotic that kept his left foot from dragging was wrapped in a bright horizontal striped sock and tucked into the padded slipper on his foot.  As he entered the building, he chuckled and said to the big fellow with the rabbit ears, “Hey mister, why did you say you were wearing those rabbit ears?”  He still didn’t get the meaning of the man’s answer.

As I drove home and for a fair amount of the day, I thought about this young boy and the challenges I was certain would face him.  I hoped, as he grew, his family would let him find his place, with his dreams, in his life.  Mostly I hoped he would never lose the freedom he felt to ask about the ‘…bunny ears of life…’ that seemed to make little sense.  I fantasized a little in my mind’s eye, fast-forwarding twenty y ears or so.  Maybe that kid would never fly one of those fighter jets, but maybe he might just design them…that brought a smile. 

- ted

Just a game...

“All life is an experiment.  The more

Experiments you make, the better.”

 - Emerson, R.W.

His name was Fredrick K., but everyone knew he was ‘Freddy Freeze.’  Yes sir, as a ball handler, none of us had ever seen anyone the likes of Freddy.  In a close game with just a little time on the clock and a narrow lead, Freddie Freeze ALWAYS took the ball!

Military life winding down…

It was 1970 at Ft. Rucker, Alabama.  The war was over for some of us and we were spending our last year doing our military jobs before leaving the service.  I was living in a trailer with my best friend Dave, and ‘Widetrack’ the dog.

We hung around with a few fellas, but it was late summer and I needed more than my part-time bar waiter’s job at the Officer’s Club to keep myself busy.  As has been so often the case in my life, the unexpected happened.  Even though I lived off base, an occasional Saturday morning would find me in the gym shooting basketball.

Game on…

One of these mornings, the Ft. Rucker post basketball team was practicing.  It was the beginning of the season and they were working on drills.  The team was a half and half mix of white guys and African American players.  I can’t exactly recall how it happened…maybe it was a shoot around…maybe it was they were asking around for another player or two…However it happened, I found myself on the team.  A captain was the coach and it turned out all the white players, except me, were officers.

My first preseason game was with a local Community College…I warmed the bench.  Interestingly, so did the black players.  We all sat and watched the officers get their clocks cleaned by a group of local junior college players.  I thought we had a great mix of players on the squad, but it was 1970, we were in the Deep South, and frankly, I was naïve. 

It wasn’t that I hadn’t experienced racial prejudice.  In fact, once I had to buy food for a couple of my high school teammates when we played junior varsity basketball in Grafton, West Virginia.  We had finished an afternoon game before the varsity played, and left the gym to grab something to eat.  The small restaurant wouldn’t serve the black guys…I bought the food and we sat outside on the curb and ate the hotdogs.  Hot dogs! Yeah, but it was the 60s.

We played a couple more games at our home gym before the season actually started.  I got a few minutes of play as did the black players, but on balance, the officers played…and lost.  What we didn’t know is the post commander had come to watch, and was apparently unhappy with the results from ‘his’ team. 

Life is change…

We practiced every afternoon at the Post Gym for a couple of hours.  After the third loss, the complexion of the team changed with the suddenness of monsoon rains turning a sunny sky into a downpour of unrelenting rain.  That afternoon none of the officers showed up for practice.  In fact, neither did the coach.

We started our normal shoot around to warm up, wondering whether we had ‘…missed the memo…,’ when a short red headed first lieutenant, with a drop-dead gorgeous woman by his side, came in the gym and called the team together.  As quickly as the door slammed in the faces of Eva Duarte de Perón’s rejected lovers, the captain was gone and Lieutenant Miller became our new coach.

Miller announced, he had never played basketball, didn’t know the game and was nervous about this assignment.  So nervous, he had brought his wife along for moral support.  We were stunned by our new coach AND his attractive wife.  It was one of those moments of cognitive dissonance – you know, our coach knew nothing about the game (not so good), but his wife was really attractive (not so bad)!

The commanding General felt there was a lot of talent on the team that wasn’t being properly used, and so with the swiftness of a dropping guillotine blade, made the change.  From that day forward, we never saw our old coach or any of the officer players again!

Then there was Freddy…

Miller asked how many guys had played college ball…five of the six African American players had college degrees and had started for their respective basketball teams.  Freddy Keith?  Well Freddy had played playground basketball in New York City.  For the uninitiated, New York street basketball is some of the best played anywhere on the planet…and we had an authentic NYC play grounder on our team!

Freddy had not originally been on the team, but was well known as the best player on base.  Unfortunately, he was also known as a significant troublemaker.  Outside of the gym, he had been a real problem, and in spite of having been in the military for almost three years, he was still a private first class – the lowest ranking enlisted man outside of basic training.  He had been busted more times than a professional lady working Times Square in his beloved New York City!

The only thing that saved him from being put in the post stockade was the ingenuity of his company commander, who out of sheer frustration told Freddy that if he got into any more trouble, the post gym would be off limits.  A stroke of genius!  Freddy coveted the game so much, the threat of losing gym privileges put him on the straight and narrow.  He had ‘…found the Lord…’ and a starting guard position on the team.

It is hard to express the beauty of a gift that has been worked and worked, until it becomes sharper than the scalpel of a world class surgeon.  This was Freddie’s ability with the basketball.  It was only a game, but it was ‘his’ game.  Never before or since…in collegiate or professional play…have I ever seen someone handle a basketball with the skill, focus, and, yes, love in the way Freddie played the game.  His only reward?  To be allowed in the gym to play the game.

The roster was filled…

We picked up another white guy, who had played some college ball somewhere in the northern plain states…a forward with a sweet shot and deadly accuracy from anywhere between 20 and 30 feet.  That was it…eight of us – a brotherhood of young men who loved the game, and in the end each other.

What Miller lacked in knowledge he made up for with unrelenting enthusiasm and a humbly pragmatic mind for delegation.  He knew…we knew – but no one else that he had virtually no knowledge of the game…we NEVER spoke about it.  He assigned specialist 4^th class John P. to captain the team.  Miller would be the ‘coach’ – John would design and call the plays.  It was an unspoken reality that served us well.

The mandate from the Post Commander had been simply this – WIN!  How and with whom didn’t matter to him…a black team – a white team…he didn’t care – just win!  The only thing that seemed clear…it would not be an officer team.

It was meaningful…

I learned a lot of basketball in those games with those men.  I was the highest jumper on the team thanks to the large ‘rear end’ and strong thighs my mother had given me.  I got a starting role – not because I was white, but because I could jump and had excellent rebound timing (gotta thank that mother).  To this day, I cherish the staring slot on that team as one of the great joys and achievements of my life….no token place in this brotherhood – you made the grade or someone else did. 

Because we were a post team we traveled all over the south playing other military Base and Fort teams.  We also had a girls’ team that traveled with us on the road.  They actually didn’t travel with us, but we often double-billed at home and away games.  They were all African American and they loved me!  When I say they loved me, I mean I was the starting white boy, the anomaly, and they cheered their hearts out whenever I scored or defended well.  It was at that time in my life I learned to love women’s basketball, and the women who play it.

I was the only guy on the team with a military drivers license, so I chauffeured for all the away games.  I actually can’t remember how many games there were, nor how close the finishes were.  I do remember watching Freddy taking us through the final buzzer more than once with the magic glue of finger tips from which even triple teaming opponents could not remove the ball.

When it was all said and done, we lost only one game that season…it was the divisional championship against Fort Campbell, and it was close.  We weren’t the biggest (I was center at 6’5” – 1.95m), nor were we the fastest.  We were a team of young men who learned to love Lieutenant Miller for his openness and enthusiasm…John P. for his leadership and strategic mind designing plays that worked…each other for the selfless play of the game…AND our secret weapon – Freddy ‘the freeze’ Keith!

I also learned a few life lessons that year on that team.  I learned that:

- Generals can do whatever they want

- Creative leadership can make a difference in people’s lives

- Success happens best when it doesn’t matter who gets credit

- When people focus on the task at hand, prejudice has little place

- Some people are so gifted you would rather ‘watch them play,’ than play with them!

- Love may not conquer all, but when done right, it can surely satisfy the soul

In the quiet moments as I write this piece, and reflect on that group of nobody guys…on a nobody team…in a no place part of the country, what a rich part of my life that was.  There was no hometown loyalty, no crowds of friends and family attending the games…there was us and the bond of the game.

We live such a short span of life, and really only in the present moment.  Everything not in the moment is either past or yet unknown.  In this moment, I have chosen to reflect on one of the small nooks and crannies of my life…briefly replaying the feelings toward those men, and running the tapes of the artistry of Freddie Freeze…well, feelings of love and appreciation are a great way to start the day!

- ted