That's My Dad!

 

Sometimes, there are moments that seer one's soul and are etched there forever.

One such moment is watching Minnesota Governor Tim Walz's children react to his rousing acceptance speech. The open love and joy of that family are truly special, and I will never forget it.

Tim Walz is a once-in-a-generation political figure. No, not just political. He represents the very best of the fabric of American life.

He is a coach and public school teacher and has served in the military for 24 years. He has also served as a congressional representative and governor. That's great, but his best achievement is being a loving father and good neighbor.

More than any figure of my lifetime, he represents progressive politics' true nature and power. I love Bernie Sanders. I love AOC. But nobody, and I mean NOBODY, articulates it better than Coach Walz.

There were so many great things he said in his brief but effective speech (or, as he calls it, a pep talk) that it's hard to select just one.

Nevertheless, this one sticks out to me -

"While other states were banning books from their schools, we were banishing hunger from ours," said Gov. Tim Walz, the next Vice-President of the United States.

When his 17-yrar-old-boy jumped up and cried and shouted "That's my Dad!" it was a riveting, galvanizing moment. I still turn into a puddle thinking about it. Such love! Such joy! What family bonds!

And the Midwest Dad thing? It's real.

How do I know it's real?

Because I had a Midwest Dad.

No, they aren't clones. But they're close enough to bring tears to my eyes. Close enough that it almost brings me to my knees as I remember.

My Dad was a public school educator, a math teacher, and then a high school principal. He was kind and giving, dedicated to hard work for the benefit of those around him. From him, I learned more about what it really meant to be a Christian than from anyone else in my life.

I love him. I am grateful for the foundation he gave me, which I have tried to pass on to my other boys. I miss him every day.

Joe Biden made a difficult decision, showing he loved his country more than holding onto power. Kamala Harris demonstrated her incredible intelligence and discernment by picking an incredible talent like Tim Walz.

Special note:

For those who are inclined to make fun of Gus Walz, I have an important statement -

Get off my feed. Get away from me. I have no respect for you. I will block you in any way I can. Enough is enough.

I have read he is neurodivergent and may have some learning issues. I don't care - in the sense that whether he has those issues or not, I fully identify with the emotion and love he showed.

Trust me. If it had been my Dad, I would have reacted the same way.

HARRIS/WALZ 2024!!!

Reflections on Being a Father

 Have I been a good father?

I truly don't know. I have done the best I can, and I genuinely love my boys.

My own father was very special. No, I'm sure he wasn't perfect. We didn't have a lot of father/son bonding time. He didn't play sports with me, and he worked a lot. His fishing and gardening hobbies did not match my personality well. He tried to share them with me, but I had little interest. He read some fiction when he was very young (Tarzan and books about a dog called Kazan) and when he was very old (mostly Westerns). He liked going to the movies, and I remember seeing one or two where it was just him and me.

But where he really shined was in the ethical and moral example of his own life. I learned more about Christianity in how he conducted his own life than I have from any church or book. He taught me about caring and hard work. Any job worth doing was worth doing right. He was, in addition to being my father, my high school principal. I never felt self-conscious about that - he was an outstanding educator, supported by teachers, students, and parents.

Yes, I have misgivings. But when I look at my three sons, it is hard not to be pleased with how they turned out.  

My oldest son, Greg, now 42, is a successful film editor in Los Angeles, working for Apple + TV. He travels to onsite locations, particularly the sports division. His prior job was as a brilliant film colorist, working on such shows as For All Mankind, The Outlanders, and Kevin Can Go Blank Himself. He lives far from me, and I wish I could see him more, but I love him very much.

My middle son, Doug, now 40, is a highly qualified environmental scientist, living in the Catskill Mountains and working for the City of New York, assisting with the water system that serves millions of people. He is married to the beautiful Paige, and they have one daughter, Retta (named after their mother). We had the honor and pleasure of seeing them for over a week in late May/early June, and I'm thrilled to report that my granddaughter took to us right away. I wish I could see them more, and I love them very much.

My youngest son, Benjamin, now 23, graduated on May 23 from Georgia College in Milledgeville in Computer Science and is currently a programmer with Warner Robins Air Force Base. We saw him just this last Saturday, spending the day with him in Warner Robins. I love him very much.

All three share some of my hobbies and interests. They all like comics and fantasy/sci-fi to one degree or another. None of them followed up in Community Theater, although all three were in one more play with me. Like my own Dad, we enjoyed going to the movies and have seen many together. Greg lives that love of movies and films in his work. Benjamin loves role-playing games and is a consummate Dungeon Master.

That is all good, but that is not what I am most proud of my boys for. They are all first-rate people who treat others with kindness and respect. They are polite and friendly with everyone. I don't want to upset my conservative friends, but the fact is they are all Progressives and vote for people who genuinely want to help other people.

How much of it can be credited to me? I'm not really sure. My two older boys had to go through the dissolution of my marriage to their mother. I tried to do that as right as I could, but no matter how careful you are, there is no perfect way to do that. I am sorry and feel very guilty for any scars that were left. 

I give much credit to their mother for her significant contributions in raising them and making them the incredible men they are today. I also give credit to Alison for her love and support of Benjamin and how she welcomed Greg and Doug. All three were always brothers—no one used the term half-brothers. So, yes, Doug and Greg also contributed to Benjamin's growth.

I know I made mistakes. A psychologist could have a field day with my mistakes. But thanks in large part to the contributions of those helping me, I think the boys are all right!

Well, more than all right.

They are FANTASTIC!!!

Social Media Circa 1953

 

Wow! Newspapers would post the most trivial things! Mr. & Mrs. Clyde Strait (my grandparents) go away for the weekend with another couple - AND IT'S IN THE PAPER!

I mean, I know Hanover, Michigan, is a small town, but does everybody know what everyone else is doing on the weekend? And do we really care?

Would I want my travels broadcast to the world (well, the world of Hanover), or would I want that kept private?

This was a common thing for local papers to do back then. They had a lot of space to fill, and there was only so much happening that was real news. How often does Farmer Jim report he has a record-breaking pig? How many traffic accidents? How many meetings are there with the township council or the school board?

All that was needed was to get down and personal with other people's lives. Who is going out of town? Who had a party or reunion? Who took whom to the dance?

Of course, all the juicy details are implied rather than explicit. Exactly what were my Grandparents and the Leggets doing on this trip? I would get anything too wild out of your head - these are my Grandparents, after all - the wildest I knew they got was an intense game of Euchre.

I have a vast trove of stuff I have unearthed from my father's ancestral research, so maybe someday I will find what this weekend's quest was all about. Most likely, though, it's simply lost to the mists of time. 

As intrusive as we might think this is, remember this - this was the social media of the day. My Grandparents probably wrote it up for the paper themselves or let an intrepid reporter know. And it was significant enough to them that it clipped and preserved for me to stumble across 71 years later!

Think of our flood of social media today. Not only would we know about their trip, we would have pictures of every meal they ordered. Oh, look! It's a pasty and some Mackinaw fudge, with a fresh root beer to wash it down!

We have the urge to share. We are social creatures. Even us introverts. What is this blog but a bizarre attempt to share facets of my personality and life?

Still, I'm glad all my outings aren't posted in The Blackshear Times.

A Series of Adjustments

 

Time chips away everything.

It takes an extraordinary man to deal with those chips and nicks in a courageous and kind way.

Such a man was my father.

Born in 1922, he, like many from that time, grew up on the family farm.

He was hard-working, doing his share of the family farm chores, and he was very intelligent, a superb student.  He had dreams of earning a degree and moving off the farm.

When it came time for college, he found it interrupted due to the decline of his father's health, and he was the only one able to keep the large family farm going.  This made it difficult to get the graduate degree he longed for.

So, rather than quit or get angry, he adjusted. It took him ten years to get through his four-year degree, but he never gave up.

He became a math teacher, one of the best in the state.  His theories on team teaching inspired the construction of an entire high school, one he would work at and eventually became Principal.

His time as Principal was long and successful, and he was well-loved by parents and students.  He insisted that his administrative staff keep their hands in the game and teach one class a day.  Quite unusual then, still rare today.

Even for the best of us, work-life can be difficult, and eventually, when it was time for him to be considered for Superintendent, they instead picked an outsider who had a doctorate degree (my Dad did not have one).  Immediately the Superintendent focused on my Dad as a rival and promoted him to Assistant Superintendent in charge of Purchases.  It was a position from which the Superintendent could better watch and control my father.

Consequently, my Dad, who probably thought he would work in education forever, retired in his early sixties. 

But he did not get bitter.  He pursued other dreams.  He took up real estate sales, and he and Mom bought a lake house where my Dad could go fishing.  He adjusted.

Later, this strong man, who was doing outdoor work and making things into his 70s and 80s, developed back trouble.  This was compounded by a fall from a ladder.

Yet, he did not despair.  As the lake house got too difficult to keep up with, my parents moved to a condo in East Lansing.  He continued to fill his life with what hobbies and joys he could, including enjoying his grandchildren. He adjusted.

As time went on, even the condo became too much.  Both my parents were becoming limited in their driving, and he could no longer go down the stairs to the condo basement.  

They moved to a nearby Independent Village.  They participated in the social life there and enjoyed communal meals with others.  He adjusted with grace and kindness.

His mobility became more and more limited.  At first, he needed a walker.  Then a wheelchair.  And then a mobile wheelchair.

Every step of the way, he adjusted.  

He started to have serious esophagus problems, and he had to slowly give up his most beloved foods.

He took up things he never did much before.  He watched more television, using Netflix discs to watch beloved old series, like Matlock.  He took up reading westerns. He loved visits from my family and me, and he adored Alison. I think he finally stopped worrying about me when Alison came into our lives.

He had to have more and more help from nurses and hospices.

Those who helped him always agreed  - he was unfailingly kind and polite and had a great sense of humor.

My father took his last downward turn in September 2013, passing at age 91.

At 66, I'm still pretty well off, but I know I am not what I was.  Whether it is one year or thirty years before I have to make the adjustments my Father did, I pray that I can face them with the same courage and kindness as was demonstrated by his love, strength, and spirit.

Mystery Weekend Monday Musings

Cst and Dog...sleeping together.  Why did I start out my blog story with this picture? Well...it's a mystery.

It was just that kind of a weekend.

We started the weekend with the mystery of who would qualify for the Sweet Sixteen in the NCAA Men's Basketball contest.  In our office pool at work, I got skunked, but I don't care, because Michigan and MSU are in the Sweet Sixteen!  Woohoo!

I am a Wolverines fan because that is my alma mater.  I'm a fan of the Spartans because my Dad was...it was the team he followed most closely on television, and the last places my parents lived were only a few miles from the MSU campus.  I saw several of the MSU basketball team at a Quiznos several years back.  Well, mostly I saw their chests because to see their faces I would have to tilt my head back and stare into the clouds.

Then on Saturday, I watched a mystery play called Once Upon A Crime, a trial centered on the home invasion perpetrated by Goldilocks.  This was put on by my friend, Kimberly Beck, at the school she works at.  There was no mystery as to what great fun it was, and the great, young talent of our area continues to amaze me.

We watched the movie Captain Marvel, continuing the mystery as to how the Marvel Universe might repair itself after the destruction wrought by Thanos in the last Avengers movie.  Captain Marvel was a good movie, and I saw Annette Bening in a superhero movie, something I thought I would never see - somehow I thought she was above all that.  Who's next?  Meryl Streep?  Julia Roberts?  Bill Maher is losing his snobby squad of resistance.  Oh, wait.  Bill Maher was in Iron Man 3.  Never mind.

We wrapped up the mystery of the first season of The Umbrella Academy.  I won't spoil it for you, other than it is first-rate television, and I really love the talented Ellen Page.  Even though I have read tens of thousands of comic book, I think the only thing I had read of The Umbrella Academy was a free introductory sample.  I wasn't impressed at the time, but the TV show is making me wonder if my judgment was too hasty.

And, of course, the biggest mystery of the weekend was...what the hell is in the Mueller Report?  At this point, we just don't know.  All we have is the Whitewash Summary prepared by the Attorney General who was put in place by Trump specifically to neutralize, obfuscate, and whitewash the Mueller Report.  I refuse to evaluate it until the full report is released.  And if the full report is never released?  Well, that tells us something, don't it?

Until next time,

T. M. Strait

Benjamin's First Car (Sort Of)

Alison loved her Mazda Protege.  Her manual drive car had served her well over many years. It was simple and basic, no frills or whistles, but it got her where she needed to go.  But the time had come where it was getting more expensive to repair and keep on the road.

We had struggled hard, but by 2004, eight years into our marriage, we had cleared enough financial space that we felt we could afford a car payment.  It wouldn't be easy, but we thought it best just to get started on it.  We wanted to get a car that would survive well past the five or so years it would take to pay it off.  So, we decided to take a gamble on getting a new car, and maximize its lifespan.

I believe we picked wisely.  A 2004 Toyota Camry, new from the local dealership.  They even had an enticement - buy the car, only get it serviced by them, and they would supply free tires for the life of the vehicle.

When we got it home, parked in curb of the dirt road in the back of our tiny house, I brought my young son, Benjamin, only three years old, and showed him our new car.  I told him, "Son, this is going to be your first car."

And sure enough, it is.  The car, now fourteen years old with over 150,000 miles on it, is the car he is driving to go to high school with.  It will most likely be the car he takes to after-school jobs and any extra-curricular activities. He might take it to college with him

There was a time when many people could handle a house payment and two car payments.  Except for the very well-off, those days are gone.  My parents could pay all three, and the cost was less than the mortgage payment that many of us pay.  And wages have not grown enough to cover the increase in car and home prices (not to mention the rise in medical care and college costs).

This rise in costs does not deter everyone.  Social media is flooded with pictures of newly minted teenage drivers, proudly standing next to a brand new or gently used car.  I don't know how their parents do it. 

On the other hand, as high as the cost is for new cars (and the correspondingly whopping big raise that comes in insuring young drivers), it pales to the astronomical rise in college costs.  We have chosen to concentrate our limited financial resources on helping with covering college expenses.  Benjamin will need to get a new car on his own unless he keeps the Toyota.  Every family has to make their own decision about these things.  That is ours.

My parents replaced cars every few years.  They rarely had a car go over 100,000 miles.  And my father was the thriftiest man you ever met, keeping elaborate log books of his car's mileage and costs.  I thought I would be the same, and it's taken me a while to get into a different mindset.

It's no longer a priority to change out cars.  If the costs of keeping a car on the road are less than the cost of purchasing and making payments on a new car, we're keeping the old car. 

Who knows?  Maybe someday Benjamin will show that old Toyota to his own son, and proudly say, "Son, this is going to be your first car!"

Grace Lee and the Celebration of 90!

I was honored to be able to attend Grace Lee's 90th birthday party last Saturday. There were well over 100 people, family and friends from all over.  It was truly a joyous celebration, with music and memories.

Her children spoke and were very eloquent.  Grace spoke and was very charming. 

Her daughter brought up how the Okefenokee Writer's Guild has been so important in her life the last few years.  She is a great writer and person, and it has been my honor to help her to meetings and be her friend.  The only other Writer's Guild member that was there was Julie Lacefield.  She has also been very supportive of Grace.

There were many pictures and scrapbooks on display, but also a vast plethora of her writings, including the story she did for the upcoming August meeting.

In speaking to us, Grace noted how she was surprised she made it to 90, but now that she had, she felt sure she would reach 100!  Given her strength of character, her loving family and friends, I have no doubt that she will!

The celebration reminded my of my own father's 90th birthday party. At that point, he was having good days and bad days, as far as being responsive to his environment.  It was a much smaller affair, that centered on close family members. Like Grace, my father was a very accomplished man, and a very kind and loving soul.  He passed fifteen months later.  I miss him every day.

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My blog output has slowed considerably.  I've been in a bit more time at work this month.  We've also had a close family member in the hospital, recovering nicely, but that is requiring time and attention that we gladly give.  Myself, I am subject to foot pains, and they have been pretty bad recently.  It makes it difficult to concentrate on anything for long.  It is also difficult to drive, but that is kind of unavoidable right now.


Hang in there with me.  I hope to be back on track very soon!

Stories from a Stony Land - Thomas Jefferson the First

I am finally resuming my Dad's writings and research on our family history.   Although some entries will be verbatim in my Dad's writings, some will require a great deal of adaption and interpretation.

Such is the case with poor Thomas Jefferson.  Little is written about this representative of the sixth generation, but I will tell what I can derive from my Dad's notes.

Thomas Jefferson Strait is a unique name in the annals of Strait history.  It's the only name I can find to have a second, and even a third.  Our line is notorious for not having Juniors, and a line of inherited names.

I suppose I could have been Thomas Jefferson Strait the Fourth, but gratefully, I was named instead Thomas Martin Strait.  And although I have had three sons, there is not a Junior in the bunch.

Thomas Jefferson Strait, date of birth unknown, the first born son of Reuben, is an important figure in Strait history, even though my Dad did not write much about him.  He married Maria Powell, and that becomes an important name as generations progressed, as for decades, family reunions were known as the Strait/Powell reunions.

Thomas moved.  He moved quite a bit before he settled.  They were in Tyrone Township in Steubens County of New York.  In 1837, he was "removed" (my Dad's word) to Butler County, Ohio.  This is depressing, as no right-thinking Strait would settle in Ohio.  Thankfully, in 1842,  they moved to Jennings Col, Indiana (Dad probably meant County rather than Col- at least that's what my googling turned up...and who can argue with google?).  Indiana was better than Ohio, but still not quite right.

In 1847, he made the big move.  That's right.  The Strait clan had finally come to the stony land - Jackson County, Michigan!

They are listed as having seven children:

Sarah Ann (1833 - 1905) marrying Otis Dillingham Finch in 1852.  The notes on this are funky, but I believe she had six children, including another Thomas Jefferson!

Reuben (presumptuously named after his grandfather), born 1834.  More on him in the Generation 7 post!  Hey, you don't want me to spoil everything, do you?

Joseph, who died at 2.

Thomas Jefferson (another one), who died at 7.

Evaline, who died at 4.

Frances, who married Henry Thomson, but died at 21, childless.

Louisa (1850 - 1927) married Thomas Powell in 1839.  Is this Powell connected to Louisa's mother, who's maiden last name was Powell?  Shades of Game of Thrones!  There is nothing in my Dad's notes to indicate if there was a relationship.  Mary Powell's family was from New York, and Thomas Powell was from Michigan (presumably), so I don't know.  Intriguing, to say the least. Louise had two children, Frances Leone (1871 - 1943) and Clayton Adelbert (1875 - 1940).

That's a wrap for now on Generation Six!  Well, at least we're finally in Michigan!

A Tale of Two Fathers: Saturday Political Soap Box 152

How did we wind up with such a huge partisan divide?

Some of it as old as the advent of agriculture, where the use of land to produce larger amounts of food enabled some to not have to spend all their time in basic survival, and instead collect in cities. Rural interests versus urban interests is a division that has often split our politics.

But there our other factors as well.  How we are raised, and our experiences in growing up, play a large role too.

After the election, I was deeply upset about how many people wound up voting for someone who was clearly unfit for public office, a fraud and charlatan, a self-centered man who deliberately appealed to the worst in us.

About a month after the election, I had a meeting about some investment concerns with somebody whom I deeply respected.  It was clear that we were on opposite spectrums on the issues of the day. Could this be simply be explained by a rural vs. urban perspective?

I knew his father, and I respected him as well.  Then I thought about the life experiences he had as opposed to my own with my father.  And I realized there was something more going on.

My father started out supporting and managing a large family farm in Michigan.  He was very successful at it, using modern techniques and science to out yield many similarly sized farms.  He wanted to go to college, and even though his family responsibilities caused it to take ten years, he saw it through.  He even got a summer job working at Kellogg's, the cereal company in Battle Creek, in order to earn money towards his schooling.  He did so well that they offered him a management position to stay.  He did not take it.  There was something else he wanted to do.  He wanted to be a teacher.

My father, who could have chosen to be anything, chose a lifetime of service in education, an exemplary record of contributions in the public sector.  He was a phenomenal teacher, especially in motivating the underachieving and marginal student.   He later became a school administrator, one of the best in the state, leading for a while a state organization of administrators.  He was a forerunner in the use of computers in schools, and was beloved by students, parents and teachers.

I had before me a perfect example of how  public service could work, of what it meant to be a great civil servant.  Further, I could see the private forces working against him and the schools; the corporations that wanted favors, the wealthy and influential who wanted special privileges for their own children, the different religious groups who wanted their brand of theology imposed on the schools.

My father was an excellent, moral, hard-working man, who happened to believe in the public sector and gave his life to improving the lives of students and community.

My friend's father chose a different course.  Just as caring and hard-working, his father devoted himself to work in the private sector, work designed to help many private business people do better. He approaches his job with the highest of ethics and principle, and believes in the efforts of those private endeavors.  He saw the good they were doing, the contributions to their community, and the people they employed.

He also saw those efforts stymied by government regulation.  He often dealt with government bureaucrats, who were sometimes indifferent and uncaring.  He saw a world of roadblocks designed to interfere with private interest's ability to benefit themselves, their family, their employees, and their community.

Because of my father, and also my own experiences, I grew up respecting public servants, and a bit wary of some in the private sector.  Because of my friend's experiences, he is wary of those in the public sector.

Both fathers are great and honorable men.  Both served their community well, one in the public sector and one in the private arena.  It led us to different conclusions as to what works,  But coming to realize this, and where it contributes to our divide, I have a better hope that we can bridge it.  For that is the way forward; public and private, rural and urban, wealthy and poor,  working together for the betterment of all.

We need checks and balances.  We need a mixed economy - pure ideologies of one kind or another do not work.  We want to do what's best for everyone, solutions that allow both individuality and community to thrive.

I believe that, ultimately, that's what our fathers want.

I believe, that when we take the time to think about it, that's what we all want.

I Fish No More

I went fishing once.

Actually, when I was very young, between four and seven, I went out on rare occasions with my Grandpa Martin, but I remember very little about them. except that he smelled funny (probably because he was the only drinker I had been around) and nobody talked much.  Sometimes my Dad would be with us, and then there really would be no talking, and Grandpa sipped less from that strange little metal flask.

We went ice fishing.  There was a little hut out on the ice, and we would put our rods down into this hole in the ice.  We weren't the only little hut out there.  There were dozens of others.  It was very cold, but I don't remember Grandpa complaining. I think he had something special with him to keep him warm.

What I don't remember was catching any fish.  We must have, but I don't remember that part.

I only remember catching one fish.  When I was an early teen, in that uncomfortable range between twelve and fifteen, my father decided to try me one more time at fishing.  We had a travel trailer, and we would camp at one lake or another sometimes on summer weekends.

One time we were at Lake Cadillac, and my father insisted I try one more time.  I didn't quite understand it.  It seemed rather boring to sit out in the middle of a lake and not do much of anything.  The sun was bright, it was difficult to red (and I don't think my Dad would be happy if I brought a book), the insects were often more happy to see me than I was to see them, and the stretches of silence almost reached the level of a sensory deprivation tank.

But I was willing to try.  It was an opportunity to get out and bond with my father.  So I got into the boat, and my Dad searched for the right spot.

How he decided where too stop the boat was beyond me.  It looked like any other spot.  But my Dad seemed convinced that where we were at was ideal.

I put my pole out, wondering how long all this might take, regretting that I didn't bring a book.  I tried to get into it.  It was very pretty, the gentle sounds of the water occasionally sploshing against our little boat.  I could hear birds singing and insets whirring.  I hate flying insects and did my best to convince myself that dragonflies weren't dangerous.

Just as I was about zoned into a zen, something tugged at my pole.  I had caught a fish!  For the first time, I had caught something! I excitedly reeled it in, and looked at my incredible, fishy prize.  It was not very big at all, a sunfish of some kind.  But it was a fish!  And I had caught it!  I turned to my Dad, glowing, so proud of my achievement!


"Throw it back," my Dad said.  "We can't keep it.  It's under the size limit."

I was disappointed.  My big fishing victory was for naught.

So I threw it back,

And it laid there.  In the water.  Whatever I had done, I had apparently killed it.

For no reason.  I had killed a fish for no reason.

I couldn't that image out of mind, of that fish floating there.  Something that I had killed.

And that image has stuck with me.  And I have never been fishing since.

I Got Hair, The Pictureless Newspaper Column Edition

I got hair.

I may not have a lot going for me, being chubby and short, and with a  face that is, uh, somewhat less than classic.

But I do got hair.  A full head of it, with no receding hairline.   The space between my eyebrows and the beginning of my hairline is pretty small.  And that's been true virtually from the time I was hatched.  I was born sporting a crop.

I wish I had something to do with it.  But it was a genetic gift from my Dad.  He never went bald, his hairline never receded, all the way up to when he passed at 91.

My hair style has been fairly consistent over the years.  There were a couple of times that I had a crewcut. When I was twelve and got one, I think it was my Dad worrying about the hippies, and for me not to look like one, as if my hair length alone would disbar me from the counterculture.  It did not stick, because even my Dad could see that I was not built to look adequately human with a crewcut, what with my craggy skull, with it's odd bumps and dips, and that I would sunburn terribly. If I stayed outside even a short time,  my head would look like it was on fire, a nuclear glow that looked like it could explode at any moment.

The biggest variations in my hairstyle were courtesy of the theatre, and my many different roles I have played over the years.  The most bizarre came in high school, when I played a young man whom the script identified as blonde.  Well, my hair at the time was fairly dark, but that did not deter the director.  They decided to dye my hair blonde.  It did not work, and my hair came out a ghastly orange. I looked like a cross between a teenage Joker, and the very first punk rocker.  Yes, that was me.  I was the first.  I started the trend towards wild punk rock hair.  You're welcome, America.

Another high school play, a musical about Superman, I played the mad scientist villain, and my hair was piled beehive high and turned white.  Turning my hair white has been less and less of a problem over the years, actually starting in my mid-thirties.  I remember a few years ago playing Santa Claus in Miracle on 34th Street and asking if they needed to turn my hair whiter.  "No," they said.  "you're good."

The only other change as I reached my forties was to add a short beard.  It's major function is to hide the fact that I virtually have no chin - my face just kind of blubbers down into my neck.

All three of my boys have healthy heads of hair.  The two older boys, now that they are in their thirties, are starting to experience the joys of premature graying.

Yep.

I got hair.

Thank you, Dad, for this wonderful genetic gift.  I and my boys feel blessed.

Rural Comedies is the Place Ye Ought to Be

Eli Varnadore as Jed Clampett and Nadine Borrelli as Granny..  come watch their outstanding portrayals this weekend!

Watching WACT perform The Beverly Hillbillies (a great show that if you haven't seen yet, you need to get out this week and sit a spell at the Ritz), I became nostalgic for those times with my Dad when he used to watch that show and laugh and laugh and laugh.

My Dad was not a big TV watcher.  He was a very busy high school principal, working many hours and attending many meetings in the evenings.  But if he was home, he wouldn't miss The Beverly Hillbillies.  He also loved the other rural comedies, although he was more sporadic in catching them, including Green Acres, Petticoat Junction and The Andy Griffith Show.  Later on, he was a big fan of Hee Haw.  It was odd because other than Hee Haw, I never really heard listen to country music.

I was not as thrilled with these shows.  They were not my cup of tea.  I was more of a Twilight Zone/Star Trek kind of kid.  Even in comedies I preferred things more like Get Smart and My Favorite Martian.  But there was something special about being able to share a program with him, listening to him laugh and enjoy it.

Dad grew up on a large farm in southern Michigan, and the shows must have resonated with him. Sometimes we don't realize how recently it was that most of the population was rural, with large numbers making their living from agriculture.  So for many of my Dad's generation, this was a glimpse backwards into a way of life that was disappearing.

At first brush, with it being awhile since I had revisited these shows, I thought maybe the shows were based on laughing at characters like The Beverly Hillbillies because they were kinda stupid and ignorant.  There is a certain genre that I have come to greatly dislike, that promotes the idea that "our character is so dumb that he is actually bright".  Examples are like Forrest Gump, Dave, Dumb and Dumber, Being Alone and countless sitcom characters.  For me, the idea that the truly ignorant are a font of wisdom was permanently ruined by George W, Bush, Jr.

But having refreshed myself with WACT's fine play version of The Beverly Hillbillies, I discovered that's not the case. Yes, it's true - Jethro is bone stupid.  But the rest of the family are just culturally different, and carry a wisdom and intelligence that is often missing from their sophisticated Beverly Hills neighbors.  You find yourself laughing as much at the stuffiness and  cultural straitjacket that those around the Clampetts have, even more than the Clampetts themselves.  Jed may have been the wisest character in all of TV land back in the 60s.

And now all that is gone.  There are no more rural comedies.  That time period, even to reach back in nostalgia, has passed us by.  Oh, sure,  We still have nostalgia comedies.  But they are more like The Wonder Years and The Goldbergs, with suburban settings, in a time period where the middle class had not completely receded, like it is on the verge of today.

Do I miss The Beverly Hillbillies?

The show itself?  Not much.

What I miss is hearing my Dad laugh, this great big wonderful man, this hard working school principal dealing with a thousand stresses, being able to unplug and set back a spell, even if just for a half hour.

I do miss that.

I miss that a lot.

My Father and Public Education

I am a big believer in public education.

There are many, many reasons why.  Let me start with what is perhaps the most important one - my father.

My father, Eugene Everett Strait, like many of his generation, raised in the depression and reaching young adulthood during World War II, endured many hardships and much sacrifice, building a better life for themselves and for their families.  He grew up on the family farm, and they all worked hard from dawn until dusk.  It was a hard life, without the amenities and comforts those in our generation have grown were used to, but he always spoke of it with a nostalgic fondness.  It was not, however, what he wanted to do with his life.  He wanted to contribute in other ways.

He worked hard in school, and did his best. It took him ten years to get through college.  His own father was not well, and he would often have to take breaks to run the family farm.  He was very good at it, and using modern agricultural techniques,he helped make it one of the most productive farms in the state.  He could have stayed and done extraordinarily well, but that was not what he wanted to do.  He wanted to contribute in another way.

Later, he would try to earn college funds by working at Kellogg's.  He started as a line worker, making sure Rice Krispies had an even number of burnt ones in each box (among other interesting assignments), and worked his way up to the point that Kellogg's wanted him to stay and be an executive.  He was good at it and could have made a lot of money.  But that is not what he wanted to do.

My father wanted to devote his time and talents to public service.  He wanted to teach.  And when he finally got to do it, he was extraordinary at it.  His specialty was in teaching math to lower achieving students.  His ability to communicate and motivate had them succeeding way beyond their own and other's expectations. I'm not sure how his teaching methods would be accommodated by today's world of common core and concentration on standardized tests, but I would like to think he still could have been successful. Turning students on to learning, and making them believe in their own possibilities seems so much more important than any one test.

Later, my father became a high school principal, but he did not take his hand out of teaching.  He and his fellow school administrators taught at least one class a day, because he thought it was important that they stay active in what it was they were administrating.  And what did my Dad teach?  Basic math, for those who were not college bound.

My father left this mortal coil in September of 2013.  He lived to be 91, and never regretted his life in service to the public schools.  Over the years, I have heard again and again from the many students and people whose lives he affected positively.  There is almost no one who leaves a larger legacy than a really good teacher.

My father was a brilliant man.  He could have been anything he wanted.  He chose to devote himself to teaching.  He was a big believer in public education.

And so am I.

Mathematical Illusion

I hear some of my friends struggling with their children's math homework,  I have not done so with Benjamin, but perhaps I should.  One of his recent scores was pretty low.  I will have to get in there soon, try to help, and most importantly, try not to make it worse.  Because I'll tell you a secret.

I don't like math.

I'm not really very good at it.


Whhhaaaat, you say.  But, Tom, aren't you like a CPA?

Which does involve numbers and logic, yes, but not necessarily higher level math skills.

It's true, I have a fascination with numbers and statistics.  I'm provably one of the few who is as fascinated by the numbers my blog produces as I am with  many other aspects of it.

But you start talking about algebra, or geometry, or God forbid, Calculus, and I fall apart.

I got a D in Regular Algebra in high school.

I got an F (that's right - the big flunkarooni) in Calculus in college.  I chose accounting in part because  I couldn't pass the math to be a computer engineer.

I remember my frustration over math homework,  They would assign you something, and I would struggle all night to complete it.  Well, sometimes I would give up fairly quickly, to be honest.  I mean, there were shows to watch, books to read, stories to write!  Okay, most of the time I gave up fairly quickly.

The next day in class the teacher would explain how to do last night's homework.  It would sink in.  Hey, I can do that!  Give it to me again.  No such luck.  She would assign something completely different, another something I had no comprehension as to how to do.

My Dad tried to help.  And he just wasn't another guy, another lost parent trying to remember themselves what to do.  My parent was one of the best math teachers in the state.  Even as Principal, he tried to teach one math class a day.  And his specialty was not the gifted or bright, it was with low achievers.  He got kids achieving at levels they never dreamed they could.  He was truly awesome.

And it didn't help me one whit.  He was patient, but I didn't get it, and I would become very frustrated.  Maybe because I was his son and our relationship was different, I just didn't learn even from one of the very best I could learn from.

And so when Benjamin needs help with math, I think....my Dad couldn't help me, so how can I help him?

But he's my boy.  And I'm going to try.

Stories from a Stony Land - The Revolutionary Generation

We have come to the fourth generation of the Strait clan in America, and the question is...do we have our first soldier?  Did a direct line descendant fight in the Revolutionary War?  Maybe.  My Dad's notes are somewhat mixed.

Samuel Strait, the designee for Generation number Four, has a birth date listed as sometime in 1750.  The death date is unknown.  I don't think this means he is a vampire.  Dates don't become completely solid until the 7th generation.

His name does not appear in the Rhode Island census of 1774, but is in the military census of 1777 as residing in Coventry, and that he was between 16 and 60, and able to bear arms (wow, that would make me still eligible if the same standard existed today).  In the United States census of 1790 he is listed at Coventry as 1-3-2 (no, I'm not quite sure what that means).

On May 20, 1784 he had a deed from his father of 25 acres in Coventry adjoining Fones Potter, Spink Tarbox and Thomas Strait.  On September 28, 1787 he was deeded five more acres from his brother Thomas.

On January 12, 1795, with his wife Patience releasing her dower rights, he sold to Thomas Nichols of Coventry "two thirds of the land where I now live."

The next part is what is uncertain.  My Dad lists it as part of the information he discovered, but a Gerald Strait has a note on the page disputing that is referring to OUR Samuel Strait.  Gerald's note is dated December 13, 1987.

The History of Rensselaer County, NY (1880) p. 436, states Samuel was a Revolutionary soldier, and a schoolfellow of Nathaniel Greene.  Confirmation is lacking, except for his name as a private in Captain Samuel Wall's Rhode Island alarm company dated at July 1, 1778, as shown in military papers at Rhode Island History -see reference 2-325.

The only reference to his death is some division of his lands that occurred in 1852.  Did he live that long?  I doubt it.  It was probably some division of his lands after more immediate family had passed, possibly including his children,

There are six children mentioned, but the order of birth is uncertain.  Three of them are listed as triplets!  The triplets were Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, with Abednego passing very young, but with Meshach living to the age of 94!  The designated heir to the fifth generation is established as Reuben, born sometime in 1776.

Stories From a Stony Land: Third Generation Scramble to a John

My father's second and third generation records are slightly confusing,  It is clear the first generation was the indentured servant, Henry Straight, arriving in Rhode Island in 1667.  Then there are two sons, born within a year of each other, one named Henry and one named John.  It is unclear from the records which one my father was following into future generations.   It is clear that the third generation name that he followed was John, and the following is what I could piece together about him:


John Straight was born on September 27, 1707.  He appears to have lived his life in the area of  Rhode Island that the first two generations lived.

On January 13, 1747, John Straight Jr of Exeter, purchased from Henry Straight of West Greenwich, eight-six acres in West Greenwich, bounded W by John Tillinghast, S by highway, N by swamp lots, and to extend E, to make above quantity.  This was part of a three-hundred acre tract his brother Henry had purchased of Daleb Carr on June 26, 1744.

On February 6, 1764, John Straight of West Greenwich, yeoman, purchased of Silas wood of Conventry, with wife Jane Wood releasing her dower rights, forty-eight acres in Coventry.

On March 12, 1784, John Strait of West Greenwich, sold to his son Thomas Strait (my first name's first appearance!) of same, yeoman, two pieces of land in Coventry, one of twenty-five acres adjoining Stephen Potter, and Spink Tarbox (I am definitely swiping that name for one of my fiction stories!), and the other of five acres.

Please note that this is the first time that my father started using Strait as the last name instead of Straight.  I have not yet found what provoked this change.  It is interesting that it occurred around the time of the revolution and the formation of our new country. 

On May 20, 1784, John Strait of West Greenwich sold to his son, Samuel Strait of Coventry, twenty-five acres in Coventry adjoining Fones Potter, Spink Tarbox and Thomas Strait.  Sounds like a group of characters in an English fantasy novel.

In the Rhode Island census of 1774, he is listed at West Greenwich as 3-0-2-1, implying himself and two sons over 16, his wife and one daughter over 16, and one daughter under 16.

In the U.S. census, also at Greenwich, he is listed as 2-1-6, implying himself and one son over 16, one son or grandson under 16, and six females.   Awesome...apparently all the women were thrown into one category.

His will, dated June 2, 1791, proved April 30, 1972, names his wife, Mary, eldest son David, sons John, Samuel and Thomas, eldest daughter Mary Logee, daughters Rebecca Rathburn, and Dorcas Wood and grandson John Blanchard, son and heir of Rose Blanchard, deceased.  The homestead farm is divided between the sons David and John, John to have the west half.

Although some of the documents refer to David as the eldest son, others say the birth order is uncertain.  All I can say is that my father resumes the generational line with Samuel Strait,  as the lead son of the fourth generation.

John Strait would be the first generation to go through the Revolutionary war period.  There is no record of what he did, or how he felt about the conflict.  He would have been 68 at the time of the Declaration of Independence.  Although not a Mayflower family, the Straights had arrived in the colonies some 109 years before the Declaration of Independence.

A New Kind of Father's Day

My father, Eugene Strait and myself, with young Greg Strait.  This picture is probably from 1982 or 1983.

I see the many things that people endure, and I know that it is a small thing in comparison.  People lose many, and it is always hard.

Nevertheless.

This was my first Father's Day without him here on this plane of existence. I knew it wasn't going to be easy.  I didn't know it would be as hard as it was.  

I miss him terribly.  Both he and my mother.  

The fact that he was 91, in slowly diminishing health, does not mitigate how much I miss him.  How much I wish he was here and strong again.  Aging may be natural.  It may be the way of things.  But it also sucks.

Disregarding beliefs about the afterlife, for right here, it hard to accept the fact that I will never see them again.  Sometimes, when I sleep and dream, I think that they are not gone.  But then I wake and have to accept it all over again.

Many of you have suffered losses, as great or greater than this.  It hurts, I know.  It may never stop hurting.  But we find ways to endure, and to remember.  We find ways to carry on, while carrying the shining light of those who have gone but have meant so much to us.

My father was a great man.  A man of many substantial achievements.  But nothing was as great as his kindness, nothing as significant as his politeness and basic human decency, nothing as important as the way he loved and cared for us.

Will next Father's Day be easier?

Maybe.

But I'm not even sure that I want it to be.  Pain and grief are a part of living, a part of coping, a part of remembering.  And this is part of his legacy in me - to empathize, to feel, to care.

Thank you, Dad.  I love you always.

Mixing Honey with Lemon

What I am about to tell you is according to my taste buds.  Please adjust this analogy accordingly to suit your own.

Honey is sweet.  Maybe too sweet by itself.

Lemon is sour, at least for me.  And virtually impossible for me to digest by itself.

But honey mixed with lemon...ah, now....that can be special.  Like the honey lemon cold remedy that goes down easy, and can actually help to make things better.

My father taught me many things.  This is one of the most important.  Honey (the sweet) can help make lemon (the sour) go down easier.

As school principal, he often had teachers fall short of what they should be.  Some glaring problem that needed to be fixed.

99% of the time, when he called a teacher in to talk with him, he didn't immediately start lambasting them, trying to make them feel bad and small.  No, he led with what they were doing well, the things that were positive about the teacher.  Think about it. The teacher wasn't an irredeemable mess that needed to be fired, just someone who needed a behavior or technique corrected.  After the sweet, as he got them in a good frame of mind, he would slip in the thing they needed to improve.  And, at that point, they would be so comfortable and positive about my Dad, that they would gladly do better to further please him.

My Dad was a very successful Principal, well-liked and well-respected.  He ran a very good school, and the teachers and students often performed beyond normal expectations.  And that's because he knew how to talk to people.  The best way to get the lemon to go down was by adding a bit of honey.

In working with the OHC Writer's Guild, as founder and President of the Writer's Guild, I think there may be some expectation that I am going to be critical, constructively of course, of other Guild member's writings.  That's not going to happen often.  I see myself as more supportive than critical.  They'll have to get that someplace else.  If I do say something corrective about their writing, it will only be in the context of saying something positive.  I will always tell them the positive before I say anything corrective.

I know myself, I have very thin skin.  I take rejection and criticism very hard.  I wish I wasn't that way, and although at 58 I've gotten a little better, I still take it harder than I should.  But those who use my Dad's technique have a much, much better chance of me absorbing their corrections and improving myself.  This is true especially concerning my job and my writings (not so much my acting - it's hard for anyone to shake my confidence in that).

Sadly, I don't always practice what I preach.

I sometimes get in that shorthand, common in marriage with someone you love, and forget to balance things out.  But even in those times, where we genuinely love each other, we balance things out over time.

Sometimes I fall into the "only lemon trap" with Benjamin, my 13 year old son, particularly when it comes to school and academics.  My expectations reach almost Tiger Mom levels, and I become overly critical instead of taking the time to balance things out.

When I found out a week before the honors ceremony that he had qualified for Beta Club (a special club for academic and civic achievers), but was not going to get the honor because he had failed to pay some dues in the Fall, I was very upset.  I, not familiar with the Beta Club, had no concept that there would even be dues, and he had never given us notice of it.

He knew I was disappointed, but he was okay through the ceremony, where he received three ribbons for having all As in three subjects all year long. He also exceeded on all parts of the CRCT exam, and was the top reader in his group of several classrooms.  But when it came time to honor the Beta Club members, and he realized that he was not going to get to go up there, he became very sad and teared up.  We could not take his picture after, because his face was puffy and he was very hurt.

I tried to put a positive spin on it, but it was too late.  I'm glad that he felt something, that maybe he will remember better the next time, but I felt awful that earlier in the week, I had only given him lemon, without mixing in any honey.

Benjamin comes by his absent-mindedness naturally.  He inherited it from one of his parents.  I'll let you guess, but his initials are Tom Strait.  Right now, we will not be able to mow the yard this weekend, because I failed to bring our broken lawn mowers into the repair shop to be fixed.  And trust me, that's one of just a zillion examples of my forgetfulness.

We have a four day weekend coming up, Benjamin and I.  Alison works Monday, so it is just Benjamin and me that day.  Which means I have four days to get the mix right, to get the perfect blend of honey and lemon, and make everything better.

Wish me luck.  I am proud of my young son.  I love him very much.

Stories From A Stony Land: Last Will and Testament of Henry Straight

This is recorded by my Dad from original court documents.  As you can see, the document was in Olde English, and of low quality, so he had some difficulty with translation.  Henry Straight was the first generation Strait, living from 1652 to June 4, 1728.  This will was recorded only a few weeks before his passing.

In the name of God Amen this fifteenth day of May in the year of our Lord, Seventeen Hundred Twenty and Eight I Henry Straight of East Greenwich in the Colony of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations in New England in America, yeoman being sick and weeke in Body but in perfect mind and memory and understanding, thanks be given to God.  Therefore Calling to mind that mortalyty of my Body and that it is appointed for all men once to Die I do make and ordain this my Last Will and Testament (that is to say) Prinsepally and first of all I Give and Recommend my soul into the hands of God that Gave it, and my Body I recommend unto the Earth from whence it was taken to be Buried in Decent Buraill at the Descression of my Executorex here after named on thing Doubting but at the Glorious Resurrection I shall Receive the same again by the might Power of God: and Touching such Temporal Estate as it hath pleased God to Bless me with in this life, I Give Demise Dispose of the same in the following manner and form as followeth

Impri:  My will is that in some Resonable time after my Decese all my Just Debts and funerall Charge be Duly and truely Paid-

Itim:  I Give and bequeth unto my son Henry Straight five shillings, he having had his portion in full in Lands and moveables already Received before the Date of these Presents--

Itim:  My Will is and I Do Give to my son John Straight the one halfe of my farm whereon I noLive at the Ensealing of these Presents butted and bounded Eastward on the Land of Robert Voughaun north-ward on a highway westwardly to a maple tree thence south-ward to a white oke tree and is mentioned more plain in a Deed of Gift Drawn by Thomas Spenser Juont bearing Date April the 30:1726: Reference their unto being had the said Land I have Given to my aforesaid son John Straight after the Decese of my wife Mary Straight of marriage which shall first happen I say I Do give the said Land to him and his heirs and assigns forever---

Itim:  I Give and bequeth unto my beloved wife Mary Straight all my moveable Estate, Chatles beds Goods Household st uf (Eriton kiolos?)  my Dad notes here - GARBLED  - whatever to her and her heirs and assigns forever whom I Do Constitute and ordain and appoint my whole & sole Excutorex to this my Last Will and Testament further my will is and Doe Give unto my beloved wife Mary Straight my hous and Housing Barn Crib fensis orchard or orchards and Land to be Used occupied and Quietly and Injoyed and Peaceably Possesed During the time she remains my widow and then to Return to my son John as afore said and here by I Doe Revoke and Disalow and make void all my former Wills and Testaments, and Do ratifie and Confeirm this and no other to be my Last Will and Testament as Witness my hand and seal the Day and year above written.

As I do not have an original document, it is hard to say how much above represents mis-spellings in the original, or errors my father made in translation.  I chose to present as he did, with the exception of a few additional commas.

The document, particularly the first paragraph, appears to be written by some strange mixture of lawyer and preist.  Mary Straight survived a good long while after Henry, living until 1757 and reaching the age of 92.  This is the same age my father's mother, Florence, lived to, and my father lived one year less, passing at 91.

Stories from a Stony Land: The Divorce of Mary Long Adams from Peter Adams

As stated in the story "Henry Straight: The First Generation", Henry Straight married his second wife when he was 32 and his wife, Mary Long Adams, was just 19.  Mary was a "divorced woman", even at that young age. I have found in my Dad's records the actual request for divorce made by Mary's mother, Mary Lane Long Litchfield, to the Governor.  It is unexpectedly lurid and detailed for a request made in 1684!

The following request was submitted by Mary Lane Long Litchfield to the Governor of the Provence in Boston.  It asks for the granting of a divorce for her daughter, Mary Long Adams, from a Peter Adams.  Mary long Adams was 19 years old at the time and must have been only 15 or 16 when she married Peter Adams.

"The Humble petition of Mary Litchfield to the Right Honorable Simon Bradstreet, Governor, to the Honorable Thomas Danforth, Deputy Governor, and to the Worshipful Assistants now assembled in Boston.

This is to humbly showeth that whereas your poor petitioner in the time of her late Captivity, with the Barbarous Turks, did leave several young children in Boston and Dorchester, where of my Daughter Mary was one.  In the time of my absence, with fair promises and deluding words, she was deluded by one Peter Adams.  So much so that her affections were so engaged that she disposed herself in marriage unto him.  Since that time god had so left the said Peter Adams that he fell into many terrible crimes and wicked practices in a special manner, and in breaking that Commandment of the Lord (Thou Shalt Not Steal).  For these transgressions, our Honorable and Godly Rulers did see just cause to prosecute the law provided for Delinquents in such cases, to the said Peter Adams.  He was transported out of the country about two years ago.

Before this time he carried on so wickedly to my Daughter, and so infidel like, that instead of providing for her, he took from her wearing apparel and left her almost naked, more like an Indian than a Christian.  Swearing most abominably, threatening to split her open, calling my Daughter Mary a Dam whore, commanding her to give him his hat, and several times beating and abusing her.  Since that time he has never come near my Daughter nor provided for her, neither for meat, drinks, clothing nor lodging.  My Daughter had no way to subsist but what she earned by hard work for a considerable time.

For about a year my Daughter has received kindness from Henry Straight in Narrowganset by being entertained in his family.  At this time the said Straight and my Daughter Mary have declared to your humble petitioner that they desire to be married.

In order thereto the aforesaid Straight has now come to us, and left my Daughter in Rhode Island Colony, and upon my Daughter's Request to me, your humble Petitioner, causeth me Humbly to request your Honors on behalf of my said Daughter, to grant her a bill of Divorce.

This being done shall cause your Humble Petitioner as a duty she is bound for your Honors long life and everlasting happiness hereafter.  And I shall pray for your Honors in all humilities and submission.

March 5, 1684

Mary Litchfield by her mark"

Wow!  Mama, apparently back from her captivity with the barbarous Turks (!), made a successful enough appeal that, even in that day and age, it was quickly granted.  Henry and Mary were married in May 1684, just two months later.  Mary lived 92 years.