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04/24/26 01:01 PM #17104    

 

Joseph D. McCarthy

It may be because my thoughts were elsewhere and I don't have access to the many news outlets that Mr. Mike has, but this morning I learned that once again "Millions of Americans (USA)may now be considered Canadian under a new (somewhat) law.

A recent change to Canada's requirements that took affect December 15th allows ANYONE born before that date who could prove they have a direct Canadian ancestor - a grandparent, great-grandparent or even more distant ancestor cna become a dual citizen.  Those born on or after December 15 need to show that their Canadian parent lived in Canada for 1,095 days.

So once again my Nieces and Nephews are Dual citizens, just need to provide paperwork..


04/24/26 05:29 PM #17105    

 

David Mitchell

John,

As for this recent downswing in attendance at jousting matches.

I just hate when that hppens!


04/25/26 08:20 AM #17106    

 

Michael McLeod

For the benefit of anybody who doesn't already know it by heart,eh?

I'm looking at you, Joe. 

Dave: I just hate it when that happens.

 

 

 

Lyrics

O Canada!

Our home and native land!
True patriot love in all of us command.
With glowing hearts we see thee rise,
The True North strong and free!
From far and wide,
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
God keep our land glorious and free!
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

 

 

 


04/25/26 06:30 PM #17107    

 

John Jackson

Oh Canada! Just got back from a short trip to Montreal  for a concert by a wonderful  band that plays what can best be described as French Canadian folk music.   It’s hard to describe but it has a lot of  Irish/Scottish fiddling, combined with lusty singing that sounds like songs lumberjacks would sing.  The group had two fiddlers, a guitarist, an accordionist and a guy that plays the hurdy gurdy.  Best hurdy gurdy playing I’ve heard in many a moon (since I’ve only heard hurdy gurdy once before at a Loreena McKennitt concert).

The other hallmark of this type of music is that one of the band members (while seated) taps his feet  in complex rhythmic patterns to provide percussion. The clip below is a good one with a two minute stretch at the end that rivals the best Irish fiddling but there is no hurdy gurdy:

 

We were a bit apprehensive about how Americans would be received as citizens of a rogue nation whose President has gone out of his way to insult and belittle our oldest and best friends.  But everywhere we went we experienced only warmth and friendliness.  


04/26/26 12:07 PM #17108    

 

Michael McLeod

John:Is it just me or are canadians the coolest people to hang out with EVAR!  I met enough canadian soldiers when I was stationed at an international NATO hq near heidelberg germany to relate to your experience way up north. They were absolutely the nicest guys to be around. Swear to God it just made me and the krauts in our unit happy to be around them. The US should have an exchange program with canada. If you had a bratty little brother you could swap him out to a canadian family, let them send you one of theirs while they tolerantly file the rough edges off your little snotnosed brat for you. I promise you he'll come back with a permanent pleasant expression on his face, walking around saying: "how's it going, eh?"

I am joking around but in all seriousness I bonded with canadians when I was in the service easier than I bonded with anybody else including fellow gi's. I knew a little german so I drank with the krauts, my lord the beer is indeed great over there, and I got along with the canadians because they were canadians.. 

(I know calling germans "krauts"is a slur but since i'm german on my mother's side - her maiden name is reutinger and i had other relatives surnamed wittenmeyer so I'm part kraut my own self, and uber proud of it) 

My favorite german word is "augseitnet!"

pronounced OW GUH TSI NET!

It means "outstanding!" 

 


04/26/26 05:07 PM #17109    

 

David Mitchell

I just came across an incredible story about a Polish Catholic woman named Irene Sendler.

She lived in Warsaw and over 2 years, snuck 2,500 small jewish children out of the ghetto and into the hands of various non-Jewish families, including some Catholic convents.

I beleive she was caught once and ecaped, but just before the war ended she was caught again and tortured - breakiing her arms and legs.

She used fake names and often carried little ones out in luggage, bags, and boxes

then she burried jars with their real names, which were located later.

But here is a weird twist to the story. In 2007, she was finally nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize among 180 other people. But the final winner was Al Gore, for his power point study about global warming!

Go figure?


04/29/26 11:02 AM #17110    

 

Michael McLeod

.

The thing I liked most about journalism was that I got to go to places I never would have encountered otherwise and met people I never would have met -- and then tried my best to describe those people and places so well that readers would feel like they were right there with me.

Here's one I wrote many years ago and  I thought I'd share.it. Hope it does the job. 

You may not realize it but florida is not just beaches but a southern state with lots of open country the tourists never see and this is a story I wrote about one such place, smack in the middle of the fla, peninsula..

Usually I'd consider it an insult if you told me a story of mine was all bull. In this case I'd consider it a compliment. Forgive me if i've imposed it upon you before.

 
BUCKING FOR STARDOM
Author
By Michael Mcleod | Orlando Sentinel
PUBLISHED: February 15, 2003 at 12:00 AM EST | UPDATED: October 25, 2018 at 2:16 PM E
Once it gets south of Kissimmee, Canoe Creek Road doesn’t take long to straighten out into two straight, flat, open-country lanes, cutting through miles of scruffy cattle grasslands and cypress domes. Nothing much to keep you company out here unless you count the eagles gliding overhead and the buzzards dining on the berm.
Just before Kenansville, there’s a barn, a corral, and a fence line across the grassland that slopes toward the shore of Lake Marian. This place is a wildlife sanctuary, of sorts. Nothing endangered or exotic here. Just distant clumps of horses and bulls — wild ones, all.The 1,600-acre spread, an old ranch owned by the Silver Spurs Rodeo, serves as the year-round home for the rodeo’s “rough stock.” They are the animals used in bull riding, bareback riding and saddle bronc riding competition — always the highlights of the rodeo, which is going on this weekend in Kissimmee.
Most rodeos get their bucking animals from stock contractors, who bring the bulls and horses in from miles away. But ever since its first go-round 59 years ago, Silver Spurs has been a self-contained, volunteer operation.
That includes the rough stock. The rodeo maintains its own herd of bucking animals, roughly 40 bulls and as many horses. Most of them are owned outright by the rodeo, but a few others are on loan, having been “discovered” by Central Florida cattlemen who saw a promising spiritedness in one of their own animals and volunteered it for a life in the rodeo.
Animals are unpredictable, and the vast majority of rodeo recruits, no matter how much fussing and kicking they did around the barn, are a flop in the arena, bucking half-heartedly, or not at all.
But every now and then a superstar comes along. Such is the case with Cold Cold Heart.
Cold Cold Heart is an 1,800-pound, chocolate brown, 7-year-old, crossbred Brahman bucking bull owned by prominent Osceola cattleman Doug Partin, 64, one of the descendants of the venerable Osceola County ranching clan. Its scion, “Geech” Partin, was a founding member of the riding club that helped start up the rodeo 59 years ago. For the past 30 years, Partin has been a key rodeo volunteer, taking care of the rough stock and scouting for promising buckers to add to the Silver Spurs herd.
“He’s come up with some doozies,” says fellow volunteer and rough stock manager Kevin Whaley.
Cold Cold Heart is a doozie.
The bull has yet to be ridden for a full eight seconds, the time a rider must cling to a bull to score points. Dozens have tried, and dozens have failed. The longest any cowboy has stayed on Cold Cold Heart is four seconds.
But it’s more than his unbeaten record that makes Cold Cold Heart a local livestock favorite. It’s the ostentatious nature of his debut.
Three years ago, Cold Cold Heart did something that a bull is not supposed to do, something that local rodeo enthusiasts regard as a freakish athletic accomplishment along the lines of Wilt Chamberlain scoring 100 points in a game or Don Larsen’s World Series no-hitter.
In a rodeo that was held at the Kissimmee Silver Spurs Arena 2000, Cold Cold Heart bolted out of the chute, bucked off a rider with one arching jump, ran 50 yards across the arena, gathered himself just before reaching a 6-foot tall fence, and jumped over it like a thoroughbred horse clearing a hurdle.
“It was entertaining,” says Osceola rancher and Silver Spurs committee member George Kemfer.
Bulls are not sleek and angular and mobile in the way that horses are. Horses are quarterbacks and wide receivers. Bulls are offensive linemen. Horses are sculpted out of wood. Bulls are poured from cement, powerful in a pile-driver sort of way, big square compressed slabs of muscle that can corkscrew and shimmy and plunge.
Next time out, Cold Cold Heart did the same thing. Rider — gone. Fence — cleared. He also charged straight through a chain-link fence outside the arena and narrowly avoided steamrolling over a rodeo hand and a spectator or two as he tried to circle back to the holding pen to rejoin his fellow bulls.
Handlers finally broke the bull of his steeplechase ambitions by clustering a few of Cold Cold Heart’s fellow bulls together inside the arena and in front of the fence whenever he jumped, so he wouldn’t feel the need to go looking for his friends.
But he remains a formidable animal.
“He’s just a kicker. He jumps awful high. He’s got a lot of drop to him,” says Partin.
Raising good bucking bulls has become a big business in some parts of the country. Some bulls sell for tens of thousands of dollars. But Partin won’t get much of anything besides bragging rights out of whatever success Cold Cold Heart might have. All Silver Spurs rodeo proceeds go to charity.
Partin watches over the rough stock for the love of it. He is encyclopedic in his knowledge, serving as the one-man, institutional memory of the herd, ticking off where each colt came from, which bull just came up lame, how that mare always favors her right hind leg.
You do not generally expect people to be sentimental about a big, mean animal with horns and hooves. Partin has cause to be particularly attached to Cold Cold Heart.
The animal was picked out when it was young by Partin’s only son, Chris. Chris was killed in 1995 when his pickup truck caught the shoulder, spun out of control, and flipped over on one of those lonely stretches of Canoe Creek Road.
It’s partly because of that attachment, says Doug Partin, that he wants to see Cold Cold Heart succeed.
But in the bucking business, there is a fine line between good and too good. Cowboys like to have an aggressive bull to ride because the harder it bucks, the more likely they are to get a high score if they can ride the bull for the full eight seconds.
On the other hand, as Cold Cold Heart’s notoriety has spread, more and more cowboys have refused to ride the bull, assuming that it’s a waste of their time to even try. Partin lent Cold Cold Heart out to a Louisiana stock contractor, James Harper, in the hopes that Harper could get the animal in a rodeo somewhere where an ambitious cowboy could stay aboard for the duration.
Still no luck.
“That bull needs to be ridden,” says Partin.
The next cowboy to give it a go will be Chad Lovern, of Philadelphia, Mo., who drew Cold Cold Heart in the first set of bull rides scheduled for Sunday afternoon.

 


04/29/26 04:58 PM #17111    

 

David Mitchell

 My Wildest 8 OR 10 Minutes - Ever!

 

            While I was home for my 30-day leave between tours (my first full 12 months tour, and my voluntary six-month extension), we had gotten a new Troop (Company) Commander. He had a bit of a nervous presence, and he made you feel nervous just being around him. His hand shook as he held a cigarette, and he drank heavily, and often, at the Officers Club. He always had to have a more mportant thing to say - a funnier joke - the last word. He would often hog the convrsation in childish ways. To be blunt - he made us all nervous.

 

 

            When I returned, I had asked to be allowed to leave the Scout platoon for a safer role in our mission. Flying as a Scout was voluntary and for only six months. But most of us who flew in the Scout platoon stayed with it for the full year. We were a tight group. Three of our guys who also extended their tour, stayed in Scouts for eighteen months. Yikes! When I got back, I sat in the Major’s office and said something to the effect of “I really can’t take this anymore. Can’t we find something else for me to fly?” The Major was quick to respond. “We could sure use another co-pilot for us in the “C&C”. “Great”,  I said. Done deal.

 

 

            I would fly as a co-pilot rotating between the Major himself, our XO, Captain Bud Beauchamp, (a good guy), and our Operations Officer (whose name I cannot recall - I flew with him a lot less often). I would now get a day off a little more often, and I would be flying at 500 feet, instead of ten or twenty feet. I was so relieved at the idea - it would be so much safer.                                                         Or so I thought. 

 

 

TBC

 

 


04/29/26 05:46 PM #17112    

 

David Mitchell

My WILDEST 8 or 10 MINUTES - EVER!   Continued

(SORRY, I CANNOT GET THE FONT SIZES RIGHT)

 

One of my first few times out with the Major was to be my craziest day ever! We were working out of either Vi Thanh or Roc Gia, and we were coming off our lunch break. Yes, we always stopped for lunch unless we were actually in a live “contact”. The team of Scout Pilots on this rotation were two good buddies, Warrant Officer Jack Abbott (one of the jokesters of our group), and Warrant Officer Bob Tow, who had become a really good Cobra gunship pilot, until he suddenly quit. He had experienced three engine failures in about one month and refused to get back in a Cobra cockpit again.

 

            I was flying the Major’s left seat, and I was “at the stick” (flying the ship) at the time. This day we had a “Backseat” - a ground forces officer sitting behind us - in radio contact with us pilots, as well as his own ground forces beneath us. But there weren’t any of his forces below us at the moment.

 

            The Major was being his “unusual” self. Instead of sitting quietly in his right seat, he had his chicken plate off and was up on his knees, turned around backward, kneeling on his seat, talking small talk to our “backseat” (while I’m trying to listen to our Scouts). And to add to the list of no no’s, he was smoking a cigarette in the cockpit. And oh yes, one more complication, he was insisting that I fly our circle above the Scouts in a clockwise direction so he could see them easier out his side of the ship. This made it very difficult for me to see them, as I had to look across the top of the instrument panel and around him blocking the view below. Needless to say, I was pretty irritated with him. Normally, we would fly the circle in either direction, so that whoever was at the controls could look down directly and see them easily out his door window.

            

            Now the two Scouts, Jack and Bob, were coming under fire from what we used to call a “one-shot-Charley”. A single round kept coming up at them every time they came back around to this one point in their circle, but they couldn’t locate the source of fire exactly. He kept waiting until the lead (Jack) had passed and he would shoot at Bob - the “Wing” man - the second one over the target. After a couple of circles Jack asked Bob to take the Lead, so Jack (the more experienced) would be the one getting shot at and he might be able to see where the guy shooting at them was. 

 

            But on their first circle in this reverse order, several more AK-47s opened up, and Bob’s ship was hit and went down. Bob got his Loach on the ground, upright, but in flames. The fire was not the entire ship - a fuel tank fire - but a small pinpoint fire that we think occurred from a “Willie Pete” (white phosphorus) grenade that his observer had attempted to toss out the door but instead had dropped it on the rigging of the mini-gun mounted just below his left door. 

 

            It was normal for the “C&C” ship to go down and recover our Scouts when they were shot down - not just normal but expected. I immediately started into a steep corkscrew descent - way too steep at first. My initial overreaction almost caused a main rotor “overspeed” - a serious mistake with dangerous mechanical consequences. I quickly corrected our circular dive, and we finally leveled out and came to a hover just a few yards behind Bob’s burning ship. 

 

            As I made my spiral descent, it felt like I was flying deeper into a pool of fear. The lower we dropped, the stronger the fear enveloped me. When we reached the bottom and I hovered about ten yards behind Bob’s ship, I think I had slipped into some form of shock. Then I felt a complete absence of fear - almost numb. Everything was now moving in slow motion, and all the sounds were coming through a very distant, strained speaker. And my vision seemed hyper clear!

 

            Meanwhile our two Cobras had begun working over the location of the source of fire (now about 70 yards out our left door) with rockets and mini guns, adding to the noise and confusion. My left door gunner was firing his door-mounted M-60 machine gun and I recall hearing his spent cartridges clinking on the floor beneath his seat. I took one long, slow (and very calm), sweeping look to my left so see the two or three AK-47s firing at us from the tree line across the rice paddy. As usual, the tracers coming at us were high. They were often high. It was like I was floating in space - almost an out-of-body experience. 

 

 TBC

 


04/30/26 05:46 AM #17113    

 

Donna Kelley (Velazquez)

 

Sunrise in Valencia. The peace we all long for.

Taken by our goddaughter Elisa.


04/30/26 08:13 AM #17114    

 

Michael McLeod

Thanks Dave. Reading that, I can feel it in my gut.

And Thanks for keeping track of the sunrises for us, elisa. Peace!

(rolls over. goes back to sleep,)


04/30/26 10:59 AM #17115    

 

James Hamilton, M. D.

Dave,

Great writing of the war stories! Excellent memory on your part also

Donna,

Love those sunrises and sunsets over water. Your goddaughter captured it very well!

Jim


04/30/26 02:19 PM #17116    

 

David Mitchell

My WILDEST 8 or 10 MINUTES - EVER!   Continued

In the midst of this utter chaos, Jack Abbot landed his Loach about half-way between our hovering ship and Bob’s downed Loach, and out about five yards to our left. Once down, Jack jumps out of his ship and runs (under fire from those AKs across the rice paddies) over to Bob’s ship, clutches the burning doorframe, and sticks his face into the burning cockpit of Bob’s ship. Oh my God he’s crazy - I thought to myself! But he immediately realizes they are both out of the cockpit and runs back to his own ship. 

 

            About this time, I am seeing Bob, standing erect, several yards out our right door, with his helmet off and either a clump of mud or a bloody cut over one eye. My right door gunner is trying to get him on board but having no luck. Bob appears to be dazed and is wobbling back and forth - kind of like a drunk. My Door Gunner yells over the intercom - “I can’t get Mr. Tow on board sir!”

 

            Just then a single round of ammunition “cooked off” from the ammo belt near the fire of Bob’s mini gun sitting up ahead of us. I caught site of it just as it came twirling back at us at about the speed of someone lobbing a stone. It made a loud clink against my front windshield and bounced off. That loud clink startled me and snapped me back out of my trans. I yelled a loud response to my door gunner’s plea. “Well grab him by the shirt collar and pull him on board - Goddammit!” We got Bob on board and, started to look for Bob’s Observer - who happened to be flying on his first day ever on one of our missions.  Great timing – huh?

 

            I got that door gunner to give his helmet (with holds a radio headset) to Bob so I could talk directly to Bob with the intercom. He was gesturing with his arm to our right and yelling, “He ran that way! He’s out that way somewhere! So, we began to hover to our right, up and back, one rice paddy at a time. If he’d only gotten one paddy away, the search would have been quick. But we had to hover back and forth over three dike lines to find him (about fifty yards apart - he’d gotten that far) - all while still under fire. After about three or four minutes (an eternity under the circumstances) we finally hovered over the top of him. He was curled up against one of the dike lines. He immediately jumps up like a jack in the box and hops on board.

 

TBC


04/30/26 02:26 PM #17117    

 

David Mitchell

MY WILDEST 8 OR 10 MINUTS - EVER!    continued

 

Now for a part of the story I have left out. As soon as Bob first started going down, and I started my corkscrew descent,  Major Johnston went into some sort of wild panic attack. He jumps around in his seat trying to get his “Chicken Plate” back on (not that easy - they are heavy and a bit cumbersome in that tight space). Then he drops his burning cigarette into his crotch. I think he burned himself through his trousers. And he starts yelling and screaming even more. All the way down during our descent, he is in his seat wriggling and shaking and bellowing like an animal. All the noise and confusion I described above seemed secondary to his incoherent moaning. I think that un-nerved me as much as anything. 

 

            We finally had everyone on board, and I was about to climb out and get the hell out of there. I had gotten into a spot where there wasn’t all that much space for me to climb out of the nearby tall trees, but I was in no mood to hover back toward the source of fire just to create a little more space. Instead, I made a steep angle climb and actually clipped a few branches of the trees we needed to clear. After I got a little altitude (maybe 200 feet), I nosed over to gain air speed, and we were on our way. Once I had some decent airspeed (maybe 60 or 80 knots) I was able to regain some altitude. I recall looking back at Bob Tow in my back seat. He gave me a big smile and a very pronounced thumbs up gesture. 

 

            As we gained speed and altitude, I could feel a weight lifting from my shoulders. 

I remember clutching my cyclic stick between my knees just long enough to shake my right fist in the air and let out a loud, excited war hoop!   

 

We had made it out!

 TBC


05/01/26 10:38 AM #17118    

 

Michael McLeod

I'll second Jim's compliment and appoint myself as co-captain of the cheering section and say it once again dave: you've got a lot of tales to tell and you have a gift for telling them.

Just glad you came out of it in good shape.

I wish I'd had the good sense when I was writing for newspapers in Cincinnati, Pensacola and then mainly down here in Orlando to do more profiles of vets like you. There have been some great writers who covered Vietnam but I was doing features and writing up movie reviews and magazine stories and teaching. Wish I had it to do over. I wrote up a few ww2 and viet vets here and there but wish I'd done more digging. Anyway thanks again for your service - and your stories. I'd salute you too but my own enlisted-man, spec five, paper-pusher regular army uniform got tossed quite a long time ago. I did hang onto my field jacket for a while but don't have much need for it down here in fla.

 


05/01/26 02:46 PM #17119    

 

David Mitchell

Thanks Jim and Mike.

Now for the crazy conclusion.

 

My Wildest 8 OR 10 Minutes - Ever!

That night I asked two buddies if I could buy their dinner at the “O-Club” (better privacy than the crowded Mess Hall). I really needed to talk to somebody. Over dinner I explained what had happened during the day’s mission. They seemed skeptical. I realized they weren’t buying my story, and I was upset. As we walked back to our Hooch, I was angry - feeling a little bitter at their lack of trust.

 

            A few days later, someone else was flying as the Major’s co-pilot, and he had thrown another wild fit in the cockpit. Now a few guys were coming back to me asking to repeat my first story. And another three days later, something wild happened again, but this time it was with co-pilot Captain Phil Lange, one of my best buddies. Phil was a calm, reassuring guy who had a very professional demeanor, (and a Masters in English). He had supplied me and my best buddy, Warrant Officer - and Cobra pilot, Roger Gump - with some good novels. Phil carried a bit more credibility than I did, and more people were now questioning all these episodes with the Major.  

 

            A couple a days later I woke up late on a day off to a really odd sounding conversation going on just outside my hooch. I walked out to ask what the hell they were talking about and heard the most bizarre news. The Major and our First Sergeant had been arrested by some of our airfield MPs (Military Police) in the middle of the night and flown away (sedated, and in straight- jackets) to “LBJ”. They had to chase them around the airfield with several MP gun jeeps for twenty or thirty minutes until they cornered them.

 

            This “LBJ" was not the familiar Lyndon Baines Johnson. It stood for Long Binh Jail, the large American military jail near the American Command offices north of Saigon. They were caught, around 3:00 a.m., drag racing in the two company jeeps out on the main active fixed-wing runway, in their underwear, drunk as skunks. But here is the funny part. They were stupid enough (or drunk enough) to be using the two jeep radio microphones to taunt and tease one another over the radio. That radio conversation would be broadcast over the air and therefore monitored in our squadron headquarters, down at the other end of the airfield - so everybody in the radio room was listening to them! 

 

            We were told that when you got sent to “LBJ”, your military career was over - period !

 

You can’t make this stuff up!

 

 


05/01/26 04:14 PM #17120    

 

Michael McLeod

Michael McLeod

Just wanted to compliment you for the story you shared about the flower fungus, Jim. You certainly, um, rose to the occasion.


05/02/26 11:37 AM #17121    

 

Joseph D. McCarthy

Dave, a wonderful way you capture events in your story

And since you have brought up military stories I thought I would add a miliary (sort of) related story

Many of you may be aware of the D.A.R. (Daughters of American Revolution), but are you aware of the S.A.R. (the Sons of American Revolution) ?

One of my friends, a Viet Nam Veteran, is a member of S.A.R. and has been a regional President for a number of years.  He has invited many people to join.  One of our friends was very tempted to apply and did some ancestory checks to learn if he was eligible.  Part way through the process he decided to remove himself from continuing.  His family, long ago, moved South and he learned that his Grandmother was the largest slave owner in South Carolina.  

He was able to trace his family back to members who took part in the Revolution, but because of later family members he opted out.


05/02/26 09:31 PM #17122    

 

David Mitchell

Golden Tempo at 24 to 1 odds came from last place (18 horses back) to win the Derby today.

That is simply amazing!

I remember my freshman year in college (University of Denver)  I used to make book on the Triple Crown races in my dorm and then later the next week ride the Trailways bus (with a buddy and all the old drunks) from downtown Denver, up I-25 to Loveland Greyhound Track and blow all the money on greyhounds. 

Ha! the cops couldn't tell we were under age.

I don't think I finished a single book in English Lit but I studied a book on "Handicapping and Odds Making" tll I understood it backwards and forwards.

 

 

 


05/02/26 11:55 PM #17123    

 

James Hamilton, M. D.

Downsizing

A painful process punctuated by fond but long forgotten memories, difficult decisions, lots of "what's this and why did we keep it" and so.many other things to consider.

I have often said that "aging is best experienced when we are we are young" . Perhaps downsizing should be a continuous process throughout our lives.

Jim

 


05/03/26 01:19 PM #17124    

 

David Mitchell

No kiddin' Jim.


05/03/26 02:21 PM #17125    

 

Michael McLeod

HERE'S ANOTHER OLD COLUMN OF MINE I WANTED TO SHARE. THOUGHT IT MIGHT APPEAL TO PARENTS AND ANY ELEMENTARY LEVEL TEACHERS IN THE CROWD. ROLLINS COLLEGE IS A REALLY NICE LIBERAL ARTS COLLEGE DOWN HERE IN WINTER PARK/ORLANDO. 

I GUESS I DON'T HAVE TO REMIND YOU OF WHO FRED ROGERS WAS.

'A SAINT,' WOULD PRETTY MUCH SUM HIM UP,

 

 

There’s a small, unassuming, black-and-white photograph of the late Fred Rogers on a hallway wall in Hume House, a preschool and child-development research center on the westernmost edge of the Rollins College campus. 

The 1990 photo was taken during a visit to the center by the beloved Rollins grad, whose revolutionary PBS show for young children, Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, represented a one-man crusade to nurture their pilgrim hearts and minds — and to buffer both from the cacophony of the modern world. 

In the photograph, Mr. Rogers sits in a chair encircled by children. He wears one of his trademark cardigans and beams with that front-porch glow of attentive delight the presence of children always inspired in him. 

Something akin to that expression would surely cross his face if he could see what the old neighborhood is up to these days.

Guided by a multidisciplinary research team, Rollins students have been introducing preschoolers to the wisdom of the ancients, using traditional early-education activities to examine concepts that great philosophers sought to bring to early civilization: fairness, bravery, self-control, civility. It’s part of a multitasking enterprise meant to plant thoughtful seeds in both the younger and the older students.

Five years ago, as part of an initiative to incorporate elbow grease into the liberal arts, Rollins philosophy professor Erik Kenyon was asked to add a community outreach component to his classes.

Kenyon, a youngish 38-year-old with striking blue eyes and a preppy haircut, is more likely to be taken for a student rather than a philosophy professor as he rides his bike to and from classes. In truth he is an old soul by association, so thoroughly marinated in ancient and medieval philosophy that a student once described him to me as “Aristotle reincarnated.”

Well, it’s one thing to channel Greek philosophers to a captive classroom audience. It’s another to trot your musty Hellenic homeboys around off campus. The notion seemed idealistic to Kenyon. Or as he put it: “I thought, ‘What am I supposed to do? Save the whales?’” 

Then he remembered the work of colleagues elsewhere who developed the so-called “P4C” educational program. P4C stands for “philosophy for children” and consists of a series of lesson plans that can be used to introduce grade-school students to rudimentary philosophical concepts.  

In 2015, Kenyon began incorporating P4C ideas into classes that called for his students to develop child-oriented philosophy lessons as part of their studies — then take them on the road. Things went smoothly when they worked with students at nearby elementary schools. 

With preschoolers, not so much. Nothing in Augustine’s dialogues or Plato’s pedagogy addresses the existential realities of trying to engage a tribe of rambunctious 3- and 4-year-olds with lesson plans designed for elementary school students. 


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Hume House director Diane Terorde-Doyle (left), philosophy professor Eric Kenyon (center) and psychologist Sharon Carnahan (right) devised a program for preschoolers based on P4C (philosophy for children) principles.

“There was a lot of running away and hiding in corners,” says Kenyon, of his team’s first visit to Hume House. “It was a disaster.” He looked to the center’s director, Diane Terorde-Doyle, and Rollins psychology professor and longtime Hume House crusader Sharon Carnahan for help.

“Children at this age think with their bodies,” offered Terorde-Doyle. Yet, added Carnahan, they’re perfectly capable of grasping abstractions: “They’re stone experts on friendship.”

So, hoping to connect with preschoolers on their own turf, the team began developing lesson plans rooted in physical activities; sharpened them to revolve around ethics, the branch of philosophy that addresses relationships and behavior; and focused on questions that addressed daily life from a preschool perspective — such as, “what makes a family?”

An obvious ingredient volunteered by the children in discussions one day was “love.” Then a little girl added a wise-beyond-her-years distinction.  

“I agree that if there is a family, there is love,” she said. “But I disagree that if there is love, it has to be in a family.”

The moment convinced Kenyon the project was on track. “That’s the kind of thing that a college logic course wouldn’t get to around to until week four,” he says. 

Overall, the effort prompted such a shift of perspective at Hume House that, this year, the three researchers published a book about their efforts, Ethics for the Very Young.

The book includes outlines of lesson plans meant to encourage children to “listen, think, and respond” in order to navigate their way through questions such as: What is bravery? What is a friend? What makes something fair or unfair? How do I agree, or disagree, with dignity?

All it takes is a quick visit to a couple of internet chat rooms to see that the culture at large could use a few lesson plans on that last one. 


Michael McLeod is a contributing writer for Winter Park Magazine and an adjunct instructor in the English department at Rollins College.


05/03/26 04:16 PM #17126    

 

David Mitchell

Mike,

Very thought provoking.


05/03/26 07:22 PM #17127    

Joseph Gentilini

 Jim H - we have moved several times and I hated every FU bit of it.  When we moved to our current condo, we had to downsize from 1430 sf to 1300 sf. We got rid of lots of stuff, trying to keep only what that item really need to - well, not need, but you get it. Lots of memories.

 

Recently, we started going through each closet (really Leo did as he can get rid of things easier and he is a good organizer.  We had sacks to give to Goodwill. Now I have to do the same with the office which holds computer, files, movies, objects of meaning, etc.  When we moved from our last place to here, I had to donate over 500 books. Sad thing is I have had to do that more than once. I love books. Now, I have to do it all again.  When I looked through my books and had to decide how many I would take, there were some that I have read several times and enjoy doing that every few years. These include Narcissus and Goldmun by Herman Hesse. The other is Jane Earl. Then it got more difficult. But we did it.

You are right - we need to do it all the time - but I probably won't. If it wasn't for Leo, I would really be a hoarder.

I was looking forward to seeing you at the reunion but the family is taking a vacation that week.  Damn.

 

 

 

 


05/03/26 07:22 PM #17128    

Joseph Gentilini

 Jim H - we have moved several times and I hated every FU bit of it.  When we moved to our current condo, we had to downsize from 1430 sf to 1300 sf. We got rid of lots of stuff, trying to keep only what that item really need to - well, not need, but you get it. Lots of memories.

 

Recently, we started going through each closet (really Leo did as he can get rid of things easier and he is a good organizer.  We had sacks to give to Goodwill. Now I have to do the same with the office which holds computer, files, movies, objects of meaning, etc.  When we moved from our last place to here, I had to donate over 500 books. Sad thing is I have had to do that more than once. I love books. Now, I have to do it all again.  When I looked through my books and had to decide how many I would take, there were some that I have read several times and enjoy doing that every few years. These include Narcissus and Goldmun by Herman Hesse. The other is Jane Earl. Then it got more difficult. But we did it.

You are right - we need to do it all the time - but I probably won't. If it wasn't for Leo, I would really be a hoarder.

I was looking forward to seeing you at the reunion but the family is taking a vacation that week.  Damn.

 

 

 

 


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