Friday Flashback: Flunking

I have alluded in an earlier post to the fact that I nearly flunked out of my first semester of college. Perhaps it is time for a more complete telling of the story.

As the end of the first semester approached, I realized that, if nothing changed, I was headed towards an F as the final grade in my first college math course, Math 141, "Intro Calc & Anal".

This was a problem, because I expected to major in Mathematics. The high school year book even records my goal, at that time, of being a math teacher and researcher.

It was also a problem because I had earned straight As in high school*, in all of my subjects except Physical Education (where I barely eked out Ds). As an aside, four PE courses were required for my undergraduate degree, and I managed: Social Dance, C-; Latin-Am Dance, D; Folk Dance, B-; Bowling, B+ (yay!).

In high school, attending class was enough for me to do well on tests, and so I didn't do homework. In college, homework had to be turned in, and was part of the grade. But, I continued my old high school work habits, and thus deserved the F.

I woke up to the situation in time to spend the last few weeks differently. First, I let all the other classes slide. Second, I spent hours studying the textbook and taught myself calculus.

I thought that I did well on the final exam, but was shocked, when the results were posted, to see that I had earned the highest score of anyone in the class. Needless to say, the instructor was astonished that one of his F students had executed the best final exam, and he called me into his office for an interview. We discussed various things, including my study habits, and he was finally satisfied that I hadn't cheated in some way. I ended up with a C+ in Math 141 and a GPA for the semester of 2.77.

The next semester was actually worse. Math 142 (with the same instructor) went well, with me handing in all assignments and finishing with an A**. However, the next highest grade was a C in Physics 121 (when I had won a provincial prize for physics in high school), then two Ds, and three Fs (one earned by oversleeping and missing a final exam and then being too shy to go talk to the instructor about it). GPA for that semester: 2.13, and loss of scholarship. Ouch!

I did get my act together, including giving up science fiction reading and chess playing. Not to mention starting to do homework, going to class, and waking up in time for final exams. The lowest semester GPA for the rest of my undergraduate career was the third one, at 3.32.

There is a back-story that is a bit interesting, especially in view of my depressing little poem on inner voices.

As a youth, I owned a tape recorder. One evening, before going out to do my chores in the barnyard, I set it up, recording, in an inconspicuous place in the kitchen. Sometime later, I must have listened through the tape--my first and last attempt at surveillance. At one point, my parents were talking about me, and my mother said something like, "he'll probably flunk out of college." I remember being struck by this; not angry or anything, just pondering it. Of course, I didn't confront my mother about it, that not being my style. I also knew that she had been trying to get me to do homework for the past twelve years, without any notable success. At the time, I had no idea that doing homework was actually important, or that it could be of value in learning a subject, or getting a college degree.

Now that I have a been a parent many times, I understand how easy it is for a parent to see a child's weakness. How easy it is to want them to change this or that, so that they can be more successful in what they actually want, themselves, to accomplish. And yet, how ineffective nagging is as a method to achieve this.

Looking back on this incident, I feel myself splitting into two points of view. The parent who knows what is best for the child. The child who thinks that the parent doesn't appreciate how much everything is really under control. Perhaps the only way is to let them learn by their own experience.

*actually, in Canada, the highest grade was an H, for "honor". But this is the equivalent to an A in the U.S. system.

**a couple of years later, I found out that a missionary companion, Elder Drury, had been in that class, and had been jealous of my--to him, apparently easy--success.

A poem lovely as a tree

The pictures don't do it justice, but there is a beautiful tree on the southeast corner of North Temple and 1400 West.

Here is the before picture:

And here is the after picture taken just a couple of days later. All the leaves fell in one day, and are the prettiest shade of yellow.

One day, during the Summer, someone working for Google Street View^TM captured the same tree, shown here.

I will never be good enough

though outside voices sometimes disagree
to satisfy those inner voices
that i hear inside of me.

Friday Flashback: Sunglasses Repair

In her comment to my previous post, Myrna wrote of our father repairing her husband's glasses, leaving a lump of solder on the nose piece. Maybe he preferred to just leave the lump there. Here's why.

At an earlier time, he soldered together a (broken in half) pair of sunglasses for me. I was home for the summer, from my first semester at BYU (the one when I stopped playing chess and reading science fiction, so that I could actually get decent grades).

After soldering, there was a lump of solder on the nose piece. He took it out to the shop where he used his electric grinder to grind it down, and I tagged along. After some work with the nose piece at the grindstone, it looked perfect to me, but he must have thought it could benefit from one last polish. Unfortunately, his hand slipped just a bit and a small spot was ground onto the right lens.

He grunted something and handed them to me. I thanked him.

The elephant in the room was that, although now in one piece instead of two, the sunglasses were no longer usable. He was clearly uneasy about his mistake. I was upset that my prized (first pair I ever owned) sunglasses were ruined, but didn't want him to feel badly (after all: they were unusable before he started in on a repair). Neither of us were able to communicate with the other. We just went back in the house and the subject never came up again.

This situation still bothers me. And, I often remember it, and wish we could have expressed ourselves. It was typical of our relationship. I adored and feared him, and had no idea how he felt about me, although I suspected that I was a bit of a disappointment to him.

In his later years, when he could hardly speak, he would croak, "I love my kids." This was accompanied by a look that indicated that the listener was meant in particular.

One night, shortly after my son Andrew had survived a life-threatening and surgery-requiring intussusception, I happened to think of my dad. Then, it hit me like a wave, and I gasped for air: he loved me much like I loved my own son.

The last time I saw him alive, I was backing out of his long term care hospital room, focused on his black eyes watching me leave. I wish we could have talked more, and talked more openly.

Suitcase Repair

This blog is intended to be about time travel, and I've delivered stories covering a couple of centuries.

But, it is also a personal account of one man's life. So, this post is about a current event in that life.

A couple of Saturdays ago, I was taking suitcases out to the shed for storage, since we have no trips planned in the foreseeable future.

One that we especially like had a broken handle. The strap was unattached at one end, because the rivet holding that end was gone.


I didn't take any "before" pictures. But in the one above, you can see the intact rivet at the lower edge near the right corner. The other end of the strap is missing the leather piece, torn away at the rivet hole, and you can't quite make out the bolt head. But, I'm getting ahead of the story.

There was another well-used suitcase in the bunch that I just carried to a dumpster, as it was too far gone, missing one complete wheel assembly, and with a stuck handle. It hurt a bit* to throw it away, because everything else was fine. The zippers worked. Nevertheless, out it went.

But we liked this one, and it just needed the handle re-fastened. A small bolt, that would do it. I looked around the house for awhile, but couldn't find one the right size.

Sara was working at the Food Co-op, so there was no car. I walked two blocks to Sutherlands and bought a bolt, a washer, and a nut with an integrated lock washer. All for 52 cents, one one hundredth the cost of a new suitcase.

The walk was interesting. It's less than a mile, but it is quite strange here to be walking when almost everyone else is driving. The only people who walk are too poor and/or too young to own a car. A shame in a way, as it was a beautiful day for a walk.

Here is the other end of the repair, showing the nut and the end of the bolt, which sticks into the interior just a bit. A rivet would have been better, but that requires a special rivet setting tool, which I don't have.

My dad had that tool. I remember the day he bought it. He also had a nice bolt cutter, that, if I had that, could be used to trim the bolt to just the right length.

All this reminded me of him. His grandchildren, most of whom only remember him as an invalid, couldn't know what a great repairer of things he was. Almost anything broken, he could fix. He even took a welding course in town one winter, and bought an arc welder, so that he could make repairs on the farm equipment. I can still picture him, in my mind, welding, wearing his protective helmet. The power supply hummed loudly, and the arc made a loud distinctive buzz and was as bright as the sun, so as an unprotected observer, I had to turn my head away. When the welding was done, he would take the piece to his electric grinder and smooth the rough edges while it was still red from the heat. I wish that I could produce those images for this blog, but my head is not equipped with video out jacks.

*Our parents grew up during the first great depression, so we were raised on the saying, "use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without." While googling this, I learned that the saying also appeared on a World War II poster.

Friday Flashback: Door Approaches

Somehow, I was reminded about some missionary experiences. These stories are mostly about creative "door approaches" used while tracting. Much of the missionary's working day was spent going door to door, which we called "tracting." When someone came to the door, we had to grab their attention in just a few seconds, with the objective of being invited inside and giving a "discussion."

Clermont-Ferrand: cookie anyone? Okay, this isn't a door approach at all, but during my very first talk in a French language sacrament meeting, I was about to quote a verse from Galatians in the New Testament. In French, the book is Galates. The congregation laughed out loud as I spoke the reference. Later I learned that I was about to quote from the book of cookies: le livre des gallettes.

Yverdon: can we have a prayer? I don't remember what we said that got us invited in, but I do remember what happened when we asked the elderly woman if we could have a prayer before we left. We asked, "Pouvons-nous avoir une prière?" She promptly opened a drawer in the table in front of her and produced a spoon: une cuillère.

Yverdon: a couple can be together in the next life. Our knock on the door was answered by a young couple, obviously in love. We asked them if they would be interested to know how to be together in the next life. During the course of the discussion, they explained that, while they loved each other passionately right now, they each expected to have many other partners during their lives, and weren't really interested in our message. Six months later, I was still in Yverdon, but had a different companion. I didn't recognize the door until the same couple answered. They looked at me, and I looked at them, and the three of us burst out laughing. After a brief check to see if they had changed their minds, my puzzled companion and I moved on to the next door. Clearly, I had stayed in Yverdon too long.

Béziers: a program to help families get along. Once, as we approached a door, we could hear a very loud argument between a man and a woman. As the door flew open to our knock, I quipped, "Would you be interested in a program that helps families get along?" (It was something in French, of course, but to that effect.) They calmed down and invited us inside. During the discussion, I pointed to their wedding picture, prominently displayed, in which they were both radiantly happy, as we told them about the Family Home Evening program. Nothing long-lasting came of this contact, but the argument was stopped that time, at least.

Béziers: Elders of Israel. As we approached another door, I noticed a little box attached to the door jamb. Somehow, I recognized this as a mezuzah, and that therefore our usual door approach referring to Jesus Christ would likely be ineffective, because the family living there would be Jewish. My invention at this door was to announce, "Nous sommes des anciens d'Israël." Which interpreted is, "We are elders of (from) Israel." They welcomed us with open arms, much to our astonishment. My companion remarked, under his breath, that he was looking forward to seeing me work my way out of this one. I tried to explain the restoration of the priesthood, and the sense in which we were elders, but as soon as they realized we were Christians, we were politely shown the way out.

Marseilles: sometimes it takes three. One sister missionary was missing a companion for a day, and so two elders and her worked together. At one door, the young man responded to the elder by inviting us inside. This was such a novelty that he didn't understand, and kept asking if we could come inside. Finally, one of the other two, either the sister or myself, I don't remember, stepped inside, and he followed. This young man was himself a door-to-door salesman, and was quite receptive to our message. In later visits (this time minus the sister) he told us a lot about his sales techniques. Sadly, after going to his parents' home for vacation, and speaking with the family priest, Frère (Brother) Boulanjon, as we had been calling him for weeks, asked us not to continue teaching him.

Marseilles: I can't pay tithing: I smoke. We taught several discussions to another young family. When we got to the lesson on tithing, the family huddled and computed the monthly amount. Sadly, they explained that they just could not spare that amount. We returned later and gave another lesson, this one on the Word of Wisdom. Again, the father sadly said that he could not give up his cigarettes. In an attempt to make a point, we asked him how much he spent on them per month. After a brief calculation, he named an amount. We all froze in disbelief as we heard him say exactly the same number that he had named in the tithing lesson. Unfortunately, even this coincidence was not enough to bring the family into the church.

Genève: best foot forward. Another threesome. This time, myself and the two assistants to the president. I was irritated with them for some reason, and when it was my turn at the door, I spoke the usual door approach and then walked into the apartment, as the woman stepped aside and let us in. My stunned companions followed. After a brief moment, she persuaded us that she was really not interested, and we left. The assistants closely interviewed me, having been astonished at my success. I explained that this was a technique that I had learned from Frère Boulanjon in Marseilles. After the door approach, he said, you simply take one small step forward, adding, "may we come in?" Most people, he explained, will take one step back, and if they do that, you just walk right in. Shortly after that, Frère Boulanjon was asked and accepted to speak at a missionary zone conference in Marseilles. But the technique was not adopted by our mission in the end.

Genève: vous êtes malades--allez vous cacher. Finally, not a door approach, but a most creative response. Another threesome, two other elders and I knocked on a door, and said our piece. The woman replied that we were sick and should go hide ourselves. She then promptly closed the door. We had a good laugh as we walked to the next door.

Friday Flashback: Fear of Crocodile

This flashback was prompted by Nancy's post, in which Rachel wakes up with nightmares in which she is chased by crocodiles and other beasts.

When I was very young, our family went to the movies in town. Now, this was a rare event back then. We had a radio, but this was before the time of television (even black and white television). While we listened to radio dramas nearly every day, a trip into the movies was a once-a-year event, at most.

For days (nights?) after the movie, I would awake, terrified, with a crocodile chasing me. It wasn't just any crocodile, and it wasn't crocodiles, plural, either. It was The Crocodile. You know, the one that swallowed the alarm clock. The movie we had seen was Peter Pan.

Looking back, I imagine it must have been my subconscious mind hearing the kitchen clock that triggered the episodes.

The movie was released February 5, 1953, and I imagine that it would have taken a few months to make it to our small town. Too bad the archives of the Taber Times aren't available on-line. If they were I could narrow the time of this flashback down to an interval of a few weeks (the typical run of a movie at the Tower Theatre). In any case, I was at least a year older than Rachel at the time.

I don't remember my parents coming up with any creative ideas for dealing with this, so I suppose the nightmares must have just faded away, as I traveled through time at the usual rate of one second per second.