One of two things happened with my last post.  No one read the title or the title was read and then just chocked up as one of those things this nut does.  I was not given a single word of question or warning.  The title was messed up a bit.  I learned a few things. I am left to question a few things.  I just hope I am not the only one reading this stuff.

I prefer laughing over crying.  I like to laugh.  Seems the older I get the less I do of it.  Not sure what that means.  I suppose it means the opportunity to laugh is not as omnipresent as it once was.  Responsibility and the things that go along with that are some of the factors that may limit one’s laughter time.  That is to be expected I guess.  What I do know is that I still have the full capacity to enjoy a good laugh.  I hope folks don’t ever look at me and think that I have changed so much, we all do evolve you know, that I have lost my zeal for a good laugh.

When I am together with my cronies, and those times are few, my dear wife, Carrie, might ask, as my pals and I are in the throes of laughter that renders one a bit silly, “What are you…twelve?”

Well, I am not twelve.  In less than a month I will be twelve times four.  You do the math.  Lord knows ISTEP expects a pre-schooler to get that one correct in 2016.

Yes.  I like to laugh.  But I also I like to look around and take things in.  I enjoy looking for the big picture.  Sometimes that will present itself in terms of finality.  When a loved one dies,  the big picture shows up.  There is a spot on Indiana State Highway 135 between Salem and Palmyra.  I drove past this spot well over 6000 times as I driving to and from Medora Schools where I worked for a very long time.  I always crept up on that spot with some sort of reverence.  I was handed some great ideas for writing and songs and a sense of direction there at that particular spot.  I don’t drive past there anymore and I miss it.  I don’t, however, miss it enough drive up there and back everyday.

I had a good idea in 1980.  What was I?  Oh, yeah, I was twelve.

When I was eleven, our family moved to Harrison County.  My Dad had taken a job at North Harrison High School in Ramsey, Indiana as a Social Studies teacher and the head football coach.  My Mom got work, does anyone say that anymore “got work”, at the Floyd Memorial Hospital in New Albany.  We moved from a town about 50 miles to the North called Brownstown.

I had it made in Brownstown.  We lived in town and I could ride my bike all over every inch of it.  There were some challenging hills.  I climbed them.  There were some dangerous ditches.  I had terrible wreck in one of them.  I rode my bike to baseball practice.  I rode my bike to the town pool.  I road my bike to my Great-Grandmother’s house.  It was a safe place.  In the summer after our obligatory 5:30 PM dinner time, it was not uncommon to hear my mother tell me to be home before dark.  Or she could tell me a certain time to be home.  I had no excuse. The county courthouse with one of the largest time pieces with four offering sides in the State of Indiana was within eye-shot of our house some ten stories towering over the town.  That I experienced good fortune my first eleven years is an understatement.  I was blessed beyond belief.

So there I was at a new school in the fall of 1979 on an outpost of a campus in Ramsey, Indiana.  No town pool.  No Great-Grandma (she moved to Shreveport).  No riding my bike all over my town.  No town.  Football was my saving grace.  My Dad was coaching the high school team and I was consumed a bit with just that.  It took my mind off all the things I was missing.  That included my friends back home.

In late August of 1979,  I walked into the 6th grade elementary classroom of Mrs. Fiona Lambert.  She was nice.  I was scared and anxious and lonely.  Kids started milling around the room.  No one came over to talk to me.  Two more guys came in.  At the behest of a kind girl-person classmate, she told them to go see the new guy, these two fellows came over and sat with me.  Turned out one of them had a brother on my Dad’s high school football team.  I told them I was from Brownstown.  Kelly, whose brother played football, said something about the new football coach being from Brownstown.  I told them he was my Dad.

That is where it started.  The first day at my new school was all it took.  Did I say I was blessed man?

Watching the Broncos play the Bengals.

At Kelly’s daughter’s wedding 2014.

This photo is in the order of how we played high school football together.                                    Mick snapped the ball.  Kelly held the ball.  I kicked the ball.

We met in this classroom.

I assure you it has changed a great deal in 36 years.  The old coat racks are still back there, sans the pegs, as you can see.

The classroom is behind the door below.

This is where things get interesting.

As a twelve year old I saw a big picture.  This classroom was important to me.  I met some life-long friends there and I knew we would be friends for life in 1980 when we walked out of that door for the last time and moved on to the other end of campus in a different building the next fall.  I didn’t want to forget that room.  I took an artifact before I walked out of the building.  I put that artifact back this week for the sake of posterity and record.  I inserted Mrs. Lambert’s room label in the slot in the door where I had removed it in May of 1980.  Thirty-six years later it was Mrs. Lambert’s room one last time.

A look down the hall from this door:

Take a good look.

These images will soon turn into that of a parking lot.  This structure is scheduled for demolition.  A new building project is large and happening right now.

Below is another part of the project.  My old high school, now the middle school, is getting in on the action too.

Progress?  Yes.  You better believe it.  I am delighted to see these images and what they mean.  I won’t miss the building.  What I received from the building is what I take with me.  That and a door’s name plate that was part of the big picture for a twelve year-old.

Speaking the rights.

Danny Johnson

At 6:30 Eastern Time it is still a bit daylight outside my back door.  I am glad the days are getting longer.  In a few weeks we will add yet another hour of daylight to our sky when the time changes.  This year that happens the 2nd week in March.  March 13th is when the time will change to Daylight Savings Time.  Do we still call it that?  I suppose we do.  The clocks spring forward in March and fall back in October.

In Southern Indiana we live near the far-Westward reaches of the Eastern Time Zone. We can drive an hour to the west and hit the central time zone.  In June and July the days go well into the night.  It will be after 9 before darkness creeps in to give way to the bugs and the bats and humidity of dark air.

I’m not rushing Summer.  I would, however, give a great deal to see some Spring.  Temperatures are supposed to be in the mid-60s this weekend.  That will be Spring-like.  That is good.

As we speaktherights I am listening to The Beach Boys 1966 landmark album “Pet Sounds”.  Brian Wilson developed the greatest block harmonies and a true wall of sound.  The tinks and bumps and subtle nuances and backing clopping sounds that find their way into sounding like they actually should…it is brilliance.

In earnest I admit I have never heard this album all the way through from start to finish and I am a little more than 2 songs.  I am going to play # 11 over again before I get to # 12.  “I Just Wasn’t Made For These Times”.  I look at politicians on television and this is what I am thinking.  Strange times we are living in indeed.

This year Brian Wilson is touring all over the world with former Beach Boy band mate Al Jardine.  They are performing the album Pet Sounds in its entirety.

The have sold out shows in advance in Australia and many in the UK and few in the United States so far.  Looking at the tour schedule I was taken aback to see that Brian Wilson is playing The Hollywood Bowl on July 10th and the next scheduled show after that is at the Horseshoe Casino in Elizabeth, Indiana.  I doubt you can out more than 1200 people on the house…if that.  I don’t get it.  I hope the stage lights are extra bright that night.  All I can say is Horseshoe is buying the Pet Sounds barnyard to get this date and subsequent others at other properties.

I have seen one concert this casino venue.  Of course it was The Moody Blues.  Of all the Moodies concerts I have seen, this one was one of the less memorable ones.  For one, casino concerts mean the show is sawed-off.  Casino shows I have been to are typically a hour and a half at the most.  My dear wife, Carrie, and I have seen Huey Lewis and the News at three other casino venues and this has been the case.  Short shows at casinos.  I was not happy when The Moodies cut out a couple of my favorite songs that night.  I shall not complain, given that I heard those songs I missed the night before in Indianapolis.

Oh well.  Maybe I Carrie and I will catch a nice outdoor concert this summer.  I can tell you about it.  It will not be The Moody Blues.  They will not be touring in America this summer.  They are coming around in March.  We will see them then.

Am I glad I sat here and listened to “Pet Sounds”? You better believe it.  Classic Rock and Roll never gets old.  These guys made history.  The Beach Boys provided part of the soundtrack of our lives.

Speaking the Brian Wilson rights.

Danny Johnson

There is snow on the ground out the door.

The guy on the TV news this morning said we have been above average this year with regard to snow fall.  I don’t know if he was looking at inches or centimeters?  It sure doesn’t seem like we have had over a foot of snow fall this year.  A little bit here.  A little bit there.  It adds up.  What we have not had is a “big snow”.  The one that doesn’t just talk about clearing the grocery store out of milk and bread and eggs.  The big one will do those things.  We have not had one this year.  It is Monday and temps by the end of the week are supposed to be in the mid-60s.  We’ll take that!

The warm weather will mean more activity.  I feel somewhat like a bear in hibernation.  I am used to being out more and exercise more in the out of doors.

In about a half an hour I am going to go downstairs and stay in the house to get my exercise in…my workout.  I am blessed to have the equipment at hand and foot to use to promote my physical well-being.  Know also that my fibit flex will depends on wide movement to record a step.  I can ride 5 miles on an exercise bike and register 1.7 miles on my fitbit.  That is frustrating…but at least I understand what I am up against and why.

I will climb onto an elliptical machine go anywhere from 20 to 40 minutes on it.  RIght now I feel like a 20 minute climb.  My record is 75 minutes.  I was very sore the next day.  I did feel good on day putting in a 20 minute with the resistance level set at 20.  I figured it went to 50 or something.  I usually set it at 14.  I was pleased to know that one day that the highest setting is indeed 20 and I tackled it for 20 minutes.  I was a beast that day.  My legs start to scream every time I think about cranking it up that high again.

I also get on an exercise bike.  There is a treadmill that I rarely frequent.  There is a bench press with free-weights and another stand alone bench to do other lifts with.  We have many sizes of dumbbells and I think sometimes that I amt he dumbbell trying to left that much weight.

Thirty-some years ago I lifted weights with my friends at school and had a grand time of it.  I will never bench press 260 lbs again.  I will never squat 450 pounds.  I will never dead lift how ever much I did of that either.  I don’t care to.  I am glad I did it when I did.  My main goal when lifting now is to not drop anything on my head.  I work out alone and I am extra careful with the bench press.  I do not take chances.  Why should I?  There is no one else down there to impress.

I’ll be glad when the snow is gone and the warm weather is here again.  Each time I think about how I am tires of snow, I count my blessings and remember the winter my friends in New Hampshire had last year.  It started snowing on them in November and they didn’t see the ground again until some time in April.  There is a reason why they love to show off their flowers up there when they are in bloom.  They won’t be in bloom for long!  They will be covered with frost soon after the 4th of July.

So now I am going to head downstairs, loosen up my aching joints and move my limbs about as I try to continue to make progress as long as I am vertical.

That and I will….speak the rights!

Danny Johnson

This is the epitome of speaking the rights:

20 years ago I did a great thing and had a great day.

I married my dear wife, Carrie, at Hancock Chapel Church in the country.

It was shirt sleeve weather that day in February.  Today it is COLD.

Happy Anniversary to us.

Speak the rights!

Danny Johnson

I laugh these days when I watch television weatherpersons.  When a breeze over 5 miles per hour is in the air you better watch out!  An upper-level disturbance is bound to be upon us.  That means we could have a thunderstorm, a hurricane, a snowstorm, or a potential drought.  Yes, I am in jest.

I can’t help it.  The folks doing the weather these days make me laugh.  Not all of them make me laugh.  I just can’t see the venerable legendary Al Bolton putting any major inflection in his voice that is aimed to make you hesitate, think what might be next, worry, or challenge your inhibitions toward buying ice-melt.  I suppose that was because he worked for KSLA Channel 12 in Shreveport for decades.  Not much snowing there.

Still, you get the point.  Al Bolton was a gentleman.  He spoke with a voice that made you swear he must be Jack Buck”s cousin and he always spoke to you like you had good sense.  I doubt he believed all of us did; he still sounded that way though.

Though I knew he was not a spring chicken, I did not know that Al Bolton died in April of 2014 until I just peeled away from the browser that holds the words to a different browser that told me of his passing after I typed in his name, city, and the station’s call letters.  Bolton was 88 when he died.  What most will never know is how he lived.

I know I get sad when I think about Peyton Manning retiring and how he has had such a great career.

Peyton has done nothing compared to Al Bolton.

Al Bolton graduated high school at an Alexandria, LA school.  He was born in Alexandria.  After high school he enrolled at Tulane University and was accepted into the US Navy ROTC.  While there his country came calling.  His service was needed.  He served well.  When called upon, he was on the U.S.S. Hart, a destroyer in the western and southwestern Pacific Theater in  World War II.  He returned to finish his education in 1949 at Louisiana College in Pineville.  What then?  He returned to duty and served aboard the aircraft carrier, U.S.S. Rendova during the Korean War.

In January of 1954 KSLA Channel 12 in Shreveport went on the air.  Al Bolton moved to Shreveport in February.  He wanted to do the weather.  Apparently no one else wanted to.  The gig was his from 1954 to 1990.

Having served his country in the manner he did, it is easy to know why he just told us about the weather.  Told us if it was going to be a nice day.  Told us to take shelter if need be.  Told us to wear some rain gear when we needed it.  He just told us.  He just…spoke the rights.  He could never scare us with the weather.  It was not his way.  Folks depended on Al Bolton.  I can only imagine how they felt in 1990 when he was no longer on the air.

KSLA was the news of choice in my grandparents’ house at 1439 Alma Street in Shreveport.  My grandfather liked some tool at KTBS too.  I don’t remember the guy’s name.  He did the news.  None of us liked him, except for my grandfather.  Go figure.  Herbert Daniel Johnson just liked the KTBS guy.

Alright.  I found him.  His name hit me.  I looked him up and I will not use his name.  It would not be nice after I referenced him as a “tool” in the previous paragraph.  The internet is a funny thing.  It can bring back moving images thought to be long gone.  I just watched a piece of a KTBS newscast.  I was right.  The guy was a tool.

I also found a guy named Bob Griffin.  He was on KSLA doig sports when I was a kid.  He is on KTBS weekend duty.  Bob Griffin is three years older than baseball.  Wow.  Awesome Bob!  You go Bob!

The next time I hear one of our local weather guys try to make us wonder if we will live through occasional showers I will think of Al Bolton.  Here’s to you, Al.  You were the best.

Speaking the Al Bolton rights.

Danny Johnson

Gads…I looked up and saw that I have been away from these pages for near a week.

I have two theories.

One…I am working on another literary pursuit that has taken time and effort away from this spot.  Been spending a great deal of brain time on this other project.  I have been wanting to write something here.  I was, in fact, taken aback when I saw how long it was since I made a post.  I wish I could put something new on this space every day.  Does that mean I put a few lines together for good form every day without trying to really “say” anything.  I don’t know how that will work out for me.  I don’t like to waste time.  I don’t like to waste words.  Both of those things are worth something.  I am not sure how I will solve this.  I need to put my efforts in the project I am working on just to get it out of my system and be able to move on.

Two…my last post about Peyton Manning just needs to hang out there for a while.  I don’t want the sun to set on Peyton.  Word is that he told the coach of the New England Patriots that this might be his “last rodeo”.  I knew that.  All you have to do is look at Peyton.  He looks small.

He reminds me of my elementary principal.  My elementary school principal, Harry Spurgeon, retire when I was a fourth grader.  He paddled me and friend of mine for chewing gum in music class.  I believe now that Harry just wanted to paddle someone before he retired.  He was such an imposing figure.  Broad shoulders.  A square jaw.  He was larger than life to us 4th graders.  He was even imposing when I was still in high school attending a different school district.  I was in high school and saw him at a basketball game and felt compelled to say something to him.  All he wanted to do was talk about how much he liked my Dad.

The last time I saw Harry I was in my mid-thirties.  It was at a high school football game at Clarksville.  Harry, from Brownstown, was there to root on the Braves.  I saw him near the concession stand.  He approached me.  He asked how I was doing.  I only thought I knew who he was.  I looked at one of my old Brownstown friends, Harv Brown, and asked….”Was that….?”  Harv looked at me and said yes, it was Harry Spurgeon.  I was dumbfounded.  The man we all feared when we were ten was now a little old man with a smile on his face.  I cherish that memory.

Now I am hoping I will cherish the memory of Peyton Manning going out a Super Bowl winner.  It is all too much to believe.  Peyton looks so slight.  He looks small.  When he is out on the field he still looks larger than life while he looks small.  Who else has ever pulled that off?

The oldest starting quarterback in a Super Bowl will be P. Manning.  I think this will be the last game we will see Peyton Manning play.  That in itself will make this Super Bowl a melancholy time.

Gosh I hope he wins.

Speaking the rights.

Danny Johnson

Thirty-four years ago today I looked at a television set with more attention than I ever did before or since.  It was Super Bowl XVI.  The teams were the San Francisco 49ers and the Cincinnati Bengals.  This Super Bowl lived up to its name.  Okay, so the game was not as close as the 26-21 final score indicated.  The Niners led 20-0 at halftime, thanks to a Bengal squad that turned into a first half turnover factory.  It was awful.

Why was this Super Bowl so special?  First of all, my childhood football hero was playingin the game.  Ken Anderson was the quarterback of the Cincinnati Bengals from the time I was three years old until I was a senior in high school.  In fact, I saw his last start in Riverfront Stadium against the Seahawks.  He got hurt.  The Seahawks won.  Boomer Esiason was named the starting quarterback and he would be that the next season, Ken Anderson’s last in 1986.  Kenny held for extra points and field goals.  That was my last vision of old #14 on a football field.  One knee down catching and holding a ball he was born to throw.  Thinking about him taking a flea-flicker from Pete Johnson and throwing it sixty yards to Isaac Curtis making the catch high over his left shoulder in stride ten yards from a goal line and five yards in front of the guy defending him.  That is what I like to remember.

Why was Super Bowl XVI so special?  That 1981 season they had great records.  The Niners finished the season with 13 wins and 3 defeats.  The Bengals won 12 games and lost 4.  The season before, both teams finished the 1980 season with 6-10 records.  Never has such a Cinderella Story been played out…before or since.  I doubt if I see it again.

Ken Anderson was my childhood hero.  When we went out to play football; my friends and I did that often.  There were no video games.  I was always Ken Anderson.  I had his five step drop down pat.  I threw the ball around a great deal as a youngster.  The ability to sling it a bit is fortunately still with me.  Though my shoulder does get a little weak all too soon and I have to call it quits.

I have had other heroes.

Justin Hayward is my musical hero.  I am fortunate enough to have seen him sing many times.  This March I have a couple Moody Blues concerts circled on the calendar.  Justin is a good guy.  His songs mean a great deal to me.  I will never stop listening to the positive message I get from the sounds he has made with his pen, with his voice, and with his guitar.

John Abbott is a hero of sorts.  He is the guy that married Carrie and me twenty years ago come this February.  Rev. John Abbott is a legendary United Methodist pastor.  He has great stories.  He preaches and teaches with conviction and honesty and he is not out to win a popularity contest.  He is here to help.  He sure did that for us.

Jim Brown is my hometown hero.  My Dad was his football coach all four years of high school.  I never looked up to any high school player more than I did Jim.  He worked hard.  He was a good guy.  I still think about the impression he made on me as I was a youngster.  Our paths cross about a half a dozen times each year.  It is always a joy to see him.

Jim Stewart is my hero in the field of education.  He taught and coached and was an administrator at no less than thirteen schools up and down and across the state of Indiana.  He taught me more than any piece of paper I have represents.  Why was he at thirteen schools?  He was, on occasion, asked to leave.  Why?  He would not conform to what he did not believe in.  He was the king principal of principle.  He was my boss.  He was my mentor.  He was my friend.  I miss him so much.

Millard Dunn is a hero to me of the utilization of the English language.  I wrote a tribute to Millard not long ago on this very site last October.  He too is one of the good guys.

Peyton Manning is in this pantheon of company.  He is the only one left in the National Football League I can call a hero. He is playing a very important game today.  While his performance is being dissected as I type by talking heads on football pre-game blow off hot air shows that began before sunrise this morning, I am just looking forward to kickoff.  I don’t care that his team is playing the New England Patriots.  All I want is to see Peyton under center or in the shot gun or drinking gator drink for that matter.  I want to see him in that uniform.  I want to see his brow curled up as he looks to his team’s next strategic move. I want to see him in football cleats.  I am feared that he won’t be able to spend  time in his natural habitat much longer.

Though I may have missed one, I have figured up I have been fortunate enough to see Peyton Manning play 12 times as a pro.  Eleven of those were when he played for the Indianapolis Colts.  There is a big stadium in that town.  I saw it yesterday.  Lucas Oil is the name on the side of the thing.  If you shut your left eye and squint with the right one, you can watch the letters magically rearrange to say Manning Stadium.  I never saw Peyton play in that new place.  The charm of the cracker box Hoosier Dome is how I want to remember my time watching Peyton.  Those 11 games I saw him play in that now deflated dome?  The Colts won 10 of them.  The one they lost was a blessing.  My son Jarrett is a Dan Marino fan.  Dan brought the Dolphins back in the fourth quarter in what turned out to be the last great 4th quarter comeback in his storied career. He retired after that season.  That was worth looking at and sharing.

In 2012 I saw Peyton play over at Cincinnati with a couple of my childhood pals whose friendship has remained steadfast to this day.

Peyton is the last football hero I will have.  I don’t love the pro game like used to.  When little brother Eli Manning (my FAVORITE player) retires I will be in a spot.  I suppose I can join my Mom and root for Teddy Bridgewater.

Regardless, Peyton is the one and only.  I have said it before and I will say it again.  HE MADE FOOTBALL IN INDIANA.  We have him to thank for giving this game its legs in a place that is in love with basketball and always will be.  That is fine too.  You can’t have it all.  There aren’t two favorites.  I love chocolate ice cream.  I won’t eat strawberry ice cream.

You better believe I have enjoyed watching Peyton Manning play football with the passion and effort that he puts into every play.  That is what I will miss.  His devotion to the play and his looking for the next play.  He has never felt compelled to act as though he is running for public office after he made a good play.  He was too concerned about making the next play better.  I hope the guys on the field on his team play like that today.  They can beat the Patriots.  I believe that.  I just hope they do.  I want to the sun to hang up there just a little longer for #18.

Speaking the rights.

Danny Johnson

While I was exercising today I watched a movie.  MIRACLE is the story of the 1980 USA Olympic Hockey Team and how they beat the Soviet Union team during those Olympic Games.  February 22, 1980 was the date.  An old friend of mine said, the last time I saw him, he was at may parents’ house delivering wood for our fireplace with another gent we knew.

We huddled around a TV screen that was reliant upon “rabbit ears” to provide the signal of we would be watching.  I can attest the screen was far from the pristine visions we see running across TVs in 2016.  Still, it was better than anything I have seen on television in a long time.

There was a great deal of snow on the ground today.  When it was time to go down to exercise, I looked for this movie.  It felt like the right thing to do.

It makes my head spin to think this movie was released 12 years ago come February 6th.  I can tell you I never tire of watching it.

I was fascinated by this game.  I was eleven years old when this game was played.  Having lived under the same roof with a high school football coach my entire young life at the time, I understood a few things about competition.  I knew a thing or two about underdogs and what they were up against.  As much as I remember the victorious celebration of the USA team, the impression that made the most impact on me was that of the disbelief on the faces and in the posture of the Russians.  They stood there leaning on their hockey sticks not understanding what was in front of them.  They were not programmed to realize they could lose.  They just stood there.

I look forward to watching this movie again.

I shared a piece of prose I wrote with the local paper that 2004 winter.  They were kind enough to print it.  It is still on their archives and about twice a year I look it up.  I read it and I am glad it saw the light of day.

In the column I make an inference to my speaking with Herb Brooks, the coach of the 1980 Olympic team.  I really did do just that.  I was writing a paper for a Sports history class. My subject was the 1980 USA Olympic Hockey Team. Coach Brooks was coaching the Utica Devils of the AHL at the time.  I can tell you I don’t know if I was ever more nervous on the telephone.

From 2004…

This actually ran in the paper on January 24, 2004, before the MIRACLE movie came out.

My dear wife, Carrie, got me a camera recently.  It was a nice Christmas present.  I really appreciate it.  I kind of get a kick out of taking pictures.  I refuse to make inferences that I know what I am doing when I take photographs.  I don’t know much about it.  I do know you need a little light here and there.  I know how to take a picture of people and not cut their heads off.  My mother finally developed that skill.  She had been working on it since the Lyndon Johnson administration.

So, I don’t know a shutter speed from a window shutter.  I do know that I recently ate an overpriced salad and a bread stick in a building that was a drug store when I was a kid.  This was the same place where we would take our 110 Kodak camera film and turn it over to someone in the hopes that in a couple weeks we would get an envelope full of pictures that nearly represented the days we took them.

It is not 1976.  It is 2016.  I can take a picture and look at it a second after I take it.  Had someone pulled out a camera like the one I use now and took a picture and showed the view screen around to the subjects of the shot in, say, 1976, we would have been dumbfounded.  I can only dream of the looks on the faces.

So now I share with you a few images I have recently captured with my new camera.  I doubt I get any acknowledgment for these photos like I received for one of the railroad tracks lit up in a pink shade late last year.  That was a cool picture.

One last shot.  May never get better than this…

I may take a picture of the Broncos playing today.  It is supposed to be 40 degrees or better in Denver.

Denver April 2014

Speak the rights!

Danny Johnson

Of late, for whatever reason, my mind has flashed upon my immediate memory a quote that was posted in the room of a colleague I worked with at another school.  I didn’t like the quote.  I did not think or believe it was a good piece of advice for her students.  Did I tell her so?  No.  I did not.  She was fresh out of college and full of great ideas and a work ethic that I would be delighted to pass along to any other new teacher that walks into any new building with the charge of helping students learn and be productive citizens. I had no problem with the teacher.  She was great for the students.  I have no doubt she still is.

Unfortunately, every time I think about her and her classroom and how well it was maintained….including the marked productivity it amassed…I still can’t get away from that quote that was on the door in her classroom.

“The highest result of education is tolerance.”- Helen Keller.

Who in the heck am I to argue with Helen Keller?  If she were here, I would argue nonetheless.

Good quote?  Maybe.  It has, after all, made its way to posters and postings.  Had I made up that quote, folks would have laughed at it and discounted it for all the right reasons.

Tolerance did not help an American walk on the moon.  The desire to beat the Russians to the moon was not based on tolerance.  It was anti-tolerance.  We needed to be first.  We would not tolerate and accept anything else.

My wistful question of the day is where did that kind of spirit go?  I suppose it, in part, went with whatever has caused the chasm in this country like I have never seen it before.  None of us have seen it like this before.  Every time you turn around there is yet another “device” to look upon.  Gas pumps in some places even have news screens on them.  After the obligatory commercial that pays for it runs, there might be news of the day on it.  Yes, I have actually seen these.  I did not just read about them.  Pretty darn strange.

I wish I had the answer.

All of this thought brings me back to wondering if the boys and girls that brought us the moon shot had to be responsible for standardized testing that started telling them if they were good or not starting in the third grade would have made it to where they got…changing history for the better.  I can only wonder.  I can also speculate.  Like Nick Carraway, I will reserve my judgment.  I bet you can figure out what I think.

I do know that the best things I have been a part of have not been produced by tolerance.

I kicked a school record field goal because I could not tolerate missing that kick.

I took the advice of George Plimpton one day and ran with it (I really did talk to him).  I did not take the time to ask if toleration was in the mix of our speaks.

I obtained a masters degree in school counseling because I could not tolerate not doing so.  In the process, I have helped many students.

I write because I could not tolerate not doing so.  Tolerance never helped my creative process.

Do I have respect for Helen Keller?  What do you think?  Duh!  I tolerate the idea that I am sure she had other ideas and “quotes” that we surely missed out on that were much more meaningful and right than the one that is the subject of this post on speaktherights.com.

Moving on…

I hope the Broncos beat the Steelers this weekend.

I hope the Chiefs beat the Patriots.

I hope the Panthers beat the Seahawks.

I hope the Cardinals beat the Packers in the NFL playoffs.  I am feeling pretty good after picking Bama to beat Clemson in the FBS Championship.

I am also dumbfounded that Indiana University game its head football coach, Kevin Wilson, with his 20-41 record, a six year extension that includes so much “geat” that it will be hard to impossible to pay him off until 2020.  All I can say is “Wow”.  I knew the folks in Bloomington were a little touched…but this?  This being a coach who made a bowl game with a team that finished with a losing record getting a million dollar-plus raise per season.  Kind of makes 80s music seem a little more legitimate, doesn’t it?

I don’t know Kevin Wilson, the Hoosiers gridiron coach.  I  met Bill Mallory.  I met Terry Hoeppner.  They were great for Indiana Football. So was Bill Lynch.  All I can say is that I believe Kevin Wilson was lucky enough to get into a bowl game the same season the Hoosiers had a great Big Ten home schedule and a great many fans showed up to watch…many from Ohio, Michigan, and Iowa.  We’ll take their money…no matter where they are from.  Now it belongs to Coach Wilson.  Good for your family!  Not so good, I am afraid, for IU Nation…however thin or thick it may be.  I am not saying Coach Wilson is not a good person.  In fact, I hope I eat every syllable I type unfavorably about him.  I’ve just feel like I have seen this movie before and it doesn’t work out very well.

Sorry coach.  I hope you prove me wrong.  I hope to make it to the Rose Bowl one day.

Speaking the rights.

Danny Johnson