Back in an ancient time, my Cub Scout leader lived in a house on the block behind our house on Alden Street. The shortcut there and home was through their back yard, over the fence into my next door neighbor’s yard and then over another fence into my own yard. On that particular December cub scout meeting, I was wearing the shirt with my badges and a good pair of jeans. I was wearing a coat, so the shirt was safe, but I didn’t want to snag the pants on the fences, meaning the next shortest route was not much longer. I would walk from the scout leader’s front porch and twenty yards down the street and then up a driveway that once led to a garage that had been demolished at some time or other. With no garage at the end of the driveway, it led directly into my back yard. That driveway route was to be the route I selected that night.
But, while on the short sidewalk I heard chimes: Christmas songs.
It wasn’t some out of body experience. There weren’t any angels that appeared to me and it was not a Paul-on-the-road-to-Damascus kind of thing, What I heard was just the organist at Quayle Memorial Methodist Church playing chimes through the loudspeakers on the outside of the building.
So, instead of making the left turn down the driveway and toward home, I continued to walk down the sidewalk, north on 17th street, toward where the music being played. Seventeenth Street made a little ninety-degree hook to the left where the big stucco house was (and still is) and then a couple of hundred more feet to the corner of 17th and Yecker. That was where Quayle was. There was a stained glass window on the Yecker side of the church, if my memory is correct—and it may not be. I believe last time I was by there, it was boarded over, so I could not confirm.
I remember on that ancient December afternoon, I stood for a while at the corner and listened. There was something back then about Christmas that piqued the imagination of a ten- or eleven-year-old boy. There was something about the songs of the season that re-enforced the connection.
They still do.
I remember after hearing a song or two, I headed west down Yecker, took the shortcut through the alley and back home on Alden.
It is strange how one can forget something someone said this morning or the name of someone met yesterday, but still have a fairly solid memory of hearing a song fifty years ago.
Like I said, there is something about the songs of the season…
Well, no need to repeat myself. I just said that three paragraphs before. And they are short paragraphs.
However, we sometimes repeat ourselves in Jimbo’ world.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
the north forty-forth street sidewalk surfing association
Most of the things we used to do in ancient times—back when I was growing up—have slipped into history. Kids today don’t do a lot of the same things we did two generations ago. One of the few, however, that seems still to be in vogue, is the skateboard.
Back in 1964 a group called Jan and Dean had a popular song on the radio called Sidewalk Surfin’ and we loved the song. Perhaps it was because we were riding sidewalk surfboards at the time, so it was something with which we could identify.
Either we were too poor to buy them or skateboards were not widely commercially available at the time. Anyway, we made our own.
I took a scrap piece of 1” X 8” pine, cut it to a couple of feet long and then penciled lines on it—a pattern that came to a point in the front and tapered to about four inches wide in the back. Then I took a hand coping saw and cut the board to the configuration I drew. Afterward, I sanded down the edges, removing any sharp corners and then smoothed out the top surface with fine sandpaper. I managed to find a skull and crossbones decal at the hobby shop and spray painted a thin blue stripe at a diagonal across the board, just behind where I applied the decal toward the front of the board. Then, I took a steel wheeled roller skate and used screws to attach it to the bottom side of the board. I put a coat of dark shellac on the board to give it a light brown color.
I was then ready to put my life on the line.
Forty-forth street had a gradual incline to the North of our house and it was a good hill to walk up and then ride the board back down. However, to the south, there was a very steep hill and, once we knew how to ride the board it was always the South hill we rode down. All of the neighborhood kids built boards or had their fathers build boards for them, and we would attack the hill as a group. There were a lot of bruises and skinned elbows and knees, because the hill was fast and we didn’t wear any protective equipment.
Because interaction in society requires that we belong to something and give a name to that something, we called ourselves the North Forty-forth Street Sidewalk Surfing Association. It was better than joining a street gang, I suppose.
Even though we are sure that you can go to You Tube and hear Jan and Dean sing,
“Grab your board and go sidewalk surfin’ with me,” Jimbo has reached the point in life that falling off a skateboard would require some time to heal, so he won’t be joining in.
But it is good to remember how it was forty-seven summers ago on Forty-forth Street in Jimbo’s world.
Back in 1964 a group called Jan and Dean had a popular song on the radio called Sidewalk Surfin’ and we loved the song. Perhaps it was because we were riding sidewalk surfboards at the time, so it was something with which we could identify.
Either we were too poor to buy them or skateboards were not widely commercially available at the time. Anyway, we made our own.
I took a scrap piece of 1” X 8” pine, cut it to a couple of feet long and then penciled lines on it—a pattern that came to a point in the front and tapered to about four inches wide in the back. Then I took a hand coping saw and cut the board to the configuration I drew. Afterward, I sanded down the edges, removing any sharp corners and then smoothed out the top surface with fine sandpaper. I managed to find a skull and crossbones decal at the hobby shop and spray painted a thin blue stripe at a diagonal across the board, just behind where I applied the decal toward the front of the board. Then, I took a steel wheeled roller skate and used screws to attach it to the bottom side of the board. I put a coat of dark shellac on the board to give it a light brown color.
I was then ready to put my life on the line.
Forty-forth street had a gradual incline to the North of our house and it was a good hill to walk up and then ride the board back down. However, to the south, there was a very steep hill and, once we knew how to ride the board it was always the South hill we rode down. All of the neighborhood kids built boards or had their fathers build boards for them, and we would attack the hill as a group. There were a lot of bruises and skinned elbows and knees, because the hill was fast and we didn’t wear any protective equipment.
Because interaction in society requires that we belong to something and give a name to that something, we called ourselves the North Forty-forth Street Sidewalk Surfing Association. It was better than joining a street gang, I suppose.
Even though we are sure that you can go to You Tube and hear Jan and Dean sing,
“Grab your board and go sidewalk surfin’ with me,” Jimbo has reached the point in life that falling off a skateboard would require some time to heal, so he won’t be joining in.
But it is good to remember how it was forty-seven summers ago on Forty-forth Street in Jimbo’s world.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
alden street
Fifty years ago, two old men pulled up to the curb on Alden Street, got out of their car and began to point at things and talk. The child playing in the side yard of the house in front of which they were parked, walked up to the street to see who they were, figuring they were friends of his grandmother. They told the little boy they had lived in the neighborhood many decades before. The old men pointed to the houses and debated who had lived there and when.
“Do you know there was a community well where the entire neighborhood got their water?” asked one of the men.
“I’ll bet you can’t tell us where it was,” stated the other.
“Down by that peach tree,” said the boy, pointing toward the back of the yard in which he had been playing. “Under those concrete slabs.”
“Yessir,” intoned one of the elderly gentlemen. “That’s exactly where it was.”
“Still is,” said the boy. “Put concrete slabs over it to keep the cats from fallin’ in. You can pull the slabs apart and drop stuff into it, like peach pits and rocks. Then you slide the slabs back ‘fore momma sees ya’ and whups ya’ good.”
To that little boy, Alden Street stretched out in each direction almost as far as you cared to look. One time, when he ran away from home, he reached the end of Alden Street, up by the alley that ran through to Yecker Street, and stopped. That was as far away from home as he cared to go. And, when he stood at that end of the street and looked back at the entire expanse of Alden, it was so very far to the other end.
And when that boy stood on the front sidewalk and looked back through his side yard and all the way to the chicken wire fence on the back property line, he could imagine no wider expanse—no further vista of green. It was the yard where he had matured from infant to child.
We’ll never know who those men were. They were just like thousands of people who walk through ones life. The boy, however, was a different story. We know he grew up and became known as Jimbo. And yesterday, the Labor Day holiday, Jimbo again walked that sidewalk and street and pointed out to Jimbo’s girlfriend where the home of his childhood had been. Things are different today. Alden is such a short block one could lay the newspaper at one end, walk to the other end and still read the headline. Jimbo’s old house is gone and the yard he remembered as being so large is just a postage stamp.
There are only a few houses on the street that appear to be inhabited. There are a few houses that are open and abandoned, but the majority of the houses are gone, replaced by empty lots.
Jimbo’s girlfriend frequently commented about the total decay and squalor. She questioned how people could live in neighborhoods like these. She questioned how these kinds of neighborhoods could still exist in the twenty-first century and in the United States of America.
Jimbo, himself, had a brief feeling of having come home, standing on the sidewalk and on the rock steps leading down to where his house used to be. It was much like the tales of the old African elephants who, knowing the end is near, wander back to their place of birth, to lay their earthly remains at the foot of their childhood memories. But, it wasn’t like that at all, because we were all happy as clams when we were able to move out of that house. And, I do not grieve it nor mourn its passing. It was a dump. On the road of life, it was a start, and that’s about it.
I would have liked to stay and reminisce a little longer, but one of the locals was walking down the street and Jimbo’s girlfriend insisted in locking herself in the car for protection. I can’t say as that I blamed her, but he passed by harmlessly and no one was killed.
We drove the neighborhood for a while and past my grandmother’s old house, which is also gone and past the Spanish-style house one street over from Alden, which was always the nicest house in the neighborhood. It is still standing, as is one of my favorite buildings, Quayle Memorial Methodist Church, which is still elegant, but boarded up. I wonder if the woodwork is still intact. I wonder if the stained glass is still unbroken under the plywood.
Most of all, I wonder whether the people who inhabit these houses are better off where they are, or if they would be better off using a bulldozer to set the neighborhood in order. My old house was a shack. It has gone to a better place. It was good, however, to stand over its final resting place.
And to walk the sidewalks and streets I had walked half a century before.
A long time ago in Jimbo’s world.
“Do you know there was a community well where the entire neighborhood got their water?” asked one of the men.
“I’ll bet you can’t tell us where it was,” stated the other.
“Down by that peach tree,” said the boy, pointing toward the back of the yard in which he had been playing. “Under those concrete slabs.”
“Yessir,” intoned one of the elderly gentlemen. “That’s exactly where it was.”
“Still is,” said the boy. “Put concrete slabs over it to keep the cats from fallin’ in. You can pull the slabs apart and drop stuff into it, like peach pits and rocks. Then you slide the slabs back ‘fore momma sees ya’ and whups ya’ good.”
To that little boy, Alden Street stretched out in each direction almost as far as you cared to look. One time, when he ran away from home, he reached the end of Alden Street, up by the alley that ran through to Yecker Street, and stopped. That was as far away from home as he cared to go. And, when he stood at that end of the street and looked back at the entire expanse of Alden, it was so very far to the other end.
And when that boy stood on the front sidewalk and looked back through his side yard and all the way to the chicken wire fence on the back property line, he could imagine no wider expanse—no further vista of green. It was the yard where he had matured from infant to child.
We’ll never know who those men were. They were just like thousands of people who walk through ones life. The boy, however, was a different story. We know he grew up and became known as Jimbo. And yesterday, the Labor Day holiday, Jimbo again walked that sidewalk and street and pointed out to Jimbo’s girlfriend where the home of his childhood had been. Things are different today. Alden is such a short block one could lay the newspaper at one end, walk to the other end and still read the headline. Jimbo’s old house is gone and the yard he remembered as being so large is just a postage stamp.
There are only a few houses on the street that appear to be inhabited. There are a few houses that are open and abandoned, but the majority of the houses are gone, replaced by empty lots.
Jimbo’s girlfriend frequently commented about the total decay and squalor. She questioned how people could live in neighborhoods like these. She questioned how these kinds of neighborhoods could still exist in the twenty-first century and in the United States of America.
Jimbo, himself, had a brief feeling of having come home, standing on the sidewalk and on the rock steps leading down to where his house used to be. It was much like the tales of the old African elephants who, knowing the end is near, wander back to their place of birth, to lay their earthly remains at the foot of their childhood memories. But, it wasn’t like that at all, because we were all happy as clams when we were able to move out of that house. And, I do not grieve it nor mourn its passing. It was a dump. On the road of life, it was a start, and that’s about it.
I would have liked to stay and reminisce a little longer, but one of the locals was walking down the street and Jimbo’s girlfriend insisted in locking herself in the car for protection. I can’t say as that I blamed her, but he passed by harmlessly and no one was killed.
We drove the neighborhood for a while and past my grandmother’s old house, which is also gone and past the Spanish-style house one street over from Alden, which was always the nicest house in the neighborhood. It is still standing, as is one of my favorite buildings, Quayle Memorial Methodist Church, which is still elegant, but boarded up. I wonder if the woodwork is still intact. I wonder if the stained glass is still unbroken under the plywood.
Most of all, I wonder whether the people who inhabit these houses are better off where they are, or if they would be better off using a bulldozer to set the neighborhood in order. My old house was a shack. It has gone to a better place. It was good, however, to stand over its final resting place.
And to walk the sidewalks and streets I had walked half a century before.
A long time ago in Jimbo’s world.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
words to a truck drivin' song
“You a driver?” she asked.
“No,” I answered.
I knew why she asked. It was my hat. Jimbo has a black ball cap that says “Roadway” on it. I used to move castings in from Mexico on an almost-daily basis and the sales representative for the truck line we used gave me the cap one year at Christmas time. I’ve had the hat for a long time and it looks well worn. There’s an area on the right-hand side of the bill and another on the left-hand side that the black is dark gray from me taking it off and putting it on. The one on the right is more noticeable because I use my right hand primarily. However, I have the ability to do it with my left hand, too, when I am carrying something.
It isn’t the first time this has happened. Once, at a casino, a guy came up to me and said good morning.
“You drive for Roadway? Me too. Ain’t seen you around.”
I told him the story and said something like, “thanks for the business,” and wandered off past the slot machines.
My ex-father-in-law was a driver, and he told me the only way you could tell the difference between a truck driver and a cowboy was their footwear. Cowboys wore the boots; truck drivers wore sneakers. He wore boots, but it was legitimate. He ran a herd of cattle north and east of Lawrence, when he wasn’t on the road.
I have to admit, though, I have seen a lot of drivers wearing cowboy boots. Maybe they swung both ways. I don’t know.
What I do know, though, is that I have wandered off of where I was originally going. That happens more often now that I am getting older. Let’s get back on subject.
I was in Wal-Mart last Sunday morning.
A little shopping hint: If one needs to pick up some of the everyday items we all need to get through life—the kind of stuff that Wal-Mart sells—and one has no interest in fighting the crowds at ones local Wal-Mart, a good time to do ones shopping is seven in the morning on Sunday. The crowds are really thin at that time of the morning. There are probably a hundred people in the store, but they all work there, stocking shelves. If one can avoid getting run over by some teenager pushing or pulling a pallet jack, one can get in and out in a hurry. And, there will be some old man or woman to welcome you when you come in and tell you to have a nice day when you leave.
Anyway, last Sunday I had made my shopping choices and was checking out in the express line when the lady scanning my purchases asked me if I drove a truck. Although I was tempted to say yes, I gave her the real actual synopsis. Almost immediately, it occurred to me that she probably had a brother-in-law or a distant relative who drove and probably had a beat-up hat like mine, and my story about being a supply-chain manager and having had a regular move from Mexico may have gone over her head. It didn’t. She caught it and threw it right back.
“I’m a freight broker,” she said.
About that time I was signing my credit card receipt, so I didn’t immediately respond. I guess she anticipated my next question, so she answered it without my having to ask.
“Cost of diesel, there aren’t a lot of loads out there.”
In my present job, I move a lot of sheet metal on flatbeds and we use freight brokers frequently, so I asked her the name of the company for which she worked, and made a mental note.
I put my receipt in my pocket, pushed my cart toward the exit and responded, “you, too,” when the lady at the exit told me to have a nice day.
There is something eerie about that morning that keeps wandering through my mind. It is a story about how good it was last century and about how far we have fallen. It’s the story of Robert Rubin and Bill Clinton and their strong dollar policy. It’s how their strong dollar brought the price of a barrel of crude to less than $12 and how Friday it topped $118. It’s how the Euro was worth $.75 back then and now it exceeds $1.50.
It’s a story about how our worst two problems as a country back then were so radically different than they are today. First, that we couldn’t find enough workers to fill all the jobs that went begging for someone to fill them. Second, that our budget surplus was on the verge of creating a situation that could only be resolved by eliminating income taxes.
I guess our current administration solved those problems and a third problem, too. That problem was that their OPEC member buddies weren’t making enough money.
As a man who is getting some years on him, I guess it is natural to lament the good old days. Those good old days sort of passed by me when I was looking forward to something up the line a ways that I anticipated would be the good old days.
Hell, there’ll be good times coming down the road, I used to think when I was a kid. Then, when I was an adult, I would look back at those summer mornings of my childhood when I was first waking up and I could hear the doves calling outside my window. I would think back to those warm summer evenings when daylight hung on long after dinnertime, until almost bedtime, before it grudgingly gave way to darkness. Those were the days when the last school year was a distant memory and the one coming up seemed so far away. Those were the days when responsibility and homework assignments and the school day didn’t even enter the mind. I would recall those days when I had matriculated through school and was working and remember them as the good old days.
I remember working two jobs and struggling to get along when my son was an infant and thinking there would be better days. Later, I looked back to when my child was growing up and the time we spent together and thought those were the good old days.
Now, I look back to when we were partying like it was 1999 and I think those were the best days. I hope to God I never look back at the Bush and Cheney years and think these were the good old days. I hope I never think back on the huge budget deficits we have in the first decade of the twenty-first century and think we had it good. I hope I never look back at when gas was as cheap as $3.50 a gallon and tell stories about how good we had it. I hope I never look back at the war, the recession and the dope problem we have at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue and remember them as good times.
But, most of all, I hope I never tell grandchildren the “good times” story of the lady who was the freight broker whom the government’s policies gave the opportunity to run the checkout line at Wal-Mart when the freight business dried up.
I hope I have a better story than that.
At least, that’s today’s view from here in Jimbo’s world.
“No,” I answered.
I knew why she asked. It was my hat. Jimbo has a black ball cap that says “Roadway” on it. I used to move castings in from Mexico on an almost-daily basis and the sales representative for the truck line we used gave me the cap one year at Christmas time. I’ve had the hat for a long time and it looks well worn. There’s an area on the right-hand side of the bill and another on the left-hand side that the black is dark gray from me taking it off and putting it on. The one on the right is more noticeable because I use my right hand primarily. However, I have the ability to do it with my left hand, too, when I am carrying something.
It isn’t the first time this has happened. Once, at a casino, a guy came up to me and said good morning.
“You drive for Roadway? Me too. Ain’t seen you around.”
I told him the story and said something like, “thanks for the business,” and wandered off past the slot machines.
My ex-father-in-law was a driver, and he told me the only way you could tell the difference between a truck driver and a cowboy was their footwear. Cowboys wore the boots; truck drivers wore sneakers. He wore boots, but it was legitimate. He ran a herd of cattle north and east of Lawrence, when he wasn’t on the road.
I have to admit, though, I have seen a lot of drivers wearing cowboy boots. Maybe they swung both ways. I don’t know.
What I do know, though, is that I have wandered off of where I was originally going. That happens more often now that I am getting older. Let’s get back on subject.
I was in Wal-Mart last Sunday morning.
A little shopping hint: If one needs to pick up some of the everyday items we all need to get through life—the kind of stuff that Wal-Mart sells—and one has no interest in fighting the crowds at ones local Wal-Mart, a good time to do ones shopping is seven in the morning on Sunday. The crowds are really thin at that time of the morning. There are probably a hundred people in the store, but they all work there, stocking shelves. If one can avoid getting run over by some teenager pushing or pulling a pallet jack, one can get in and out in a hurry. And, there will be some old man or woman to welcome you when you come in and tell you to have a nice day when you leave.
Anyway, last Sunday I had made my shopping choices and was checking out in the express line when the lady scanning my purchases asked me if I drove a truck. Although I was tempted to say yes, I gave her the real actual synopsis. Almost immediately, it occurred to me that she probably had a brother-in-law or a distant relative who drove and probably had a beat-up hat like mine, and my story about being a supply-chain manager and having had a regular move from Mexico may have gone over her head. It didn’t. She caught it and threw it right back.
“I’m a freight broker,” she said.
About that time I was signing my credit card receipt, so I didn’t immediately respond. I guess she anticipated my next question, so she answered it without my having to ask.
“Cost of diesel, there aren’t a lot of loads out there.”
In my present job, I move a lot of sheet metal on flatbeds and we use freight brokers frequently, so I asked her the name of the company for which she worked, and made a mental note.
I put my receipt in my pocket, pushed my cart toward the exit and responded, “you, too,” when the lady at the exit told me to have a nice day.
There is something eerie about that morning that keeps wandering through my mind. It is a story about how good it was last century and about how far we have fallen. It’s the story of Robert Rubin and Bill Clinton and their strong dollar policy. It’s how their strong dollar brought the price of a barrel of crude to less than $12 and how Friday it topped $118. It’s how the Euro was worth $.75 back then and now it exceeds $1.50.
It’s a story about how our worst two problems as a country back then were so radically different than they are today. First, that we couldn’t find enough workers to fill all the jobs that went begging for someone to fill them. Second, that our budget surplus was on the verge of creating a situation that could only be resolved by eliminating income taxes.
I guess our current administration solved those problems and a third problem, too. That problem was that their OPEC member buddies weren’t making enough money.
As a man who is getting some years on him, I guess it is natural to lament the good old days. Those good old days sort of passed by me when I was looking forward to something up the line a ways that I anticipated would be the good old days.
Hell, there’ll be good times coming down the road, I used to think when I was a kid. Then, when I was an adult, I would look back at those summer mornings of my childhood when I was first waking up and I could hear the doves calling outside my window. I would think back to those warm summer evenings when daylight hung on long after dinnertime, until almost bedtime, before it grudgingly gave way to darkness. Those were the days when the last school year was a distant memory and the one coming up seemed so far away. Those were the days when responsibility and homework assignments and the school day didn’t even enter the mind. I would recall those days when I had matriculated through school and was working and remember them as the good old days.
I remember working two jobs and struggling to get along when my son was an infant and thinking there would be better days. Later, I looked back to when my child was growing up and the time we spent together and thought those were the good old days.
Now, I look back to when we were partying like it was 1999 and I think those were the best days. I hope to God I never look back at the Bush and Cheney years and think these were the good old days. I hope I never think back on the huge budget deficits we have in the first decade of the twenty-first century and think we had it good. I hope I never look back at when gas was as cheap as $3.50 a gallon and tell stories about how good we had it. I hope I never look back at the war, the recession and the dope problem we have at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue and remember them as good times.
But, most of all, I hope I never tell grandchildren the “good times” story of the lady who was the freight broker whom the government’s policies gave the opportunity to run the checkout line at Wal-Mart when the freight business dried up.
I hope I have a better story than that.
At least, that’s today’s view from here in Jimbo’s world.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
letter to boone
Dear Mr. Pickens,
I was delighted this week to hear that Bill Self has decided to stay at Kansas and that the large amount of money in your personal stash was not sufficient to hire him away.
However, after giving the matter some thought, it dawned on me that I have never mentioned to you that I know how to coach basketball. I coached my son's teams when he was young, and although we were more interested in developing talent than in winning games, we picked up some skills in coaching on the hardwoods.
I know you have money to burn, but I could be had for a contract in the low seven figures. Heck, even that is negotiable.
Please let me hear from you at your earliest convenience.
Sincerely,
Jimbo
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Monday, April 07, 2008
Sunday, April 06, 2008
the big game
Has Jimbo ever mentioned he is a fan of the Kansas Jayhawks?
Oh,yeah. I guess he has.
Well, it seems like the one thing that came screaming out of the headlines this week is that there are a number of Kansas fans who absolutely hate Roy Williams. The truth is that Jimbo is not one of them.
Granted, Roy was on the other side on Saturday night, and therefore, for one night, he became the hated opposition. I was more than happy to see him lose.
But the other side of the coin is that he was our guy for fifteen years, and they were some of the best fifteen years of our basketball lives. And, even though there seems to be a lot of hatred among Kansas fans toward Roy, I kind of think it is like when a lover breaks off a relationship with a guy. The first thing he thinks about is that he will never find another one again who is as good. Or, at least, that is what they tell me. I, of course, would not know that feeling, never having experienced it.
And, I have to admit that, right after Roy left, I might have felt that way for a few days. I felt the same when Larry Brown took off, but I got over it quickly and three years later we were playing in the National Championship game. I think I knew that, deep down inside, because of the tradition we have at Kansas, there would always be some top notch coach who'd say, okay, I'll come over and put some trophies on the shelf. And, we got a very good one.
But, while Roy was here he took us to that improbable 1991 championship game and to the sweet sixteen, the great eight and the final four more than once. They were good times. All good times, though, have to come to an end. One way or another, we all have to hang it up and move on. It's life. One hopes that he'll always hang on to those who are important in his life, but sometimes they say adieu or adios or goodbye, y'all.
No hard feelings, Roy. You're a good man.
Just sorry we had to kick your butt last night so bad. Well, even though I like you, I guess I'm not that sorry.
But, that's the way we do it, here in Jimbo's world.
Oh,yeah. I guess he has.
Well, it seems like the one thing that came screaming out of the headlines this week is that there are a number of Kansas fans who absolutely hate Roy Williams. The truth is that Jimbo is not one of them.
Granted, Roy was on the other side on Saturday night, and therefore, for one night, he became the hated opposition. I was more than happy to see him lose.
But the other side of the coin is that he was our guy for fifteen years, and they were some of the best fifteen years of our basketball lives. And, even though there seems to be a lot of hatred among Kansas fans toward Roy, I kind of think it is like when a lover breaks off a relationship with a guy. The first thing he thinks about is that he will never find another one again who is as good. Or, at least, that is what they tell me. I, of course, would not know that feeling, never having experienced it.
And, I have to admit that, right after Roy left, I might have felt that way for a few days. I felt the same when Larry Brown took off, but I got over it quickly and three years later we were playing in the National Championship game. I think I knew that, deep down inside, because of the tradition we have at Kansas, there would always be some top notch coach who'd say, okay, I'll come over and put some trophies on the shelf. And, we got a very good one.
But, while Roy was here he took us to that improbable 1991 championship game and to the sweet sixteen, the great eight and the final four more than once. They were good times. All good times, though, have to come to an end. One way or another, we all have to hang it up and move on. It's life. One hopes that he'll always hang on to those who are important in his life, but sometimes they say adieu or adios or goodbye, y'all.
No hard feelings, Roy. You're a good man.
Just sorry we had to kick your butt last night so bad. Well, even though I like you, I guess I'm not that sorry.
But, that's the way we do it, here in Jimbo's world.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
bush, happy as a clam
President George W. Bush and Treasury Secretary Henry M. Paulson, Jr., enjoy a chuckle together at Bush’s comment, “The economy is fixed, now, and we still have another half-hour scheduled. What else can we fix today?”
Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke (foreground) is slow to catch the rich irony and respond, much as he has been slow to recognize the threat of inflation to our overall economic stability. Moments later, after this photo was taken, Bernanke had a moment of recognition and laughed last and best (about the irony; not the inflationary threat).
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