Piano Lessons

We bought my son’s family a piano for Christmas. This is in keeping with a family legacy—that of being the church pianist. I come from a long line of musicians, dating back to the Pleistocene Era. Centuries later my ancestors crossed the plains with their baby grands strapped to their backs in search of a place where they could practice without the neighbors complaining.

I was exposed to the piano early on. At about three years, I became fascinated with the instrument, pounding on the keys and learning of its inner workings by literally tearing it apart (no kidding). Many a happy hour I spent sitting among the keys, contemplating the meaning of life. By the age of five, I could strip and reassemble a piano in 16 hours and 36 minutes, minus nap time, which is not bad for a kindergartgener.

From there I took 22 years of piano lessons, spanning from grammar school through college. I even enrolled in multiple remedial note-reading classes to no avail. My training produced what I refer to as a “musical mutant.” I can’t read a note. Obviously, I did not inherit the piano gene.

I have since learned to accept and live with my disability. I try to compensate by playing the guitar by ear, which I am pretty good at. This makes me indispensible at camp fires, hoot-a-nannies and sit-ins. But it’s not the same.

One day, my loving husband and twelve of his burliest friends delivered a very heavy piano to our home. I was delighted! Clapping my hands and squealing with glee, I dragged out my old piano books, the ones that I had labored in vain to master so many years ago, and played my most impressive pieces. Then I found my hymnal and played some of the tunes I dearly loved. The lyrics spoke of faith, endurance, and other laudable virtues of no interest to the average college student.

Overcome by the joy of musical expression, I went to my husband and embraced him, manifesting my deep appreciation for the gift. His reaction was not what I anticipated; “You know, you always claimed that you couldn’t play the piano. But then again, you always claimed that you couldn’t play the guitar. But you really can’t play the piano, can you?”

The point is that, just like every other all-American parent, I would like to fulfill my unmet dreams by living through my children and grandchildren—ergo the Christmas piano. My sincere wish is that the piano gene occasionally skips generations and one of my posterity will be another Victor Borge. (The one on the right. Look him up on U-Tube.)
As hoped, the little family was delighted. Bess, my daughter-in-law played some tunes, the kids plunked away on the keys, inventing their own tunes, and even I gave it my dismal best.

Later that day, my youngest son, David, called to see how our Christmas was unfolding. He asked about the gifts and, as expected, I told him about the piano. “ALL my children will receive a piano for the grands to learn to play and the parents are expected to provide piano lessons,” I imposed. “Hey, Sheena,” David bellowed, “If we find a kid, we get a free piano!”

He’s missing the point. I anticipate some cookin’ piano-guitar jam sessions in the near future. But even if a virtuoso is never produced, maybe we can dismantle the piano together and consider the meaning of life as we sit amongst the keys, just like old times.

The History of Robert L. Gould

Dear Family,

I am writing this because David wanted to know more about his grandfather, Robert Lee Gould (Aug. 3, 1929 – Apr. 21, 2008). I am assuming that others of you might be interested to learn more about him. The following is a collection of information garnered from his daughters and his first wife.

Our father was the second son of Pearl Grace Mullins and Raymond Lyman Gould, William Bryce Gould being the eldest brother. He was born in Las Angeles, CA. and grew up in California and Oregon. His cousin, Margie, came to live with the family after the death of her parents and was raised as his sister.

Due to the Great Depression, the family’s circumstances were humble. Mom said that he suffered great embarrassment because of the strange looking second-hand clothes he was forced to wear to school.

Margie married and settled with her husband in Oregon. When we visited them, my father and she would tell funny stories about their childhoods. They laughed about an old horse that the kids would ride and the big excitement the day a local road was macadamized. They teased about how when they saw Margie’s future husband walking down a long, hot road one summer day, they could not give him a ride because Margie was embarrassed about her appearance.

Bob Gould met Donna Rae Bybee, our mother, in high school. They attended Sacramento High School, where he was in a play. Mom liked people with something to say and he was very opinionated and entertaining. They dated and had a nice time together so he invited her out again. It was about this time that Dad’s mother died of a heart attack. Many years later, he wrote Denise that his mother’s death had a terrible and long lasting effect on him.

After graduation, he joined the Navy. Upon his return from boot camp he proposed to our mother. They were married in Reno on February 14. They were both 18 years old at the time.

Dad remained in the service for several years and learned electronics, a skill that he used when he left the Navy. Mom lived with Grandma and Grandpa Bybee during this time. Denise, their oldest daughter, was born in Sacramento while Mr. Gould was in Panama on duty.

Because he was stationed in Virginia, Denise and Mom moved there to be with him. Later, Mom and Denise returned to Sacramento to live with Grandma and Grandpa.

When he was discharged, he moved to Sacramento where he worked for the railroad and played in a band to support himself. He was a lead guitarist and played by ear. His group played Western music, but he also practiced such pieces as “Sweet Georgia Brown.”

Dad, Denise, and Mom lived in an apartment in North Sacramento for a while. During that time, he worked at the Army Depot and played in a band so he wasn’t around much.
After I was born he rejoined the Navy and was stationed in Hawaii. Mom and his two daughters joined him there, where we lived a Spartan life-style. I remember Denise sleeping on a cot and me in my crib, but that’s about all the furniture we had.

We have a very few pictures of us as a family, but one of the most intriguing is of Mom, Denise and me playing on the beach. Another is of Glenda (who was born in Hawaii) as an infant, lying on a picnic table. Mom and we girls eventually moved back to the mainland.

In 1991, one of Denise’s children asked him to write about himself for her school assignment. The following information is taken verbatim from his reply:

Born: Yes—Las Angeles, Calif, Angeles Hospital Robert Lee Gould August 3, 1929. (Beginning of the Great Depression)

0-4 Lived in L.A. and on Catalina Island (Dad worked for J.P. Wrigley, the chewing gum king who owned the Island.

5-13 Lived in Green Valley Oregon—Extremely poor due to depression. This was real wilderness then—no electricity, running water or indoor plumbing. When I meet you in person, I’ll bore you for hours on how it was in depression.

13-17 Sacramento, area graduated from Grant Union High school. Was not the class valedictorian. Got decent grades.

17-? Left school in June and joined the United States Navy July 11, 1947. Feb. 14, 1947 married you’r maternal Grandmother and we produced three little girls. The eldest, and possibly the sanest was you’r mother Pearl Denise. She was born July 18 when we were one day out of Panama on the destroyer “Barton” headed for the east coast

The rest of my life becomes a little blurry and indistinct, as I went from adolescence to senility without ever achieving manhood. I ultimately served 6 years, 6 months, and 6 days in the Navy. I served on a destroyer, then shore duty at Pearl Harbor which I hated, and then on an Attack Transport the USS Montrose APA-212. Ironically, the only hostile action I saw (though I was in the South China Sea during the Korean War) was not in Korea but a place called French Indo China. The French were fighting the insurgents and we were hauling refugees out of Haiphong and Toruain south of Saigon. We were under fire and answered the fire (probably to no effect). Since we were not at war, nothing was ever made of it, though at the time there was an article about it in Readers Digest. I served with honor and dedication but without distinction.
I had learned my trade Electronics Technician and when I got out, went to work for Federal Ariel service in that capacity.
I gravitated to the great Pacific Northwest and eventually retired, disabled at Ft. Lewis Washington where I was the electronics Shop Foreman at training aids command.

Now, in my decline, I target practice once a week with my 9 mm pistols and I am deep into woodworking. Cabinet making, crude furniture, home repairs, whatever. Though my efforts so far have not been spectacular, still I enjoy it a lot.
That’s about all there is so far. I hope this will be some help in you’re school assignment."

When we were very little girls, Dad would let Denise and me ride on his shoulders. We would get scared being up so high, and hold on to his head, covering his eyes. Then he would say he couldn't see and that would scare us even more.

He liked to call his little girls “Lessy,” “Glenny,” and “Denny.” Once he got a piece of junk mail from a car dealer that said, "See Denny with this penny." He gave Denise the penny.

We lived as a family in a two bedroom apartment in North Highlands, CA. for a while. Things were relatively normal during that time. It was there that he taught his girls how to hit a baseball and shoot craps. He took us to see his Uncle Lester play baseball during the summer. He also let us get up on the flat roof of our apartment so that we could see the fireworks on the 4th of July.

One time he whittled an arrow out of a crate slat for me. On another occasion, he made an airplane out of tissue paper and balsa wood from a kit. A particularly wonderful thing was that he let us get a dog named Abby which slept on the furniture. Then, when I was sick, he carried me over to the near-by grocery store to hear some bagpipers warming up before a parade. During that time he also rewired some lamps for Mom and Denise and I remember a night light he made for us when we were little girls.

One day, while watching him shave, he offered to shave our faces with his electric razor, but the noise was too scary. We also helped him wash his favorite car, the Triumph. Sometimes, when he worked out, he would pretend that we were barbells and lift us over his head. We loved it.

He used to take great pleasure in entertaining the neighbors until late into the evening. Sometimes he would miss dinner because he was having so much fun. He was particularly fond of imitating Jonathan Winters, his favorite comedian.

From time to time his friends would visit. We referred to one of them as “the spaghetti man” because he only seemed to visit when Mom had made spaghetti. We referred to another as “Art the Artist” because his name was Art and he was a real artist. Art gave us a small oil painting of a woman that Dad prized and hung on the wall of our apartment.

He went off to work at the Army Depot most days. He frequenty had to take long business trips, often to Washington State. One of the bases at which he visited had a real lion named Leaky as a mascot and he had his picture taken next to Leaky’s cage. He would send us post cards during his trips and bring back hotel soaps for us. We thought the gifts were really great and played dolls, washing them with the little bars of soap.

After the divorce, he moved to Washington State and we moved in with Grandma Bybee, where we lived until we girls got married. We used to write back and forth. He loved to write. He told Leah that he had wanted to write for a news paper. Many years later, he began writing for entertainment and reportedly started a murder mystery. Unfortunately, all his personal writings were destroyed.

When Denise was about eleven, our father came to town and took us to dinner once. Denise thinks that Mom must have picked the restaurant. We girls wore our prettiest dresses and had our hair curled. He picked us up in a taxi which transported us to downtown Sacramento, about 10 miles away. He took us to an expensive restaurant, maybe Posey's, where we practiced our very best manners and he entertained us with his witty banter. We had fun, but at the end of the evening, he put us in a cab and sent us home, telling us that he regretfully did not have enough money to escort us to the door. He told Denise later that he felt very badly about having to do that.

When I was 12 or so, he gave me a horse for Christmas. We kept her at my the Tobler’s, my cousins, farm. Her name was Nightingale, but the Toblers called her “Nightmare” because she wasn’t the best horse.

Dad remarried in 1958. We met Jeannie and our new step-brothers a few years later, when he returned to Sacramento to live. He enjoyed taking us to see Ron and Tom play football. He bragged about Ron all the time.

Dad bought a coffee shop as an investment for Jeannie to work in. He bought us drinks there once. Then the business failed and he had to declare bankruptcy. They lost their house and had to live in an apartment way across town. That’s where he taught me to play the guitar.

Dad lent me his very expensive guitar to practice on, a Spanish, electric, cut-away Gibson. He was excited about my progress and said that he had taught several people to play, but he felt that I was particularly quick and he seemed pleased that I did as well as I did, even if I played folk music instead of Country and Western.

Dad adopted his first step-son, Ron, making him our official half-brother. Eventually, Dad tired of Sacramento and announced that he was going to move back to Washington State. Ron and Jeannie went with him, but Thom remained in Sacramento to finish high school. That was the last real face-to-face contact I had with him for a long time.

Years came and went. We kept in touch through letters. We girls exchanged Christmas and birthday gifts with him.

It was sometime during my engagement to Steven Bauer that he divorced Jeannie. He remarried a lady named Knelda. When Glenda and her husband, Michael Harvey, lived in Washington State they developed a relationship with him. They lived about two and a half hours distant from each other. During that time, he and Knelda came to visit Glenda and Michael in their home. Then Glenda and Michael visited Mr. Gould.

At that time he owned a small farm, maybe ten acres. While showing Glenda and Michael around, he called it a “stump farm.” This was a joke because he was very proud of his little farm. Glenda said that he liked growing vegetables and giving them to a nursing home.

They also went to a high school football game together. On one visit, Ron was there. She said that our father was very nice to her.

Many years later, Denise and her husband, Rob and their second son, Matthew, went to see him. Unfortunately, at that time he was very sick and was not up to visiting. But he apologized for the inconvenience in his next letter to her.

I visited him the next year. He had a full head of white hair and he owned a border collie that he let up on the furniture. He walked leaning heavily on his cane and coughed a lot. He said that he was happy with his life and talked about how he liked to make models for Christmas for needy children.

He died at 9:27 A.M. on April 21, 2008, in Emmett, Idaho of emphysema. He made Knelda promise never to tell anyone of his death. It was not even announced in the local news paper. She wrote Denise in August and broke her promise. We were glad she did. At least now we have closure.

The Judge
Not that I’m the Fashion Police, but when I first saw him, the knife in the boot caught my eye. As a conservative, dress-code-conscious denomination, suits and ties are the rule among male members. So although the knife could have been an appropriate accessory on say—a battlefield, the spit-polished combat boots, and Marine Corps sweater with its leather elbow patches made him stand out amongst the church pews. However, not knowing much about criminal justice, jurisprudence, the law, or court stuff, I will concede that I do not know what your average judge wears to religious observances.
As someone who is getting to know him, I think it’s high time some of the myths associated with Judge Moench were dispelled. There is no truth to the rumor that his title, the “Hanging Judge,” was precipitated by an actual hanging. This notion is ludicrous! Furthermore, as someone who has visited the Moench home several times, I can attest that, to the best of my knowledge, he’s never tried to hang me. Conversely, when I suggested we invite Judge Moench to speak to my Modern American Social Problems class, some of my male students’ faces contorted in agony. “No! No!” they pled. “We’ll be good! We’ll read the chapter. We’ll do homework every night. We’ll wash your car. Just don’t let him see our faces again!”
Second Myth; he is not always angry. I give credit for the Judge’s austere countenance to his Klingon eyebrows. But really, who’s got time for a make-over in this crazy, hectic world? Nevertheless, my husband and I have become quite at ease with him, sometimes calling him by his nickname, “Your Honor” and at other times just using his first name, “Judge.”
And finally, yes, he does have a sense of humor. This is evidenced by the April Fool’s Day prank he played in court. He wore a brilliant orange shirt with his black robe and tie and told his clerk, loud enough for all to hear, that a new warning was put out by the Center for Disease Control about a dangerous drug that was being used, the initial symptom of which was seeing white as orange when contrasted with black.
I, being quite the tease, have made it my life’s ambition to crack him up. I don’t mean a chuckle or a guffaw, but a real, no kidding, falling-off-his-chair-because-he’s-lost-it laughing seizure. I imagine myself firing a bunch of one-liners at him. “Your Honor,” I will say, “what’s a cow dread in the morning?” (Correct answer: “Cool Hand Luke.”) His answer: “Well, before I went into the Marines, but just after I worked at the lumber mill, I was the Chief Cow Superintendent at a dairy farm in an attempt to save up for law school. Anyway, I used to play classical music to an endangered breed called the Dutch Belted at sunup because of an article I read, written back in 1959, on the effects of Rachmaninoff concertos on milk production. Even though the article was a little dated, no other articles written since have refuted the claim. As an aside, in June of 1923, Bulletin #2 of the Dutch Belted Cattle Association of America claimed that the first significant importation of the breed was made by P.T. Barnum in 1840.
“But returning to your original question, I was reading up on this topic just last week, which reminds me about the time my horse got sick for no apparent reason. After some research, I removed his appendix…”
Obviously, I never get past the first joke. As an alternative, during his stories, I’ve composed a song to the tune of “The Yellow Rose of Texas” which I think is pretty good:

Ode to Justice
For those who thirst for equity, injustice to assay,
Your arms entwine and form a line; Judge Moench presides today.
Adjudication is his game. Throw thoughts of woe away.
He will be fair so have no care; Judge Moench presides today.
He’s heard it all and met the call. With justice doth he weigh.
The wrong will wail the good prevail; Judge Moench presides today.
Let’s dance and let’s throw flowers now the crooks are put away.
Yes, all is well and life is swell ‘cuz Moench presides today.
Hip-hip, hurray! It’s A-OK! The Judge is in today.

Riding Lessons
OK. I’ll admit it. I’m a wann’a be cowgirl. I got my first pair of cowboy boots at the age of three, started saving for a pony in the first grade, and owned one by the age of 12. Unfortunately, the only things I learned from my mare were that horses cannot be house trained, they do not come with seatbelts, and they are very heavy, especially when standing on your foot. Understandably, it was about the same time I lost interest in horses that I took up the far more fascinating sport of boy watching.
Forty years have passed since I parted with my horse. Since then, I met and married Steven, a really great guy, and had four children who left home as soon as we could legally make them. With all the spare time we then had, we looked for a new hobby. The criteria were simple; it had to not have anything to do with teenagers, ballroom dancing, backpacking, or ice skating. Upon moving to Taft, Steven and I decided to investigate equestrianism. Thus began our seven year search for someone that would teach the horseless how to ride. Take it from me—the market is wide open for instructors in horseless horsemanship.
Enter Jason Bluebaker (not his real name), a real live, honest to goodness cowboy. I suspected Jason was a cowboy the first time he moseyed on into my classroom. First of all, by law, only cowboys are allowed to mosey on in. Secondly, he was wearing spurs. Never mind that his legs look like a set of parentheses, the dead giveaway was when he disclosed that he was a cowboy and he gave RIDING LESSONS! All I could say was, “How much?”
Arrangements were made and I waited none too patiently for our first lesson which began promptly at high noon. Having once actually owned a horse, I knew what to expect from riding lessons; how to watch someone saddle your horse from a safe distance, how to mount while wearing a belt buckle the size of a pie tin, and maybe some cool cowboy poses. Imagine my surprise when the curriculum included horsey hygiene, safety procedures, and preflight.
We manicured hooves, fluffed saddle blankets, moussed manes, and spritzed our steeds with fly repellent. We cinched, buckled and strapped on saddles, bridles, and whatever else Josh—I mean Jason (not his real name)—told us to. We checked to make sure there were two fingers of room under their belly cinches and one finger’s worth under their chin straps. We learned to measure our stirrups from our fingertips to our arm pits, and then how to double-check from our pits to our tips.
“Now, when walking around a horse, you got to either stay far away from the horse’s rear end or get as close to it as possible in case they kick. When you’re nice and close, they can’t get the momentum as much as if you stand a little ways off,” Jason instructed. “Oh yeah, when you’re working with them, keep pushing them away from the hitching rail so you don’t get trapped in case something happens.”
And sure enough, just after his deep massage, Josh’s pinto faked a fainting spell in a transparent attempt to avoid exercise. You’ve heard that horses can sense when someone doesn’t know what they’re doing? It’s all true. The other horses laughed themselves silly while Steve and I gawked at the ongoing spectacle. And, as Josh—I mean Jason—walked the horse back to the paddock, I could see the other horses pointing at Steve and me as they sneered and whispered amongst themselves.
In the meantime, Steven became more and more certain that the last thing he ever wanted to do was climb on top of a horse. But, being a manly man, he did what he was told. We finally hit the saddles as the sun was setting. Suffice it to say that Steve wasn’t having much fun. As I walked my well-coiffed mount around the arena, did figure eights and figure sixteens, Steve asked, “Where do the quarters go?” “How do you make this thing go?” “How do you make this thing stop!!?” and “Are we through yet?”
I think this is going to work out. I’m learning a thing or two and Josh is making good money. Two out of three of us are happy and Steven and I are still on speaking terms. Hi ho, Silver! And happy trails to us! a

Laundry Wars
Laundromats have their own culture. The written norms for this particular realm are that everyone must put clothes in the machines, cough up the change, unload the machines when done, clean up after themselves, and take all their stuff away. The unwritten norms are just as iron-clad: no one is ever held accountable for losing or gaining an occasional mystery sock, people who don’t clean up after themselves will be thought of as irredeemable slobs, and those who do not promptly remove their laundry from any machine deserves a place in Dante’s Eighth Circle of Hell, the one filled with deceivers, sowers of discord, demons, and telemarketers.
Veteran laundromat users, such as Steven and I, take filled lint traps in stride, don’t even blink at fabric softener static-thingy-sheets left in the dryers, and can ignore spilled laundry detergent. We could be classified as fairly easy-going laundry room users. As I see it, nobody’s perfect and if someone has made a mistake, I’ve probably made that same mistake too, hopefully only once.
However, occasionally I get a little head up, like the time someone left a tumble-dried cigar in a dryer for the next user to enjoy. Needless to say, the tobacco stains didn’t do my whites much good. But I find some solace in believing that the cigar owner will also be setting up house in Dante’s Eighth.
My own problems aside, war has just been declared in one of Taft’s leading apartment complex’s laundry rooms. Someone committed the first mentioned Eighth Circle sin and the next user was not as philosophical as I. After three days of waiting for Bevis (not his real name) to remove his clothes, Bubba (not his real name) did it for him. You know the progression: Bevis returned for his laundry and mistakenly took Bubba’s, who hadn’t removed his. Then Bubba sold Bevis’ clothes on E-bay to try to recoup his losses. Next, the laundry room was wallpapered with scathing notes from each to the other, which neither party read, just innocent women and children trying to rinse out a few things. Shots were fired, a bazooka was pulled out, and—well, I don’t see a peace in this decade.
Time to review the Golden Rule which urges us to “Do unto others so as you don’t get sued.” I tend to remove another’s laundry from the dryer and carefully fold it so that the owner will not think that I am angry with him or her. This works on many levels. First, the practitioner is earning points with the angels. Secondly, the appearance/disappearance of mystery socks is greatly diminished. Third, there’s a good chance that the slug that forgot the laundry will be guilt-loaded into more diligent laundry removal. Finally, if the laundry cretin doesn’t register guilt, there’s a fair chance that he or she will get totally humiliated knowing that one of the neighbors has sure knowledge that he or she buys his or her underwear at K-Mart.
Steven vehemently disagrees with this policy. He says that folding laundry for others encourages slovenly habits. He worries that such practices could cause massive laundry room chaos precipitating street riots, looting, and economic collapse, resulting in our planet spinning uncontrollably into outer space. He’s probably right. He’s always right.
Why can’t we all just get along? Like Martin Luther King, I too have a dream. It is of an America in which people, upon finding a dryer full of wet clothes, deposit the correct coins, and forget their own laundry. Then, during the fluff cycle, they make a batch of cookies to place atop their neighbor’s freshly folded laundry with an inspirational thought written in a hand-made greeting card. (From time to time I dream about unicorns and flying hippos too.) I don’t see this happening during my lifetime. The laundry room has been in use all day due to inattentive users and Steve just threw someone’s laundry into the swimming pool.

Ego Trip

Here is a picture of my column published in the Taft Independent. Don't worry about it being too small to read. It is a reprint of the entry I made about the sidewalks at the school. What this really is, is an experiment on how to put my stuff into my blog as easily as possible. I know what you're going to say, "Just cut and paste from your word file." That was the first thing I tried. My computer sulked and refused to speak to me for two days. If anyone has a better idea that does not include retyping the whole thing into my blog, I'd be interested to hear it.

Thanks in advance for any help.

Jail Break

About a month before the event, Stephen, my husband, (not his real name) reported on a "Jail Break" held in Cody, WY, at which some LDS kids amused themselves by sneaking from the First Ward chapel to the Second Ward chapel, about a mile and a half distant, while their advisers searched for them with flashlights. Everyone had a good time and no one required the use of municipal support systems (e.g., the hospital emergency ward, fire department, ambulance service, police units, animal control, child protective services, Fish and Game wardens, air traffic controllers, SWAT teams, etc.). The wheels clicked and, after about a nanosecond of serious deliberation, the thought materialized, How can the Psych Club make money off of this?

At my suggestion that we hold a Prison Break, club members went absolutely wild with enthusiasm. A half hour later, after the adrenalin-sponsored frenzies had subsided, everyone had ideas, wanted to participate, and wanted their advisor to do all the work (that would be me). Any professional dealing with college activities knows that the two most important factors to a successful event are beer and sex--but there wasn't much we could do about it so we concentrated on, 1)lots and lots of advertising and 2) work delegation.

Sydney (not his/her real name) stepped right in, "I'll OK it with the Associated Student Body and take care of advertising, prizes for the winners, flashlights for the spotters, Ninja throwing stars for the losers, certificates of participation, the finish line, punch and cookies, the circus tent, loud music, a disco ball, refreshments, and pony rides."

"You're my main dude," I crooned.

Wanting to begin our prison break in a theme-relevant venue, I made an appointment with the Taft Chief of Police. Chief Mac Mann (not his real name), with one eyebrow cocked in obvious skepticism, listened for a half hour as I explained our plans. Then he asked, "What?"

I summarized, "We would like to hold a Prison Break during which some mature, sensible and reliable College Students would attempt to run from your impressive and well-kept prison to the Taft Campus and not get caught by other trust-worthy, safety-conscious and capable fellow scholars."

Chief, "A bunch of kids galloping head-long across the highway in front of K-Mart after dark? I think not."

Me, "What if we promise to get Leona, the crossing guard, to conduct participants safely across the highway at the light?"

Chief, "She's booked. Competent crossing guards are hard to find and she's always in demand."

After conferring with several local agencies and officials, I spent the next month arranging and rearranging our starting point. Among those with whom I counseled where College President, Wilhelm Dunkin; Vice President of Student Affairs, Rock Mac Murray; Department Chair, Chere Eveland; Judge Munch, Governor Schwartzenager; Steven Speilberg, the U.S. Senate; and Gladys Knight and the Pips (not their real names). About a week before the event, I realized that I had not heard from anyone about their assignments--especially Sydney.

Tuesday, Oct. 21: email to Sydney: "As per Jail Break, scheduled Oct. 30th, advertising in critical condition! Please see me stat with proposed flyers."

Friday, Oct. 24: Email to Sydney: "Advertising on life support! Get your buns into my office today or else!"

Monday, Oct. 27: Email to Sydney:

Dear Sydney,

I miss you terribly. Was it something I said? When will I see you again?

Love, Your Dedicated Advisor,

Ms Baver (not my real name)

The night of the event, 32 1/2 participants showed up. Runners included four Taft college jocks, six students hoping to earn extra credit by participation, one high school long-distance runner, his cousin, one mother with a stroller and baby, five gang members who wanted to fine-tune their police evasion skills, 12 off-duty cops volunteering as catchers if they could use their tasers (their help was reluctantly declined), and a cowboy. That left thirteen paying contestants.

Results: The cowboy's horse was too conspicuous for Taft nightlife; they were immediately spotted and disqualified. The long-distance runner won, his cousin came in second, and the mommy and baby came in third and a half. We drew names to award movie tickets and free pizzas to non-winning participants. Then we retired to the Student Union (the circus tent, etc. never actualized) and rifled foam rubber Ninja throwing stars at each other until we got bored.

Next year we will streamline the process, starting preparations in August. I further assert that Sydney is definitely the key to a successful event; we won't let him help. I think it has a chance.