Football, Movies, and Not-so-stupid Questions.

My buddy Russ was a good football player. About my size, so not a moose, but strong. Sadly, he never really got along with our high school football coach, so his playing time was limited. One Thursday before a Friday game, the coach was going through the game plan: telling the assembled team in some detail general and specific assignments. The team we'd play was bigger, so we'd have to trap-block. The guards would drop back from their man, and run down the line and catch the advancing defensive tackle or linebacker on the opposite side of the line. The running back would take a fake and the fullback would hit the gap between the right-side guard and tackle. Stuff like that. After about 10 minutes, Coach Korn asked the team if we had any questions. Russ, knowing he was not going to be playing the next day- and knowing that the coach knew he knew this- raised his hand. Coach Korn eyed Russ warily: "What is it, Baggett?". "Coach", Russ said as the 80 or so half-padded players looked on. "Coach. If Jesus Christ and Superman got into a fight, who do you think would win?". Through considerable effort, I managed not to laugh. Fast forward thirty-five years: Last night, Lady Di and I saw "Man of Steel" at Walterboro's lone theater, Ivanhoe Cinema 4, and Russ's question popped up again. Confused? Well, yeah. See, in "Man of Steel", Superman is presented as a Jesus figure. Jor-El (played by Russell Crowe), a scientist from Krypton, seeing his planet about to implode, puts his infant son in a ship to a similar planet- Earth- to save his child and maybe to save Earth. Young Kal-El is found in Smallville, Kansas, by the Kent family. Dad (played by Kevin Costner), obviously knows his boy is different, because, you know, he found the kid in a space-ship. Mom and dad also discover his amazing strength, lazar vision, and lightning speed. Over the course of time, mom nurtures him, and Dad tells him he's obviously got a very special reason for being there, and eventually he'll know, but in the meantime, to keep his head down and not to tell anyone about his powers, because he doesn't know his purpose yet, and the world just won't understand him. Not hard to imagine another adoptive father, Joseph, telling young Jesus the same thing. When some bad guys- who, by virtue of their timely banishment managed to survive Krypton's destruction- arrive to conquer and colonize Earth, Superman has to step up to save Earth. Guess how old is at this auspicious moment? How's 33 grab you? There are plenty of other parallels between Superman and Jesus, and I'm quite sure they've been pointed out by lots of folks before (when I excitedly mentioned my theory in my post-mortum of the movie to Lady Di, she was all, "Duh!", so, I'm evidently not breaking any new ground here). Anyway, I thought of Russ, Leto Falcon football, and Coach Korn. And I've finally got an answer: Russ, Jesus wouldn't fight Superman. Jesus is Superman.

I like beer.

>I'm a mild and content man these days. Downton Abbey, a nice meal, and an occasional glass of pinot noir with Lady Di is a fine evening. It was not always so. I listened to Blues the other day, while I sipped a glass of cold beer. My mind drifted to days of yore. Commander. Russ. Scott and Bob. Betas and Fijis. I don't miss it, but I'm glad I lived it. Thanks, guys.

Food Fight.

Dan Cathy, grand poobah of Chick-fil-A, has opined that marriage is a union of a man and a woman. If the leader of a chicken empire says it, I guess it must be so. Of course, he's not the only food vendor with opinions on matters of national import: Pizza man Herman Cain had plenty of opinions. If it turns out he's right, maybe we should seek the advice of other food vendors in other things: Want to know what to do about nuclear weapons advances in Iran? Consult with, oh, I don't know, Famous Amos? For the record: I like Chick-fil-A's chicken, and I like Chick-fil-A. Do I like their theology? Not so much. I'm no scientist, but my anecdotal observation leads me to believe that homosexuality is not a choice. Is it a sin? Guess that depends on how you read Chapter 15 in Matthew's Gospel, and how much of the list of "unclean" activities Jesus declared no longer verboten. I'm inclined to believe that homosexuality is not a sin. Although Jesus does mention "sexual immorality" in Matthew, he spent a lot more time putting down the establishment's abuse of traditionally disenfranchised folks than he did peeking under people's sheets. I'm inclined to agree with http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Garry_Wills
that Jesus would've sided with the outcasts instead of the establishment on that one. I gotta say I'm relieved that I don't have millions of people relying on my interpretation of Gospel, as the leaders of the Episcopal Church and as the Catholic Church, and all the Protestant churches do.

I may not totally agree with the Cathys' politics, but I don't doubt their sincerity. I worked for Chick-fil-A back in the day, both back home in Tampa (thanks to my old Chick-fil-A supervisor, Dan P.,  for the picture at left, circa 1978), and also for the mothership in Hapeville, Georgia. They always treated their employees well, including me, and my experience in the Summer of 1979 (including a "witnessing" story that I might or might not blog one day) is what led me to seek another Christian employer in 1980 (see Alpine Camp for Boys, two posts ago). Dan Cathy is saying the same things he and his family have always said. They're not hypocrites. In fact, his father, Truett, took about thirty of us who were working for the "Blitz team" to his church, bought minibikes for us to ride on his ranch outside of Atlanta, and paid us to go to a Christian seminar, not to help sales, but because he cared about our souls. 


So, will I eat at Chick-fil-A? Of course I will; they make great chicken sandwiches... but I didn't go Wednesday.

Alpine Camp for Boys, Circa 1980.

I got a call from an old buddy of mine the other day. Jim and I were camp counselors at Alpine Camp for Boys in Mentone, Alabama in the Summer of 1980. Two of my friends from the Fellowship of Christian Athletes at Sewanee, Woody (with whom I played football) and Margaret, hooked me up with Alpine. When I got there, I wanted to teach/coach football, or some other team sport, but was assigned to teach non-competitive sports, a/k/a "Earth Games", where Jim had also been billeted. In honor of our unsolicited appointments, Jim took the moniker "Earth Lizard", and I appropriated "Earth Duck". Jim forwarded the picture at left. I'm in the middle; he's to the far left. I think we were teaching them how to sing "Swing low, sweet chariot", in the picture, but I'm not positive. E-Lizard and I had a blast. There were some loose guidelines on "Earth Games": we had a parachute that we'd all flap up and down, and there were a few more or less organized activities, but mostly we just led the kids in whatever silly game we could imagine. If a kid scraped his knee, we'd celebrate it by giving him a stick or a pine cone as an award. We'd be patient about most things, but didn't brook bullying... or whining. If a kid was moping about, Earth Lizard would give him a "woodgie", which consisted of an exaggerated pout.  Egregious behavior might rate "the pit". I'm not gonna explain that one. Maybe Jim will. I also remember lots of little things, like drinking Tab, and doing laundry at the "disco-teria" in Ft. Payne; as well as some bigger things, like being grateful to talk about Jesus to kids who wanted to hear about him, and  the spiritual growth that I had. It was a long time ago, but I don't think I've ever had a better Summer. Thanks, Jim, for bringing it back.

Odd Man Out.

I was watering the Marigolds the other day, and caught this lone orange and red dude amongst the yellow ones. Reminded me of my daughter. And my mom. And me. Teachers had a tough time knowing what to do with us. Smart enough, but kinda out of step with the rest of the class. Back in the day, my buddy, Dave Okamoto, incorporated the Harry Chapin song "Flowers are Red" into a highschool spirit week skit. It about sums it up, I reckon:

Good For What Ales You.

I've toured breweries. I grew up in Tampa, and took the tour of the Anheiser Busch brewery there on more than one occasion. They used to give you free samples at the end of the tour, which may explain why my pop took my brother and me for the tour more than once. The oddist brewery I toured was the one in West Malle, Belgium. I visited Belgium- and my favorite Belgian, Dirk- a few years ago. Europe's Low Countries (as opposed to South Carolina's Lowcountry) are famous for their many high quality beers. The Netherland's Heinekin, and Belgium's Stella are but a couple of the more famous ones, but that's not the end of it: even their holy people do the brew. In point of fact, Dirk's uncle is a Trappist Monk in the monastery in West Malle, Belgium, and they make their own cheese and brew a right decent Ale there. I discovered the bottle of Ale pictured at left in Columbia, SC last year, but it started its journey in Dirk's uncle's Belgian monastery. Ain't that a kick in the head?

I Want My Mummy (or Zombie Day at St. Jude's).

My mom was a nun. I've mentioned this before, but I may have neglected to mentioned that a mummy may have helped push mommy to run to be a nun. This shouldn't shock you: There're plenty of monsters in the Bible. There are the god/human giants called the Nephilim, of course. And this Sunday past was, apparently, Zombie Day at St. Jude's (and, at many churches who use the Lectionary). First, we started in the Old Testament with Ezekiel's prophesy of God's raising the dead in the
Valley of Dry Bones. After a brief stop-over for sin and death in Romans, we have more gore in John's account of the raising of Lazarus Now, the dude had been dead for, what, four days? Jesus' friend, Martha, said the body'd be stinking by now, but Jesus went on ahead thusly: "Jesus called in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet wrapped with strips of linen, and a cloth around his face". So, what do you think Mary and Martha saw when their brother walked out? A zombie or a mummy, maybe.


Which brings me back to mom and the mummy. AndyMan and I used to torment poor mom (or maybe it was just me. It's been a long time). We'd play tricks on her. "Mom, do these socks smell clean?" was mild. We (or maybe just me) stacked a wig-holder on top of a cloaked hat-rack in mom's closet one day. She wasn't sufficiently startled, so I enlisted my buddy, Russ, to play another trick on her. We wrapped Russ' face in an Ace bandage, gave him a black hat, and a long coat, and stuck him in mom's walk-in closet. Mom always came home from work, went to her walk-in closet to get rid of her coat, and came out to make us supper. You could count on it. Well, for some reason, Mom decided to change her clothes outside of her closet on this particular day. Russ, understandably, panicked. He had no desire to see mom changing her clothes, so he stepped out of the closet and said, "Hey, Mrs. Mathews. Do not be afraid. It's me, Russ". 'Course, Russ had an Ace bandage around his face, so what mom heard was "Rrr Grr Uhh Grr Hmmmph!", which scared mom a lot. Did it contribute to her later decision to join a convent? Well, it couldn't've hurt.

The Mitch is Back!

I got to see my old friend Mitch last Sunday. You might recognize him from the high school picture I posted a week or so ago. He and his lovely bride Gina were down in Chuck Town for a Tennis tournament, and they gave up a couple of hours to hang out with me and Lady Di and eat Thai food. Back in the day, Mitch and I were thick as thieves. We strode through the halls of Leto High like we owned the place. Mitch was voted "Friendliest" in our class of more than 750 students, and I was "Class Clown" (the following year, when my brother won that category, they changed the name to a much more dignified "Wittiest". Ah, well). Mitch is pleasant, fun, and a genuinely good person, just like he was back in the day. Here's to you, Buddy!

The Name Game, Redux.

Though I'm a Florida State graduate, I first went to college in Tennessee, at "The University of the South: Sewanee" (or, as it is now called, "Sewanee: The University of the South"). Names are funny things. Shakespeare pointed out that a rose would still smell nice if you called it an old shoe, but names still have power. Diane and I went to the Charleston chapter gathering of the Sewanee Alumni association last night, and they gave me a name-tag that indicated I was "Sparky", though I'd never used the moniker at Sewanee. Whence the mix-up? Well, "Chip" Manning, one of my old classmates, was dunning me for a contribution, and I sent my generous contribution of, maybe, twenty five bucks an returned the gift card with the name Sparky. Chip apparently amended the records to reflect my new name. A couple of people at the gathering looked at me quizzically. "You look familiar", they noted, "but I don't know any Sparkys". The host of the event, Mark "Moose" Phillips, with whom I'd played football (and quaffed a few brews way, way, back then) gave me a funny look, too. Once I'd assured him of my actual identity, he loosened up, a bit (though he did watch his liquor cabinet closer!).

My Old School, 3.

One of my friends from the good old days recently posted this picture in FaceBook (Thanks, Julie).
See if you can pick me out of the crowd. Or Dave O. Or Mitch.

Outgoing Male.

Some goons did a number to our mailbox the other day. The event caused me to reminisce, as many minor events do, to days of yore (my yore, not your yore). I was hanging out at Mitch Brown's house some time in the late '70's, when a car rolled up and someone smashed-in his mailbox with a baseball bat. There's never any pattern to these sorts of things. Mitch was voted Friendliest in our class and didn't have any enemies; it was just a random event. 'Course, the lack of any specific animosity didn't prevent us from jumping in my 1970 Ford Maverick and trying to catch the guy. Ford Mavericks were not especially fast cars, but we gave chase nevertheless. We chased the dude for maybe ten minutes in and out of our subdivision, Town and Country. Finally, the dude shook us. Now, Town and Country was a pretty big subdivision (at thirty thousand people or so, it would have been the fourth biggest city in South Carolina), and, as was the case for many subdivisions built or that era, there were only four or five different styles of house, so maybe he just pulled into somebody's driveway and waited for us to pass. We drove slowly and ran our eyes over many a driveway over many a block, with no luck. We finally gave up and I decided to go home. I pulled into my driveway and saw a strange car. I walked up to the window and tapped on the glass. Out of the window peered our student body vice president, Steve Bates. "Dude!", I said (or the 1970's equivalent. Maybe "Hoss!" or "Man!"), "What are you doing? Do you know whose house this is?". He indicated surprise that, out of the 12 thousand or so driveways in Town and Country he could have selected, he had chosen my house for refuge, and that he was aware that the jig was up. He was contrite, and as meek as anybody carrying a baseball bat could be. I'm not sure whether he replaced Mitch's mailbox, but I'm pretty sure he apologized. I'm not expecting history to repeat itself here.

Prunes.

What's the saying? Time heals all wounds? Or is it time wounds all heals? Either way. I was reflecting, as I do from time to time, about Einstein's theory of relativity. No, wait... I think that was Ben Stein's theory I was thinking about. Either way. As I took a look at today's breakfast- Raisin Bran and prunes (I'm not sure calling them "dried plums" is better)- I was kinda hoping it wasn't a metaphor for, you know, life. I sighed, and thought about Hank Williams, Jr.'s "All My Rowdy Friends Have Settled Down". Then I remembered a cautionary tale from my (relative) youth.

When I was in, I think, my second year of Law School, a few of my buddies and I had been invited to a Halloween party. One of my buddies (to protect his identity, I'll call him "Randy") had been working construction while he looked for work more suited to his college degree. We'd all been extensively partaking of adult beverages that day, and, by the time we were supposed to leave for this party, Randy'd caked out. Now, during those days, almost any sins were forgivable; however, failing to rally for a round of pre-planned partying was not. We cajoled. We wheedled. We threatened. No movement. Finally, we pulled out the trump card: we cranked up "All My Rowdy Friends". Randy slowly, reluctantly, rallied. No time to pick out a costume, Randy went to the party as a construction worker. He went to the party where he met the woman he ended up marrying. I'm not sure if the story has a moral, but I like it, anyway.

Jerry the Hobart.

I was a professional dish-washer in law school. There, I said it. Although my maternal grandmother, Gina, footed the bill for my legal education, I'd gotten an independent streak along and along, and decided I wanted some extra spending money. My buddy, Scott Anderson (click on his name if you want a repeat of an old post with a pic of Scott and me and some of our buds during this era (yes, Frandy, Russ is there, too)), got me a job washing dishes at Steak and Ale in Tampa over the Christmas holidays in my first year of law school, and I decided to stay at it for a couple of months after the break (it was not a smart decision. My grades were abysmal that semester, and I ended up having to repeat a class, as I've posted before.

The dishwasher was the lowest form of being in the restaurant universe. Look at it this way: In the genteel space out front in the customer-contact world, the Bartenders and waiters/waitresses were the knights, with busboys as their squires. The kitchen was more like a military operation, with the chefs as the Top Sergeants. Prep cooks were, maybe, Lance Corporals. In those categories, dishwashers were the serfs and buck privates, respectively.

I say I was a dishwasher; actually, they called us "Hobarts", after the machine through which the dishes moved. Talk about no respect. Anyway, the busboys'd bring in stacks of dishes, which we'd spray off, stack in dishtrays, and set on the Hobart conveyor belt. The dishes would come, steaming hot, from the other end, and we'd stack them up on the shelves and send the next batch through. It was hot, kind of nasty, work. I lost fifteen pounds or so during my three month tenure there, and I always struggled to stay ahead of the busboys. 'Course, this was only a temporary gig for me. Not so for Jerry. Jerry was born to wash dishes. While I struggled, he'd lean up against the wall and smoke a cigarette until his stack of dishes got chin-high; then he'd knock 'em out in a trice. One night as he bemusedly watched me busting my butt, he commented, "Dave, you're not REALLY a Hobart, are you?". What do you mean, Jerry? "I bet you're a student, huh?" He's on to me, I thought. "Yes", I said. "Where ya goin'?", he inquired. I don't want to overwhelm poor Jerry, I thought, I'll soft pedal it a bit. "Why, I go across the Bay, over in St. Pete". "St. Pete Jay Cee?", Jerry wondered. "No", I offered (trying not to sound too superior), "I'm going to Stetson Law School". "Law school!", Jerry blurted. "Gonna be a cop, huh?". I'm tellin' you, I don't get no respect.

Leaving Las Vegas.

Lady Di and I invaded Las Vegas last week. Las Vegas is WAY different from the rural lowcountry of South Carolina, as you might imagine. The Boro is in the Southeast, with a moderate amount of rain and plenty of pine and oak trees. Blue laws prohibit lots of stuff that Palmetto State denizens deem immoral, like gambling, drinking on Sundays and other, ahem... "unseemly" activities. What's the first thing we saw after we landed in Nevada? Gambling machines aplenty.

The Boro is pretty flat and plenty verdant; unlike the desert mountains of Nevada.

But it's the man-made mountains that people come to Vegas to see. This was the view out of our room. Not too shabby!


This is one side of The Flamingo hotel, where we stayed. Only Las Vegas could make Donny and Marie Osmond cool! There were lots of shows throughout the town. We thought about seeing Cher, but at $95 a pop to sit in the cheap seats, we passed (I'm actually waiting for a show with her and her impersonators: Cher and Cher alike).

Did we gamble? Well, yeah, a little. High rollers we were not. Counting our sports-related betting, Diane lost about twenty bucks; I probably made about three. Still, with the four or five free drinks we got over the week, we didn't do too badly.


You mighta heard about the buffets in Las Vegas. Lady Di is no fan of the genre, because you always end up over-eating. I AM a fan, and since Diane was in seminars for a few of the days, well... Suffice it to say, I desperately have to get back to the gym. After a nosh, it was off to see The Strip.



The acres of excess were staggering to note. Statutes of Liberty, Eiffel Towers, Huge MnMs. The money, time and talent that went into this place- and the cost to maintain it- is mind-boggling.




My favorite activity just about anywhere I go is watching people. Outside of eating, gambling and going to shows, the top activity in Vegas has to be taking pictures. I wonder if anybody took a picture of me, taking this picture? It wasn't all just happy tourists, though. Make no mistake about it: the House almost always wins. Luck is not always a lady.

This guy said he lost his job and was trying to get money to find work in Denver. He didn't mind if I took his picture, as long as I got the sign, too.
These guys were everywhere, shoving pamphlets at you, advertising the availability of another of Las Vegas' services that you won't find so patently present almost anywhere else. They don't call it Sin City for nothing. He let me take his picture if I took a pamphlet. Don't worry, I didn't call the number!



We left The Strip, and headed for Old Las Vegas. We rode the bus with a few of Diane's convention companions, and saw some of the areas of Sin City that are a little less Chamber of Commerce ready. Old Las Vegas was lots of fun. Here are some pics:








One of our best (and cheapest) meals was at a diner in Old Las Vegas. I had a meatloaf and mashed potato sandwich, and Diane had the turkey dinner. We split a slice of cherry pie. Janet took good care of us.


Our last night in Las Vegas, we met up with old buddy, David Stitt, who's lived in the Vegas suburbs for a few months now.

The guacamole was impressively presented and right tasty (but not as good as either AndyMan's or Lady Di's).


For all the lights and sights, this was our favorite spot: a bench in the Flamingo courtyard.


And here we are together. "Awww", huh?

Reflections on Turning Fifty.

I turned fifty a few days ago. After my old buddy Russ did it five months ago, I figured that this might happen to me. My fiance, the lovely Lady Di, bought me a super-duper chair, and put together an amazing party for me, too. My brother, the Amazing AndyMan, came up from Tampa, as did high school buddies Phil and Terrie. My oldest (non-relative) friend, Russ, and his girlfriend, and his mom (who, as I've mentioned not a few times in this space, is my "second mom"), Frandy, drove up from Panama City, FL. My running partner, Kevin, and his fiance made it, along with lots of friends from Church and out and about (I'll post more pictures on FaceBook, if you wanna look). An early rain burned off, and the weather was perfect. Lots of food, music, and camaraderie were made possible by the hard work and planning of my true love, Diane. Out of a slew of blessings for which I am grateful, Diane is my greatest.



I love you, Baby.

Target Fan Club.

High School chum Connie Macy tagged me in this FaceBook pic from back in the day. I'm the dude wearing the "Target" shirt. Target didn't refer to the store, but to a band that put out a couple of albums in the mid-seventies. They were the warm-up band when Boston played in Tampa in, like, 1976. As far as I can tell, Target never hit the big-time (Shoot, they don't even have a wikipedia entry, though one of its members, Jimi Jamison, did play with Survivor for awhile (Eye of the Tiger? Remember?)). Me, AndyMan and Dave Okamoto decided that they deserved a fan club, and that we were just the cats to run it. We formed the Target Fan Club and signed up a few hundred students and even some teachers (yes, teachers). We even put out a newsletter. Dave Okamoto (one of the Three Fabulous Daves from Leto HS and Most Creative from the Class of '78), edited the newsletter, and rode that experience into the newspaper industry. The officers in the Target Fan Club included lots of pals from them days: Mitch Brown, Dave Parkes, Adam Rosenburg, Brians Russell and Rhodes. I got to be the President, because I bought their album. I don't think I bought their second one (They had a couple_of_albums, but not a ton of success. Didn't matter). Anyway, it was a blast. I couldn't find my favorite song, 99 1/2, on YouTube, but I did find this one:

Russ Turns Fifty.

As I've reported plenty in the past, the Baggetts were my "second family" as I was growing up in Tampa. I've known Russ since fifth grade. We went to Morgan Woods Elementary, Webb Junior High School, and Leto High School together, and later were housemates at Florida State University. I was shocked to discover that he decided to turn fifty last week. His sister, Sarah, set up a surprise party for him at his aunt's place near his house in Panama City, Florida. Fiancee Diane was all set for a road trip, and off we went.

Hmmm. Tire pressure's a little low. Better get Diane to put some air in 'em.

We stayed in Marinna, FL, about an hour North of Panama City, smack in the middle of Florida's "pan handle". Marianna is not big. Neither was its newspaper, The Jackson County Floridian, though its price was up there with the big boys. The lead story was that the turnout for the Christmas parade was low. The local population musta been applying for one of the four jobs listed as "now available" just above the headline.

The party was fun. Alligator hunter Phil came up from Tampa with fellow Leto H.S. Falcon Terrie; Pee Wee league Viking teammate Tommy Ostertag came over from Tallahassee, and lots of Russ' family were in attendance. Sister Sarah, Diane, and Russ and Sarah's mom (and my "second mom") Frandy, pictured at left, visited. Frandy and Diane hit it off, as I'd hoped they would. The barbecue and cake were mighty tasty, and it seemed like folks had fun.

The next day we checked out of the Fairfield and headed East on I-10.

I won't tell you where I saw this sign, but my first thought on seeing it was, "Uh, not since diapers".


We stopped in Jacksonville to visit with friends from the Boro, Jim and Gale.

My Old School(mates)

Looky here: My buddy, semi-famous alligator hunter Captain Phil Walters (and fellow graduate of Tampa Leto High School class of 1978) and Terrie Bradley Bruce (Leto class of a more recent vintage) stopped by the Boro in a tour of the South. They spent the day in Savannah, and hope to tour Charleston in the next day or so. The Boro is conveniently right in the middle of those two old Southern towns, so they graced me with a visit. We grabbed an adult beverage at The Blarney Stone, and they bid me adieu. I'd've posted the Alma Mater, but, well, um, can anyone out there give me the first line? Anyway, Steely Dan's "My Old School" will have to do:



(and I actually do know the Alma Mater, I just wanted to see if there are any Falcons out there...).

Roadtrip: Michigan: Part III, Dearborn.

We visited Diane's old neighborhood. I asked her if she would write about it. This is her post.


7510 Neckel Street, Dearborn, MI.When my parents divorced in 1965 we moved from the suburbs of Chicago to my grandfather’s house where my mother grew up in the 1940s. What I remember about growing up occurred mainly in the town of Dearborn Michigan. My 5 brothers and sisters and I lived with my Mom and Grandpa Marentette. We were enrolled in St. Alphonsus School where my mother graduated in 1939. I remember it as a great way to grow up. The town was mostly Roman Catholic Western Europeans of German, Polish, Italian, and French Canadian descent. From our backyard you could see the school and church; St. Alphonsus was a large part of our daily life. The neighborhood kids went to school and church together and played “lot baseball” together in the summer and had snowball fights in the winter.


Fast forward to 2009 when David and I visited my old neighborhood and adjacent St. Alphonsus church and school. My brother Greg cautioned me against going to visit our old house because it was being rented and was in disrepair. I rarely have opportunity to visit my past and with David’s support I felt good about going.

We arrived at 7510 Neckel Street to find an Arabic woman on my old front porch with the door wide open.
David took this picture (Direct TV) of the past and present worlds of Dearborn, Michigan. The old Dearborn of the 60s, 70s, and 80s Western European Americans has now been replaced by the largest Arabic community in the United States.

We met Eddie who was suspicious of our nosing around my old haunts. Once he found out we were friend and not foe we had a great chat. Eddie is Lebanese and came to Michigan in the early 70’s. He shared with us that the neighborhood had changed with Iraqis and Yemenis moving 3 or more families into the neighborhood houses.


My first job was at the Golden Boy Donut shop, which was in this building- now an Arabic Restaurant.

The Overhang at St. Alphonsus School.I saw the construction at St. Al's as hope for the future: they wouldn't bother to renovate the Church, if they were planning to close it. The sad thing for me is that the population of Dearborn has changed so much that my old high school closed in 2003, with the grade school closing in 2005. Old friends from the neighborhood tell me that these days the church, which could hold hundreds of people, has only about 50 or so people for Sunday Mass. One thing in life we can be sure of is change.