THE SONS OF WILKERSON



In 1978-79, I was a 10th grader fortunate enough be in a World Cultures class with many of the brightest, best people I have ever known, guided by the estimable Dr. Ron Wilkerson. As our 30th high school reunion approaches, it is time to retell the story of the Sons of Wilkerson.


There were a lot of amazing things that we did and learned in that class. My big early-year paper was a biography of Thomas More. Boy, did I put a lot of work into that thing. There was exhaustive research in the musty central stacks of Pattee Library at Penn State, riding up and down in awesome old school manual elevators. I read and dissected More's masterwork Utopia, as well as translations of one of his mentors, Erasmus. I dug through controversial biographies that emphasized More's executions of Lutherans as Lord Chancellor. A mistake-proof typed manuscript on a lousy non-electric Underwood typewriter was grindingly elusive. Shockingly to me, the final product was only good enough for a B. I had been completely overshadowed by incredible papers about the Berlin Airlift, the United Nations, and other great works from others in the class that floored me when I read them.


It was first period, and I used to collaborate with my best buddy Marc to make up goofy history-related rhymes to write on the chalkboard before class. Example: What do you call the odor emanating from WWI battlefields? Answer: French trench stench. Or: What do you call a fair-haired, easy-going early British invader? Answer relaxin' flaxen Saxon. I could go on, but I won't. I wouldn't do that to you.


The only thing I didn't like about that class was having to read and report on the Chinua Achebe novel Things Fall Apart. I still don't understand the big deal about Okonkwo and the yams. I feel extra sorry for the Official Eldest Offspring of the blog, who had to do Things Fall Apart in 9th grade and again for AP English in her senior stanza. Ouch.


Another buddy Steve and I liked to play volleyball. We'd go to Rec Hall for a pick-up game or just to hit the ball around. We used to go to the Penn State volleyball games. They were, and still are, a national powerhouse. We didn't know that varsity volleyball in high school was only a girls' sport. Our reaction to this disappointment was to get together an intramural team. And so we roped a bunch of our friends into it and called ourselves, you guessed it, the Sons of Wilkerson. We went down to the Murphy's 5 and 10 downtown and got some T shirts made with S.O.W. letters in different color combinations.


I believe this is the only picture in existence of the Sons of Wilkerson.  Blurry, regrettably. Some F-stop issue or whatever.

Back row: Jeff Edmunds, Steve Fleming, Andy Phillips, Marc Shapiro, some guy in an orange S.O.W. shirt


Front: Doc Wilkerson, Alan Weber, Lisa Dignazio. I don't remember if Lisa played on the team or not. I forgot to ask her last time I saw her.






Who's that guy in the green and orange shirt, ridiculous blue hat, and embarassing cut-offs?

Oh.






So taken was Doc Wilkerson by this turn of events that he offered us an end-of-year party at his house if we won the championship. I recall many tight games that season. We did pretty well and made it to the final. As I recall, the weather was difficult that day, but we had a full complement of players. The other team was composed of seniors who were big and good, but only two of them showed up that day. I also remember that a cheering section was there, which may have included our awesome English teacher, Carol Gentry. Doc was there for sure. There was a party riding on the outcome, after all. We fell behind early and were panicking that a two-man team could possibly beat us. However, a series of aces by impressive server Steve Fleming drew us even, and the final few points fell our way.


And so, on the last day of school, the whole class convened at Doc Wilkerson's house to celebrate the end of 10th grade and bask in each other's company one last time. It was a beautiful spring Pennsylvania day, with a full summer of possibilities ahead. Recently I turned up a few photos of that day, the first of several memorable, perfect days I have experienced in my life.


Doc loved his bike.

Leigh stole my hat and made it look way better than I ever did.

Group photo of the party brought to you by the Sons of Wilkerson:

If you are lucky, you have had teachers in your life like Doc Wilkerson. Teachers who set the bar high and provided you the knowledge and skills to clear said bar. If you are lucky, you went to high school with people as amazing and brilliant as my classmates in 10th grade World Cultures. I know that many of them have gone on to important work in various fields. I probably could have done something important, but I never got over that B on the term paper.

A Blog Promise Kept

In 2007, I promised that if I ever turned up my old photo album, I'd show everyone a 1982 picture of 4 guys taking their air band very seriously. Behold Steve, yours truly, Rege, and Doug. We're rocking out as we did nearly every night after dinner freshman year in Doug's room in Hamilton Hall with the stereo blasting. I have written on the back of the photo that the song is "Long Time" by Boston. Sometimes we did "More Than A Feeling" for variety. None of us actually played any of those instruments except Rege. But I probably didn't need to tell you that. You can tell that he is a guitar god by the face that he makes when he's laying into a seriously sick and painful bent 15th-fret note. Notice the "Solidarnosc" t-shirt which was all the rage back then. Rege's story since college is unknown to me. Doug was a dead ringer for Springsteen and hosted an awesome New Year's party with his soulmate Terri at the end of 1986. In 1987 Steve was the best man at the wedding of Your Humble Bloggist and Official Aloha Partner. Steve is also one half of the most awesome tale of interrupted-but-inevitable high school international love that was meant to be of anyone I know. But you'll have to ask him about that yourself.

Curacao 2011

When last Your Humble Bloggist put finger to keyboard, the year was 2008, and I could read a menu without the aid of spectacles. 2011 finds me in a rather sad state of presbyopia. Don't hate me for using that word. It's my job, you know. Rather than lament the loss of ciliary muscle function and/or sclerosis of my lenticular protein, I have decided to chronicle for you my impressions of Doug Stern's Swimtacular Flash Mob. As always, I don't expect anyone to read all of this meandering bloggage. It is spectacularly forgettable now that I just reread what I wrote. The pictures are nice, but surely you have something better to do. Just please nod politely if I see you later and ask you if you liked it. I won't quiz you on the contents.

Flash Mob? How so?

 

The annual gathering of the regulars and worthy newbies reminds me a little of those seemingly random, yet artfully choreographed pieces that pop up at train stations or on the TV show "Modern Family". We manage to assemble down there by South America, wreak havoc on our bodies and upon unfortunate Dutch people stuck on a catamaran with us, for example. Then we all pack up with endorphins flowing, livers pleading for mercy, and various unsual organisms populating our digestive tracts, heading back to various wintry or deserty places to resume whatever it is we do there. Eventually we clean the last grain of sand out of our fingernails and the memories become part of our life legend. Thank you Kate for being our flash mob coordinator.

What's the most somewhat unhinged thing to do in Curacao?

Torching women half your age on some ridiculous head-spinning suffer fest bike race? Fun, maybe. Shockingly superhuman, definitely.

A three hour run? Preposterous.

You might get bitten. Next time try a little sanity, will ya?

Acting as wingman for a Russian stud is not very sane. Especially unwise if you are 47 years old and have never spoken to a strange woman in a bar. And you are sober. True story.

"OK OK I'll go talk to that Dutch woman for you. Just don't make me do anymore kick sets!"

So there's this place called Cabana down from Mambo's. On Friday nights all of Dutch youth in Curacao seems to converge on this place, which was dishing up the most lively dance music imaginable. Only problem is, I don't think they have ever seen people dance before. All that technorap these kids today love, you know. A bunch of middle-aged Americans grooving? Could have been the zoo. Complete with utter strangers snapping photos. If you are a Dutch youth with photos of that evening please post them here. On second thought, only if you can crop out my sorry sweat-drenched self. Or maybe photoshop Dr. Doug Ross from "ER" in my place.

Here's an aside

These three people? Has there ever been a picture taken of any of them wherein they did not look positively smashing? I think not.











Pink swim caps rock

This is the place to show some impressive roommates

A culinary experience? That's something new.

Homemade mango salsa you say? Get outta town. Don enjoyed it, if these two pictures are any indication.

And what's with all these people who know their wine, anyway? A half second sniff to tell pinot grigio from chardonnay? Unheard of and a little scary. Who does that? Amuse-bouche? The hell is that? Foodies impress me.


Local foodery Augusto's has garlic bombs which you probably shouldn't get. Or eat their leftovers, apparently. You might end up having to stay over in Dallas, which can be unpleasant, but isn't always. Unpleasant, that is. I hear that it can be "surprisingly" awesome, although others know more about this than I do.




How to make the best of a fried clutch

I believe that Carlton possesses magical powers, but gravity and shearing forces prevailed this day.

After you stop retching from the smell, get out and push!

Bus mechanics are friendly

Walt is a true leader of men and master of his domain

What's the best thing to do in Curacao?

Having coffee at sunrise isn't bad.















How about posing at Knip?

OK, gents, that's just showing off. Put away those guns.

You do not have the opportunity to hear a Famous Author speak every day

Cliff-jumpers have more fun for sure

A catamaran ride among the flying fish is pretty good.

Notice the American wearing the Sweden shirt and the Swede going all USA. That may not be interesting to you , but it is to me.

If babies could talk, I suspect they would tell you that they really like sitting on Daddy's lap watching Mommy swim.

 Mommy in this case is a remarkable swimmer. And remarkable mommy, for that matter. I can tell. It's my job, you know. Dads rule too of course.

 

 

Playing guitar for Harvey after breakfast is great. He will praise even the most pitiful of fumble-fingered hackers. Then he will tell you about how he sent Neil Young to the minor leagues of the Canadian coffeehouse circuit in the '60s.

Those Cuban salsa songs go on for a real long time, but Andy and Sara are up to the task

I don't know what happened here but it was clearly fun

There's that too

OMG! Boggle! My guess is that this game has been contested more than any other word game on Klein Curacao. Somebody teach me how to play Bananagrams for crying out loud.

Have you ever seen a classier ostrich feeder? I didn't think so. 

Making new friends is nice. Ahem.

The Hidden Talents File

Whoa



In Salt Lake City there is no one better at displaying "cleavages". Who knew?

Talented Dutch couple. Not much hidden, though.



The City Coach's hidden talent is avian communication

This would be the coach who can do the "YMCA" gestures on a long ride. Sometimes you just have to start singing the song for him. When you run out of verses to that, how about a sing-along of your high school alma mater? What I didn't know was that apparently not everyone ever learned the words to their high school alma mater."Hail, all hail, to old State High/Hail maroon and gray/To our alma mater fair/ we pledge all our lives for aye."  Anyone who wants to learn, I'll teach it to you. The Official Offspring of the blog have known it since they were tots.

Dolphins=fun

Someday you should look at Asa's Facebook page. There are all these great posts in Swedish.

Swedish signs are very cool. What ensues is a selection from our rapid-fire Stockholm tour of 2009. 



Here are 3 guys who do not need a bunch of cans to cause someone to think about six packs. There were some other people possessing nice cans at around the same time, but no one will share a picture of that with me for some reason.

Doesn't Sara remind you of Mother Earth? All goodness and light? Oh, I forgot about the Bad Mommies Club . Weeeeellllll.....still a F---ton of joy and warmth in that gal. You can impress her by telling her you like her braids.

If you know me, and you probably do, you know that my favorite thing to do in Curacao is boat diving. I said it all those years ago in the pirate ship posting. You can look at it (2007?Was that really 4 years ago?) if you want to wade through the old pages of ridiculous anniversary haikus, New York travelblogs and birthdaypaloozas. Just skip all that. By now you know I can't write worth a darn. So just take my word for it that I mentioned that I love pirate ships and that they make good diving platforms where you can pretend to show off. Catamarans will do in a pinch

Those shadows on the boat are very well-aligned indeed.

This is the part where some smart alecky newbie waltzes in and snags the Doug Stern Memorial Photography Prize.

The kid's got some game

So what's it like cutting loose with people you haven't seen in between 6 months (thanks Kate for the Bar Tabac experience) and 30 years (can you say time warp)? You will all have your own opinions that range from "how do their families put up with these bizarre pseudoadults?" to "I have been through a scary and transformative experience-this is a memorable reward". Scary and transformative. Like presbyopia, you know.

For me, I embrace the mental health week with endorphin-fueled euphoria and gratitude to my fabulous and all-too-grown-up-and-ready-to-fly-the-coop offspring and joyous Breathing Partner for minding the pack at the ranch (1960 walkout ranch, that is).

A family surgical thing is about to happen. Cross your fingers for Dot's lateral meniscus, everyone!

Many thanks to Kelley, Lisa, Asa, and Jeannine for sharing their photos