GREETINGS FROM EMIL SCHMIT

THE PAGER

Martha McCutcheon picked up the electronic pager. Behind the desk, a middle-aged lady wearing a practiced, but tired, smile instructed her, “Please remain here in the waiting room and keep the pager in your hand. It will ‘buzz’ and vibrate to let you know when the doctor is ready to see you.”

Martha took one of the few empty chairs. Once comfortably seated, she looked around the crowded room. Some of the waiting patients were reading newspapers. Others leafed nervously through five-year-old magazines. Most of their faces displayed varying degrees of boredom, unhappiness, or worry.

A hint of a smile crept across Martha’s face. Slowly she raised the pager to her ear and began talking softly into the cute little gadget. Soon she appeared to be engaged in a conversation. Her tone of voice – warm, soft, and friendly at first – cooled a bit, then grew louder, taking on tones of downright displeasure. Her expression changed to one of complete disgust as she slammed the pager down into her lap. Then she closed her eyes, and apparently dozed off.

By this time, she had attracted the attention of almost everyone in the room. Some smiled. Several poked each other and cautiously, silently laughed at her weird behavior. At least a few may have been sympathetic. One or two probably said a private prayer of thanksgiving for still having their full faculties.

After several minutes, Martha opened her eyes and began to study a large painting that decorated the opposite wall. With the pager in her left hand, she slowly raised and pointed it at the peaceful rural scene. She pressed it repeatedly with her thumb. When the picture refused to change, she began to poke the pager deliberately and forcefully with the index finger of her right hand. Once again, an unhappy, dissatisfied look crept across her face. With an exaggerated, exasperated shrug, she again placed the “remote” in her lap, closed her eyes and once more appeared to drift off into a peaceful sleep.

A barely noticeable smile tugged at Martha’s lips. Time is just too darned precious a treasure to waste on worry when you are eighty years old (and then some). Especially for someone who has a sense of humor and sufficient imagination to be capable of self-entertainment. And if, while making one’s own world seem a bit brighter and more pleasant, it is possible to entertain a roomful of others and take their minds off of their worries, cares, and their upcoming doctors’ prognoses, a visit to the medical clinic can be almost enjoyable.

Emil Schmit's Valedictorian speech from 1941

Friends, teachers, classmates:

We think of the days of our American Revolution as time of Great change but as we, the class of 1941, graduate we find ourselves in a world where the changes are even greater.


These are historic years, and the privilege of living in them is too little realized. Perhaps no graduating class ever has been or ever again will be confronted with conditions that compare with those of our present time. Since about 1935, Europe and its surrounding territory have been unstable. This didn’t seem very serious to us until Sept. 1939 when England and France again declared war on Germany, beginning a struggle which will soon enter its third year. There is doubt now in many minds as to whether or not we can stay clear of entanglements.

Although from some angles, the outlook for a country threatened with war cannot appear bright, this present state of affairs which has resulted in our vast National Defense Program offers us excellent opportunities for employment immediately, so that whether the jobs prove permanent or not, we will be able at once to gain work experience and acquire references and recommendations. Besides the selective service draft, and the extensive drives being put on by the Army and Navy for more enlistments, a good many young men and women are being searched for to supply offices and factories where the work of making supplies for the Armed Forces is going on.

No doubt some of you remember conditions of ten years ago --193l. The Depression was then nearing its worst stages. Students were graduating from high schools and colleges.Jobs were hard to get, and graduates with little work experiences and no references could not get a start, no matter how cheaply they offered their services. Five years ago, in 1936, the conditions of the country were somewhat improved, yet many graduates had to join the Civilian Conservation Corps or work by the day. Even last year--1940--when conditions seemed to be pretty good, they could not begin to compare with those of this year. Although most of these defense jobs require the employee to be slightly older than we are, the government is offering some of us apprentice training, and besides, the hiring of older persons will leave many vacancies in various civilian enterprises.

But there is reason to believe this rise in employment will not be a flash in the pan. Whatever the outcome of the war, the need for greater and greater defense will last for years. Besides, movements are stirring that give hope of vast new industries and many new uses of farm products, such as soy beans and casein being manufactured into automobile parts and furniture. The government has just set up four great laboratories in the four extremes of the country for the sole purpose of studying and discovering more of such new uses. If a motor fuel could be contrived from farm-grown products, think what that alone would mean toward increased industry for both country and city. So we of the class of 1941 have many reasons to look out with hope and ambition on our future.

About 1 out of 3 of the members of our class expect to attend college, to learn professions, some will doubtless be employed in the trades, and rest will probably stay near their homes, engaging in agriculture or other rural enterprises. In all cases, chances for success are good. Colleges report they now have more requests to fill positions than they have students qualified to fill them. There is a crying need for skilled mechanics and as for rural labor, many farmers are having ¬trouble securing help for their summer's work. In our high school we have taken courses which should prove valuable in future life -- vocational subjects such as business, agriculture and home economics. And so, with conditions as they are, and with high school training finished, any member of this class who seeks employment should be able to obtain it.

And now, speaking for the class, I would like to bid farewell to the school and to our schoolmates. We have had a lot of good times together and are really sorry now that we must leave. And to our parents, our teachers, and our other friends who made this course possible, we owe a lot. To them we express our deepest gratitude.

APATHY, MY DEAR SCARLETT

Before the advent of the Internet, the goal of most of the writers I knew was to get their thoughts, ideas, and feelings down on paper and then into print by submitting their finished manuscripts to newspaper, magazine, and/or book publishers. They strove to get their writing into printers’ ink wherever they felt it would find and could be shared with the greatest number of readers.

Then the newfangled Web sites came along and rapidly gained popularity. On the positive side, they appeared to be the way to go for a writer to reach the largest reading audience. But they usually did not earn any money for the writer. Also, we were frequently warned that with Web sites there was the possibility we could lose control of our written material. That our precious creations would be hanging out there in the ether, unprotected, and fair game for anyone who wanted to steal them.

I never actually worried that such a thing would happen, I granted permission to several family members to include some of my rhymes on their Web sites, and to the TH to include my “Rhyme and Reason” column in the on-line version of the newspaper. I doubted that my type of material would tempt a lot of literary thieves or plagiarists or make any of them very wealthy. Thus far, I don’t think I have suffered any losses.

Having my published writing and also my e-mail address available over an almost limitless area has provided more than a few happy occurrences and an occasional ego boost. Every now and then I am pleasantly surprised by an e-message from someone who is a complete stranger lives many hundreds of miles away.

Now and then I’ll hear from someone who has left this area but still keeps up with local happenings by reading the on-line version of the TH. Best of all, sometimes the message will come from a good friend from days gone by. Someone like Gene Hilger, once a Glen Haven boy, who is now retired from the military and lives in Des Moines. Or a compliment and a “Keep up the good work!” from Dick Krogman down in sunny Arizona. Wow! I hadn’t seen or heard from Dick, an old Bloomington friend, for 50 years or more.

Recently, quite by accident, I was surprised to find that one of my poems has been used on the Web sites of two strangers. They both gave me credit as the writer. One of these sites is a tribute to the great old movie “Gone With the Wind.” It is beautifully and professionally done, with great use of color and design. The site includes quite a number of great reproductions of pictures of Clark Gable, Vivien Leigh, and others, also of Tara. And it ends with my old poem “Apathy, My Dear Scarlett … .“

Finding my work on this Web site, I did not have the slightest feeling of having been “ripped off.” In fact, I felt highly honored to have had my poem included in a production of such high caliber. Maybe my old “Rhett Butler” poem is really better than I ever thought it was. This may be a good time to dig it out again and dust it off and give it a second look.



APATHY, MY DEAR SCARLETT

Some folks will climb a mountain
Just because that mountain’s there.
Others will face great danger
When someone makes them a dare,

But I am satisfied with
What and who and where I am
And, just like old Rhett Butler,
Frankly, I don’t give a damn.

Some people seek new records
For distance or time or speed,
And world-wide recognition
Seems to be their greatest need.

Politicians woo the public>
With lots of that old flimflam
But, just like old Rhett Butler,
Frankly, I don’t give a damn.

Some folks attend sports events
Where they join a noisy crowd,
Then cheer and clap and stamp their
Feet and carry on real loud,

But if the home team loses,
Each goes home meek as a lamb
While, just like old Rhett Butler,
Frankly, I don’t give a damn

.Some girls will go to great lengths
Just to catch some fellow’s eye –
Artificial lashes, nails, and paint
And heels six inches high.

One wise girl says, “To win my
Love, you’ll take me as I am."
Like Rhett Butler, she really, frankly,
Doesn’t give a damn.

GOING FOR BROKE

While listening to the TV news recently, I learned that some "experts" have decided that certain people are compulsive gamblers because of their genetic makeup. That they just can’t resist the impulse to take a chance. And that there is good reason to believe that soon the medical profession will have a medication that will dull that burning urge to wager.

An older friend once told me that those of us whose parents and grandparents came from Europe "have that gambling thing bred right into us." He went on, "Our ancestors were the kind who were ready and willing to take a big gamble. They came to this strange country where they did not have the slightest idea what the future held in store for them. These brave men, women, and even small children weren’t even certain that they would survive the trip across the ocean. They had no idea what they would do, once they had arrived here, or how they would earn a living and support their families. But they were real gamblers. Willing to risk it all. And we have inherited their gambling spirit."

I wasn’t in the mood to really discuss the matter. I could have mentioned that gambling, as such, is usually an attempt to just trust to our luck and to "get something for nothing." I’m sure our ancestors were ready to "pay their way." And anything they hoped to receive from this new land they were ready to earn with much hard work and sweat.

No doubt a medical cure for problem gamblers would be great. But what would come next? A "booster shot" or "Viagra-type gambling pill" for those of us who lack the craving or bravery needed to go after the big stakes?

GOING FOR BROKE


The old man entered the barroom
And sat down on a tall stool,
Searched his pockets, even
Turned them inside-out.

He said, “Fellers, I’m an expert.
For the price of a few drinks
You can learn what gambling’s
Really all about.”

“I’m a rambling gambler and we
Rolling stones gather no moss.
I’m a sucker for all
Kinds of games of chance.

“I’m ready to take my chances,
Quick to lay my money down,
About all I own are
These old denim pants.

“I’ve made and spent lots of money,
Made choices that were unwise,
Bad investments in card
Games and rolling dice.

“None of them have paid much interest
Or big dividends, or such.
Mostly they have been a
Poor deal for the price.

“Shooting for ‘something for nothing’
Is what gambling’s all about.
We may win big, but won’t
Know, if we don’t try.

“Anywhere there is a question,
Betting seems the normal thing.
When we lose we rarely
Stop to wonder ‘Why?’

“I have bet on almost every
Kind of contest known to man,
Even on the date of
The first killing frost.

“I’ve bet on ball games and horses,
Even the Chicago Cubs,
Also on some dead-sure
Things, but still I lost.

“Yet, regardless of the odds, I’m
There, ready to ‘ante up.’
There’s always a chance, if
You know what I mean.

“Every game, contest, or conflict
Is almost sure to produce
Some big winners, though they’re
Few and far between.

“I’ve rubbed elbows with high rollers,
Guys who play for the high stakes.
I pretended to heed
Every word they’d say.

“All we gamblers are alike. We’ll
Never stop dreaming the dream,
And I wouldn’t have it
Any other way.

“I’ve purchased a few casinos,
They’ve all been bought and paid for.
I’m well known in Vegas,
I will have you know.

“But the sad thing is I have no
Deeds or bills of sale. There is
Nothing on paper, not
One damn’ thing to show.”

LIFE’S CAROUSEL

One of my friends has a “catch all” expression that he uses frequently. Whenever anyone does something unexpected, unusual, or inappropriate, we are likely to hear the old fellow repeat, “It takes a lot of people to make up a world.”

He once told me that it is fortunate that we are not all alike. “All types are important. We need thinkers and dreamers to come up with new inventions. We need entrepreneurs to take chances and start new companies and places of business to supply our needs and to furnish jobs for those who are content to punch a time clock and work for a regular wage. Also the world requires at least a few of us who readily tire of a steady job and are always ready and available to fill new positions and part-time jobs.

“There ain’t nothing wrong with working on the same job day after day and year after year, if you enjoy the work and don’t mind the conditions,” he went on. “But if you are a member of a team of Eskimo dogs pulling a sled, you’ll most likely find the job a whole lot less boring and the scenery much more interesting if you can work your way up to being the lead dog.

“Our lives often tend to become quite a bit like a carousel. But I suppose those wooden merry-go-round horses don’t really have it all that bad. They are well cared for and work where there is a good deal of activity. There are always a lot of people around, also lights and music. And they don’t have to worry about a thing. They don’t ever have to be concerned about thinking or making decisions. Like a lot of us, they just keep going ‘round and ‘round.”





LIFE’S CAROUSEL

Mostly I try not to think
Of how low folks’ hopes can sink,
How depressed and sad, at times,
People can feel

When they’re not winning life’s race,
But kind of “taking up space,”
Each, just one more bent spoke in
Time’s rusty wheel.

Years can surely take their toll
On the spirit and the soul.
Time can grind one’s confidence
Into the ground.

It wears down more than a few,
And the same thing must be true,
For each painted horse on a
Merry-go-round.

In a large amusement park,
From morning till after dark
Beautiful horses run with
Smooth grace and pride.

Their home, the merry-go-round
Has a cheery, tuneful sound.
For many children, it’s their
Favorite ride.

On it, the circle of steeds
Of uncertain wooden breeds
Have shiny hides and hooves that
Reflect the sun.

Whites and blacks, spotted, and bay,
Carry the children all day,
’Round and ‘round in a daylong
Circular run.

They all move equally fast –
There is no first place or last –
All day long these steeds make their
Appointed rounds.

Running, as long days drag by,
Never pausing to ask “Why?”
The calliope cheers them on
With jolly sounds.

’Way back when I was a child,
Of those horses, fast and wild,
One big blaze-faced bay was my
Favorite nag.



“Thunder” had great strength and speed,
More than any other steed,
But I have never been one
To boast or brag.

We’d gallop around that track,
Close behind a speedy black,
With Thunder’s head high, and me,
Bursting with pride.

I was dead certain, of course
That mine was the fastest horse,
And we could pass them all if
We really tried.

Today I can only pray
Thunder’s still happy today,
Content with how his life’s race
Is being run.

And when each evening sun sets,
My old horse has no regrets
And, for him, running with the
Pack is still fun.

BUTTERFLY

For the last several years the big talk in the farm seed industry has been about new technology that makes possible the biological engineering of plants in ways that make them vastly superior to normal versions produced by natural means. One of the most successful has been the new “Bt” corn that is now planted on many acres here in the corn belt. The ability of a specific type of bacteria to produce an insecticide has long been a matter of great interest. Modern plant engineering has now made it possible to incorporate that factor into the corn plant, to design new Bt hybrids that can create their own “insecticide,” and actually kill the European corn borer larvae that would feed on, weaken, and destroy them.

Many serious environmentalists, along with numerous other assorted individuals and groups, take a dim view of this sort of progress. They all warn of the possibility of creating a Frankenstein-like monster. Some even put a religious spin on it, saying that when we bypass God’s natural laws we are sure to create many new problems that will vastly outweigh any gains. They like to use

Atomic-fission and atomic-fusion as horrible examples, often adding quotes by famous people such as Gen. Douglas MacArthur and the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King.

This summer, someone came up with data indicating that pollen from the tassels of Bt corn, when landing on the leaves of milkweeds, can weaken and even kill the monarch butterfly larvae that feed only on these leaves. I discussed this with an old friend, a corn breeder who has recently received a good deal of well-earned recognition for helping develop a corn hybrid that is currently one of the more successful in the state of Iowa. We kind of lamented: Of all the insects and other assorted bugs in the world, why did it have to be the monarch butterfly? What other bug is as widely known and universally loved as is the monarch? Scotty didn’t seem to take too kindly to my suggestion that the next move would have to be an attempt to develop a Bt-resistant monarch butterfly.

In late July a group of us visited the Olbrich Botanical Gardens in Madison, Wisc., to see their special show, “Butterfly Bonanza.” Thousands of butterflies of assorted species were turned loose in the Bolz Conservatory, an indoor tropical jungle, where they fluttered and flitted about to their hearts’ content among the banana, breadfruit, and countless other rain-forest trees and plants. Giant Swallowtails, Monarchs, Queens, and Viceroys; Painted Ladies, Zebras, White Peacocks, Julias, Malachites, and many others gave us a colorful show of their flimsy, faltering aerobatics.

Arrangements were made to supply a variety of flavors of nectar for them to sip. In a special “birthing area” many chrysalis hung in rows, giving viewers a chance to watch newly-formed butterflies emerge, to dry their wings, and fly away.

The enthusiastic crowd that enjoyed the lively display included many family groups. Small children bustled about, searching the plants beside the paths for the brightly colored insects, anxious to report their finds to their parents and grandparents. Together they would try to identify each newly-found butterfly by comparing it to the 24 colored photographs in their beautiful brochures. Those with cameras recorded their sightings of various “Lepidoptera” on film.

Watching the fragile-looking creatures flutter slowly from plant to plant, it seemed difficult to believe that a monarch butterfly can attain a speed of 20 MPH, or fly as high as 10,000 feet above the ground. Much less survive a 2,000-mile migration from Canada to Mexico.

A large banner proclaimed: “A world filled with the magic of butterflies is a world of natural diversity!” All of the happy, smiling faces at the “Butterfly Bonanza” convinced me that many people have a soft spot in their hearts for the flutter-bugs. And that butterflies do have their own brand of beautiful, colorful, magic.



BUTTERFLY



Pretty butterfly,
As you flutter by
On your hither-thither way,

I sure hope you know,
As you come and go,
That you brighten up my day.

What a jolly sight,
With your colors bright,
As you clear my garden wall!

Soft, warm breezes blow,
You come and you go
Even above trees so tall.

You’re a welcome guest
(The one I like best)
In my garden by the lane.

Tomorrow, at noon,
If that’s not too soon,
Please, flit by this way again.

If I could but be
Light, footloose, and free
As you, off, away we’d fly

On our wings of gold,
We would flutter, bold,
Exploring the broad blue sky.

Air-borne jewel bright,
In the summer’s light,
Thrilling mere earthlings, like me,

Once some girl or guy
Much wiser than I
Reasoned: “Butterflies are free”