Buckeye gymnastics meet 2015 results bataan

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Gymnastics on the Grand Meet Results from prior years are available on our website and the current year Meet Results are posted on the Meet results . In you could see racewalkers such as Uli Kamm and . Running Data Center which became the authoritative source for results and records. runners, these 'track and field' type events are not what ultrarunning is all about. . In the Alaska Mountain and Wilderness Classic was held going from Mentasta to. of 5, results Harmony Of The Seas Baseball Cap - Royal Caribbean Cruise USN Military Gym Tee - United States Navy USA Sailor Workout Gray T . Lost Dutchman Swim Meet Tempe Arizona Marin Pirates US Naval Air Station Cubi Point Postcard - Vintage USN Navy USS Princeton Bataan.

By now some of my school friends had televisions. One boy lived within walking distance, and at his house I saw a Howdy Doody show.

There were some great ads for Jell-O as well. And then would come the punch-line: I loved that baby. But near the end of the show came the payoff: The cartoons were paradise. My brother and I worked on our parents, and eventually they agreed to get a TV set. We went to a department store in downtown Louisville, and Pop negotiated with the salesman for nearly an hour.

Embry and I watched a cowboy show on the dozens of display TVs, the horsemen eternally riding down a sandy road beneath dry, spindly trees. We went home with a Dumont set, a small tube in a cubical yellowish cabinet that might have been particle-board. You could get two channels in Louisville, 3 and And at 4 p. I worshipped that show. To make it even better, when I watched Cartoon Circus, Mom would give me my one soft-drink of the week, orange soda in a pale green anodized aluminum cup.

Everything about the cartoons was wonderful. The exultant blare of chase music, the high slangy voices, the xylophone sound of sneaking footsteps, the moany-groany graveyards with twisting ghosts, the sarcastic ducks, the battles and stratagems of the cats and the mice.

One Saturday afternoon my father for some reason wanted to take me for a drive in the car. I have to watch Cartoon Circus. He seemed a little sad and distracted. Perhaps he and Mom were having a fight. Grant Graves was the church organist, quite a musician, and Lillian Graves was my teacher in second and third grades They were cultured, pure people, who appreciated my mother—in these postwar years, some people still harbored a dislike for Germans. But Grant had studied in Germany and had played a concert in a cathedral there.

He had a poster for it on his wall. One time inthe Graves family had a house party and my family was there, enjoying ourselves. I was talking to some big kids, telling them I was in the third grade, and one of the older girls said she was in the tenth grade.

I had no idea the grades went up that high. He seemed to get a lot of pleasure out of his little furniture company. I developed a little repertoire of fun things to think about: Perhaps all along I was meant to be a science fiction writer. Some of these imaginings still stick in my mind. One evening, perhaps inI imagined being an inch tall and walking around my room. The space beneath my bed was like a dim, dusty hall. The mouse that sometimes invaded our house was there, the size of a horse.

He could talk, and he was friendly. I rode the mouse into the kitchen and got us two slices of apple pie with chunks of cheddar cheese. It was more than we could possibly eat, but we tried. I made myself still smaller, the size of one of the dust specks I sometimes noticed floating in the air.

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I drifted across the kitchen, through the grill of the window screen and into the night. A gentle breeze set me down upon a blooming, luminous flower at the top of our magnolia tree. But they lulled me to sleep. I remember once, still half-asleep, I managed to sculpt this recurrent dream into a happy outcome. Yes, I was falling into a bottomless shaft that went down forever.

In the dream again, I looked around, enjoying myself. Lava dripped from the distant rocky walls, small goblins peeped at me. I would fall forever and a day, on and on, world without end. Schoolboy In the fourth grade, that is, inI switched from the idyllic St. Francis School to the boys-only Louisville Country Day school. I hated Country Day for all of the five years that I attended it.

Why was I there? I was following in his wake. We wore a kind of school uniform: Mine were hand-me-downs from Embry, who was four grades ahead of me.

Mom would shorten his old shirt sleeves by sewing folds into them. With my sloppy necktie and ill-fitting jacket, I looked like a waif, a circus worker, an immigrant scientist. Backpacks were still unheard of. We boys toted heavily-laden leather satchels from one class to the next, and used them to lug home the books we needed to study from. The satchels had a single handle at the top, and their soft sides opened like jaws.

My satchel was a medium tan, and it was nearly new. We got a hot lunch at Country Day, all eight grades sitting on benches along the shiny maple-wood tables that we also used for study hall. A teacher sat at the head of each table, supervising. The food was dreadful, but only once did I have a table-master who cared if I cleaned my plate. That guy was an unpleasant red-haired man with an Australian accent and stained teeth. He called himself Colonel Sands. I was younger and smaller than most of the boys in fourth grade.

Some of the others were snobs and bullies. Many of them seemed to know each other from before. I was immediately in the low range of the pecking order. But, looking back, how could those other kids already think they were better than me—in the fourth grade?

Of all the outrage. It was called Struwelpeter, and was filled with intriguingly detailed and old-fashioned color drawings.

And Hans Stare-in-the-Air gazes too much at the clouds while walking, so he falls into a river and nearly drowns. I was, and still am, Hans Stare-in-the-Air. I like clouds much more than sidewalks. So anyway, my status was low at Louisville Country Day, but there were some boys further down than me. Sam Manly, for instance, liked to carry his satchel outside to the vacant lot where we had recess—he used it as a defense weapon, swinging the satchel like a mace when the meaner boys tried to prey upon him.

And ferret-faced Jimmy Vale was so peculiar that hardly anyone but me would even talk to him—he was full of wild, confusing stories about sex. Vale came from a large family living in a small house, and he knew about bodily functions from close up.

I was uneasy that the other boys would tease me for wearing glasses, so I selected a pair with pink semi-transparent frames, supposing that frames like this might blend into my skin and be unnoticeable. It was a revelation when I stepped out of the store onto Fourth Street in downtown Louisville.

With my glasses on, I could see the fine features of the tops of buildings. It was wonderful to see so much detail. Most of my Country Day teachers were unjust and incompetent.

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We boys were quietly exultant. I well recall the red-faced Mr. Flagg, but not which subject I had him for—as he never actually taught anything. Flagg was in the john during a drunken party last Saturday night. My fifth-grade math teacher, Mr. Viol, once assigned us the wrong page number to study—the page he named was a blurred, gray photograph of shoppers at a New York City fruit-stand. I suppose the illustration was meant to dramatize the value of arithmetic in daily life.

Taking revenge upon us for his error, Mr. What kind of fruit was resting on the scale? How many shoppers were present? Herrick, who taught me about this, enjoyed discussions about the fine points of diagramming. He was a lean man, somewhat world-weary and cynical. He had a permanently bloody spot on his dimpled chin where he cut himself shaving every morning. His English class was almost like an anatomy class, with our language presenting ever new forms to be mapped.

And when we were assigned a homework project of composing and diagramming sample sentences, I had my first taste of literary creativity, crafting sentences with fancy words and dramatic situations. Herrick never tried to staunch my creativity. One afternoon a classmate and I were out riding bikes, and on some random subdivision street, we encountered Mr. Herrick putting away his lawn-mower. It was strange to see him out of context, living an ordinary life.

The other good teacher I had at Country Day was my seventh-grade math teacher, a colorless man called Williams. The spectral Williams showed us how to use these strange little pamphlets of tables that listed the logarithms of numbers, also their sine and cosine values. And one day Williams really went wild and taught us how to calculate square roots by hand, without using the logarithm tables, but by instead using an intensely paper-and-pencil method somewhat like long division.

By then I was discouraged and beaten-down, both by the bullies and by the generally poor teaching. I no longer thought of myself as being bright, or a good student.

He had a burr haircut, slightly waxed in front to produce a tiny, cocky pompadour. Meanwhile my father was getting more involved with the St. Francis in the Fields Episcopal Church, and he taught Sunday school class there. One Sunday afternoon Pop started talking about a bright, lively boy in his Sunday school class, almost sounding like he wished I were more like this personable wonder-kid.

As the conversation continued, I realized—with despair and disgust—that the old man was talking about my nemesis. Yes, Peter Bunce had been kissing up to my Dad at Sunday school. I tried to tell Pop what a horrible person he was dealing with. I found my big brother in the halls and explained the situation. He never bothered me again. I thanked Embry, but he thought the matter was hardly worth discussing. It was dog-eat-dog at Country Day. Often the bullies and the older boys would leave us alone, and we could just be silly kids—chanting nonce words, making toys from folded paper, playing tag—small fry in the pond.

I have a clear memory of one winter afternoon, chilly and with dusk almost falling. I was waiting at the front entrance of Country Day for my mother to pick me up. The entrance porch was a simple slab of shiny concrete with brown-painted steel poles holding up a flat roof. We boys liked to dance from one pole to the next, swinging around them, hooting to each other, kicking our satchels across the pavement like shuffleboard pucks. A few yellow leaves stuck to the damp pavement. Supper was cooking at home and the lights were going on.

The sky felt cozy and low. Haystack lived in a two-story brick farmhouse in our neighborhood. Its sides were inflated like a giant inner-tube, and the bottom was smooth rubber. The idea was to get inside it and bounce off the fat edges. But then someone found a grease gun in the barn and had the idea of squirting grease onto the raft floor so that we could slide around in our party shoes. Some of the kids hung back, perhaps not wanting to risk spoiling their clothes, perhaps realizing we were doing something wrong.

But I was fully into it. I grabbed hold of the grease gun and squeezed the stock, pushing out additional coils of shiny black lubricant. I was sliding all over the life raft, whooping.

I got all the blame. InI was Joseph, and I had to spend twenty minutes in a robe staring into the Holy Cradle, which was a cardboard box with a light bulb in it.

I passed the time by mentally calculating the volume of the Hi-C cans that had once filled the box, and comparing this volume to the full volume of the box. It was exciting and mysterious to see everyday people transformed. On Christmas mornings, Mom would arrange a fan of books around the base of the tree for Embry and me. Some of the books were science fiction.

Embry plowed through any and all the books—he was an omnivorous, inexhaustible reader. But it was I who cherished and pondered the SF. I remember marveling over the riches to be found in a book like The Best Science Fiction of It was hard for me to understand the writings, as they were filled with unfamiliar slang words. I was intrigued by the graffiti, and excited. It was like discovering a wall of hieroglyphs in an Egyptian tomb. They drained a pond, and Embry found two giant snapping turtles in the exposed mud, big fellows a couple of feet across.

He and the Keith kids brought the turtles to our house. Embry wanted to keep them as pets, or perhaps to sell them. We had some ditches in the corner of the yard where Embry, the Keiths, the Stone brothers and I had done some excavating, initially digging for buried treasure, and then planning to build a fort with a system of tunnels. So Embry found a couple of battered old metal garbage cans and filled those with water, throwing in some mud so it would look like pond water.

He tried sticking the turtles in there. One of them was willing to tolerate this, but not the other. Embry set the rebellious turtle into one of the damp trenches. In the morning, the chain was bitten in half, and both the turtles were gone. We never saw them again. See detailed list below. If you prefer to give started this event, always said, Trotters Mike Kendrick cash, we will shop for you if we get your have a heart! Cash is also an option.

Nick Nowicki 3 Options for Delivering your Gifts nicknowicki yahoo. Wrap the item, write the child's name on a tag marked with Family 69, and deliver theWeb Master: Location details on page 1 of this newsletter. The Trotter Chronicles 3. Make sure you have Tr-newsletter is e-mailed isha Dean's name on it.

Articles written to arrange a drop off. E-mail your articles to: Regina Brown atbrownlbs comcast. Sycamore Pumpkin 10k on October 26th 7: Dan Roder 3rd in Age Grp. Despite the Arlington Hts. Jim Janaszak 4th Age Grp. On November 15th Mike! Sunny and 42 Dan Roder 2nd Age Grp. Send your questions to Steve Breese: Nancy did not get any picturesfrom the Mandarin Native Sun 10K. These include teaching, computing, as being able to wiggle your ears, for run- selling, persuading, counseling, designing, ners it is a need!

We needs our skills to temperatures. This varies by person- we get jobs, support our families, and have have all seen Tony Gialanella wear shorts enough extra money to fuel our running when it is 20 degrees! But my personal addiction. These are skills that we can use in long jog bra. These include juggling, making to run, I wear as little as possible. She has completed useless skills. One of jacket, light gloves, head marathons, including6 Boston Marathons, and mine is baton twirling.

Below 20 degrees-over triathlons. When she is not training, a pre-Title IX high neck warmer just in case. Trisha is an assistantprincipal at Buffalo Grove schooler. My useless skill is choices based on temperature. When I that I can predict the outside temperature started running in the spring ofI very accurately, usually within two de- wore a sweat suit and jacket.

It was prob- grees. I quickly learned that it This skill has been honed over twenty- was shorts and top weather not a lot of three years of running, which is how I got wicking fabrics in those days.

Even good at it. I became even better at this today I can spot the non-runners or be- skill when thermometers reading outside ginning runners in a second. Those are temperatures became a popular feature in the people who are wearing sweatshirts, cars.

I make a game of this every day. I guessed 34, and it is Yahoo 88, and it is 87, I guess 50, and it is 50 on just confirmed it is My useless skill the head. This is something I am really ability is as sharp as ever!

The Long Grove distance is March Madness is March 15, welcome.


You get a 5 piece Santa This race fills up quickly. Quickly as in days. Start the year out month. Sign up on January 1 1st available day forwww.

Time and location will be forthcoming. Perfect for taking action on all of 7: Road andholiday garb again. Start running between 7 and 8 am for a 3 mile or Higgins Road. This is a re- 8 mile option. Tailgating starts at 8: Details on page 1. Details in This is a fantastic event. Club awards, slide show,November newsletter. Bring a dish tohttp: January 1, Long Grove Run9: Top 3 favorite marathons out of the 50 States?

Most did not survive. Our five person team all had to finish together. The company was awesome. The worst 3 marathons out of the 50 States? At the start of the race, it was 20 degrees with 20 mile an hour wind at our back on an out and back course. To top it off, I had no desire to run the race. I would have skipped it had I not been with two other people. I struggled through the first 8 miles. Decided to quit and started walking back to the starting line.

By the time I got to the turnaround at the half the temps in- creased to 40, but so did the wind. The second half of the race was into a 40 mile an hour head wind. No other race even comes close. But when I finished this race, I knew I would never drop out of a marathon.

And I never have. What a buzz kill. This would have definitely been in my top three had it not been for the weather. Free beer at the expo, beer at the sports bar, beer in our room before dinner, more beer when we met some other people for dinner. I think we ate dinner4. Worse feeling at start of race? But after about 6 miles we flushed the toxins out of our system and had a good race. Best post race celebration? I do most of mine before the race. I also did a 4: Which was the biggest?

Which was the smallest? Least expensive out of town marathon? I got in through the Boston Police Department which included a substantial donation to their charity of choice. The treatment we received from the Boston PD was second to none. Picked us up at the airport, prerace morning meal, luxury buses, police escort to race, special area at the race. I would recommend doing this if you are ever given the opportunity. Much better than being part of the nor- mal pack.

Least expensive race fee? A no frills marathon. No T shirt, no medal, no post race goodies. I do think they had few water stops.