QUITTING 

or 

The confessions of a Veteran Oarsman 

                  By Emory Clark

        I quit the other day – on my erg – with a minute to go on my last piece.  Somehow mind and body combined to make me believe I could not row another stroke.  So I just stopped. Imagine!  Only a minute to go.

        It cast a pall on my day (I row early).  No matter that I was down in my basement, all by myself, miles from a boat or water, and probably months from my next race.  Quitting is shameful, it is the antithesis of competition, it is unthinkable, it is un-American.  And I had to live with it all day, and night.  Until my next go in the erg.  I row on an old Gamut, the implacable blue monster that won’t tolerate it if you let up on even one stroke, just getting twice as heavy on the next.

       I have let the erg beat me before, but I never had to tell anybody about it.  And I always do a penance piece, or two.  So I get the workout in.  But that doesn’t help much.  Quitting is inexcusable, carrying with it is a moral taint, often imposed by those who never have the courage to try, more often by yourself.

       If you quit in the race it is a personal tragedy you carry with you a lifetime, or at least until your next race.  In 1960, in a Yale crew, I quit in the Harvard race after about the first ten strokes.  Oh, I didn’t stop rowing.  I pulled, I slugged, I hammered away for the four miles.  But after ten strokes I knew in the pit of my stomach we had lost (not only the feel of the boat, but Harvard already had a length) and stopped competing.  We had not made the finals at the Sprints which Harvard had won. Despite all the brave words, despite knowing “it ain’t over till it’s over,” despite God and country and a hundred years’ tradition, I could not make myself race those four miles.  I was not to find redemption until four years later in the U.S.  Eight on the dark, choppy waters of Japan’s TODA rowing course.

       With hindsight, that debacle against Harvard in the Thames can certainly be said to have provided me with a definite edge in the ’64 Olympic campaign which was characterized by a certain viciousness, born no doubt of remembered shame(and pain), in my approach to my training, to each stroke pulled, each mile rowed or run.  Losing might just be tolerable, but never again would I permit myself to undergo such an appalling failure of will and courage.  Any amount of early morning workouts, bursting lungs, bone weary fatigue, physical pain was preferable to that.  I would find courage in my training.

       As I reflect now on courage, physical, moral, spiritual, it seems clear that in boat races you are dealing with perhaps the easiest kind, physical courage, to fight or run, to keep going or quit.  Each workout, each race carries with it a new challenge of courage which must be coped with as if one has never been tested.  Theoretically, if you lose and have done absolutely all you can, you should pass out one stroke past the finish line.

       But quitting, stopping rowing, resting on your oar, that is something you pray you never do and almost never see.  We are used to watching oarsmen slump over when they cross the finish. We revel in their relief.  We’re not used to seeing them stop a hundred meters before the line.  When they do, we cringe inside, our first reaction one of horror, and then we search for plausible explanations, a reason, such as a jumped slide or a broken rigger or a heart attack, any excuse that will turn the awful sinking feeling of having witnessed cowardice into one of simple, clean regret.    

        I got the former feeling at the Pan American regatta this past summer after watching some of the Cuban crews in the last 500, some others where it appeared an oarsman had simply stopped rowing or a boat did a right angle turn.  I couldn’t get that worrisome black cloud out of my mind on the drive home to Michigan from Indianapolis.  Without knowing any of their inside stories, I felt enormous sympathy for the oarsman for whom an overwhelming convergence of factors, physical and mental, made it impossible to go on, made the unthinkable, inevitable.  I know how they felt, more importantly how they would feel. 

        I started to ponder quitting. Very seldom does an oarsman just stop rowing before the end of a race.  Quitting is more often a mental convolution than a physical act. Most of the time you are still rowing, up and down the slide, oar through the water, but you’re not racing anymore, you’re not sitting up straight, getting your hands away, trying to be part of the crew.  You’ve conceded like I did in that long ago Harvard race, but unlike a chess game, you don’t get up and walk away.

         Of course, there are lots of ways to quit and still keep rowing.  You can take the water over your ankles, finish over your thighs.  You can ease up on the pull-through, let the other guys do it.  You can, as I say, just let your mind slip out of its nobody-is-going-to-get-by-me competitive gear, just row along, the difference so subtle nobody knows except you (and maybe the guy in front of you you’ve rowed with four years).          

          I think maybe every oarsman has wanted to quit, has seriously contemplated quitting in a race at some time in his career.  Except maybe Harry Parker (a Harvard rowing coach) or Teddy Nash (gold medalist and two time Olympian).  There are always exceptions:  the guys that stop being human when they have an oar in their hands and some says “partez”.  They’ve usually jumped the start anyway.  But most of us mere mortals have harbored that shameful thought.          

          A few years ago in the Head of the Charles I got myself in a situation I had promised myself I would never allow again.  Two miles out in the Compote four with the boat we wanted to beat (Fairmount) already a minute ahead, and the boat we didn’t want to lose to (New Haven) rapidly closing the gap.  Our boat had three Yale gold medalists in it: Tommy Charlton, captain and bowman of the Yale '56 Olympic eight, Bill Becklean who coxed that boat, and me. The stroke was Johnny Higginson, captain of the Harvard '62 crew (also rowing in the Harward eight that beat the '60 Yale crew featured in the bginning of the piece), and the bowman was Dietrich Rose, a German, who was one of my Olympic coaches in '64. We called ourselves the Compote Rowing Association (mixture of fruits and nuts in a sauce) and raced with considerable success in Veterans' regattas for ten years from Prague to Adelaide. But not this time. Our four hadn’t rowed together in three months, no practice, and despite my diligence on the erg I clearly was not in shape to row three miles into a headwind – from behind. The wheels began to come off in the second mile and the unthinkable (getting clobbered by Fairmount and even losing to New Haven) became very possible.

           New Haven was beginning to come at the Harvard boathouse, where I heard my daughter whoop (why did she have to be there?) and tried to stick it in. We were in a survival row, but not one of the good kind, where the boat surges and the oars sing and you row happy to meet the exhaustion you know will coincide with the finish. By Harvard, we stopped being a crew, were rather four guys working hard in a boat, each coping with the unfolding disaster and the pain in his own way (I do not know what a coxswain feels in that situation; probably helpless, disgusted, wishing he could get out). I wanted to quit. I thought about quitting.  The idea of another mile was intolerable.

           New Haven, relentless now, became irrelevant, and the battle became one of the retaining self-respect.  That effort, unfortunately, meant continuing to row, to pull, to move up the slide for another catch.  My body did not want to do that, my mind voted against it, too, and my soul, the final arbiter of human dignity, was ready to capitulate.  It hurts a lot more when you’re not rowing well, of course, because you are working harder to less effect, and it hurts a lot more when you’re losing.

           Going into the Cambridge Boat Club turn, Dietrich wanted to take it up (where did he get the breath to talk?), while Beck suggested pulling harder, a power ten. Both seemed clear impossibilities. The water at the catch felt like cement, arms like rubber, legs burning.

          New Haven had its bow on our stern and we were soon in one of those wonderfully exciting jam-ups just before the bridge that are so much fun to watch but, I discovered, not to row in. We were passing some slow boat on the inside of the turn with the New Haven trying to sandwich in between us. For five strokes my blade was less than six inches from New Haven’s bow and then as they wedged up even further between us I was almost touching the two man’s oar.  I tried to hit it, to break a blade, cause a collision, but I couldn’t.  Anything to end the pain, to allow me to stop rowing - with honor. I prayed.  Maybe the river God’s would intervene with a flood, a tidal wave, a typhoon.  The harried mind plays fantastical games.  But the Gods looked the other way, and by the time we sorted ourselves out under the bridge New Haven had the inside on the last long bend and drove on by us, their final challenge going unanswered.  We had nothing left to do but to row it in with our heads up, the last half mile lasting two eternities.  There was nothing to do but not quit.  Too bad it’s so hard to tip over in a four.                                   In a telephonic post mortem with my daughter she said it looked like Mr. Charlton was going to die but she knew he wouldn’t because he was Mr. Charlton.  Further, that we weren’t rowing nearly as well as we had done earlier that year in Toronto and that she had a sinking feeling in her stomach. I guess that’s called reciprocal filial suffering. When I told her we had come in third out of ten master’s crews and that our time would have put us fifteenth out of 42 boats among all the fours, elite and veterans, she said, “Gosh Dad, you’re still good when you’re bad.”  Maybe.  It is a point of view. I thank the River Gods that looked away that I didn’t quit.  Once in a rowing lifetime is enough.

"The Green Fields of the Mind " Yale Alumni Magazine and Journal, November, 1977, Volume 41, No. 3.

Also From A Great and Glorious Game: Baseball Writings of

A. Bartlett Giamatti, © 1998 by A. Bartlett Giamatti.

It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops. Today, October 2, a Sunday of rain and broken branches and leaf-clogged drains and slick streets, it stopped, and summer was gone.

Somehow, the summer seemed to slip by faster this time. Maybe it wasn't this summer, but all the summers that, in this my fortieth summer, slipped by so fast. There comes a time when every summer will have something of autumn about it. Whatever the reason, it seemed to me that I was investing more and more in baseball, making the game do more of the work that keeps time fat and slow and lazy. I was counting on the game's deep patterns, three strikes, three outs, three times three innings, and its deepest impulse, to go out and back, to leave and to return home, to set the order of the day and to organize the daylight. I wrote a few things this last summer, this summer that did not last, nothing grand but some things, and yet that work was just camouflage. The real activity was done with the radio--not the all-seeing, all-falsifying television--and was the playing of the game in the only place it will last, the enclosed green field of the mind. There, in that warm, bright place, what the old poet called Mutability does not so quickly come.

But out here, on Sunday, October 2, where it rains all day, Dame Mutability never loses. She was in the crowd at Fenway yesterday, a gray day full of bluster and contradiction, when the Red Sox came up in the last of the ninth trailing Baltimore 8-5, while the Yankees, rain-delayed against Detroit, only needing to win one or have Boston lose one to win it all, sat in New York washing down cold cuts with beer and watching the Boston game. Boston had won two, the Yankees had lost two, and suddenly it seemed as if the whole season might go to the last day, or beyond, except here was Boston losing 8-5, while New York sat in its family room and put its feet up. Lynn, both ankles hurting now as they had in July, hits a single down the right-field line. The crowd stirs. It is on its feet. Hobson, third baseman, former Bear Bryant quarterback, strong, quiet, over 100 RBIs, goes for three breaking balls and is out. The goddess smiles and encourages her agent, a canny journeyman named Nelson Briles.

Now comes a pinch hitter, Bernie Carbo, onetime Rookie of the Year, erratic, quick, a shade too handsome, so laid-back he is always, in his soul, stretched out in the tall grass, one arm under his head, watching the clouds and laughing; now he looks over some low stuff unworthy of him and then, uncoiling, sends one out, straight on a rising line, over the center-field wall, no cheap Fenway shot, but all of it, the physics as elegant as the arc the ball describes.

New England is on its feet, roaring. The summer will not pass. Roaring, they recall the evening, late and cold, in 1975, the sixth game of the World Series, perhaps the greatest baseball game played in the last fifty years, when Carbo, loose and easy, had uncoiled to tie the game that Fisk would win. It is 8-7, one out, and school will never start, rain will never come, sun will warm the back of your neck forever. Now Bailey, picked up from the National League recently, big arms, heavy gut, experienced, new to the league and the club; he fouls off two and then, checking, tentative, a big man off balance, he pops a soft liner to the first baseman. It is suddenly darker and later, and the announcer doing the game coast to coast, a New Yorker who works for a New York television station, sounds relieved. His little world, well-lit, hot-combed, split-second-timed, had no capacity to absorb this much gritty, grainy, contrary reality.

Cox swings a bat, stretches his long arms, bends his back, the rookie from Pawtucket who broke in two weeks earlier with a record six straight hits, the kid drafted ahead of Fred Lynn, rangy, smooth, cool. The count runs two and two, Briles is cagey, nothing too good, and Cox swings, the ball beginning toward the mound and then, in a jaunty, wayward dance, skipping past Briles, feinting to the right, skimming the last of the grass, finding the dirt, moving now like some small, purposeful marine creature negotiating the green deep, easily avoiding the jagged rock of second base, traveling steady and straight now out into the dark, silent recesses of center field.

The aisles are jammed, the place is on its feet, the wrappers, the programs, the Coke cups and peanut shells, the doctrines of an afternoon; the anxieties, the things that have to be done tomorrow, the regrets about yesterday, the accumulation of a summer: all forgotten, while hope, the anchor, bites and takes hold where a moment before it seemed we would be swept out with the tide. Rice is up. Rice whom Aaron had said was the only one he'd seen with the ability to break his records. Rice the best clutch hitter on the club, with the best slugging percentage in the league. Rice, so quick and strong he once checked his swing halfway through and snapped the bat in two. Rice the Hammer of God sent to scourge the Yankees, the sound was overwhelming, fathers pounded their sons on the back, cars pulled off the road, households froze, New England exulted in its blessedness, and roared its thanks for all good things, for Rice and for a summer stretching halfway through October. Briles threw, Rice swung, and it was over. One pitch, a fly to center, and it stopped. Summer died in New England and like rain sliding off a roof, the crowd slipped out of Fenway, quickly, with only a steady murmur of concern for the drive ahead remaining of the roar. Mutability had turned the seasons and translated hope to memory once again. And, once again, she had used baseball, our best invention to stay change, to bring change on.

That is why it breaks my heart, that game--not because in New York they could win because Boston lost; in that, there is a rough justice, and a reminder to the Yankees of how slight and fragile are the circumstances that exalt one group of human beings over another. It breaks my heart because it was meant to, because it was meant to foster in me again the illusion that there was something abiding, some pattern and some impulse that could come together to make a reality that would resist the corrosion; and because, after it had fostered again that most hungered-for illusion, the game was meant to stop, and betray precisely what it promised.

Of course, there are those who learn after the first few times. They grow out of sports. And there are others who were born with the wisdom to know that nothing lasts. These are the truly tough among us, the ones who can live without illusion, or without even the hope of illusion. I am not that grown-up or up-to-date. I am a simpler creature, tied to more primitive patterns and cycles. I need to think something lasts forever, and it might as well be that state of being that is a game; it might as well be that, in a green field, in the sun.

CD available at <https://www.symphonyspace.org/estore/item/21>. A. Bartlett Giamatti's
The Green Fields of the Mind performed by the author

New York City Mini Reunion, April 18 and 19, 2008

From: Peter Wells, Class Secretary

March 10, 2008
 
 
Dear Classmate and Member of the 1960 Family:
 
This is a reminder to, if you have not done so already, sign up for our mini reunion in April and announce a wonderful addition to the program.  You'll recall that on April 18 & 19 we will be gathering in New York City.  The schedule of events is as follows:
Friday, April 18.  The Yale Club of New York City (50 Vanderbilt Avenue, at 44th St.)
 
4:30 PM.  Class Council meeting.  All members of the Class are invited.  Topics to be discussed will include Class fellowships, a Treasurers report, plans for a mini reunion in 09 and our upcoming 50th.
 
6:30 P.M.  Cocktails followed by dinner and an outstanding guest speaker from Yale, Professor Minh A. Luong, speaking on a very timely topic:  China at the Crossroads of the 21st Century:  Future Superpower or Failed State?
 
Saturday, April 19
 
Thanks to the extraordinary generosity of Rob and Lynn Hanke, we will be touring and having lunch at the Asia Society, truly one of New Yorks most treasured locations.  At one point Rob served as EVP and General Counsel for the organization and remains active in their affairs.  There are currently two small but outstanding Traditional Asian Arts exhibits , one on Japanese Edo Period art and the other based on selected pieces from the important Rockefeller Collection. 
We are invited an noon, first viewing the exhibits on the 2nd and 3rd floors, proceeding up to the 8th floor for lunch and then taking in the book & gift store (rated by Zagats as the best museum store in the City).The afternoon and evening (and Sunday as well) have purposely been left open for plans on your own.
 
As a reminder, a block of rooms has been set aside at the Yale Club (212-716-2100).  Should you want one, just mention Yale Class of 1960 when you call for your reservation.  Rooms are, of course, on a first come, first served basis and are being held for us until March 14.  If you call after that, the chances of getting a room diminish greatly.
 
Again, as a reminder:
 
-         The Class Council meeting will start at 4:30 PM on Friday and should last no more than an hour.  Important current and future plans will be discussed, and you are encouraged to attend.  I'm sure you'll find it worthwhile.
 
-         Our Friday night dinner, including open bar for cocktails, wine, choice of entre, etc., is priced at $135 per person, same as it was when we were there two years ago.  And Yale Club room rates compare very favorably to those of New York City hotels.
 
-         Professor Luong is a very popular faculty member.  Specifically, he is Assistant Director, International Security Studies;  Associate Director, Brady-Johnson Program in Grand Strategy;  Director, Ivy Scholars Program, and Faculty Fellow, Yale School of Management (SOM).  Hes been described to me as a great speaker, very engaging with people, and passionate about his area of expertise.
 
-         Breakfast on Saturday is on your own.  The Yale Club offers a splendid breakfast buffet.
 
-         Fairly recently, the Yale Club has instituted concierge service.  Feel free to use them when you call the Club to get Broadway show or other tickets.
 
I hope to see you in New York City for what should be a wonderful experience.
 
Best wishes to you and yours,
 
Peter R. Wells
Class Secretary  
 
 
-       
 

From Steve Lasewicz

Yale 60 Golf Trophy, More to Follow

From Ned Cabot

When many of us enjoyed visiting with Estil Vance at our 45th Reunion last spring, none of us, including Estil, knew that he had only a few months to live.  The cancer struck suddenly.  I know that the warm welcome he received in New Haven meant a great deal to Estil. 

Elected to Phi Beta Kappa in his junior year, Estil had an outstanding career at Yale.  In addition to working harder than anyone I have known, he found time to earn his varsity football letter and to become an outstanding debater.  Estil attended law school at the University of Texas where he graduated first in his class and served as articles editor of the law review.  Upon graduation he joined the prestigious Fort Worth law firm of Cantey & Hanger where he rose to become head of the firm’s litigation division.  Long active in politics, Estil was chairman of the Tarrant County Democratic Party and served on the Fort Worth City Council. 

Many of you will have met Estil’s wonderful wife Melinda at our reunions or class events.  His high school sweetheart and an outstanding lawyer in her own right, Melinda attended the University of Texas Law School, became a leader in Democratic politics and served as a municipal court judge in Fort Worth.  Their two children, Estil and Kathleen, both graduated from Yale and like their father were members of Phi Beta Kappa.  Kathleen followed her parents into law, while young Estil became a doctor and research oncologist.

Estil and I roomed together at Yale for four years and were friends for 50.  I have never known a better man.  I have known other brilliant people but none with his modesty.  In our first months at Yale when the high marks started coming in, he shrugged them off.  “I was pretty lucky that time.”  In all our talks over the years, I never heard him say a word to acknowledge his achievements or to put down another person.  Yet he was no goody-goody.  He had a marvelous self-deprecating sense of humor and a natural inclination to see the funny side of any situation.  When Harriet Myers was nominated to the Supreme Court last fall, Estil told me of one such incident.  He was on the board when Myers chaired the State Bar Association of Texas.  Apparently, the association had always had trouble getting members to come to its annual meeting.  One day Myers raised the question of how to boost attendance.  After some earnest discussion, Estil had a suggestion.  Why not announce that the next meeting would be the very last one the association would ever hold.  They could dub it ‘The Last Roundup.’  Estil pointed out that members would want to come just so that they could say that had been there.  As Estil reported to me with some delight, Myers had turned to him and said, “Estil, that is the most unhelpful suggestion we’ve had today.”

The ancient Greeks used to say that you could not assess the quality of a man’s life until you knew how his life had ended.  By that standard, Estil’s life was a good and happy one.  I talked to him forty-eight hours before the end.  He was the same Estil, the same warm and loving man.  Like the best people we know, Estil led by example.  If I am conscious of it, I hope that I will meet the end of my own life with something like his gentle humor, courage and grace.

From: Steve Lasewicz

Re:  Yale 60 Golf Outing

At long last, I am pleased to broadcast the results of our Fall 2005 competition, Nov. 9 - 12.

To set the stage, our accommodations at The Kiawah Island Resort were "top drawer" -- all three Villa homes had four bedrooms and 3 or 4 baths allowing a maximum of comfort and privacy. The weather was just spectacular for our entire stay and the restaurants pleased even the most discriminating palates. Adult beverages were in abundant supply and kept many of us adequately lubricated for the daily challenges on the Kiawah Links. Our Friday evening dinner was a "cook in" suggested by George Rieger who insisted on treating us all to several bottles of appropriate and exceptionally fine wine. ( THANKS AGAIN, George !! ) The menu included succulent filet mignon, cooked to perfection by George and his hand picked subordinate chefs, a salad extraordinaire supervised by Matt Freeman and  baked potato with fixins. Tom Nolting made sure everyone had an adequate amount of coffee to help them find their way home to their respective beds.  

The quality of the courses we attacked was certainly equal to any of our venues to date. For those who may not be familiar with Kiawah, we played Osprey Point (Tom Fazio, Wht. tees -- 6089 yds., ( 119 / 68.8 ), Turtle Point ( Jack Nicklaus, Wht. tees -- 6159 yds., 125 / 69.9 ) and The Ocean Course, venue for the 1991 Ryder Cup ( Pete Dye,Wht. tees -- 6031 yds., 134 / 71.9 ). Each of them were outstanding and beautiful in different ways, but without question, everyone's favorite was The Ocean Course. Our first tee time was 7:50 just as the sun was establishing itself above the Ocean and burning off the morning dew ---can you picture it ??? Even with the guidance of excellent caddies, only 4 of 14 golfers broke 100 !   When all the score cards were in and scrutinized for the 54 hole competition, the results confirmed Howard Levine the Low Gross Champ and George Rieger the winner of the coveted Low Net "ALLING CUP". 

The details along with other awards  of Most Birdies (natural), Most Pars (natural and net) and Highest Net plus the daily Best 2 Ball matches are in the attachments ( score sheets #1 & #2 ) for your review.    As in the past, the most treasured feature of our gathering was the camaraderie of this diverse group. For three Classmates, it was their first introduction to these memorable, intimate Mini- Reunions. Many of us never knew each other as undergraduates adding another wonderful dimension to the experience. On display for all to enjoy was a special photo album which was intended to be a Christmas present for our beloved CZAR I, Duncan Alling, sent to me by his dear wife Cynthia after Duncan left us. It features a picture of "Duncan in a tight spot "  ( so classic !! ), as well as many memorable photos of previous events.  

We welcome any and all Classmates to share these outings with us---don't worry about your handicaps ---- just ask us to add your name to our roster. If all goes well, our next event will be in Northern Calif. next Spring --- plan on being there ( 1st 16 to commit ).  

Respectfully submitted, Steve Lasewicz Y 60 Golf Czar II

November 2005

From:  Peter Parsons

Peter Green suggested I write you about  a video documentary I have produced this year. It is called Secret War in the Pacific and deals with the life and work of my father in WWII.   He was caught by the Japanese in Manila but talked his way into a wonderful escape after six months. When General MacArthur heard he was out of the war zone, he requested his presence at GHQ in Brisbane, Australia.   From there Chick Parsons conducted the organization of the guerrilla forces in the Philippines. He was able to get 20 submarines involved in this effort, and he went in and out of the islands on these boats as if they were his taxis.   The video is about this; it uses a lot of documentary footage, and lots of interviews. It is of some value to historians of those times, and possibly of interest to anyone who would like to know more about WWII in the Pacific.   There is a web site: www.chickparsons.com, and anyone interested in acquiring a DVD or VHS can contact me directly. This has been in the making for about ten years--just a tad longer than Peter Green's efforts.  

October 2005

From:  Peter H. Green

I finally have some news worth reporting to you for our class notes. My book, "Dad's War with the United States Marines," a family memoir with some first-ever-reported information about what transpired on Guam toward the final days of World War II, has just been released. My father, just a private first class, was by default running WXLI, the Armed Forces Radio Station, when he actually scooped the networks with news of Japanese acceptance of the surrender terms, as the attached article from the St. Louis Post Dispatch reports in their V-J Day story. A press release on my book is also enclosed.
This has been my main project since stepping down as Vice President of a St. Louis engineering and architectural firm over a year ago. I'm also doing some consulting for a few former clients and friends.
Our family continues to grow: daughter Lisa Green Mayer, fifth grade teacher, and her husband Richard in Houston have produced a granddaughter, Kennedy Catherine Mayer, in March of 2004. My wife, Connie, is currently planning a wedding next summer for my younger daughter, Lori, who works in digital graphics and animation for films in the LA area. She will marry her classmate and industry colleague, Jeffrey Smith, of Houston, sometime next summer.
That's the news from Lake Woebegone.
Best of health and good times to you and yours,
Pete
Check out the introduction to my forthcoming book,"Dad's War with the United States Marines," at www.dadswar.net

Peter H. Green

October, 2005

From: Richard Banbury

RECOGNIZING A STROKE - A true story A neurologist says that if he can get to a stroke victim within 3 hours he can totally reverse the effects of a stroke...totally. He said the trick was getting a stroke recognized, diagnosed and getting to the patient within 3 hours, which is tough.

Susie is recouping at an incredible pace for someone with a massive stroke all because Sherry saw Susie stumble - - that is the key that isn't mentioned below - and then she asked Susie the 3 questions. So simple - - this literally saved Susie's life - -Some angel sent it to Suzie's friend and they did just what it said to do. Suzie failed all three so 911 was called.

Even though she had a normal blood pressure readings, and it did not appear to be a stroke as she could converse to some extent with the paramedics, they took her to the hospital right away. Thank God for the sense to remember the 3 steps! Read and Learn!

Sometimes symptoms of these strokes are difficult to identify. Unfortunately, the lack of awareness spells disaster. The stroke victim may suffer brain damage when people nearby fail to recognize the symptoms of a stroke.

Now doctors say a bystander can recognize a stroke by asking three simple questions:
1. *Ask the individual to SMILE.
2. *Ask him or her to RAISE BOTH ARMS.
3. *Ask the person to SPEAK A SIMPLE SENTENCE
(Coherently) (i.e. 'It is sunny out today').

If he or she has trouble with any of these tasks, call 9-1-1 immediately and describe the symptoms to the dispatcher.

After discovering that a group of non-medical volunteers could identify facial weakness, arm weakness and speech problems, researchers urged the public to learn the three questions. They presented their conclusions at the American Stroke Association's annual meeting last February. Widespread use of this test could result in prompt diagnosis and treatment of the stroke and prevent brain damage.

A cardiologist says if everyone who gets this e-mail sends it to 10 people, you can bet that at least one life will be saved. BE A FRIEND AND SHARE THIS ARTICLE WITH AS MANY FRIENDS AS POSSIBLE. It could save their lives. This is worth reading and remembering: SMILE FOR ME. RAISE YOUR ARMS. SAY SOMETHING SIMPLE, such as "I LOVE YOU."

August 16, 2005

From John Bing,

I recently attended a brunch in Beijing sponsored by the Yale Club of Bejing to honor some 27 Yale undergraduates (Bulldogs in Beijing) who served as summer interns in China this summer.  Our classmate, Po-Wen Huang, as President of the Club, presided.  The interns reported on their experiences.  It was a very impressive display of ingenuity, skill and a good job of representing Yale and America.  Po is doing a great job as President of the Club.  It is a very active organization with monthly meetings and activities. 

My own summer in Tianjin went well.  My team taught over 100 high school English teachers English listening and speaking skills, conversational English, and we enjoyed once again the warmth and friendship of our students and “old friends.”  While the kindness, hard work and good will of the people has been a constant for all the years that I have visited China,  we as were again amazed by the physical changes in the city.  So many new modern buildings, and roads and apartment complexes.  The university with which we have had an 18 year association, Tianjin Normal University, is completing a new campus South of the main city that is a remarkable project.  10,000 workers, three eight hour shifts a day, seven days a week and a veritable city of over 25 buildings, some eight or  nine stories in height, constructed in one year.  Two other universities are developing adjacent campuses.  It will be an academic city in a few years with probably over 20,000 students.  Another fascinating site and accomplishment is the new history and art museum in Tianjin (worth visiting if you are in China).  The museum is state of the art and better than anything of the kind I have seen anywhere in the world. 

John

August 14, 2005

Webmaster Posting          ICE - In Case of Emergency

A campaign encouraging people to enter an emergency contact number in their mobile phone's memory under the heading ICE (In Case of Emergency), has rapidly spread throughout the world as a particular consequence of the terrorist attacks in London.

Originally established as a nation-wide campaign in the UK, ICE allows paramedics or police to be able to contact a designated relative/next-of-kin in an emergency situation.

The idea is the brainchild of East Anglian Ambulance Service paramedic Bob Brotchie and was launched in May this year. Bob, 41, who has been a paramedic for 13 years, said: "I was reflecting on some of the calls I've attended at the roadside where I had to look through the mobile phone contacts struggling for information on a shocked or injured person. Almost everyone carries a mobile phone now, and with ICE we'd know immediately who to contact and what number to ring. The person may even know of their medical history."

By adopting the ICE advice, your mobile will help the rescue services quickly contact a friend or relative - which could be vital in a life or death situation. It only takes a few seconds to do, and it could easily help save your life. Why not put ICE in your phone now? Simply select your person to contact in case of emergency, enter them under the word 'ICE' and the telephone number of the person you wish to be contacted.

Please email this to everybody in your address book, it won't take too many 'forwards' before everybody will know about this. It really could save your life, or put a loved one's mind at rest.

For more than one contact name ICE1, ICE2, ICE3 etc