Chapter 5 - Gunner Tollefson Bat and Ball Control

Upon arriving in adulthood, I was excited to be a part of the great human system responsible for everything that the great humans who make up the great human system are responsible for. I was ready to watch and learn from adults as they tackled the tough issues of the time. And see how they set aside all their issues to focus on fixing that which needed fixing. I would come to learn of secrets cloaked for eons disguised as confusion, incompetence and downright foolishness guarded by protectors of the adulthood class. I didn’t know how this brilliance would be revealed, however.

Would I simply be handed a book of knowledge and told to go in the corner and read or perhaps I would be led into a small dimly lit room behind thick walls and spend hours or even days watching film strips? Or maybe something super cool like laying on of the hands. That would be cool. Yeah, get hands laid on me, by a really hot adult woman. Something like that would be cool.

Of course, like all those awaiting the curtain to rise revealing supreme knowledge, I had a lot of questions. For me secrets pertaining to the whole land and property concept was always a challenge. Not the property itself, or for that matter the ownership, but rather more about how it all got to be divvied up. As an example, how did farmers such as Ax Andersen and Enar Anderson end up with these really huge areas of farm land – almost 250 acres each - then squeezed in between these two behemoths was Odin Hanson’s little piece of acreage – just over 100 acres. At one point I thought perhaps because the name Ax in old Norse meant something like one who likes it peaceful, or lives in peace, while the name Enar means fighter. At the time, my not yet having arrived in adulthood logic surmised that perhaps Odin was wedged in between Ax, the fighter, and Enar the peace lover to keep the fighter and the guy who wants to live in peace separated. I assumed Odin probably meant peacemaker, separator, or bouncer. Something like that.

Nope, Odin in ole Norske Odin means daffodil, yellow flowers.

Again, I had not yet arrived at adulthood logic where this would probably be a no-brainer. With that, I decided to look at the Norwegian meaning of the term daffodil. Ah ha! Another idea landed in my lap. Perhaps daffodil means something special, even forceful in the native tongue. Believing I had stumbled upon the answer I looked it up. Noun; a kind of yellow spring flower that grows from a bulb.

I decided to let my thoughts move on.

Before I arrived in adulthood there were even bigger, more global land issues that had me perplexed, stumped, and yes even befuddled. I had a hard time understanding why the folks who were living alone along the shores and on the planes and in the mountains before the Europeans got here were chased, killed, rounded up, and herded to what was thought to be the most inhospitable lands in the country. And when after being given that land when it was later found to have valuable resources those resources were often given away, sold for cheap, and carried away by non-residents. I was sure once I arrived in adulthood issues like this would become clear, and I would be like, duh!

Before becoming an adult, I would read quotes from political leaders, guys like Salem. No wait that wasn’t his name. Winston. Was it Winston? Gosh, why do I want a cigarette? Winston, yes Winston. Winston Templemount. No. Something like that… Ah, Churchill. Yes, Churchill is the guy. He is known to have said "History is written by the victors." Another adult knowledge man, Senator William Marcy said "To the victor belong the spoils." which could be taken to mean "Winner takes all, including the garbage.” It could also be understood to mean “We don’t know if the winner is lying or not.”. Or maybe “To the victors come – or become - spoiled brats!” Have you ever wondered why the abbreviation for a German sausage made from pork, veal, and sometimes beef, often seasoned with any combination of salt, white pepper, nutmeg, lemon peel, marjoram, caraway, and garlic and children misbehaving are each called a brat? The idea that victors will become spoiled would fit nicely with the cigarette guys' idea of victors writing the history of events. The spoiled brats will just write whatever makes them sound good, just, and upstanding while the defeated, of course, corrupt, horrid, and evil. Like the heathen Indians who had to be wiped out and/or corralled for mercilessly killing the peaceful settlers who just wanted to make a living and raise families. We don’t need to know they were settling on land where buffalo – a major food source for the native people – had been wiped out along with the people who followed them.

Reflecting more on Mr. Churchill’s comments and "History is written by the victors." This citation in itself is a bit interesting because if you take a look at the provenance of the quote you will see that it is attributed to Winston, however, the origin is not known. I guess as England had done throughout so much of its history with other peoples’ land Mr. Churchill must have just appropriated the words as his own. He just planted his proverbial verbal flag. And to Senator William Marcy saying "To the victor belong the spoils" or "Winner takes all" even though when Senator Mercy, Mercy Marcy used it he was referring to the nepotistic government system of spoils wherein the winning party would toss out into the streets current public servants and replace them with their supporters or contributors or family members. The term has since been adapted to military and business ventures as well. That’s all well and good but don’t we run the risk of all those victors becoming spoiled with all their spoils and becoming spoiled little man brats?

I assumed I was missing something as this is certainly not how adults would resolve challenges much less report history. Make excuses? Puh. Nah. Just a side note here. When I decided to toss into the discussion the word “puh” I thought it meant an expression of dismissal or contempt but I wanted to be correct so I decided to turn to one of the forever and always reliable internet resources, Wiktionary, and Wiktionary say… Wait for it! “Puh! Pooh, expression of dismissal or contempt‚ used when encountering an unpleasant smell.” But hold on America! The Urban Dictionary reports that “Puh” was used by the YouTuber DashieXP to express the word as… Oh, oh my. Never mind. Wiktionary, I can’t believe you pulled that from the 1913 edition of the Webster dictionary – wow. Wiktionary states that the word is free of copyright and in the public domain. Does that mean DahieXP and I can attach the meaning that fits our needs the best? Merriam-Webster and Oxford do not recognize the word any more.

Then I started reading about this wild story, what I initially thought to be a movie script or book or something. I don't quite remember where I read it but I was also seeing stuff on the news as well about this movie or book or play or whatever. It sounded pretty wild - what I could grasp of the story anyway.

It went kind of like this. Let's see I hope I don't get too much mixed up. Ok, they had this one group or army or something, and they were called Israelis - although I often heard it pronounced as "Israaaylees" and there were these other groups called the Hamasus, and the PLO's and the Palestinians. Some other groups as well but I don't recall their names – Oh yeah there was one called the Christian Militia, of course, they were Christian so I am pretty sure they were just out there forgiving folks and turning the other cheek - I don't think it is that important to the story.

So apparently the Israelis didn't have a country and a whole bunch of other groups that had a lot of land and their own countries decided to give the Israelis a tiny piece of some of the land that the Hamasus, PLO's, and the Palestinians were living on. I was pretty sure this was not quite historically correct as clear thinking; fair-acting adults would not take someone else's land to give to someone. Adults, being adults if they wanted the Israelis to have some land, would have offered up some of their own land – I mean some of the countries had a whole bunch of land where no one was living because they had taken it from other people… Oh! Hmm. Well, at the time anyway I was pretty sure adults would come up with something better than this.

Well, I arrived in adulthood, and sure enough! A bunch of adults decided to take some land from one group of people and give it to another group of people. Didn't even offer up any place for the displaced to stay. And I assumed they’re not very good house guests because no one was raising their hands and saying “Come over here and stay with us.” I little piece of land for the Israelis and no offer of a place to go to the Hamasus, the PLO’s and the Palestinians. Then they started fighting over the land they were forced onto amongst themselves. Of course.

But the displacers, the victors, did come up with a great story. God had willed it. How do you refute that?

This would not have happened on Mr. Tollefson’s playground.

Mr. Tollefson was one of the teachers who roamed and playground when I was in 5th grade. No. Mr. Gunner Tollefson didn’t just roam the playground, he patrolled it – Gunner was an old Norwegian name for a warrior, of course. He was as regular a teacher as the rest of the staff who would take turns meandering around the playground, monitoring the activities of the often-hurried children during recess but unlike many of the teachers, Mr. Tollefson enjoyed this duty. You could see it. In like this kind of control. Gunner Tollefson was a big man, easily six foot two or three, but as the years of walking the yard had added up his once broad chest had migrated closer to his belt, but he walked around as a young man on the playground. I wondered at times if he would see himself as a child swinging on the swings and hanging on the monkey bars. I suspected he would be challenged to do even one or two pull-ups even though his arms and hands displayed pretty impressive muscle mass and on occasion, he had displayed the strength to pick up even an 8th grader by the collar lifting them and carrying them into the school building to the principal’s office. Then, every once in a while, he’d find his youth again, joining in with the kids on the playground with a couple of shots at the basket hoops with us or take a turn at bat when we were playing softball. He was just another one of the wise adults that I looked up to.

That admiration took a hit for a short time the day I learned that Mr. Tollefson had stuck his hand down the toilet in the boys’ bathroom as it was overflowing. The incident took me aback a bit but I resolved that one day I would learn the logic and the wisdom of his actions - someday. Although I don't believe I have heard that explanation yet, perhaps I just missed it when the explanation was given. I think it was probably the kind of action “Gunner” thrived on, perhaps even looked forward to. Not necessarily sticking his hand in an overflowing toilet but being the take-action guy. Looking back I suppose if the water kept flowing and the toilet still plugged, if there was nothing to use, like a plunger… Go ahead, Gunner!

Mr. Tollefson had been a teacher and a principal for many years and he was well known and respected as fair, but firm, and because of his size and ability to raise his voice, a little bit scary to some.

Mr. Tollefson had an ability to handle his classrooms with ease due in part to his size, the ability to direct and or intimidate with a boisterous bass voice, and lore. His lore continued to grow as we did. Not only was he known as the teacher who plunged his hand into the overflowing toilet he was also known as the cigarette and hanky guy.

Of course, there was no smoking allowed in school but Gunner Tollefson defied the rules. He was known for starting the school year with the cigarette and hanky lesson. In his classroom on the first day of school he would spend most of the time talking about himself, how he teaches, scholars, and what was expected in scholar and behavior. He would always end these sessions talking about drugs, drinking and smoking. When he got to the smoking discussion he would pull out a package of cigarettes from his desk drawer and pull out a white handkerchief from his back pocket. He’d proceed by placing the cigarette in his mouth, invariably there would be some murmurs and giggles. Gunner Tollefson would pause, remove the cigarette from his mouth, and hold it in his had on his chest. The room would return to silence. He would then continue with the demonstration, putting the cigarette back in his mouth and striking the lighter. Putting the lighter flame to the end of the cigarette he would take a couple of puffs. Again, there was some stirring. “I want you to SHUT UP! And watch.” We all shut up and watched. Mr. Tollefson then took the handkerchief put it between his lips and the cigarette and inhaled. He took the smoke away and put it out in his soda can.

He held up the white handkerchief and showed us all the yellowish-brown stain, about the size of a quarter. “This is what ONE hit from a cigarette does to a white handkerchief.” He paused. “I smoked for over twenty years. Imagine what my lungs look like.” He paused again, even longer than before. His eyes were welling up slightly as he looked at each one of us. “Please, please kids, don’t start smoking.” Silence. “Class is over.”

Want to be a leader? Acts like THAT will earn you respect. Gunner Tollefson said, “To hell with the rules, I have something important to teach these kids.” Years after I had arrived in adulthood, I learned Gunner’s body had deteriorated to practically nothing and he died of lung cancer.

When I was in 5th grade, with adulthood still nothing more than a faint dream and fascination of things to come, most of us had brothers and or sisters in grades ahead of us or behind us and in many cases both so at recess we would often play grades against grades. One of the classic matchups in schoolyard lore was the 5th graders vs. the 6th graders in an almost daily softball series carried on in the spring of the year long ago. And I was a hitting legend in softball. Well, I was pretty good at it anyway. The softball field was buffered by a small creek - one of those creeks one could easily jump over. Running through this creek was just enough water to slip and get your feet and pants a bit wet.

The word got around that I was very very good at hitting the softball over other players' heads and into that creek - well, really the word didn't get out because saying "the word got out" implies that the word had to get out of something as though the word was being kept secret or hidden. The reality is the word was already out because anyone who really cared knew this fact as they had been out on the playground when I hit many a ball into that creek. When I came up to bat, often I would hear other kids yelling "Hey Scotty’s up to bat, get back, go back to the creek.”

I was good at hitting softballs and baseballs and really, really good at catching footballs but not that great as an overall athlete I suppose. Throughout my grade school career when participating in the oft-talked about much-debated 5th and 6th-grade noon recess draft picks for softball, football, or basketball teams I was always picked in the middle of the group rather than first or second. This tells us something. I like to think that I was just not as well liked but that is not true. Everyone liked me. They just liked better the guys that run right passed my ass. Yeah. I was cursed with the slow gene. It bothered me because my brother could run like a deer. When I was in high school, I worked out with weights quite a bit and became stronger, I ran around the hills where I grew up for miles and miles and my stamina increased, but I never was able to get much faster. A little bit, but nothing too noticeable. Some folks are born with the curse of a stutter or a birthmark on the side of their neck. I was cursed with the slow gene and when you’re the 5th or 6th-grade captain on the recess playground picking teams you just didn’t want a lot of slow on your ball team.

I think my streak of hitting a softball over the heads or under the gloves of other players was perhaps one of the luckiest hitting streaks of all playground times. I probably should have had my photo on Playground Weekly or The Recess Standard at some point but like a gambler who hits Blackjack five or six times in times in a row regularly the word gets out. “He’s a slow Blackjack player but he gets on these crazy lucky streaks on a pretty regular basis.

Perhaps this moment in time, or timely moments in the playground limelight is what Andy Warhol was getting at when he referred to when he said “"In the future, everyone will be world-famous for fifteen minutes." First of all, I don’t think Mr. Warhol had much of a softball game secondly, if Andy had done the math he may have realized if everyone was going to get fifteen minutes of fame, there would most certainly be a fame shortage, perhaps a fame famine. He should have changed it to fifteen seconds. Even in changing from fifteen minutes of fame to fifteen seconds of fame, the numbers don’t appear to work. My math may be off a bit but even with only fifteen seconds of fame if we multiply that by eight billion people, we’re looking at one hundred and twenty billion seconds. That is a lot of fame seconds. Now if we consider there are eighty-six thousand four hundred seconds in a day, then one hundred and twenty billion seconds works out to one million three hundred eighty-eight thousand eight hundred eighty-nine days – I rounded up. That’s a whole hell of a lot of instances of fame per day.

Just for fun; a million seconds is 11.57 days, a billion seconds is 31.71 years, and a trillion seconds is 31,710 years – again I rounded up. Andy was living in the 60's so there were not as many people on earth so there wouldn't be quite as many folks to hand out fame seconds to.

Back to one particular afternoon recess, it seemed that a tiff had arisen as to whether I would be allowed to bat in my place as I wasn’t present at the beginning of the game. Terry and Jill had called my name while teams were being picked but I was tasked with cleaning chalkboard erasers before I could go out and play. I had come to this predicament because I was trying to get the attention of Carina Simonson to mark me down as reading another book from our selected list of books from the Random House Reading Program and I thought she was ignoring me so I threw a pencil at her and Mrs. Patterson, who’d been writing on the blackboard turned around and caught me mid toss. I felt Carina was ignoring me, as she had ever since kindergarten when Bill Ellefson, Noah Fredriksen, Lucas Larson and I used to get into little shoving tussles each day after milk and cookies when trying to jockey our napping mats nearest to Carina to nap closest to her.

Bill Ellefson or Billy or William, who would come to be one of my better friends as we neared adulthood, where we would put thoughts of Carina in the rearview mirrors of our minds, was a good kid but always felt like he needed to be the protector or enforcer. When in Cub Scouts and everyone in the den would all wear our Cub Scout shirts with the official required Scout neckerchiefs around our necks. Bill would walk around the playground inspecting and sometimes adjusting other scouts’ neckerchiefs. He would be there to stand up for kids he thought were being picked on and of course if any girls were being teased, he would stand to be their knight. As we got older that became a bit tiring but we all knew he was coming from a good place. Billy was a good guy. Fierce competition in the kindergarten mat placement game.

Noah Fredrickson. Cool, calm, relaxed. One of the few guys I’ve ever met who could understand he was outmatched or overwhelmed and still be cool, calm, and collected. This was good information to have in one’s back pocket during the afternoon nap mat positioning sweepstakes. If Noah got elbowed out, he would be cool, relaxed, and just chill wherever he ended up. Corina also had that nature and we were all aware Noah had a bit of an advantage here. It sent real fear through all the competitors one day when Corina put a mat down next to hers and called Noah’s name.

Then there was Lucas Larson who often would partake in the chase. But Lucas was a little bit odd. His dad drank a bit and at would sometimes be found sitting in a lawn chair outside his house which was right next door to one of the three Lutheran churches. Yes, there were three Lutheran churches in the town of one thousand thirty-six people and often there was talk of building another. That is a side point. Lucas’ dad used to sit in his lawn chair, often long after lawn chair season had passed, and he would advise passersby. When we were going into the church for confirmation classes – in December – Lucas’ dad would be out in his lawn chair, donning a new before-Christmas jacket and holding a beer in his ungloved, rugged, like a man who works on engines for a living, calloused hands dispensing advice. We thought some of that had rubbed off on Lucas because he too would often hand out information on issues and projects. We all learned to take his counsel with a bit of hesitancy. He was the least strategic, and therefore least threatening in the daily mat scamper.

One afternoon I tossed my mat on the floor next to where Carina was sitting quietly on her mat and then I kind of did a little frog jump onto my mat landing, unfortunately right on top of her foot. She was okay, but I scratched her shiny black shoes and she was not pleased with me. No, not one bit. I think she held a grudge. If you are reading this Carina, sorry.

I had taken a bit longer than expected with my task and there were just a few minutes left before recess was over when Oliver (Ollie) came running into the classroom to get me to bat as our team was down by a couple of runs. Mrs. Patterson was not in the classroom and I had pretty much cleaned the erasers so I dashed after Ollie down the short, wide hallway towards the open doors leading to the playground. I grabbed my softball bat from my open-space locker and made my way. When we arrived at the ball field just twenty yards from the school building a few of the louder fifth and sixth graders were still hollering back and forth but it had been settled that I would be allowed to bat. And I batted. And my hot-hitting streak continued. I didn’t blast the ball into the creek but I hit it far enough for a triple and two runs scored – just enough for our team to win by one run just before the bell rang. As we were walking back to the building the feud regarding my eligibility to bat had erupted once again. The cluster of softball players had suddenly stopped as Leif and Phillip Ostenson were now hollering at each other, noses about six inches apart, faces red, a bit of spittle escaping Leif’s mouth. More voices chimed in and the tone and temperature of the argument began to climb rapidly. Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey! A booming masculine voice sliced the airwaves and the group of boys cowered and hushed as quickly and quietly as passengers in an airline cabin who’d just experienced unexpected turbulence. Doom may be near.

Mr. Tollefson walked over to where Leif and Phillip stood. Both were now quiet and looking a bit sheepish. The large man reached down grabbing the ball and bat bag from Leif’s hands. “Okay, so you don’t know how to get along together on the ball field? Well then, there will be no softball for a week. Let’s see if you can figure out how to get along and play nicely together.”

I enjoy considering how Gunner Tollefson would handle the Israeli and Palestinian issue...

Now that am an adult, I think of how Gunner might handle the Israeli and Palestinian issues... It’s funny how when we were kids on the playground the adults had some very simple solutions to resolve our issues. Now that I have arrived and am walking around in adulthood, I listen to other adults who have achieved a certain expertise in these areas and the politicians as well, explain how “It’s not quite that simple…” Hell yes, it is that simple. If they can’t figure out how to get along take away their bats and balls for a week.

Just take away their bats and balls and I’d just bet it would not take the sides too long to figure out how to play nicely together.