Mensa - Doorway to Nothing - 4/11/2011

It is not uncommon for an exchange with my friend, Bill Woolum, to inspire a blog. Bill is one of the handful of my Facebook contacts that is also a friend in real life. Last night our Facebook conversation began with a discussion of the Yankee/Red Sox game and ended with speculation as to which of our classmates, circa 1970, are Mensans. That may seem like a strange segue, but actually since both of us have severe attention deficit disorder, as well as other issues, it is a totally logical progression. Our exchanges often deteriorate into much more base topics (usually my doing).

I often wish that Bill and I lived closer so that we could have these conversations over beer, breakfast, or blancmange, but alas, we both love our particular coasts.
The Mensa dialog is what inspired this post. I am a member of Mensa and I expect Bill is a closet member. Speculating as to whom in my graduating class of Kellogg High School, Idaho, 1970, were possible Mensans proved to be an interesting activity.

Let me state at this time that I don’t believe my qualification for Mensa is any sort of accomplishment other than I am a really good test taker.

Mensans that I have come in contact with are generally weird and uninteresting, insufferable bores. (Except for Dave Powers and me) You will note that I have let my membership lapse. I have absolutely nothing in common with members of the organization. Contributors to their publications expend an inordinate amount of effort to try to impress each other with their knowledge. I write to publicly display my lack of enlightenment.

I believe that being smart is like being gay, it is not a choice. It is thrust on you and it is up to the individual what he does with it. My innate ability to process information has actually worked against me in my life. School was very easy and as a result I got bored and stopped paying attention in about grade six. Also, in the 1960s, in Kellogg, Idaho, tall, skinny, awkward, kids with big ears/noses that wore glasses and knew all the answers in class were not cool. I tried, unsuccessfully to be cool. I learned pretty much by osmosis, through no effort of my own. I can honestly say that I never read a textbook, other than an occasional chapter that interested me. As a result, I was, and continue to be a world class underachiever.

I graduated right in the middle of my 192 high school graduating class. That may not sound too bad unless you consider that the majority of those that finished below me would be considered special needs students in today’s society.

But, as is my modus operandi, I smoked the ACT/SATs, and went on to college, where I discovered lots of new distractions as barriers to success. I learned that class attendance was necessary to successful course completion. After one year, I was not invited back.

Getting back to the Mensa discussion, statistics would indicate that since Mensa membership is comprised of the top 2% of standardized test takers, my class should have included 3-4. I have no reason to believe that Kellogg High School produced genius above the national average. After all, we were all subjected to 18 years of heavy metal poisoning. I am thinking that would work against us.

Bill and I enjoyed speculating as to who the remaining 2 or 3 qualifiers were. It was an enjoyable exchange. I guessed the other Mensans from my class were Jim Etherton, Mike Jasberg, and Jeff Kenyon. Sorry Christy Blick, you can’t have beauty and brains. It wouldn't be fair. Bill did not disagree with any of those and added Brian Shiplett.

After our conversation ended, I thought that it is very possible that, like me, the other gifted students were also camouflaged, cloaked in mediocrity, and the high achievers from my class succeeded by sheer effort and ambition.

Sunday Scribblings - My Oldest Friend - 7/13/08

When I read this week's prompt, "My Oldest Friend," it was the easiest prompt to respond to in the year or so that I have been writing Sunday Scribblings. Only one name came to mind. His name is Marc Dorendorf. We met in the seventh grade in 1964. We maintained our friendship throughout high school, playing sports together. I am number 44 and Marc is number 20. Our coach looked extremely drunk and thinking back I wouldn't blame him. We were better at baseball.

His mom and dad became my surrogate parents. I spent a lot of time as a welcome guest in their home. We would hang out at his place after baseball practice, gorging ourselves with Velveeta and ham sandwiches in his basement rec room.

After high school, we both attending the University of Idaho for a year. We both left school and went to work at the lead smelter of the Bunker Hill Company until we got our draft notices early in 1972. I married in June before departing for the Air Force in August. Marc was a groomsman in my wedding. My son Josh's middle name is Marc.

Marc elected to go into the Army for the minimum 2 years. He was spared Vietnam and spent his enlistment in Germany. I, on the other hand, spent 20 years in the Air Force. My experiences and family have been documented in previous posts. Marc met his future wife, Debbie, in Paris during his Army tour in Europe. After discharge, he returned to the University of Idaho and using his veteran's educational benefits, earned an accounting degree. He has a very successful CPA firm in Spokane, Washington. He and Debbie raised two great daughters.

Through the years, no matter where I was stationed, I received a family photo Christmas card and a newsletter. I followed his life and the growth of his family through snapshots in time. I have included some of those snapshots here. I have always carried them with me. They are not in perfect order due to my lack of computer skills, but they still chart the growth of his daughters and acquisition of a son-in-law, soon to be two. They have a beautiful home on a hill south of Spokane which, as you can see, has been home to several domestic animals. It is also been a refuge for countless deer through the years.






As you can see, through the years Marc's hair has advanced from black, through grey, to a shade of blue usually reserved for residents of Del Boca Vista, Florida (obscure Seinfeld reference).

We never completely lost touch and on my rare visits back to the Pacific Northwest, we always get together. 

This week, Marc informed me of the passing of his dad, Marvin, two days before his 81st birthday. He died on July 5th in the presence of his loving family.

Above are his 1945 Kellogg High School graduation photo (I see a little Jerry Lee Lewis happening there) and a photo as he looked the last time I saw him. I am not as sad as I am happy to have known him. He had a great run.
The memories that news brought up to me made the timing of this prompt perfect. Spending 20 years as a nomad in the military does not lend itself to establishing and maintaining long-term friendships. I greatly value this one.  I have other friends that I have known longer but as you will see, we never lost touch.