Bucket List

Along about 1962 — I was in the fifth grade and brother Bert was in the third, so let’s accept that I was 10 years old and a happy enrollee at Maysville (OK) elementary school. Our principal was Roy West and, — it was a small school — I believe he also had classroom responsibilities. Whether he did or did not, we all liked Mr. West.

On a sunny day near the end of the school year we had “athletics” competition. John Kennedy was president and the President’s Council on Physical Fitness figured prominently in the psyche of some educators… including Mr. West.

Our fitness competition involved thing like running 100 yards, high jumping, pull-ups (we used to call them chin-ups) and rope climbing. Bert prevailed in his rope-climbing and chin-up competition and I in mine. Mr. West offered us a choice of prizes, as long as we chose a book. One of us chose a world geography textbook and one of us chose a world history book. Neither text had been adopted by the district and the books were collecting dust.

We took them home and started on page 1, reading them like they were Hardy Boys novels. Obviously, history education is more inclusive now (except maybe in Florida) and geography has evolved with technology so some of what we learned was inaccurate and it was certainly incomplete. Despite their shortcomings, I was influenced by those books. My world view expanded. Without knowing it, those books added two items to my bucket list, long before I knew I had a bucket list.

Geography: I really wanted to see Yellowknife , Great Slave Lake and the northern reaches of Canada. Friends, motorcycles and sleeping bags made that possible. History: I was fascinated by the Erie Canal. That it stretched well over 300 miles across New York, that it was dug with hand-powered drills, picks, and shovels intrigued me. The boats were towed by mules guided by, in many cases, children, for heaven’s sake. I became a fan of NY Governor Dewitt Clinton, I learned the words to (and surely sang over and over) Fifteen Miles On The Erie Canal.

Today, Millie and I took a day off from our campground chores and drove to Lockport, New York, the western terminus of the Erie Canal. I’m certain the folks who passed me on the now-paved towpath assumed I was a mouth-breather with either IQ issues or adenoid problems. I’m certain I stood with mouth agape. More than 60 years since Bert and I won our own personal textbooks, I was standing beside the canal. The original carried so much traffic its tolls repaid in 10 years the total cost of construction and three years after that, it was widened to allow larger boats. In the early 20th century, the original was replaced with a much wider canal, still used occasionally for commercial purposes but mostly by pleasure boats and and excursion boats crowded with tourists.

Despite her near-perfect demeanor and unusual respect for all humanity except toddlers, Millie would not have been welcomed aboard the excursion boat. We contented ourselves, wandering down the tow path and trudging back up. We prowled the museum — Millie was less interested than I in the wooden timbers that once served as a floor for the softer-bottomed locks — and she had no interest at all in sitting through a movie that did not include popcorn. We skipped the movie.

I do, though, wish I could tell Mr. West.