Has it been 45 years?

September, 1969 I walked into Mac High (the Public High school in Milton Freewater, OR) as a student physical science teacher. The real science teacher said "The class room is right down there on the right. It's yours. If you need me I will be in my office". I didn't see him again until the end of the term.
Today, September 8, 2014 , forty-five years and thousands of students after entering that "room right down there on the right", I walked out of Nichol Hall on the campus of Loma Linda University after meeting with my last student and turning in my last grades. What a trip!
A huge thank-you to those who taught and mentored me. Thanks to those who took a big chance and hired me.
Thousands of thank-you's  to the students around the world who were brave enough to take my classes. I hope, in some small way, it was a positive experience.  I beg your forgiveness for the times in which I may have appeared impatient. I did really want you to appreciate at least a little of that physics, chemistry and statistics.
And a huge thank you to my perfect dream, Eileen and  two wonderful daughters, Lucyndi and Sharlane, who lived with me through all that.

With much love and so many invaluable memories,

Floyd, Mister Floyd, Professor Floyd, Mr. Petersen, Professor Petersen

Now to begin the next trip!

Robert and Ted

Floyd Petersen, 2005

Though it happened in 1960, I remember it like it was yesterday. The late fall Sunday in rural Wisconsin was cold and blustery.  The old farmer a mile down the road had died and today was the auction. As a kid,  I loved to hear the auctioneer, so I walked down the road and listened to a lifetime collection of possessions being sold to the highest bidder. After an hour I tired of the sale and headed home. Standing at the end of the drive were two figures hunched in their overcoats and rubbing their ears to ward off the biting cold. They were handing out some papers and talking to anyone who would listen. I asked them who they were. Robert said one; Ted said the other. They were campaigning for their brother John, they said. He was running on the Democratic ticket for president, the paper they handed me, said.
My dad was Protestant and  Republican. They were Democrat and Catholic, so I didn't shake their hand. 

Floyd Petersen. 2005

Trust and Freedom

Floyd Petersen, 2013

Dear Editor;

I am a professor and research consultant In the School of Public Health here at Loma Linda University. In this capacity I have been fortunate to have traveled to many parts of the world.  I also served on the Loma Linda City Council for 20 years, 10 of those years as mayor.

Several years ago I was teaching a graduate level class in biostatistics at a university in Kenya. My students were from 22 different African countries. Since some students were from French speaking Africa, all my lectures were interpreted into French. My interpreter was Yenge Yenge Yenge Isaac, a business administrator from the Cameroons.

One day during a break, our conversation turned to global economics.  Mr. Isaac speculated on how nice it would be if Bill Gates gave each African a million dollars. Mr. Isaac knew that I had some understanding of African culture as I had taught and lived in Zambia  for 7 years in the early 1970's.   He then turned to me with a serious questioned look and asked; "Why are you rich and we are poor"?  And by "you" he didn't mean me personally, of course, but we as Americans

Wow! A profound question.  A question that everyone must have pondered at some point in their lives: why are some peoples rich and some poor”. I replied that many books had been written on that subject including the 500 page “Guns, Germs, and Steal" by ULA professor, Jared Diamond . "But", I said, "I have a simple answer":  We have a famous American by the name of Thomas Jefferson who wrote our most famous document - our Declaration of Independence. In the last sentence of that document Jefferson wrote this: " We pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor". I said: "I believe It is this pledge of "Sacred Honor" that has made us rich as a nation". "We are rich because we trust each other, and when that pledge is broken, we will be poor".  He said "Now I understand ".

Why are we rich? Because we can borrow capital to start a business, and the lenders trust they will be paid back. We call the police and trust they will come to our aid. We put our money in investments and trust it will not be absconded with. We trust in fair elections to choose people to represent us in civic affairs, and we trust they will make and enforce fair and equitable laws for our city or county or state, or country that will protect us from those who would betray our trust for their own selfish greed.  Knowing, full-well, however, the most well-intentioned law cannot substitute for trust between people

 We can have as many open government laws as we can write but if it is an elected person's studied intention to rip us off, it can be done. We have seen it too often. Over and over, in the last several years, big business has betrayed our trust, in spite of myriad laws.  Trust cannot be legislated.

Perhaps we have spent too much time perusing our second most famous document - the constitution - to discover our rights as citizens, and too little time re- reading that last sentence in the  Declaration of Independence, reviewing our responsibilities inherent in that pledge of our sacred honor we made to each other.

The continued success of our treasured experiment as a free people is based on trust. For without trust there is no freedom. Trust is our only real currency.

Floyd Petersen

Educating Violence

Floyd Petersen, 2014

Dear Editor;

Since the Isla Vista rampage, I have been searching the thousands of written words and hours of TV news and commentary in vain for any hint of support for my hypothesis on why we are experiencing these horrendous acts of public violence.

We expose our children to math expecting they will learn math. We expose our children to reading expecting they will learn to read. We expose our children to science, expecting they will learn science. We expose our children to a steady diet of violence and illogically expect a different outcome.

Thousands of video games glorify violence. Movies and TV portray violence hour after hour. A child can blow away hundreds of people between supper and bed time, then go safely to bed, sleep the night and all is well in the morning. We shouldn’t be surprised when the result is violence. Any observant parent can tell you after watching their children at play that there is a fuzzy line between fantasy and reality and unfortunately there are a lot of emotionally and mentally handicapped adults that suffer the same challenge.

I see that Jack Dangermond, the founder of ESRI has pledged 1 billion dollars to get geographic mapping software in our schools. Well, a lot of education happens outside of schools. Here is a challenge: Let those creative programmers at ESRI create a mapping video game that is even more exciting than stealing cars and killing people. Why should violence be more attractive and interesting then mapping?

Why is violence so attractive?

A Story

Floyd Petersen, 2009

While glancing through the local newspaper recently, I came across an obituary. Along with the obituary was a picture of the deceased.  The picture was of an elderly African American woman. Nothing unusual about that, except, well, let me tell you the story.

We had arrived at the Reagan International Airport in D.C. a bit early. Our flight to California via Chicago would leave in an hour. The waiting area near the boarding gate was almost empty as we settled into a seat among our carry-on’s.

In addition to being a university professor I am the mayor of a small city and chairman of the board of directors of a regional public transportation agency in Southern California. Once or twice a year I make a trip to Washington D.C. on business. My wife, Eileen, had accompanied me on this trip and now with an hour to spare she said she wanted to look around the airport.

Eileen had been gone only a short time when an elderly African American lady appeared and, actually pushing one of our bags aside and, seeming not to notice me, proceeded to occupy the seat Eileen had just vacated.

Well now! With so many empty seats in the waiting area,  did she have to sit right here in my wife’s place, I thought to myself. This was an intrusion into my personal space. Why hadn't she occupied one of the many other empty seats where she could spread out her bags and be comfortable?

She had on a funny knit black cap and was wearing glasses. Not just ordinary glasses but thick glasses. The kind of thick glasses that makes the person wearing them seem to be peering about in a strange disoriented sort of way.

Now, I like people. To be a mayor, one should.  I also like nothing better than a good conversation with interesting people.  I like new ideas. But an 80 year old lady wearing a funny cap and peering through thick glasses? To be honest, she would not have been my first choice to spend an hour with in an empty airport.

Pardon me, she said. Could you tell me what time it is? She adjusted her glasses to better see the ticket she held in her hand. Her question was my first indication that she  knew I existed.

Eleven O'clock, I answered glancing at my watch. And then trying to appear friendly I added, "where are you going"?

      "Chicago" she said, "My plane leaves at one o'clock and I wanted to be on time".

Since my wife and I were going through Chicago and our plane left at twelve,  I thought that she might be mistaken about the time of her flight. Asking to see her ticket I took it up to the attendant at the desk to verify her departure time and flight number. Her plane did indeed leave one hour later than ours. On returning to my seat, I assured her that everything was correct and that she had plenty of time to rest before her flight was called.

Well, if I was going to share my space with this stranger I may as well find out who she was. I asked her if she lived in Chicago.

"Yes", she replied, "a good many years".

"What brought you to Washington, D.C. - were you here to visit family", I inquired?

"No", she responded, "I came here to receive an award".

"An award" I said?  I probably looked a little surprised though she didn't seem to notice.

"Yes" she said. 

"Have you seen the morning paper"?

"Here, I have one", she added,  pulling from her bag a copy of the Washington Post.

As she held up the morning news paper, the first thing that caught my eye was that part of a large headline containing the words "First Lady".

Well, what is this all about, I wondered?

 "You can read about it in my paper if you like". And: "Oh, I have a copy of the program, too" she offered.

"I'd love to see it", I replied.  A boring hour in the airport was suddenly turning interesting.

"First Ladies Salute first Women" the title on the richly decorated program announced.

 As I flipped it open I immediately began to see names that I recognized - Barbara Walters, Mistress of Ceremonies; Hillory Rodham Clinton; The Honorable Madeleine Albright; The Honorable Dianne Feinstein, senator from my state; The Honorable Shirley Chishlom; The Honorable Sandra Day O'Connor.

Whoa! What do we have here? The program went on to list more 'Honorables' then I knew existed.

And then the five women who had received the National First Ladies Library Award the previous evening were introduced.  Second on the list after the Honorable Madeleine K. Albright appeared the name Gwendolyn Brooks.

 "That's me" she said. "It was so much fun".

I quickly began to skim the biography. But when the words 'Pulitzer Prize' appeared in the first sentence, I started again, reading more slowly now:

Gwendolyn Brooks; first African-American female Pulitzer Prize winner for poetry; the second Poet Laureate of Illinois, succeeding Carl Sanburg; 1997 recipient of the Lincoln Laureate medal; current writer-in-residence at Chicago State University where the Gwendolyn Brooks Center for Black Culture and a Chair has been named in her honor.

And there was lots more: Miss Brooks, the recipient of more than 75 honorary doctorates; a member of the National Institute for Arts and Letters; appointed to the Presidential Commission on the National Agenda for the Eighties; Consultant-in-Poetry to the Library of congress; named Jefferson Lecturer by the National Endowment for the Humanities; and in 1995, awarded the prestigious National Medal of the Arts. Gwendolyn Brooks, author of more than twenty-six books.

My wife returned to find her seat occupied. I introduced her to my new friend.

Miss Brooks was a delightful person, a great conversationalist and well informed on a wide range of topics. We talked about poetry. She asked what had brought us to Washington.  I told her about my job as a mayor and university professor.

"I'm so impressed to be sitting here next to the mayor" she said.

What? Gwendolyn Brooks, a Pulitzer Prize winner with 76 doctorates, glad to be sitting next to me?

 "You can keep that copy of the program - here, I'll sign it for you" she offered. Then she added: "if you write to me I will send you an autographed copy of my latest book of poetry". She kept her promise.

All too soon our flight was called. I lingered, not wanting to break the spell. As we walked toward the gate, I turned to look at her again; old, wrinkled, funny knit cap, thick glasses. Somehow that didn't matter now.  I had just spent an hour in the presence of Royalty.

Thank you Gwendolyn Brooks for intruding. And thank you for reminding me again to never judge another.

The Cricket

My 86 year old sister decided to give up her house in Central California and move into a retirement suite. My wife and I drove up from our home Southern California, and spent a week helping her sort through her life-time collection of stuff.

Outside near the front door on the veranda where my sister now lives is a row of chairs where residents often sit and watch the local comings and goings. The chair nearest the door is usually occupied by a rather sober looking elderly gentleman. I am a person who likes to make verbal contact with people I meet and so every time I passed by I would make some comment to him about the weather or the news – to see if I could get him to talk. Every comment I made was either met with a small unemotional grunt or just a blank stare.

On the last day while sorting through a box of junk, I came across a small item which I had not seen in at least 50 years. It is a small toy made from two pieces of metal. The top piece is shaped like the back of a large bug and the other is a small spring-like flat piece. When the device is squeezed between your finger and thumb, it makes a loud clicking sound. It used to come in boxes of Cracker Jacks and breakfast cereal. I can still hear my dad say “would you kids stop clicking that noisy contraption, it’s driving me crazy”.

I showed the toy to my sister and slipped it into my pocket.

On the morning we were leaving to return home, we stopped at her new home to tell my sister good-bye. On the way out, three gentlemen – including the quiet one – were sitting by the door. I reached into my pocket and said: “gentlemen, I found something while sorting my sister’s stuff yesterday, and I wonder if you know what it is”. I pulled out the toy and clicked it a couple of times. Two of the men who were usually talkative remarked that - yes they had played with it as a child. 

Suddenly the quiet one perked up, and leaning forward and pointing at it, spoke with considerable emotion and authority: “Sir that is a cricket.  It is what we used during the Battle of Normandy to identify ourselves to our fellow soldiers”.  He then lapsed into his usual silence – but with a far-away look in his eyes and a smile on his face. It was, after all,  just a cricket.