Corporal Rodriguez Had Been Waiting All His Life

Corporal Rodriguez was a Californian.  In fact, he was the son of migrant fruit pickers.

I expected him to look back on his childhood and tell me how miserable it was.  Instead, he had fond memories of the family gathered around a campfire for meals – and they always had fresh fruit to eat.  The corporal was proud of his mother because she was a fruit cutter, and was good at her job.  Whenever she finished cutting up one tray of fruit, she would yell “More fruit”.  Those two words were vivid in his mind.

Corporal Rodriguez and I were both instructors at the Fort Lewis School Command, and we lived in the barracks that held our classrooms.  Since we were isolated from the rest of the School Command, Rodriguez asked me to help him wake up each morning.  I was supposed to enter his room and play an LP on his record player at high volume.

I did my task daily: waking him up with “Honky Tonk Women”, “Bad Moon Rising”, and “Chelsea Morning”.  One day I discovered that the Army library had an LP called “Artillery Sounds”.  Then I would occasionally wake him up with the sound of howitzers.

Fort Lewis is on Puget Sound in the State of Washington.  One wintry afternoon, Corporal Rodriguez knocked on my window.  He was standing outside, with his hand outstretched and a look of ecstasy on his face.

I opened my window and Rodriguez asked. “Is this snow?”

I quickly realized that Rodriguez, being a Californian, had never seen snow.  He had been looking forward to this moment all his life – the moment when he experienced snow, the kind of snow you hear about in Christmas songs and see on Hallmark Cards.

Nobody likes to be the bearer of bad news.  What should I do?  Should I lie and tell him that, yes, it was snow to keep him happy, or should I burst his bubble and tell him the truth? 

I went with the truth.  “No, that’s sleet.”

His face changed from ecstasy to disbelief.  “Are you sure it’s not snow?”

I repeated the bad news for Corporal Rodriguez: “It’s sleet.”

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

This Is Not The Congo

When I arrived in Nigeria to teach mathematics, I had only done two weeks of student teaching back in the States.  I was still wet behind the ears.

As a new teacher, I wondered how to maintain discipline in a Nigerian classroom.  However, when I started teaching, I found the Nigerian students to be polite and attentive. 

I forgot about my concern about discipline --- until the second month, when one class got a bit talkative.  I was about to ask for quiet, when a voice boomed out from the back of the classroom: “This is not the Congo!”  Immediate silence.

I pieced together what had happened.  In 1964, Nigeria had sent peacekeeping troops to the Congo, which was in the midst of civil unrest.  For Nigerians, the Congo became a symbol of chaos.  The mere mention of the Congo had shamed the class into silence.

There was something deeper going on.  I had not disciplined the class – the class had disciplined itself.  I had learned a lesson.

Many years later, when I was in the Army, I taught at the Fort Lewis School Command.  I recalled the lesson I had learned in Nigeria: a class should discipline itself.

I put a plan into action, with a little help from my brother, Richard Schneider, and from Quick Draw McGraw.  My brother had put a sponge-rubber ball on the end of a three-foot dowel, and called his invention: “The Kabonger”.  He named it in honor of El Kabong, who was Quick Draw McGraw’s alter ego: an awkward and inept superhero, who swings from a rope and bops evildoers on the head with his guitar. 

My brother used his Kabonger to playfully bop his kids on the head to remind them to calm down.

I scoured Fort Lewis and found a sponge-rubber ball and a three-foot dowel. I made a Kabonger, and took it to my class.  When a soldier acted up, I did not hit him.  Instead I gave the Kabonger to a soldier sitting next to him, and had that soldier bop the offender on the head.

It worked.  In fact, the Kabonger worked so well that soldiers in the class would recognize when someone was out of line and would ask me for the Kabonger.  They would then proceed to bop the offender over the head. 

The Army class was disciplining itself.  And, I, of course, would never get court marshaled for bopping a soldier over the head.

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

Powder Of Pepper Red

1976 was the American Bicentennial, and it was a wonderful year to be in Europe.  Bursting with national pride, the United States sent many performing arts groups over to Europe to show off American culture.

I was in Europe in 1976. 

At one point, I took a bus from France to Belgium, to see a friend named Al who was living in Brussels at the time.  When I got off the bus at the Brussels bus station, a fellow approached me and asked if I was Doug Schneider.

He told me that he was a friend of Al’s from New York.  Al had asked him to meet me at the bus station.  He also mentioned that he was the manager of the Alvin Ailey Dance Theater, which was doing some performances in Brussels that week.

Really?  The manager of a major American cultural institution was meeting me at the bus station?  I felt honored. 

He went on to explain that the Dance troupe had been touring Europe for a month, and they really missed American food.  So, Al had volunteered me to cook a chili dinner for the Alvin Ailey Dance Theater.

I said “OK”. 

I should have said: “Hey, I am 32 years old, and I have never ever in my life eaten chili.  My mother didn’t make it, my high school cafeteria didn’t make it, and I have no idea what goes in it.”

Instead, I had said “OK”.  I had put myself on the hook: I was going to cook my first ever chili dinner so I would not disappoint my friend Al who had volunteered me, and so I would not disappoint the manager who had promised his dance company some real American food.

I scanned my mind.  I remembered the labels of the cans of Hormel Chili that my hometown supermarket sold.  The picture on the label indicated that chili must have kidney beans and tomatoes in it.  The Spanish name is “chili con carne”; so, chili must have meat in it.  I knew that there was something sold in little cans called “chili powder”.

But the most important thing I knew is that chili is some kind of stew.  And a stew always tastes better when you cook it the day before you serve it.

I went to a Belgian supermarket, where all the items were in French.  My meager knowledge of the French language consisted of a ten-week night class. 

In spite of my language handicap, I found all the things I was looking for, including a little can that said “poudre di pimente rouge”.  “Powder of pepper red” – I crossed my fingers, hoping it would be close to American chili powder.

I cooked up my ingredients.  The chili sat overnight.  I re-heated it the next day, Al made some cornbread, and the Alvin Ailey Dance Company showed up expecting some real American food.

I held my breath.  I had visions of being exposed.  I waited for people to say “This isn’t real chili!  Whoever cooked this is a fraud!!”

The dancers ate the chili.  They seemed to enjoy it.  One dancer actually told me that it tasted just like her grandmother’s chili.

I had saved face.  I had not disappointed my friend Al.  I had not disappointed the manager of the Alvin Ailey Dance Theater.  I exhaled.

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

I Have Been YouTubed

My life media list:

A St. Louis television station did a Man On The Street interview with me when President Clinton ordered the bombing of a terrorist camp in Afghanistan.  I appeared on TV offering my opinion.

A magazine in Tokyo published an article about my favorite yeast extract, Marmite.  My photo and a description appeared in both Japanese and English in the magazine.

A newspaper columnist solicited comments about compliments people have received in the workplace.  I sent him an email about a compliment I received at Bank of America.  My name appeared in newspapers across the country.

I wore a kilt to a live broadcast of the public radio show “Whadda Know”.  Before the show started, I went to use the men’s room.  The show’s host, Michael Feldman, was in the men’s room at the time and looked a little uncomfortable sharing the men’s room with a guy in a skirt.  However, during the portion of the show when Michael walks around talking with the audience, he recognized me and asked me about my kilt.  I was on National Public Radio explaining the joys of wearing a kilt.

This week my life media list expanded.  I have been YouTubed. 

MothUP St. Louis put two of my stories on YouTube.  I am thrilled that the stories I told to an audience of 200 can now be watched by the 2,000,000,000 people with Internet access worldwide.

My January MothUP story was about “Home”.  I honored my employer by wearing a blue Cass shirt and a blue Cass cap.  You can watch and listen to the 11-minute story at

     http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jw16p1HQnc8

My February MothUP story was about “Being Mortified”.  I made the mistake of holding the microphone too close to my mouth so that my inhaling and exhaling almost blots out my words.  You can watch and try to listen to the 4-minute story at

     http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d823tRZYvM4.

Now that I have been YouTubed, I wonder what my next media step will be.  

My next step could be Twitter --- but with all those TV stations and newspaper columnists and radio shows and magazines vying for my opinions and my commentary, I don’t have much time to tweet.

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

I Would Rather Give Birth

My scoutmaster told me that this day would come, but I wasn’t thinking of my scoutmaster at the time.  I was working for Wells Fargo Bank in Minneapolis, and I was leading a meeting about the changes I was making in some Wire Transfer reports.

I gave an overview of the report changes, and then I suddenly felt like an enormous skewer had been inserted in my body right above my pelvis.  The pain was intense. 

I ended the meeting abruptly, walked out of the meeting room, asked a co-worker if he knew how to drive a stick shift, and handed him my car keys.  Please drive me to the hospital.  My car was a tan Toyota: just go through the door on the second floor of the parking garage and it was the fourth car on the left.  I would be waiting in the bank lobby.

I asked my co-worker Cindy to wait with me.  The two of us sat on the guard’s desk in the lobby: Cindy sitting tall and me buckled over in pain.  Cindy kept my spirits up by patting me on the back.

My co-worker showed up and handed back my car keys.  He was unable to find my car.  Although my mind was half-blinded with pain, I still had time to wonder: second floor door, fourth car on the left --- how hard is that?

Luckily, Beth walked through the lobby.  Did you drive today?  Yes.  Can you take me to the hospital?  Yes.

Beth got her car, pulled up to the lobby.  Cindy helped me get in the car.

Little did I know that Beth was the slowest driver in all of Minneapolis.  Beth, could you go a little faster?  Beth, please don’t stop for yellow lights; just stop for red lights.

Finally, through the fog of my pain, I saw the emergency room door.  I was admitted to the hospital after being diagnosed.

Kidney stone. 

When I was a Boy Scout, my scoutmaster had told the entire troop that we were going to grow up and we were all going to get a kidney stone.  He was right, but it was impossible to convey how unpleasant it would be.

After my kidney stone calmed down, and I got out of the hospital, a friend told me that she knew a woman who had experienced a kidney stone and had experienced childbirth.  That woman had said “Given a choice: I would rather give birth than have a kidney stone.”

But there is an advantage to giving birth: If you announce that you are in labor, your co-workers will find your car, they will drive real fast to the hospital, and they won’t stop for yellow lights.

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com