Theory of Fil (eBook)

A Thinking Man's Guide to a Good Life!

JL Bogle, Phil Bolser (Autoren)

eBook Download: EPUB

2024 | 1. Auflage
110 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-3415-1 (ISBN)

Infos

This thought-provoking read is from someone who, on their first day of work as a Janitor's protege in elementary school, realizes this is not your typical janitor. Phil takes us on a life journey that sees his worldview change from his very first experiences in middle school. Under the tutelage of Mr. Bartlow, much of what Phil learns follows him through life. This warm-hearted and enticing memoir will draw the reader into a new understanding of what it is to become wise.

---

Phil Bolser was in late stage renal failure when he wrote his memoir. His journey begins in junior high school, working for a janitor that molds his world view and teaches him lessons for life. As Phil shares his early experiences, we are introduced to boyhood friends and a way of life long past. Phil uses story telling and a narrative style to move the reader from vignette to vignette as he describes his family life, and his approach to managing schools and teachers. He explains his haves/have-nots theory as he continually brings the reader back to Mr. Bartlow, the school janitor. Phils world view, his deviate from the norm thinking, and his desire to help the have-not's through education are front and center in his journey from Tilton Elementary School, in Illinois to Highland Heights Elementary and Hibberd Middle School in Richmond, Indiana.

Textauszug

CHAPTER 1:
THE BOILER ROOM

Always act in such a way that the maxim determining your conduct might well become a universal law. – Immanuel Kant2

As I step back and take a serious look at my life, I must pause to wonder how I got here, at this place, at this time, and who is really in charge. I know I am ultimately responsible for my life choices. Still, I must ask myself, were the circumstances completely random, or was there someone behind the scenes, at times, pulling the strings, setting the conditions, and then watching me respond? This Question gives me pause, and in these latter years, it’s good to revisit our past and take stock of what we have come to believe. It’s one of life’s ultimate questions: Did I make a difference? Was it worth it? And who cares? To that end, I want to share some stories that might make you ponder a bit, think about your own life, and help you answer some of your most challenging questions, no matter how illusive they might be. In helping you find answers to your questions, I might stumble on some answers to a few of my own.

Tilton, Illinois, was the village I called home as a boy. It’s located in Danville township in the Wabash River Valley, on the Illinois/Indiana state line. This village was named and platted in 1858 by the Chicago Carbon Coal Company. Later, it was home to a large railroad terminal, but these two industries disappeared by 1905. The village of Tilton is a working man’s town named for Charles Tilton, a good friend of a young Abe Lincoln, an attorney riding the Danville circuit. The village remains small and close-knit to this day. Over the years, the population grew to about 2600 residents, give or take a few, a little larger than when I lived there. It lies just southwest of Danville, a community of 30,000.

I spent many a day and night playing outside, going to school, and being a typical small-town kid during the 50s and the 60s. These were relatively peaceful decades when compared to the 30s and 40s. The 1929 stock market crash took the country into a tailspin, compounded by the drought in the Western states that would become known as the Dust Bowl or the “dirty thirties,” and when World War II broke out, the people of Tilton didn’t think things would ever be right again. These events most certainly influenced the way my parents looked at the world.

It would be 1943 when GM built a foundry near my dad’s house on Fifth Street in response to the war effort.3 The plant would make military-grade vehicle parts up until 1945, at which time the plant was closed. It would reopen in 1947, producing GM car parts, and it became one of the largest employers in the region, employing 4500 people, 4000 of whom were hourly workers. Most of these workers would commute from surrounding communities.

The plant would begin downsizing in the 1990s and eventually closed its doors in 1995, costing the region many good-paying jobs. Many of us from those early years remember a fine yellow dust that blanketed the community and everything in it. Those in charge of the foundry were never held accountable for the toxic air. It seeped into the groundwater, discolored roofs, and changed the exterior paint color of cars, damaging anything it touched. The guys who worked at the plant paid a heavy price for those good-paying jobs, as did the community. But life goes on, and as a 12-year-old heading to my first day of seventh grade, I’m getting ready to make a long-term commitment, doing something I’m not sure I want to do. I wondered how I got into this as I left for school. It is 4:45 a.m., and as I look out toward the north, I see the misty glow of lights and the delicate yellow dust that settles everywhere. The foundry is bustling with the shift change and traffic.

The sun is barely up as I walk toward Tilton Elementary School, wondering how I agreed to work for the janitor at my grade school. But Dad got me the gig, and for a kid who saw his dad walk seven miles to work each day and often on weekends, I wasn’t about to complain. Dad never, and I mean never, missed work. He could be sick as a dog, but no one could tell; he still went to work. Occasionally, he would take the bus, probably depending on whether mom had money in the cookie jar. I wasn’t the only kid that worked back in the day. Lots of the kids I knew worked, and we worked hard.

There is something admirable about kids who worked hard at jobs now considered off-limits due to child labor laws. In today’s world, youngsters aren’t allowed to do the typical jobs my generation worked at when we were kids. We pumped gas, drove tractors on family farms, and did many other “risky” jobs to make ends meet. Today’s kids are somewhat coddled and not required to pull their weight. Working taught me that I could do more than I thought. It taught me responsibility and bred a sense of pride in shaping my work ethic and handling difficult situations. My only problem with this job was the clock. I had to rise at 4:30 AM to be at work by 5:00.

As I arrived at school, I looked for Mr. Bartlow, the school janitor. The more nuanced title for janitor today is the maintenance man or custodian, but at my small school in Tilton, Mr. Bartlow was simply the janitor. And so, this early morning, I, the only person in sight, walked on freshly polished terrazzo floors, listening to my footsteps as I made my way to a little-known area called the boiler room. The boiler room was behind the large double-wide staircase in the middle of the school building. The stairs connected the main building, housing several classrooms on the first floor, to a much smaller second floor with four additional classrooms where seventh and eighth graders attended class. Educators would typically call this separated area the middle school or junior high wing, but those were newer terms just making the circuit when I worked at Tilton Elementary. I was familiar with this second-floor wing because that is where I attended class. This morning, instead of going up the stairs, I headed to the back of the staircase, the area under the stairs.

The place I was looking for was Mr. Bartlow’s domain, the boiler room. He was the only one allowed in and out, and this was by way of a singular, locked door. Today, I believe Mr. Bartlow propped the door open, expecting my arrival, or at least that is what I thought. The generous space inside housed maintenance equipment: tools, ladders, and cleaning supplies, along with two large roller bins for collecting trash. There were other odds and ends too numerous to mention. To the back of the storage area was Mr. Bartlow’s office. It was secluded and had a doorway header in the middle of the wall but no workable door. I saw a small oak desk, a table, and a few chairs through the opening.

Mr. Bartlow’s office would accommodate four or five people sitting in folding chairs. I would learn that Mr. Bartlow used this area to shoot the bull with his friend Dutch Gossett when taking a break, or sometimes visit with the head brass to give them insight into the goings on in the building. I think Mr. Gossett was the most frequent visitor, a newer teacher, having only been at the school a year or two. He and Mr. Bartlow got together every morning around 7:00 to smoke and chat. Usually, the conversations revolved around local sports and the news. The office coffee pot was ready for the next pour, and paper cups were within reach. That’s where my coffee habit originated because Mr. Bartlow never minded if I made myself a cup.

I found Mr. Bartlow waiting for me, and as I looked at this middle-aged man, I began to size him up, check out his demeanor, and determine if he was good at his job. His title, janitor, didn’t appear to give him much importance in the eyes of most students around the building. I would soon realize it was their loss. Mr. Bartlow’s physical stature made him out to be about to be about 5'9", well built, somewhat stocky, but in a muscular kind of way. His hair was cut or shaved close to his scalp, military-style. He was clean-shaven, wore a pair of jeans, and a uniform work shirt that was dark sky-blue. He had an extra work shirt that hung from a pipe in the boiler room. Mr. Bartlow wore his shirt neatly tucked into his pants, wearing a black belt to secure both. He wore tennis shoes, or they may have been black canvas work shoes with rubber soles that resembled tennis shoes. Mr. Bartlow’s appearance was a surprise, given the job, and looking businesslike, he didn’t hesitate to ask if I was ready to work. I answered in the affirmative. He took me around the building and showed me my tasks and how much time I had to complete them.

Mr. Bartlow could have been more talkative on my first visit as we walked the corridors of hallways and classrooms, but he reserved his conversation for instruction. I listened intently to remember everything he said. It didn’t take me long to believe I had accepted an impossible job. According to Mr. Bartlow, I was to use the oversized dust mop, leaning against the wall, to clean all the hallways and classroom floors. Next to the dust mop was a bucket of rags. The rags were for dusting all the tabletops and desks. Mr. Bartlow told me to pick up any books or other unattended items left on the floors or tables. I am thinking to myself, how long will that take?

We continued walking into smaller classrooms and Mr. Bartlow pointed to the trash cans, telling me I needed to empty each of those into the larger rolling bin in the boiler room. I could roll it from room to room to expedite things. Finally, I was to empty the rolling bin into a green...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 11.1.2024
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Biografien / Erfahrungsberichte
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3509-3415-1 / 9798350934151