James Ballor: Parting waves, shaping lives

This piece originally ran in The Alliance Review on May 27, 2010. 

When James Ballor strides the halls of Alliance High School, the sea of students parts.

It's not his height, exactly, even though he towers over most students — and teachers. Nor is it quite his speed, although he does move far faster than the normal flow of traffic. To have a conversation with a moving Ballor requires an extra hop or skip; keep it brief, or you'll be left out of breath and eating his dust.

It could be the distinguished mustache or the formal attire — suit coat and tie, perfectly creased trousers (never "pants," he insists, because it's slang for "underwear" in Britain). But I doubt it.

No, I think students part before him for the same reason that the surf splits before a reef, because they sense something immovable, an implacable force of nature that cannot — will not — be denied. He is a living legend in Alliance academia — a scholar par excellence, the go-to guy on all matters literary or grammatical, a virtual fountain of knowledge regarding music and movies. More to the point, he is a teacher of all of the above, and a damn fine one, to boot.

Visitors to the "What Would Ballor Do?" fan page on Facebook will encounter the anecdotes — stories of bananas suspended from classroom ceilings, of diagramming the lyrics to Warren Zevon's "Werewolves of London," and of threats to award zero credit for ending a sentence with a preposition. They will learn the cryptic language of a James Ballor English class, where "giving the finger" isn't as dire as it first appears, and where "smart as a mug" is a compliment to be treasured.

It's also the place where you'll find encomiums like this: "The man shaped my entire adult life. Can't even explain what an influence he's had on me as a journalist and as a person." And, "I've spoken so highly and to such a great length about Mr. Ballor (that) my husband suspects he's more myth than man." And many sentiments that echo this: "GREATEST TEACHER I EVER HAD!!!" (I expect Ballor hates the triple exclamation points.)

Callow freshmen who have never had the privilege of taking one of his classes sometimes ask about the tall dude who looks like Mark Twain and walks like Clint Eastwood. All I say is that they need to experience him for themselves; once they do, they never ask again.

Sometimes new faculty members pose the same question. I know I did when I landed in the AHS English Department in 2002. The man already loomed like a Titan in my mind, and not only because he was the public face of the high school, the faculty member whom The Review photographed every year on student scheduling day.

I knew him as the definitive Ebenezer Scrooge, a role he played to perfection in many a Carnation City Players performance of "A Christmas Carol." I was also aware that he was an uncompromising perfectionist, refusing to release a yearbook or an issue of the school newspaper for printing until it met his exacting standards. Oh, and that he had run with the bulls in Pamplona, tried out for "Jeopardy!", and had summarily dismissed me as a student teacher back in the late '80s. (Not that I held a grudge or anything.)

What I didn't know then (but soon learned) is that he is one of the nicest people around, always willing to step in and step up when a hand is needed. One of the defining professional experiences of my career occurred when he and I co-produced a student performance of "Dracula." Watching him work with, cajole and inspire outstanding performances from the cast was inspirational, like attending a master's class in drama, motivation and teaching techniques all rolled into one.

But after today, the seas will part no more. Like Robin Hood firing a final arrow into Sherwood Forest, or King Arthur sailing off into Avalon, James Ballor heads into the next phase of his life: retirement.

What he leaves behind is a legacy of 30-plus years of exceptional teaching and thousands of students who have infiltrated every walk of life, spreading the knowledge of Latin and Greek prefixes, suffixes and root words, Shakespeare, speech, debate and humanities that they gleaned from his classes.

It's a fine legacy, one that would make any teacher proud.

Selfishly, however, I wonder who will make the sea of students part when school is back in session in the fall, and what many of us will do without the man who, as Shakespeare once wrote of another great leader, "doth bestride the narrow world like a Colossus."

But unlike petty conspirators gossiping about Caesar, the proper way to read the line as it relates to James Ballor is the same way that his students speak of him — in hushed reverence, awe, and most of all, with gratitude.

chris.schillig@yahoo.com

A burning (and freezing) challenge ahead

Much has been written about women of a certain age and hot flashes, but not as much attention has been expended on the spouses of these women.

This is odd because “menopause” has the word “men” right there up front. Somebody, somewhere, must have recognized our plight.

One month ago, I wouldn’t have given a hoot about this topic. But this was before I was awakened several times each night, buried under a mountain of covers that my wife throws on top of me as she self-immolates, and later freezing when she yanks the same covers away.

This stunt, however, is nothing compared to the ceiling-fan trick. At various times during the night, the blades will whirl faster than a Boeing AH-64 Apache helicopter. My wife increases the speed from “tropical breeze” to “tsunami” during a hot flash, but then steals the aforementioned covers when her temperature returns to something less than the red-hot heart of a burning sun. Leaving me to long for the relative warmth of a polar vortex. Or a walk-in freezer.

Did I mention this happens several times a night? Because it does. Several times. Each night.

“The Exorcist” was a light domestic comedy compared to the thrashing in this bedtime ritual. Paging Max von Sydow, stat.

Not that the days are much better. We often carpool to work together, which in the past has been economical and fun, a chance to talk about the day to come or vent about the one just past.

This is before the grim specter of Menopause.

Now, the windows go up and down, the heater goes on and off, and the air conditioning is pressed into service, all in the course of a three-mile ride. I don’t know whether to wear my winter coat or a tank-top.

If you think this complaining is insensitive, it’s not. Well, OK, maybe a little. The problems of a few little men don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy life change, he said in his best Humphrey Bogart voice.

After all, I’m not stuck in a body with a temporarily malfunctioning thermostat, beset upon by hormones stepping out for one last crazy road trip. And I appreciate that my spouse can laugh about the whole affair, up to and including giving me her blessing to write about it, and even contributing a line or two. (Credit her for the ones you laugh at. Blame me for the ones you don’t.)

I’m trying to be sympathetic and helpful. I googled “how to support a partner through menopause” and found some good tips. Not to get all serious, but I really do understand that it’s not all about me. Or even a little bit about me, freezing coverless nights to the contrary.

A WebMD page advises me to “know what to expect,” “be empathetic,” “talk about it,” and “be patient.” Check. Check. Check. And check.

The page also says that symptoms could last for years. Cue the shocked emoji with the big eyes. That’s a long time to go without sleep. For both of us.

No matter how hard I search online, however, I don’t see more radical solutions, like connecting the refrigerator’s ice dispenser to a Nerf gun. Or replacing the bed with a Slip N Slide.

All I know is that we’ll both be ready to compete on “Survivor” when this is over. Three days in a sweat lodge? No sweat.

Reach Chris at chris.schillig@yahoo.com. On Twitter: @cschillig

Regular or daylight saving?

It felt like I went to bed too late Sunday and woke up too early Monday.

The rest of the week hasn’t been much better. I’m just a little off-kilter.

I’ll chalk up some of my crankiness to the temperature whiplash in Ohio. In the teens with fairly heavy snowfall on Saturday to warm enough for short sleeves and shorts by Tuesday. And some I’ll blame on my wife, who came back late from a family trip early Monday and woke me up, disrupting my sleep cycle even more.

But most of this week’s maladjustment, I’m convinced, comes from moving the clocks ahead one hour to resume daylight saving time.

Usually, I don’t complain. After all, the advance in time is a harbinger of winter’s end and warmer weather, the promise of long summer nights sipping fresh lemonade on the porch and chasing lightning bugs in the backyard (at least in places where light pollution and habitat destruction haven’t already wiped them out).


By the same token, the resumption of standard time in the fall (Nov. 6 this year – maybe) feels like a small death. With the falling back of the clocks, it’s dark in the morning when most of us go to work and dark at night when we come home.

This year, however, the feds may intervene to save us.

Nestled amid horrifying news out of Ukraine came a rare display of bipartisanship: The Senate unanimously passed legislation that would keep Americans in daylight saving time forever. Or at least until somebody else decides it’s not a good idea.


The bill has a great deal of support from the business world, which has long touted the benefits on customer and employee safety, to say nothing of sales. More light in the evening may result in fewer traffic accidents and crime reduction. Some mental-health advocates say that not falling back to standard time in November could lessen the incidence of seasonal affective disorder (SAD).

So the bill is now off to the House. If it passes there, it needs only the president’s signature to become law.

But not so fast, says the American Academy of Sleep Medicine (AASM). An October 2020 report, referenced in a recent New York Times article on the possible permanence of daylight saving time, raises the caution flags.

The academy admits the effects of year-round daylight saving time “have not been well studied,” but notes that DST is less attuned to the body’s natural circadian rhythms. This could lead to an increased risk of heart disease and something the academy terms “social jet lag.” This last phenomenon could increase obesity and depression, among other health concerns.

So while the AASM’s conclusions agree with the Senate (and with most Americans) that the twice-yearly time change is disruptive, the academy recommends America make standard time permanent, not daylight saving time.

If the House agrees with the sleep doctors, we could see our elected officials battling over the concept of time itself, which sounds like the plot of a Marvel movie. Where are the Avengers when we really need them?

It’s a debate worth having, even if most people, on first blush anyway, would champion the cause of daylight saving time. After all, we have already thrown our bodies’ circadian rhythms out of joint with electricity (radical!) and ambient light from televisions and smartphones, glowing throughout the night while we toss and turn.

For me, I’m less concerned with whether Congress ultimately selects daylight saving or standard time, just that we stop springing ahead and falling back like wristwatch-wearing jack-in-the-boxes twice a year.

Maybe once lawmakers have resolved Discrepancies with All of Time (capital letters look better on the marquee), they can move on to harder stuff, like making it illegal for a spouse to put an empty Pop-Tarts box back in the cupboard.

Like I said, I’m a little cranky.

Reach Chris at chris.schillig@yahoo.com. On Twitter: @cschillig

We're lucky overseas war isn't hurting us more

It cost $61 to fill my gas tank last week. Next time, it will probably cost even more.

Nobody wants to fork over more of their hard-earned dollars for any product or service, even when they live comfortably. Maybe especially when they live comfortably, since privilege provides the luxury of time to really stew about certain issues.

Gas-price increases tied to the Russian invasion of Ukraine pose an existential threat to Democrats, from the White House down to local levels. Republicans also would be hurt by soaring gas prices if one of them were president, even if the chief executive has little to do with these fluctuations.

Currently, prices are above $4 a gallon for the first time since 2008. Some experts say $4.50 or even $5 is not out of the question. While very little Russian oil is sold in the U.S., investors’ reluctance to bid on Russian oil exports elsewhere in the world affects prices here, too. A bedrock principle of economics — when supply is low and demand is high, prices increase — applies.

One area where supply is keeping up with demand, however, is the production of news stories about “pain at the pump.” These reports typically feature angry or disgruntled drivers who share their fill-up totals (as I did above) and a talking head with dire warnings about how high prices could go, like some reverse limbo dancer slithering over a gas nozzle.

Said stories are less likely to contain harder truths about Americans’ fuel consumption. We seldom see or hear reports that question the country’s obsession with gas-guzzling vehicles, often two or more to a household, carting around a driver and maybe one passenger, both of whom could fit in a compact with room to spare for a small elephant.

Nor do these reports focus on Americans’ indifference to public transportation. Many of us prefer to hop in our cars and go, instead of checking schedules, walking to a bus stop, or boarding a subway. These all require time and planning and are somehow less cool than taking to the open road on our own.

Instead, Americans are advised to check tire pressure, drive more slowly and use a phone app to identify lower-priced stations. Good recommendations that fail to address a central truth: Most Americans drive too much, with little thought for the environmental consequences.

It’s no coincidence that air pollution decreased dramatically during COVID lockdowns. Fewer cars were on the road and fewer planes were in the sky, sending fewer pollutants into the atmosphere. Some densely populated urban areas saw decreases in pollutants ranging from 10 to 35 percent.

Hybrid and electrically powered vehicles, while an improvement over their fossil-fuel-dependent predecessors, aren’t the best solution either. These cars still tie up too many resources to manufacture and operate. Some critics argue that the environmental impact of the batteries alone negates many of the benefits. Better to plow those investment dollars into supporting more public transportation, while making these options greener simultaneously.

It won’t happen overnight. The American Public Transportation Association (APTA) notes that 45 percent of Americans have no access to public transportation. I don’t know if that includes areas like my own Alliance, Ohio, served by a county bus system with a handful of routes, many of which involve transferring from one bus to another just to reach the next largest city, Canton, a 20-minute ride by car down the road.

The APTA – hardly a disinterested party, to be sure – notes public transportation is safer and cheaper than driving. It estimates that the average American household spends 16 cents out of every dollar on transportation and could save almost $10,000 annually by cutting back to one car and using public transportation instead.

Of course, public transportation is a long-term solution for a nation looking for a short-term fix. A gas-tax holiday might ease the current pricing pain, if any savings actually trickle down to consumers, and if the resultant lack of funds to repair roads and bridges didn’t end up being an example of robbing Peter to pay Paul.

Regardless, a tax break would be only a band-aid for a nation that needs to reassess priorities and realize that the future is less about supporting an unsustainable transportation model than transitioning to methods that are environmentally friendly, even if they come with some loss of convenience.

For now, however, more news reports need to advise us to double-up on errands, to carpool, and even – gasp! – to walk to nearby destinations.

And also to count ourselves fortunate when a war that is killing and displacing so many Ukrainians affects us only at the pump.

Reach Chris at chris.schillig@yahoo.com. On Twitter: @cschillig

Some of the crappy jobs I had as a teen

This is an old column — from 2006. My daughter is now 30 and a gainfully employed adult. Thank goodness. 

My daughter and I are having a running debate over whether she should have a job while in high school.

I say “running” because when I bring up the subject, she runs.

An after-school job is just the thing to teach responsibility, I believe. Athletics instills valuable lessons in teamwork, but it is also one huge money pit. The hand is always out – for shoes, warm-ups, donuts before the car wash fundraiser, gifts for the coach, money for dinner on the way home from a game or meet.

Then there are the assorted costs of the teenage years that have nothing to do with sports. Dances, movies, trips to the store for supplies to complete school projects, retainers mangled beyond recognition by the dog – all keep a parent’s finances on life support, with a weak pulse and a dicey prognosis.

I don’t begrudge my daughter any of this. Like most parents, I wail and gnash my teeth over the vacancy sign in my wallet, but I still pay and pay and pay. (A friend once said that Dad comes last when the money train pulls into the family station, and that the boxcars are often empty when it comes time for him to take his fill. Boy, do I believe it.)

But as my daughter approaches the magical age of 16, I have begun to talk about the bonding experience of driving together from one fast food joint to the next, collecting applications the way a baseball fan collects autographed cards, and bringing them home to fill out, one after another.

Except she doesn’t want to.

Doesn’t want to drive from place to place, doesn’t want to get a job, doesn’t want to compromise her teenage years.

Suddenly, she wants to focus on academics.

This is a laudable goal. The only problem is that the words “focus” and “academics” have never before issued from her mouth in the same sentence. It doesn’t help that she utters them while staring vacantly at the television, a pastime where her mother and I must periodically remind her to blink and breath. Maybe MTV is teaching her geometry, but I doubt it.

I think back to the succession of odd jobs I held during high school and I wonder how I could have fathered a child so alien to my own work ethic.

At age 14, my mom sent me to work on a mink farm. It was nasty, filthy work, and my only option was to do it. I waded through muck up to my knees and filled the animals’ water dishes. A co-worker once pulled an esophagus from a barrel of tripe and pretended a dead cow was speaking. I could never have learned that in school.

By age 16, I graduated to washing dishes at a restaurant, learning the ropes from a certified psychotic who relieved boredom by juggling steak knives and sucking his own blood when he nicked a finger or thumb. “Renfield” would often refer disparagingly to his “old lady,” who in my innocence I thought was his mother, until he referenced doing things to her and with her that weren’t part of normal mother/son relationships. Again, where else could I have picked up valuable street slang and smarts?

I thought of all the late nights spent hosing grease off various restaurant equipment, how dishwater would back up on the floor and seep into my shoes, leaving my feet smelling distinctly of shrimp or sirloin or whatever the day’s special might be.

I remembered the manager who tried to get me to smuggle steaks in the trashcan out of the building, the customer who hit me in the temple with a T-bone steak that he said wasn’t cooked properly, and on and on.

I thought I had learned a lot from all those experiences, but in reality, I only learned two things: respect for people who made careers of such work, and the knowledge that I didn’t want to be one of them.

The more I think about the weird assemblage of people with whom I came into contact, the less likely I am to want to expose my child to them. Because those people are still out there – juggling knives, hurling steaks, practicing ventriloquism with cow parts.

And I’m starting to think that “focusing on academics” isn’t such a bad idea, after all. Maybe she can get a job in an office, answering a phone or filing papers.

Maybe if I’d been smart enough to think of that, I might have avoided the squishy sound one’s shoes make when filled with dirty dishwater.

A sound which, incidentally, still haunts my dreams.

Old-pup body, new-pup tricks

The call comes when I’m in the middle of grading a stack of student papers, loading the dishwasher, or heading out to shovel.

It’s not a ringing phone or buzzing text. It’s a barking dog.

Cooper is in the basement, yipping insistently at me. Or, if I’m outside or not at home, yipping at my wife.

The first few times this happened, we rushed to check on him. At almost eleven, he’s well into his dotage as a golden retriever. A Facebook page dedicated to the breed displays regular posts about other goldens, a few older and many younger, who have crossed the euphemistic rainbow bridge.

So when Cooper yelps, we listen.

What he wants, however, is not to inform us of hip dysplasia, a skin rash, sore paw, or fatty tumor. What he wants is to play ball.

Forget the expensive toys at the pet store; we’ve tried them all. The fancy Frisbees. The fluffy stuffed raccoons. The plastic Kong concoction, heavy enough to bludgeon a robber into submission.

All Cooper needs is a three-pack of Wilson tennis balls with the pop-top freshness seal, like a canister of Pringles.

Since puppyhood, Cooper has been obsessed with balls. Canine Nirvana for him would be managing to fit two into his mouth simultaneously.

This fascination with all things spherical is why the floors of our house look like a tennis court. At any time, upwards of 20 balls are strewn throughout the kitchen and living room, with more in the yard. The recent snow melt that flooded parts of Ohio revealed to us tiny yellow treasures, smuggled outdoors and dropped for later retrieval, then encased in ice and covered in white.

In the past, Cooper has been content to wait for us to make time to play ball. This wasn’t always his owners’ priority. Sometimes, days would go by between backyard games. And in the winter, weeks would pass.

Maybe Cooper senses a biological clock ticking toward obsolescence, but in recent months, he’s become more vocal – much more vocal – about informing us it’s time to play.

After so many years, he’s grown weary of waiting and has taken matters into his own hands. Uh, paws.

He’s figured out all by himself that the basement is an acceptable substitute for outside, and he’s content to race among furniture and exercise equipment, chasing a ball that caroms off walls, the furnace and an old footstool.

He pants and drools and weaves like a pup. I bounce tennis balls and belt out “Are you ready for some ball-ball?” like Hank Williams Jr. on a Monday night. Cooper and I are older and grayer than when we first met, but it hardly matters. Ball is eternal.

I admit that at first I grumbled about these games, coming as I’m ready to leave for work or close to finishing a set of essays.

But I’ve learned to embrace play as a sign from the canine universe to lighten up. Good dogs — like good friends and good times — won’t be around forever. And once they’re gone, no amount of wishing will bring them back, and no volume of caught-up work will erase the knowledge that I have missed out on the really important stuff.

So we play ball at the oddest times, dreaming of a spring we hope will come, but one with no guarantee for man or beast.

It may be true that you can’t teach old dogs new tricks, but they sure can learn new ways to ask.

And they still have plenty to teach their masters.

Reach Chris at chris.schillig@yahoo.com. On Twitter: @cschillig.

This article originally appeared on The Alliance Review: Chris Schillig: Old-dog body, new-pup tricks