John R. Rogers

Bob "Marty" Martin--Old Reliable

by Wyatt Newman

When you get down to it, those people, sometimes referred to as "salt of the earth" types, are those who keep the social human engine running smoothly, who don't make a lot of noise or draw attention to themselves but are the kind of persons that you just want to have around. They provide the base, the common sense, the reasonableness, the caution, keeping the more demonstrative types in check. They were the can-do guys in the Army, the vital 5th man in a cross-country team, the campaign office worker that did the important behind the scenes work, the person who would show up, on time, ready to go.

Such a guy was Bob Martin, or Marty as we (Ken Kelling, Barry Robinson and I) always called him, we being the distance runners, the four Hillyard Booster clubbers who went to the 1959 Rose Bowl. Barry was the clown, Ken the cheerleader, I was---let others say---and Marty was the foundation. He got along with everyone, one of those more rare guys who could balance humor with seriousness, thoughtful with just the right touch of wisdom without being stuffy.

As usually happens after graduation, the Old Gang disperses. I haven't seen Barry since graduation. Ken's the kind of guy that one never loses complete touch with. Marty went off to the Air Force, and I remember him coming back after what must have been boot camp with tales of military life.

I was heading off to WSU. My mom encouraged me to sell my old '50 Chev to earn some money for school, avoid trying to maintain a car, and the premise that I could get around OK without one. (As matters turned out, it was helpful to have fraternity brothers who were willing to loan their cars to me for those important social matters one has in college.). I mentioned my need to sell, Marty casually made an offer, I accepted. Swift and simple. My mom wasn't too pleased with the low offer, but a deal's a deal.

I still wonder when I think of that car or Marty how he liked it or whatever happened to it. It ran well and was very dependable, never causing any problems--just like the guy who bought it.

-Wyatt

Mr. Larry Coleman

By Ed Mauget

Mr. Coleman was a biology teacher, assistant football coach, pep club advisor, and science fair advisor. His classroom was portable number one, just behind the Pirate's Cove. It was remarkable to me that his activities were so eclectic. Of course I didn't know the word "eclectic" (means: "varied"). I crossed paths with Mr. Coleman in the first and last items on that list. I was a science geek. I didn't know the word "geek" either, but that's what I was.

I had entered the Inland Empire Science Fair during the elementary school. Mr. Coleman knew who I was when I got to Rogers. I continued to enter the science fairs at Rogers.

Mr. Coleman became a kind of science coach to me. He taught me a principle that applies more to politics than technology. He said there was more to getting the prize than having good subject matter content. Without showmanship my entry could be passed over.  

Thus I started putting a "Jacobs Ladder" atop my exhibit. This is one of those climbing sparks of lightning rising between two vertical wires that you see in the Frankenstein kinds of movies. The apparatus was somewhat dangerous because it used 7500 volts of electricity, albeit at low amperage. I  put a warning sign on it, but usually somebody would stick a pencil in the spark and get a jolt. The graphite in the lead may as well be a copper wire where 7500 volts is concerned. Mr. Coleman seemed to approve of the Madison Avenue doodads on my projects.

I enjoyed Mr. Coleman's biology class too, even though I've never much cared for biology and cutting into cow eyeballs. I was initially placed into another teacher's biology class, but Mr. Coleman hijacked me into his.

We used to get into discussions about life and animal intelligence. Once I told him that I thought certain species of animals could reason to some degree. This offended Mr. Coleman's religious beliefs, I think. We got into a heated debate. My time to get to the next class was disappearing. I headed out the door. As I passed the shops, Mr. Coleman opened the door to portable one and hollered, "Your don't exist! According to your argument, you don't exist!"  I cannot remember what my argument was, but I thought it was pretty cool that I could elicit such a response from a teacher.

I judged a science fair as an adult. I tried to ignore obvious showmanship exploits like I used, but found myself giving points to an exhibit that showed a video of the kid blowing something up. My legacy from Mr. Coleman.

A few years ago I met a teacher peer of Bob Parry's brother Jim. That teacher said he had talked with Larry Coleman the prior night. Last year I read in the Review that Mr. Coleman resides in the Valley and raises show dogs.

-Ed