Don Bovaird of Girard Alliance has passion for game of basketball

By Bob Healy

John Sargent believes his standout basketball guard plays beyond his years.

That may be because of the company he keeps.

For the last few summers, Don "Dee" Bovaird of the Girard Alliance Christian Academy has spent a good amount of time playing basketball at the playgound courts in Girard Borough.

His teammates and opponents in the pickup games have included such former Girard High School players as Coltin Ferrick, D.J. Green, Mike Droll, and Jeff McDonald.

"I'm up at the courts a lot just trying to get in some practice and to get my game perfected as much as I can," said Bovaird, who is in his senior year at GACA. Playing with the older guys helps my game a lot, especially my defense. Defense is the key to playing basketball."

That experience has paid dividends.

"Don plays the game much older than he really is. He's a much more mature player," said Sargent, head coach of the Girard Alliance Boys' team. "He loves the game. He's eager to go at all times. He reads the court like an older guy, a college player, would. Most players his age don't have the experience he has. He's really focused. He's not just out there running up and down the court. He either knows what he wants to do or he's planning what to do."

Bovaird has been a tremendous scoring threat throughout his four years at Girard Alliance. He recently surpassed the 1,000-point career-scoring milestone for the Lions.

But he wasn't always such a firm advocate of defense being the key to playing basketball.

"He has always done really well shooting, but he had struggled with his defense the last few years," Sargent said. "He's really been working on that over the past year and has picked up on that. He's really become an all-around ball player."

While Bovaird has had to work on improving his defensive skills, other facets of the game have come more naturally.

"His jumping ability is just phenomenal," Sargent said. "People are amazed at just how high he can jump. Because he can get so high in the air, it's sometimes hard to stop him from scoring. He's also a left-hander which makes it tough to play against."

Basketball has been almost a lifelong passion for Bovaird. According to his father, also Don, Dee began playing the game at the age of five.

"I love the game. I love the teamwork," Bovaird said.

Bovaird played his junior varsity ball in seventh and eighth grade at Cranseville Christian Academy . When that closed, he transferred to Girard Alliance and became a starter for the Lions' varsity team in his freshman year.

This year, Bovaird is averaging 21.4 points per game for the Lions who are 11-6 overall and 8-1 in the New York / Penn League.

"Playing at a Christian school has its ups and downs," Bovaird said. "On the plus side, we have a good basketball program at our school. I have friends and teammates that I can share the experience with. There is a good Godly atmosphere here that helps me make the right decisions."

On the downside, small Christian schools hardly draw the attention afforded their larger public and parochial counterparts.

"Dee would like to get a shot at being able to play in college," Sargent said. "Unfortunately, we don't get a whole lot of scouts out here. Donny would be a good catch for anyone interested."

Basketball or not, Bovaird is considering taking physical therapy in college.

"Since I've taken health classes, it's interested me -- the muscles and how the human body works," Bovaird said.

Maybe in the future, he can explain his jumping ability.
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REPRINTED FROM THE WEST COUNTY JOURNAL
February 4, 2010

How Languages Touched My Life ...! Part II

Yesterday I explained how much I love to learn foreign languages. I took you up to my life in South America and how I became confident in speaking Spanish. Today I will take you through the various languages that I have studied and share with you how they've influenced me (if you can bear with me that long!)

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After I left Central America, I ended up moving to Indonesia. I was lost at first. I didn’t have a common language or cultural basis. My house mate used to write phrases for me to use with local taxi drivers and in the stores. Oh goodness, it was simple and exciting all over again. I was so motivated to learn! To this day I remember many words and phrases, but unfortunately, I can’t carry on a decent conversation anymore. Once it was no longer relevant to speak, read or write, I forgot the structures that I loved so much. They come back to me in glimpses sometimes. I especially remember double phrases such as "jalan-jalan" (traveling) and "ibu-ibu" and bapak-bapak" (ladies / gentlemen). Indonesian is a fun language with infixes used in everyday speech; prefixes and suffixes are added to make the language more formal.

In Japan, I remember my colleague and I running from place to place (such as bus stops, vending machines, and signage) identifying basic kanji or hiragana, a simpler Japanese alphabet. I felt like Helen Keller when she first discovered words meant she could communicate! I began to study after hours in my job, and then I took a placement test (over the telephone, no less!) that allowed me to enter the university. I began at the intermediate level. My instructor taught me to read and write in three different alphabets (the first non-roman alphabets I'd ever been exposed to). I also developed my listening skills in Japanese. I had to give a speech about climbing Mt Fuji in Japanese during the course. It was frightening and exciting at the same time! Again, my language was relevant and immediate to the life I lived in Japan. It was used to communicate with my boyfriend. So, I advanced rapidly, and was swept into the culture by the very complicated rules uses to refer to various levels of status and cultural habits.

When I moved to Egypt, again, I felt out of my element. But having been exposed to a non-western alphabet in Japan, I was not intimidated by the Arabic alphabet. First, I studied Arabic, and then I studied French through Arabic from an Egyptian General. It was at the same time the most difficult and rewarding language study I had ever done. I’m not sure how much French I actually came out of the class with, but my Arabic grew stronger every lesson! My Arabic did have that urgency as I began to think about marrying an Egyptian man. We walked along the Nile as I practiced my Egyptian Arabic. I remember thinking how melodious and beautiful it sounded when I listened to Egyptian music. It crowded everything else out of my mind. Needless to say that my Arabic grew in leaps and bounds!

When I moved to the Emirates, there was another form of Arabic to learn and another local culture to discover. It was more difficult and I relied on my Egyptian Arabic to get me through the market. But actually, the words differed and I had to mix my Arabic, or speak in English to be understood. I took classes and I learned to read and write like children do. I was consumed by this new language study and the dialectal differences that stood out to me.

Then came the crash!

When I returned to the United States, my languages lay dormant, and I had no use for them. They became mixed up in my head, and I forgot which word went with which culture. Words in the various languages popped out at random and at times, interfered with my normal communication. I felt lost in my own country. English seemed so limiting. How could I express the complexity of life experiences I had gone through for so many years in one simple language?

Looking back on my language experiences, I am so grateful to have had the opportunity and exposure to them. I made many wonderful friends whom I still communicate with today. But in having lost the integral structures of those languages, I feel like I lost the part that connected to deeply with those I'd made contact with over the years.

God knew this part of me needed to be revitalized, so He provided me with a position teaching Spanish. At first, I was frightened to teach it. I had set it aside over twenty-five years earlier and it intimidated me to teach Spanish as a foreign language. But my friends encouraged me, and God gave me the opportunity to do so.

Teaching Spanish has linked me back to my first love. Life once again abounds with words and images in me that links me to a beautiful foreign culture that exists even within my own country. I teach with a passion that I once studied with.

All Season Pass - Part 1

It came to me today how much Dad looked forward to what each season had to offer. He would have loved a day like today and gone out to rake leaves and enjoy the sunshine. Age never slowed him down.

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Some people have season passes to baseball games. Others have them to football games. In our town, the YMCA has a big following. Music lovers buy them to the philharmonic and thespian wanna-be’s buy them for the playhouse. Everyone is enthusiastic about something, but it takes a real die-hard fan to be involved in something to the extent they purchase an all season pass.

My father was no less enthusiastic about the four seasons here in Pennsylvania. He always looked forward to the change each season brought with it. Dad remained a fan for life. He never even considered moving to any other state.

Dad always mentally prepared for the new season long before it arrived. New seasons meant new plans. He’d think about the projects he wanted to begin, set down tentative deadlines, write out what he needed to reach his goals, and talk it out with friends and family—either in passing or as his plans unfolded. Dad got on the ball and made things happen.

You could say he had a brand new season pass four times a year. He loved variety and looked forward to the promises spring, summer, fall and winter held for him.

Mom always said that she and my dad viewed our childhood as the best time of their lives. Having four different seasons to share with us kept it lively.

“These kids are gonna grow up before we know it,” dad would say, “Let’s enjoy ‘em while we can.”

And they did.

The fall season brought its own pleasures to my family. Each parent had their special role in our fun. Mom did the practical, everyday things with us. Although dad seemed very busy, he carved out time for us, too. Whether it was traditional or spur-of-the-moment activities, we looked forward to spending time with him.

When the leaves fell, Dad made a game out of raking them up with us, and he’d goad us into making a huge pile, then throw one of us in and the others would cover us up. Carving jack-o-lanterns was always his department, too. He’d set out newspaper on the front porch or the work bench and set up all our tools in a line—a special carving knife, a big serving spoon to remove the seeds and a charcoal pencil to make hideous faces for us to cut out. We loved doing this with him. But how we looked forward to the last big activity!

As Halloween approached, we would keep reminding him about his one-of-a-kind box man costumes.

“Dad, don’t forget! We need to get the boxes!”

He would nod and finally remember to stop off at Platz’s supermarket on the way home from work to pick up some food packaging boxes. The weekend before Halloween, he would go to work and custom-design his trademark “box man” costumes. These consisted of two gigantic boxes and one smaller one with the flaps wired together so when they were finished, they would consist of a body, neck and head - twice the size of one of us. After they were connected, Dad would shoe polish the boxes in white, then he’d use black or brown to create bizarre facial expressions for each box man. He used different color shoe polish for original but wacky clothing, too. These box men towered so high that he had to cut eye holes in the neck box in order for us to see when we walked.

it was a lot of work carrying those heavy boxes around trick-or-treating but Dad was so pleased with his creations that I wouldn’t have it any other way. Now Mike, he opted out for the hobo Dad put together—light, easy and quick to move from house to house. Of course, he had a real stick with a handkerchief tied to it!

Dad made sure we participated in the Halloween costume "march" contest at the Girard fire hall as well. We loved that, too. Every year one of us won a prize for a box man costume. I still remember drinking the pungent, sweet apple cider and eating Mighty Fine doughnuts beteen competitions. When our age group was called to be judged, we walked in a circle with our oversized boxes as the judges conferred on the best. Soon, I (or one of us) would be pulled aside. We’d always win first or second prize! These were special occasions with my parents, especially since the brainchild costume was a creation Dad put together. Later, I’d see him chatting to the fireman with a big grin on his face. He'd give me the thumbs-up sign.

I also remember one special celebration in autumn one year. The year I turned eleven Dad put together a hayride for my birthday, which comes in October. I must have been in fourth or fifth grade then.

“Dad, that’ll be the greatest!”

I could hardly wait for members of my class to arrive after school that day.

He used his long boat trailer as the wagon and filled it with bales of hay. Then he hitched it up to his dump truck, which he would drive first through our town, and then down all the side roads and back home again. As it turned out, Dad took on a whopping two-hour ride, which is amazing if you knew how small Girard was back then. What I recall about that year was that he enjoyed taking us on that hayride as much as we enjoyed being part of it. We all itched from the hay, but had a great time. Afterwards, my classmates and I ate birthday cake. Mom had baked a cake iced with chocolate frosting and served it with vanilla ice cream. I felt like the most popular kid in my class for like a week after!

As we got older, Dad’s activities changed with us. He made roaring bonfires instead, and we invited our friends to those gatherings. My niece remembers one in which the fire got so high, her friends had to back up for safety! She still talks about that bonfire today.

Dad continued to give hayrides to my nieces, and then kids in town after we left home. He also kept raking leaves. In addition, he winterized his bushes and around Halloween, rigged up electric pumpkins on the front porch to welcome the trick-or-treaters. He would remove the storm window and hand out candy along with my mom. He’d always make faces and joke with the kids. My parents got so they kept a running tally of how many trick-or-treaters came each year.

In 1990, Dad started a new tradition when autumn arrived. He started working on his antique cars to make limousines and as usual, he drew everyone close to him into his new world of creating. The tree workers, laid off for the next six months, expanded their skills and learned how to work with motors, paint, grills, and everything else dad used to make his newest passion come alive.

Like I said, Dad had an all season pass for autumn every year. He never wasted it. Dad was a big fan of local life, and threw himself into an ever-changing array of activities that kept the season exciting to him.

My Father's Passion

My grandmother kept a diary of her children’s early days. About my father, she wrote of how “things” fascinated him at a very young age. He was tenacious, even then, at trying to figure out how these things fit together and worked. He could entertain himself for long periods when it involved his curiosity.

My father was also a leader and very sure of himself. As a child, he helped look out for his younger siblings. When he became old enough to work, he moved away and got a job. Feeling a strong sense of responsibility, he sent part of the money he earned home to his family to help make ends meet during the Depression years.

Growing up, I remember my father being very passionate about work. He worked three jobs at a time. One of them included a side business of his. He built up a name for himself as “The Tree Man." He painted his logo, the best tree fellers around on the side of his truck. Dad kept adding to his clientele; he rarely lost any of his existing customers. Word about town was that he knew his stuff. Our Sunday routine after church consisted of making a couple of stops where dad would look over new jobs and chat with the owner. He always headed back to the car with a smile, which let us know he’d gotten the job.

Dad's business started out small with an old rickety dump truck, where we kids had to sit on the brush in the back of the truck to keep it from flying off. One of the tree fellers would drive it through town to dump it when it got full. Some of his strong and able-bodied friends, the McDonald brothers, served as tree fellers along with my dad. Even old Uncle Roy McDonald worked for a time.

My brothers, my sister and I all thought summers were the greatest working for dad. It was hard work but he always started with a break early in the day. For us kids, we gobbled down doughnuts and of course, for the climbers, there was always coffee, too. Depending on the customer, we’d have cookies and lemonade or coke on some blazing hot afternoons. We also made pretty good money working for dad. My brother never cared about that, though. He remembers when he made a quarter an hour along with Kirk, the neighborhood kid, who swears he worked for dad since he was seven. They'd spend their money at McCartney's, a local drug store with root beer floats, after work. Whether the money was a little or a lot, my dad made working for him worth our while.

As Dad’s business grew, the design of his trucks improved. He boxed them in and bought a wood chipper to make cutting brush easier. He designed his own trailer with compartments all around to hold better quality tools. He purchased specialty instruments to calculate where a tree would land, and at which angle it should be cut to land in the right direction. Dad learned more and more about his profession. His easygoing ways won customers over from subdivisions in nicer areas with names like Whitehall Village and Lawerence Park.

My father never lost any of his passion; he just added to it. For example, his love for trees grew to include specialty trees called arborvitae, and that branched into a very unique display of bushes in our front, side and back yard. In fact, the local news station often used our property as a backdrop for the local weather forecast.

My father used to go out every day and work with his creations. He would patiently train his bushes to grow in a specific manner and direction. Suddenly, there would be a lush, green archway with flowers hanging down from the center. He’d split up a bush and tease tiny segments of it to look like an oriental piece of art. On other days, he’d stand up on a step ladder and quietly trim the many bushes to look their best. He always had a wave and a smile, or tale to tell about his creations. People often stopped to compliment him or ask his advice. They’d end up talking about local life, and catch an earful of one of dad's many stories.

Life felt very good as I observed my father live out his passions. He taught me if a dream is important enough to you, then you have to be willing to invest yourself in it to succeed.

The Start of a Working Man's Day

Don slipped on his faded blue jean jacket but made no effort to button it. Then he fished his cap off the hook and slapped it on his head, adjusting it against the thick shock of white hair underneath. He made his way up from the cellar to the garage where Elmo stood waiting in the back of the truck. With clumsy, arthritic fingers, he pulled the pin and lowered the tailgate so the dog could jump down. Thrusting himself at Don, Elmo, whose body weight exceeded that of his master, got pushed back. Years of hard work had given Don muscles that even old age and a bum knee could not weaken. He cursed his knee—doctors swore the operation would help—but that just made it worse. Now it always ached like the dickens.

Don slid the can of dog food under the can opener, then turned the can upside down, shaking it until the meat plopped into the dog dish. After gobbling it down, Elmo sprang back into the truck and Don slid the bolt into place, securing the tailgate. Don limped over to the cab of his ’39 Ford pick-up and opened the door. Holding his bad leg straight, he inched his way sideways into the small cab.

The truck started up with its peculiar snorts and huffs. The garage door, itself old, rattled into motion. He grinned. These old things sure lasted. As they got moving, he glanced into the rearview mirror and saw how Elmo leaned into the wind, his black ears flapping behind. Don shook his head, amused. With a smile perched on his face, he thought, My pals’ll get a kick out of that. Life is good.

Together, they headed into town. At the stoplight, he honked, Aaoogahh. Nothing like an old horn! His tanned, leathery face broke into an easy grin, as he waved. Everyone knew Don and his little Ford pick-up.

At McDonald’s, Don parked the truck, looking forward to a chat with his car pals. Highlight of my day. He gave the door a good slam to ensure it closed. Out of the corner of his eye, he observed a scowling woman march his way.

“That dog shouldn’t be in the back of the truck. He doesn’t even have any water!”

Don lifted a brow, “Neither do I and you don’t see me complaining.”

“That’s not funny” she bit out the words. “I’m gonna call the cops!”

He shook his head. He couldn’t believe such ridiculousness.

Inside, he ordered his usual—coffee, two creams, two hot apple pies—then slid into the booth where his cronies awaited. Between gulps of coffee, Don reported the exchange that had just taken place outside, drawing laughter and guffaws from the others. “Guess it’s time to go and make a buck,” he sighed.

Outside, he opened the box and tossed Elmo his daily pie ration. Elmo’s tail whipped back and forth in pure joy. “Dumb dog,” he mumbled, affectionately. “Let’s get a move-on.”

This is my father, Don Bovaird. He had a passion for old vehicles, Ford and GMC motors, his dog, McDonalds and the town where we lived. I'll post more about him as we go along.