In everyone’s life there are certain events that you can remember as though they occurred yesterday. You can recall time, place and exactly what you were doing at the time they took place. Here are a few of mine.
The shot heard round the world – No I am not old enough to remember the beginning of the Revolutionary War at Lexington and Concord. I am referring to the Pittsburgh version (Bill Mazzeroski’s homer in the bottom of the 9th in the final game of the 1960 World Series). This was the first such event that I can recall having a major impact on me. I was ten years old and fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Ord, was going to stay after school to listen to the series on the radio (there were no night series games in those days). She invited those of us who were “walkers” (we walked to and from school) to join her. What a cerebration there was when Mazz hit the homer to end the series over the hated Yankees. The Pirates were world champions. I had never been a part of anything like that before.
JFK Assassination – I was 13 years old and sitting in my eighth grade math class when my teacher, Mrs. Huzzard, was called out of our class for a few minutes. She returned and stated succinctly, “The president has been shot.” As you can imagine, 13 year olds had never heard that kind of news before and it made a significant impression. My parents were not Kennedy fans (after all, he was a Catholic democrat – a double whammy) and so I was not as concerned about the loss of him personally; however, there was great fear that perhaps the evil Russians might be behind this and that we would be plunged into World War III as a result.
My First Car Crash – It was late 1966 and I was 16 years old with a brand new “Cinderella” drivers license. So named because the holder of such a license had to be home by midnight (or, as they said in that day, you would turn into a pumpkin). Chevrolet was just introducing the new Camaro as a 1967 model. While these were as scarce as hen’s teeth early in the model year for some strange reason my father took the first one off the truck as a demonstrator. It was a beautiful, striking Rally Sport coupe in butternut yellow with black vinyl bucket seats. The RS meant it had electric doors that covered the headlights, enhancing the exotic nature of the car. While sporting only a 2 barrel carburetor the famous 327 Chevy small block V8 still produced impressive power in a light car. The rear wheels could be broken loose at will. It turned everyone’s head in the small town of Slippery Rock as the only one of its kind on the streets (especially when it was laying a patch of rubber at a stop light). Now in those days I often wondered about the advisability of some of the decisions my father made. In most cases a few years of hindsight proved them to be wise. Not so in this case. Such a demonstrator in a home with two teenage boys was not a wise choice. At least he (with my older brother’s help) wisely limited my time behind the wheel of this dream car. Who knows why but my brother was able to remove the original air cleaner and replace it with a small chrome racing-type cleaner. I doubt that it improved performance but it made an absolutely intoxicating sound at full throttle. All that air being sucked through the low-restriction air filter just howled like a pack of wolves under a full moon. This then made full throttle the right foot setting of choice. I could digress into many stories about trying to get tree sap off the car or trying to clean the mud from it after my date and before my brother’s scheduled date. However, the most famous story is, alas, the last story of this car. It was New Years’ eve of 1966. Who knows why I was driving the Camaro and not my brother on such a prestigious “date night”. Perhaps because I was using it to attend a watch night service at my girlfriend’s (now wife’s) church. Her house was about 20 minutes from mine and so I waited until about 11:40 PM to start home. A cold rain was falling but I wasn’t worried about road conditions, only about making it home by midnight. Just a few miles from home I came up behind a car going only about 35 mph. Little did I know at the time why he was going so slowly. He knew the cold rain was beginning to turn the asphalt to black ice. At that point in my 6-month old driving career I didn’t know what that was. We crested a hill with a long flat stretch ahead and nothing was coming in the other direction. It was time to let those wolves start to howl and beat the clock home before it struck 12. No sooner had the howling begun from under the hood than the rear tires joined the wolves squealing like a bunch of stuck pigs. As the rear tires broke loose this new driver became nothing but a passenger. I reacted the only way I knew how my mashing the brake pedal. The ensuing spin must have been something to see but I had my eyes closed. The car went off the road and through the ditch coming to rest in the Spencer’s yard (friends from our church), inches from a large maple tree. As was the case in those days, the family that I had passed stopped to see if I was alright and helped to get the car back onto the roadway. After a hundred yards or so on the road, the clunking and clattering noises (much more disconcerting than wolves and pigs) coming from under the car signaled that the butternut coupe would require a wrecker to make it home. I pulled it into a nearby gas station (closed at that hour in the days before convenience stores) and the nice man I had passed gave me a ride home. I don’t know this fellow’s name but he went the extra mile, and then some, by accompanying me into the house and telling my mother that the road was icy and the wreck was not due to reckless driving on my part (perhaps he couldn’t hear the wolves and pigs). This was a valuable lesson in grace for a 16 year-old. My mother was awake as she was the designated family worrier. She never, ever went to sleep until all her children were safety in bed. She awoke my father who was very disturbed by the turn of events. I honestly believe that he wanted to hit me but all he said was, “I’m glad you’re safe, we’ll discuss this in the morning.” The next morning’s discussion was pretty simple. Dad said, “I don’t want you rushing home to get here by midnight anymore so from now on you have to be home by 11:00 PM”. While this put a crimp in my social life I really felt I had gotten off pretty easy. When the Camaro entered the dealership on the wrecker’s hook the next Monday the crash became the talk of the town. The car wasn’t totaled but did require substantial undercarriage repair. As I recall it was sold shortly after it came back from the body shop. It was in our care for less than 4 months but what an exciting time it was.
The Immaculate Reception – Just before Christmas (Dec 23rd) in 1972 the family had gathered at my parents’ house since both my brother and his wife and sister and her husband were home from maryland. In those days Steelers’ home games were not broadcast on TV if they were not sold out. Such was the case as they played a conference playoff game against the Oakland Raiders that afternoon. I recall vividly that all the men of the family were in the basement playing pool and listening to the game on the radio. We were all bummed out as the Steelers seemed destined to once again end their season early. With only 22 seconds left in the game the announcers indicated that Terry Bradshaw had thrown an incompletion to end the game. Then they suddenly corrected themselves and screamed that Franco Harris had plucked the deflected pass from thin air at his shoelaces and was rushing toward the end zone. It appeared that the Steelers would win the game but we waited as the officials met to confer as to whether the pass had been touched by Oakland’s Jack Tatum. They ruled that Tatum had indeed touched the ball (which he denies to this day) and that it was a touchdown. We all went crazy. I can still remember the feeling that the Steelers had finally won an important playoff game and that maybe this would be the start of something big. Boy was I right.
The Day Dale Earnhardt Died – We were living in San Francisco in February of 2000. Although I was a big NASCAR fan we had lots of things to keep us occupied on Sunday afternoons. Also the three-hour time difference from the east coast didn’t help. I remember that we were walking down the street in North Beach after supper when I overheard two men talking on the street. They were talking about the Daytona 500 that had been run that afternoon and I heard one man say, “I think Dale Earnhardt died in the crash.” I couldn’t believe my ears. I thought they had to be mistaken. Dale was larger than life – almost super human in my eyes (as with most of his fans). I couldn’t imagine that a mere racing crash could take him out. We hurried back home and I turned on the news to learn that my worst fears had been realized. My late brother (a huge Earnhardt fan) and his wife were in Ireland and their daughter couldn’t reach her dad for solace. She e-mailed me and we chatted about how much Dale meant to all of us. We talked about how Darryl Waltrip’s wife had pasted a Bible verse onto Dale’s dashboard before the race – Proverbs 18”10, “The name of the Lord is a strong tower, the righteous run to it and are safe.” My niece and I discussed how Dale was now safe from worldly hazards. It is really hard to imagine how much a racing celebrity can mean to someone who follows the sport closely. Years later I recalled the same verse upon my brother’s sudden death.
911 (September 11, 2001) – I was at work in my office in the Pittsburgh Federal Building that morning (I was Assistant Chief of Operations at the time). It must have been about 9:00 or 9:30 when a co-worker came into the office and said that he had heard on the radio on his way into the office from a dentist appointment (it’s amazing the details you remember about that day) that a “small” plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. This did not seem like that big a deal at the time as everyone assumed it had been an accident. It did not take long; however, until the tone of the workplace changed with the news that not one, but two “commercial” airliners had been purposely rammed into the buildings. In addition there were other planes in the air and unaccounted for. I thought that I remembered that our son was flying to Washington for a conference either that day or the day prior. I prayed that he was already there or at least not in the air at the time. I called both his phone and his wife frantically trying to get some news but to no avail. Then there came news that there may have been a hijacked plane heading toward Pittsburgh, possibly targeting the USX Tower (obviously this is the one that crashed in Western PA on its way to Washington). This created some real panic in the Federal Building and people began the stream out of the building on their way home. A huge traffic jam ensued. The Corps leadership decided we should relocate key staff members to our emergency alternate office on Neville Island. I got a GSA vehicle from the garage, loaded in with “fly away” kits (suitcases full of communications and other gear necessary in an emergency) and headed out of town. It took almost 2 hours to make the 10-mile trip. Once there we set up shop and pretty much just watched the horror of 911 on the TV news. We were there until about 7 PM at which time a co-worker drove me up to the Evans City park and ride lot to pick up my car (I had taken the bus to work that day). As I look back on that day it is interesting that I still recall how mad I was at the terrorists and the Arab countries that were celebrating the attack. It is such a shame that so many people have forgotten how they felt that day. It seems that the media has convinced so many Americans that we somehow deserved the 911 attacks. The media has aligned with the rest of the world to tell us that we had it coming because of our arrogance and the way we flaunted our wealth and power. I for one am still glad that our government responded with a strong message that we would seek out terrorists wherever they hid and make sure this never happened again.
The shot heard round the world – No I am not old enough to remember the beginning of the Revolutionary War at Lexington and Concord. I am referring to the Pittsburgh version (Bill Mazzeroski’s homer in the bottom of the 9th in the final game of the 1960 World Series). This was the first such event that I can recall having a major impact on me. I was ten years old and fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Ord, was going to stay after school to listen to the series on the radio (there were no night series games in those days). She invited those of us who were “walkers” (we walked to and from school) to join her. What a cerebration there was when Mazz hit the homer to end the series over the hated Yankees. The Pirates were world champions. I had never been a part of anything like that before.
JFK Assassination – I was 13 years old and sitting in my eighth grade math class when my teacher, Mrs. Huzzard, was called out of our class for a few minutes. She returned and stated succinctly, “The president has been shot.” As you can imagine, 13 year olds had never heard that kind of news before and it made a significant impression. My parents were not Kennedy fans (after all, he was a Catholic democrat – a double whammy) and so I was not as concerned about the loss of him personally; however, there was great fear that perhaps the evil Russians might be behind this and that we would be plunged into World War III as a result.
My First Car Crash – It was late 1966 and I was 16 years old with a brand new “Cinderella” drivers license. So named because the holder of such a license had to be home by midnight (or, as they said in that day, you would turn into a pumpkin). Chevrolet was just introducing the new Camaro as a 1967 model. While these were as scarce as hen’s teeth early in the model year for some strange reason my father took the first one off the truck as a demonstrator. It was a beautiful, striking Rally Sport coupe in butternut yellow with black vinyl bucket seats. The RS meant it had electric doors that covered the headlights, enhancing the exotic nature of the car. While sporting only a 2 barrel carburetor the famous 327 Chevy small block V8 still produced impressive power in a light car. The rear wheels could be broken loose at will. It turned everyone’s head in the small town of Slippery Rock as the only one of its kind on the streets (especially when it was laying a patch of rubber at a stop light). Now in those days I often wondered about the advisability of some of the decisions my father made. In most cases a few years of hindsight proved them to be wise. Not so in this case. Such a demonstrator in a home with two teenage boys was not a wise choice. At least he (with my older brother’s help) wisely limited my time behind the wheel of this dream car. Who knows why but my brother was able to remove the original air cleaner and replace it with a small chrome racing-type cleaner. I doubt that it improved performance but it made an absolutely intoxicating sound at full throttle. All that air being sucked through the low-restriction air filter just howled like a pack of wolves under a full moon. This then made full throttle the right foot setting of choice. I could digress into many stories about trying to get tree sap off the car or trying to clean the mud from it after my date and before my brother’s scheduled date. However, the most famous story is, alas, the last story of this car. It was New Years’ eve of 1966. Who knows why I was driving the Camaro and not my brother on such a prestigious “date night”. Perhaps because I was using it to attend a watch night service at my girlfriend’s (now wife’s) church. Her house was about 20 minutes from mine and so I waited until about 11:40 PM to start home. A cold rain was falling but I wasn’t worried about road conditions, only about making it home by midnight. Just a few miles from home I came up behind a car going only about 35 mph. Little did I know at the time why he was going so slowly. He knew the cold rain was beginning to turn the asphalt to black ice. At that point in my 6-month old driving career I didn’t know what that was. We crested a hill with a long flat stretch ahead and nothing was coming in the other direction. It was time to let those wolves start to howl and beat the clock home before it struck 12. No sooner had the howling begun from under the hood than the rear tires joined the wolves squealing like a bunch of stuck pigs. As the rear tires broke loose this new driver became nothing but a passenger. I reacted the only way I knew how my mashing the brake pedal. The ensuing spin must have been something to see but I had my eyes closed. The car went off the road and through the ditch coming to rest in the Spencer’s yard (friends from our church), inches from a large maple tree. As was the case in those days, the family that I had passed stopped to see if I was alright and helped to get the car back onto the roadway. After a hundred yards or so on the road, the clunking and clattering noises (much more disconcerting than wolves and pigs) coming from under the car signaled that the butternut coupe would require a wrecker to make it home. I pulled it into a nearby gas station (closed at that hour in the days before convenience stores) and the nice man I had passed gave me a ride home. I don’t know this fellow’s name but he went the extra mile, and then some, by accompanying me into the house and telling my mother that the road was icy and the wreck was not due to reckless driving on my part (perhaps he couldn’t hear the wolves and pigs). This was a valuable lesson in grace for a 16 year-old. My mother was awake as she was the designated family worrier. She never, ever went to sleep until all her children were safety in bed. She awoke my father who was very disturbed by the turn of events. I honestly believe that he wanted to hit me but all he said was, “I’m glad you’re safe, we’ll discuss this in the morning.” The next morning’s discussion was pretty simple. Dad said, “I don’t want you rushing home to get here by midnight anymore so from now on you have to be home by 11:00 PM”. While this put a crimp in my social life I really felt I had gotten off pretty easy. When the Camaro entered the dealership on the wrecker’s hook the next Monday the crash became the talk of the town. The car wasn’t totaled but did require substantial undercarriage repair. As I recall it was sold shortly after it came back from the body shop. It was in our care for less than 4 months but what an exciting time it was.
The Immaculate Reception – Just before Christmas (Dec 23rd) in 1972 the family had gathered at my parents’ house since both my brother and his wife and sister and her husband were home from maryland. In those days Steelers’ home games were not broadcast on TV if they were not sold out. Such was the case as they played a conference playoff game against the Oakland Raiders that afternoon. I recall vividly that all the men of the family were in the basement playing pool and listening to the game on the radio. We were all bummed out as the Steelers seemed destined to once again end their season early. With only 22 seconds left in the game the announcers indicated that Terry Bradshaw had thrown an incompletion to end the game. Then they suddenly corrected themselves and screamed that Franco Harris had plucked the deflected pass from thin air at his shoelaces and was rushing toward the end zone. It appeared that the Steelers would win the game but we waited as the officials met to confer as to whether the pass had been touched by Oakland’s Jack Tatum. They ruled that Tatum had indeed touched the ball (which he denies to this day) and that it was a touchdown. We all went crazy. I can still remember the feeling that the Steelers had finally won an important playoff game and that maybe this would be the start of something big. Boy was I right.
The Day Dale Earnhardt Died – We were living in San Francisco in February of 2000. Although I was a big NASCAR fan we had lots of things to keep us occupied on Sunday afternoons. Also the three-hour time difference from the east coast didn’t help. I remember that we were walking down the street in North Beach after supper when I overheard two men talking on the street. They were talking about the Daytona 500 that had been run that afternoon and I heard one man say, “I think Dale Earnhardt died in the crash.” I couldn’t believe my ears. I thought they had to be mistaken. Dale was larger than life – almost super human in my eyes (as with most of his fans). I couldn’t imagine that a mere racing crash could take him out. We hurried back home and I turned on the news to learn that my worst fears had been realized. My late brother (a huge Earnhardt fan) and his wife were in Ireland and their daughter couldn’t reach her dad for solace. She e-mailed me and we chatted about how much Dale meant to all of us. We talked about how Darryl Waltrip’s wife had pasted a Bible verse onto Dale’s dashboard before the race – Proverbs 18”10, “The name of the Lord is a strong tower, the righteous run to it and are safe.” My niece and I discussed how Dale was now safe from worldly hazards. It is really hard to imagine how much a racing celebrity can mean to someone who follows the sport closely. Years later I recalled the same verse upon my brother’s sudden death.
911 (September 11, 2001) – I was at work in my office in the Pittsburgh Federal Building that morning (I was Assistant Chief of Operations at the time). It must have been about 9:00 or 9:30 when a co-worker came into the office and said that he had heard on the radio on his way into the office from a dentist appointment (it’s amazing the details you remember about that day) that a “small” plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. This did not seem like that big a deal at the time as everyone assumed it had been an accident. It did not take long; however, until the tone of the workplace changed with the news that not one, but two “commercial” airliners had been purposely rammed into the buildings. In addition there were other planes in the air and unaccounted for. I thought that I remembered that our son was flying to Washington for a conference either that day or the day prior. I prayed that he was already there or at least not in the air at the time. I called both his phone and his wife frantically trying to get some news but to no avail. Then there came news that there may have been a hijacked plane heading toward Pittsburgh, possibly targeting the USX Tower (obviously this is the one that crashed in Western PA on its way to Washington). This created some real panic in the Federal Building and people began the stream out of the building on their way home. A huge traffic jam ensued. The Corps leadership decided we should relocate key staff members to our emergency alternate office on Neville Island. I got a GSA vehicle from the garage, loaded in with “fly away” kits (suitcases full of communications and other gear necessary in an emergency) and headed out of town. It took almost 2 hours to make the 10-mile trip. Once there we set up shop and pretty much just watched the horror of 911 on the TV news. We were there until about 7 PM at which time a co-worker drove me up to the Evans City park and ride lot to pick up my car (I had taken the bus to work that day). As I look back on that day it is interesting that I still recall how mad I was at the terrorists and the Arab countries that were celebrating the attack. It is such a shame that so many people have forgotten how they felt that day. It seems that the media has convinced so many Americans that we somehow deserved the 911 attacks. The media has aligned with the rest of the world to tell us that we had it coming because of our arrogance and the way we flaunted our wealth and power. I for one am still glad that our government responded with a strong message that we would seek out terrorists wherever they hid and make sure this never happened again.
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