I was raised in a Christian home. Some of my very earliest recollections are from church or Sunday School. (I recall my Sunday School teacher, Helen McNeese, holding me on her lap when I cried for my mother. I couldn’t have been more than three or four. I remember the white lace dress she wore.) We attended the First Methodist Church of Slippery Rock. When I was growing up people in Slippery Rock had four choices for church - two Presbyterian, one Catholic, and one Methodist. Mom and Dad were both quite active in the church. Mom was always involved in the music program and both my parents taught Sunday School and served on boards or committees at one time or another. I suppose that I was in my early teens before I began to question why I had to get up each Sunday morning to go to church. The good news was that many of my friends went to our church and I enjoyed seeing them there. When I reached the age of about 13 or 14 I was allowed to go to church by myself. The church was close enough that I could walk and my friend, Bob Watson, and I would go to the early service and then stop by the Isaly’s restaurant for a hot chocolate and a cinnamon roll before Sunday School. I thought I was a really independent “man-about-town.” On many occasions they would ask Bob and me to take up the offering at the early service and I used to raise some eyebrows when the high heels on my “Beatle boots” clip-clopped on the tile floors as we walked down front.
Mom and Dad were generally pretty close to the minister and his family. This was due both to their outgoing nature and their involvement in church service. I remember two in particular (Chic Dietrich and Hugh Crocker) that our two families actually vacationed together. Hugh was our minister when I was in my teens and he had a real impact on me. He was such a fun guy with a great sense of humor. It was the first time I had ever known a minister as “a real human being.” Before Hugh a minister was just someone who preached at you on Sunday.
At that time in my life, Christianity was pretty much about being a good person and refraining from sin. All sin was bad but there were certain “big sins” that you really had to stay away from. The biggies were swearing (anything stronger than darn and heck), smoking, drinking, premarital sex, parental disobedience, and not going to church. I knew the Bible pretty well as I had heard all the stories since I was old enough to understand the language. I heard them in church, Sunday School, “Junior League” after school on Wednesdays, and at youth group Sunday nights. The one message that I really never picked up on in the Methodist Church was that God sent Christ to us so that we could have a relationship with Him. This personal relationship business was a little foreign at that point in my life. God seemed to be a little “impersonal.”
After I met my wife and began to attend her church (the Mt Zion Baptist Church), where her father was the minister, I began to hear more about this relationship with God through Christ. The Methodist Church had preached that as long as you believed that Christ was indeed God’s son, you were a Christian. Pastor Ketzel (as I referred to him at that time) opined that a personal relationship with Christ led to more of a joyful, “abundant” life now as well as a guarantee of an eternal fellowship with God. It made sense to me and I sought the relationship by praying that I recognized that God was holy and I was sinful. I admitted that I needed a savior and I asked Jesus to forgive my sins, to be that savior and become a part of my daily life. My whole world didn’t miraculously change overnight but I began a process of becoming a better Christian and a better person, little by little and day by day. I certainly didn’t stop my sinful ways. I know I never will but I recognize that I need help to avoid sin. Gradually I began to rely on God to solve more and more of my problems. I was turning more and more of my life over to Him.
Many people come to know Christ when they are down and out. When they hit rock bottom they reach out to Him because He’s the only one there. It was different with me. Not only did I never hit rock bottom, I was never even close. I chose to follow Christ because I recognized that He had His hand on me from the beginning. I began to think about the circumstances of my life and whether I had ever done anything to deserve what I had. I determined that I hadn’t. I had great parents and a wonderful childhood, I never lacked for anything that I really needed, my health was excellent, I graduated from college debt free, I got a great job right out of college, I married the girl of my dreams and eventually had two healthy boys. I could go on and on. At every turn it seemed God had good things in store for me.
Because God had blessed me in so many ways that I didn’t deserve I yielded control of most aspects of my life to him. The one part of my life I maintained personal control of was my career. I had always been good at what I did professionally and I honestly never thought of seeking God’s help in that area. What a huge error on my part - not seeking God’s direction in the area of my life where I spent the most time and the aspect most important for the support of my family.
When my career was in serious jeopardy due to fraudulent accusations by a disgruntled subordinate I finally got smart. I told God that if I were fired from my present job I could do just about anything else with His help. From now on I would trust him in every single aspect of my life. Not only did I keep my job but God blessed me even more richly thereafter than He had before.
I can’t imagine anyone in this world who has been blessed more richly than I have been. These blessings have come purely from the grace of God. That’s why I do my best to honor Him with the life I live each day. I’m not very good at that but He continues to bless me anyway. That’s the kind of Father He is.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
"THE FLIG" STORIES
About twenty-five years before I was born in Slippery Rock, Pennsylvania another Tom Fleeger was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma. His nickname was “The Fleeg.” Mine was “The Flig.” (In Slippery Rock people pronounced our name as though it were spelled “Fligger.”) That Tom Fleeger wrote a book entitled, “Fidel and the Fleeg” that chronicled a trip that he and a buddy made to Havana, Cuba after their high school graduation. As the name implies the Fleeg got hooked up with Fidel Castro before he took control of the government - when he was just a young man with revolutionary thoughts. The book title prompted me to adapt it to some of my stories like, “The Corvette and the Flig”, ROTC and the Flig”, and “Jesus Christ and the Flig”, etc.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
ROTC AND THE FLIG
My brother-in-law, John Sager, has always been a mentor to me. When I planned to attend Penn State in 1968 it worked out for me to live with him and Barb as he was just enrolling in graduate work there. John was a veteran of the Army Reserve Officer Training Corps (ROTC) when he was an undergrad at PSU. He had learned to fly there and become a helicopter pilot on active duty. After a tour of Vietnam and a stint as an instructor pilot he was just mustering out before heading back to school. The military draft was in full swing during those years. Very few guys wanted to serve in the military during wartime. The Vietnam war was one of the most unpopular ever. Add to that the fact that it didn’t seem the US was really “in it to win it”, and a service career wasn’t all that attractive. Even worse than volunteering to serve was being drafted. At least if you volunteered you had a few choices. It seemed like if you got drafted they just handed you a rifle and put you on a plane to Southeast Asia!
John talked with me candidly about ROTC, military service in general, and the draft. He had made the right call by going through ROTC and he counseled me that if I wanted to avoid carrying a rifle through the jungle I might want to follow in his footsteps. John was a master of research and he had found out that the Navy had just lowered their ROTC entrance standards to include those with vision correctable to 20/20. In the past you had to have uncorrected 20/20 eyesight to get in. John thought that the Navy might be the way to avoid jungle hikes. Shipboard duty certainly had its disadvantages but life there was a little more sheltered. (Also snipers rarely picked off any ensigns who were standing on a destroyer’s deck.)
I can’t remember exactly what steps I took to enroll prior to going to the Military Entrance Station in the Pittsburgh Federal Building for my physical but I sure can remember that physical like it was yesterday. I was there with all of the new draftees and it was identical to a stockyard. We were the cattle and the uniformed personnel were the drovers. They herded us from room to room in our underwear. We clutched in our hands the manila envelope that contained our paperwork. At each stop a medical corpsman would poke, prod, or inspect our skinny bodies and scribble something on one of the pages. After the eye test was completed the fellow in charge told me with a smirk, “You’re not qualified for ROTC – but you sure are eligible to be drafted!” With as much respectful fortitude as I could muster I informed him that the Naval ROTC eyesight standards had recently changed. To which he replied, “I haven’t heard nothin about no change”. I was panicked. I could just envision the powers that be whisking me right off to the war zone from Pittsburgh. It appeared as though if anyone in the building might know of this regulation change it would be the recruiters. They were on the fourth floor of the same building so I immediately headed that way after I got dressed (still carrying my envelope).
When I found the Navy recruiter and explained my plight he echoed the corpsman’s phrase about the change. I asked if he might investigate as the ROTC people at Penn State had been pretty adamant about it. He made some calls and came back in about 10 minutes with one of those quizzical looks a ninth grade graduate gets when they’ve just learned that the world is really round. He said, “Son of a gun. You’re right. I guess you qualify.” In the first 18 years of my life I had pulled off few, if any major coupes but this day felt like it was the greatest. I had fought the system and won (thanks albeit to John’s research). I was in. Little did I know that this was to be one of many, many battles with “the system”.
The week before classes started in the fall semester was set aside for freshmen. I traveled from home to State College on Sunday and was ready for a variety of activities that would tell me all about life at Penn State. On Monday, amidst a variety of sessions about scheduling, athletic facilities, how to get football tickets, etc. I stopped by the ROTC building to let the navy guys know that “I was in”. To my dismay that told me that I was a day late. The ROTC program had held their orientation session on Sunday and I had already missed that as well as the Monday morning drill. Nobody had said anything about coming up early and I had no clue what a “drill” might entail. The officer in charge told me to be there Tuesday at 0600 and to be wearing black pants, a white shirt, black tie, and “spit shined” plain-toed black shoes. They also gave me a belt and a bucket with instructions that the buckle should be polished. Luckily John had a spare black tie and knew what sort of shoes I needed and that afternoon we went to the shoe store and bought a pair. Too bad I didn’t wear his size as he had several pair he wasn’t using anymore. John also taught me how to spit shine brand new shoes and use Brasso to take the “quartermaster” off the new belt buckle. Quartermaster is military talk for the protective coating that comes on the new buckle. I couldn’t figure out this fascination the military had with polishing brand new stuff.
Boy is it dark and cold at Penn State at 0600 in late September! I showed up for drill on Tuesday morning outfitted as best as possible with minimum instructions and without the benefit of Sunday’s orientation session. Evidently that is when they told you that the knot in your black tie should be a “fore-in-hand” and not a double Windsor (which is all I knew how to tie). As the upperclassmen midshipmen officers came down the line I could hear them criticizing other freshmen’s tie knots. When the head guy got in my face and asked, “What kind of knot is that in your tie?”, I answered, “Fore-in-hand, sir!” He replied, “Looks like a double Windsor to me.” And went on down the line. Another guy came behind him and asked me (at the top of his lungs) who’s going to win the football game this Saturday? Ordinarily this would not be a tough question but I knew that the Nittany Lions were to play the Naval Academy that weekend. I thought that in some perverted way they expected me to answer that Navy would win (this was the Naval ROTC after all). However, I said softly, “Penn State, sir?” “LOUDER!”, he yelled. “PENN STATE, SIR,” I yelled. As he walked off down the line I heard him mutter, “Damn right Penn State’s going to win.” And they did. As a matter of fact Penn State did not lose a single game until most of the way through my junior year.
I was put in with a small group of others who were new that morning. After the initial inspection where they criticized our ties, our shoes, our belt buckles, our haircuts and our lineage, they handed us rifles. RIFLES?! This was supposed to be the Navy for Pete’s sake. Navy guys didn’t carry rifles. Their ships had 16-inch guns, why would they need rifles? I guess they figured that if marching around with a rifle on your shoulder built disciplined recruits for the Army and Marines it was good enough for the Navy too. We spent the rest of the morning learning what you did with the rifle when the leader said stuff like “order arms”, or “present arms”. We also learned how to do the left face, right face, and about face stuff. I was starting to seriously doubt John’s advice about ROTC being a good alternative to the draft. I thought it just might be better to take my chances.
Then things brightened after lunch. An upperclassmen came around and asked if anybody played a musical instrument. My ears perked up but I didn’t volunteer until I heard more. John had also warned me about volunteering before you knew what it might get you into. It seemed that the Naval ROTC had its own band and that every week when all the other slobs were out doing the order arms stuff with their rifles, the band members practiced playing Anchors Aweigh and Sousa marches on their instruments. Heck there wasn’t even any synchronized marching to spell words out on the field like in high school. Everybody stayed together in a tight formation. You also got to wear a green rope around the shoulder of your uniform. That was enough for me. My hand shot in the air. A couple other guys saw the light as well. We learned that this upperclassman was called the “Band Commander”. He had us immediately come with him to check out instruments and music. It was the last time I touched a rifle in my ROTC career. God is GOOD!!
The rest of orientation week went much better. I still had to get up early each morning with my “uniform” on (including a fore-in-hand knot in my tie) but us “band guys” hung around and sort of jammed with our horns since the rest of the band wouldn’t show up for another week or so. On Friday we picked up our “real” uniforms. No more white shirts. The navy uniforms were by far the most attractive of all of the ROTC units. Drill uniform was black slacks and a dark blue wool CPO shirt with black tie and white “captains-type” hat. (This hat was worn with all the uniforms.) Dress uniform was same slacks with white shirt and black double-breasted, six-button blazer. Top coat (necessary in the central PA winters) almost reached the ground. It was heavy wool and also double-breasted. Formal uniform was the white “ice cream salesman” suit. The easiest way to describe it is that it is what Tom Cruise wore in the Top Gun graduation scene. It was a good thing these uniforms looked sharp because it could really get embarrassing wearing them around campus during the anti-war protests of the late ‘60s. Every Wednesday was drill day when the band practiced and all the other guys marched around with rifles on their shoulders. Since I lived off-campus I had to wear my uniform to all my classes that day. Penn State was a pretty conservative school in those days so there wasn’t a lot of harassment but you could feel the hatred from the hippie bunch as you walked by in uniform.
Drill on Wednesday wasn’t the only ROTC activity. We attended classes twice a week in subjects like Naval History, Seamanship, Navigation, Naval Warfare, etc. John had suggested that I take some extra credits at Slippery Rock University during the summers when I was home since my Navy classes didn’t count toward my Forestry degree. That was great advice that eventually allowed me to graduate a term early. My grades were pretty good the first term of my freshman year but the second term I failed chemistry which meant I had to attend Navy study halls at night. That was a good thing because there were upperclassmen there to help you out if you needed it. I never wanted to go back there again so I studied hard and got a B in chemistry the next term. I never had to go back. My freshman year was pretty much one to forget. It wasn’t all that fun nor very successful.
At the beginning of my sophomore year the Navy band held a competition for Band Adjutant. This was sort of an executive officer to the Band Commander. You carried a staff and marched at the head of the band, keeping the beat with the staff and signaling when to turn by blowing a whistle and motioning the staff left or right. There was another signal for when to stop. One of my friends suggested I try out and I figured, what the heck. I wasn’t that good a baritone player anyway. To my amazement I was selected for the job. This made band even more fun. The neatest part was that I helped the Band Commander perform inspections of uniforms, haircuts, etc. My hair got longer and longer until the Commander turned to me during an inspection and noted, “Tommy, you could use a haircut yourself.”
I had a couple good friends in the band but because I lived off campus I never got together with them in the evenings. I only saw them at ROTC activities such as drills, parades, and of course the dances. Each year there was a Navy Ball and a Military Ball. These were big deals where your girl friend came up to school and you sort of had another shot at doing the prom right. The Military Ball was for all the ROTC units and it was held in the winter. That meant wearing the black uniform. The Navy Ball was held in the spring which meant wearing the white dress uniform. I have to admit it felt like a big deal to get all dressed up and go to the ball. We also saw some great entertainment (including the Vogues and the 5th Dimension).
On December 2, 1969 (midway through my sophomore year) the Selective Service Commission held its first draft lottery. This was the way they would determine in what order those born in 1950 (me) would be drafted in the future. I can remember I was in the student union with a bunch of non-ROTC guys who were avidly watching the lottery on TV. If you drew a number much higher than 175 or so you were pretty safe from the draft and could go about planning your future after college. I recall guys cursing when they drew numbers like 57 or 76. Somebody asked my when my birthday was so they could determine my draft number. I said, “Who cares, I don’t have to worry about the draft, I’m in ROTC.” They pestered me until I told them my birth date and somebody yelled out, “Man, you’re number 301, there’s no way you’ll ever get drafted!” I reiterated that I didn’t care. I’m not sure when I began to think seriously that I could now drop out of ROTC and do what most guys did after graduation – get married, look for a job, get on with life. On one hand the Navy meant I would have a job after graduation but on the other hand that job would likely keep my away from my wife for the first three years of our marriage.
I thought about it long and hard and took the remainder of my sophomore year and the whole summer to make my decision. When I went back to school the next fall I would have to take the oath of office and I would actually be in the Navy. They would start to pay some of my school expenses but not all that many of them. I recall meeting with the Professor of Military Science (the head Navy guy on campus) and telling him that I would not be continuing in the program. He was really ticked and asked me why. I told him the truth and also reminded him that the only thing the Navy had ever invested in me was my uniforms which I was about to give back.
There have been many times over the last 40 years when I’ve wondered how different my life would have been if I hadn’t dropped out of ROTC. I’ve always felt bad that I didn’t serve my country in the military but let others do the fighting for me. However, I know that God has blessed my life every step of the way and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. The two years of ROTC were a great experience and I think I’m a better leader for it.
John talked with me candidly about ROTC, military service in general, and the draft. He had made the right call by going through ROTC and he counseled me that if I wanted to avoid carrying a rifle through the jungle I might want to follow in his footsteps. John was a master of research and he had found out that the Navy had just lowered their ROTC entrance standards to include those with vision correctable to 20/20. In the past you had to have uncorrected 20/20 eyesight to get in. John thought that the Navy might be the way to avoid jungle hikes. Shipboard duty certainly had its disadvantages but life there was a little more sheltered. (Also snipers rarely picked off any ensigns who were standing on a destroyer’s deck.)
I can’t remember exactly what steps I took to enroll prior to going to the Military Entrance Station in the Pittsburgh Federal Building for my physical but I sure can remember that physical like it was yesterday. I was there with all of the new draftees and it was identical to a stockyard. We were the cattle and the uniformed personnel were the drovers. They herded us from room to room in our underwear. We clutched in our hands the manila envelope that contained our paperwork. At each stop a medical corpsman would poke, prod, or inspect our skinny bodies and scribble something on one of the pages. After the eye test was completed the fellow in charge told me with a smirk, “You’re not qualified for ROTC – but you sure are eligible to be drafted!” With as much respectful fortitude as I could muster I informed him that the Naval ROTC eyesight standards had recently changed. To which he replied, “I haven’t heard nothin about no change”. I was panicked. I could just envision the powers that be whisking me right off to the war zone from Pittsburgh. It appeared as though if anyone in the building might know of this regulation change it would be the recruiters. They were on the fourth floor of the same building so I immediately headed that way after I got dressed (still carrying my envelope).
When I found the Navy recruiter and explained my plight he echoed the corpsman’s phrase about the change. I asked if he might investigate as the ROTC people at Penn State had been pretty adamant about it. He made some calls and came back in about 10 minutes with one of those quizzical looks a ninth grade graduate gets when they’ve just learned that the world is really round. He said, “Son of a gun. You’re right. I guess you qualify.” In the first 18 years of my life I had pulled off few, if any major coupes but this day felt like it was the greatest. I had fought the system and won (thanks albeit to John’s research). I was in. Little did I know that this was to be one of many, many battles with “the system”.
The week before classes started in the fall semester was set aside for freshmen. I traveled from home to State College on Sunday and was ready for a variety of activities that would tell me all about life at Penn State. On Monday, amidst a variety of sessions about scheduling, athletic facilities, how to get football tickets, etc. I stopped by the ROTC building to let the navy guys know that “I was in”. To my dismay that told me that I was a day late. The ROTC program had held their orientation session on Sunday and I had already missed that as well as the Monday morning drill. Nobody had said anything about coming up early and I had no clue what a “drill” might entail. The officer in charge told me to be there Tuesday at 0600 and to be wearing black pants, a white shirt, black tie, and “spit shined” plain-toed black shoes. They also gave me a belt and a bucket with instructions that the buckle should be polished. Luckily John had a spare black tie and knew what sort of shoes I needed and that afternoon we went to the shoe store and bought a pair. Too bad I didn’t wear his size as he had several pair he wasn’t using anymore. John also taught me how to spit shine brand new shoes and use Brasso to take the “quartermaster” off the new belt buckle. Quartermaster is military talk for the protective coating that comes on the new buckle. I couldn’t figure out this fascination the military had with polishing brand new stuff.
Boy is it dark and cold at Penn State at 0600 in late September! I showed up for drill on Tuesday morning outfitted as best as possible with minimum instructions and without the benefit of Sunday’s orientation session. Evidently that is when they told you that the knot in your black tie should be a “fore-in-hand” and not a double Windsor (which is all I knew how to tie). As the upperclassmen midshipmen officers came down the line I could hear them criticizing other freshmen’s tie knots. When the head guy got in my face and asked, “What kind of knot is that in your tie?”, I answered, “Fore-in-hand, sir!” He replied, “Looks like a double Windsor to me.” And went on down the line. Another guy came behind him and asked me (at the top of his lungs) who’s going to win the football game this Saturday? Ordinarily this would not be a tough question but I knew that the Nittany Lions were to play the Naval Academy that weekend. I thought that in some perverted way they expected me to answer that Navy would win (this was the Naval ROTC after all). However, I said softly, “Penn State, sir?” “LOUDER!”, he yelled. “PENN STATE, SIR,” I yelled. As he walked off down the line I heard him mutter, “Damn right Penn State’s going to win.” And they did. As a matter of fact Penn State did not lose a single game until most of the way through my junior year.
I was put in with a small group of others who were new that morning. After the initial inspection where they criticized our ties, our shoes, our belt buckles, our haircuts and our lineage, they handed us rifles. RIFLES?! This was supposed to be the Navy for Pete’s sake. Navy guys didn’t carry rifles. Their ships had 16-inch guns, why would they need rifles? I guess they figured that if marching around with a rifle on your shoulder built disciplined recruits for the Army and Marines it was good enough for the Navy too. We spent the rest of the morning learning what you did with the rifle when the leader said stuff like “order arms”, or “present arms”. We also learned how to do the left face, right face, and about face stuff. I was starting to seriously doubt John’s advice about ROTC being a good alternative to the draft. I thought it just might be better to take my chances.
Then things brightened after lunch. An upperclassmen came around and asked if anybody played a musical instrument. My ears perked up but I didn’t volunteer until I heard more. John had also warned me about volunteering before you knew what it might get you into. It seemed that the Naval ROTC had its own band and that every week when all the other slobs were out doing the order arms stuff with their rifles, the band members practiced playing Anchors Aweigh and Sousa marches on their instruments. Heck there wasn’t even any synchronized marching to spell words out on the field like in high school. Everybody stayed together in a tight formation. You also got to wear a green rope around the shoulder of your uniform. That was enough for me. My hand shot in the air. A couple other guys saw the light as well. We learned that this upperclassman was called the “Band Commander”. He had us immediately come with him to check out instruments and music. It was the last time I touched a rifle in my ROTC career. God is GOOD!!
The rest of orientation week went much better. I still had to get up early each morning with my “uniform” on (including a fore-in-hand knot in my tie) but us “band guys” hung around and sort of jammed with our horns since the rest of the band wouldn’t show up for another week or so. On Friday we picked up our “real” uniforms. No more white shirts. The navy uniforms were by far the most attractive of all of the ROTC units. Drill uniform was black slacks and a dark blue wool CPO shirt with black tie and white “captains-type” hat. (This hat was worn with all the uniforms.) Dress uniform was same slacks with white shirt and black double-breasted, six-button blazer. Top coat (necessary in the central PA winters) almost reached the ground. It was heavy wool and also double-breasted. Formal uniform was the white “ice cream salesman” suit. The easiest way to describe it is that it is what Tom Cruise wore in the Top Gun graduation scene. It was a good thing these uniforms looked sharp because it could really get embarrassing wearing them around campus during the anti-war protests of the late ‘60s. Every Wednesday was drill day when the band practiced and all the other guys marched around with rifles on their shoulders. Since I lived off-campus I had to wear my uniform to all my classes that day. Penn State was a pretty conservative school in those days so there wasn’t a lot of harassment but you could feel the hatred from the hippie bunch as you walked by in uniform.
Drill on Wednesday wasn’t the only ROTC activity. We attended classes twice a week in subjects like Naval History, Seamanship, Navigation, Naval Warfare, etc. John had suggested that I take some extra credits at Slippery Rock University during the summers when I was home since my Navy classes didn’t count toward my Forestry degree. That was great advice that eventually allowed me to graduate a term early. My grades were pretty good the first term of my freshman year but the second term I failed chemistry which meant I had to attend Navy study halls at night. That was a good thing because there were upperclassmen there to help you out if you needed it. I never wanted to go back there again so I studied hard and got a B in chemistry the next term. I never had to go back. My freshman year was pretty much one to forget. It wasn’t all that fun nor very successful.
At the beginning of my sophomore year the Navy band held a competition for Band Adjutant. This was sort of an executive officer to the Band Commander. You carried a staff and marched at the head of the band, keeping the beat with the staff and signaling when to turn by blowing a whistle and motioning the staff left or right. There was another signal for when to stop. One of my friends suggested I try out and I figured, what the heck. I wasn’t that good a baritone player anyway. To my amazement I was selected for the job. This made band even more fun. The neatest part was that I helped the Band Commander perform inspections of uniforms, haircuts, etc. My hair got longer and longer until the Commander turned to me during an inspection and noted, “Tommy, you could use a haircut yourself.”
I had a couple good friends in the band but because I lived off campus I never got together with them in the evenings. I only saw them at ROTC activities such as drills, parades, and of course the dances. Each year there was a Navy Ball and a Military Ball. These were big deals where your girl friend came up to school and you sort of had another shot at doing the prom right. The Military Ball was for all the ROTC units and it was held in the winter. That meant wearing the black uniform. The Navy Ball was held in the spring which meant wearing the white dress uniform. I have to admit it felt like a big deal to get all dressed up and go to the ball. We also saw some great entertainment (including the Vogues and the 5th Dimension).
On December 2, 1969 (midway through my sophomore year) the Selective Service Commission held its first draft lottery. This was the way they would determine in what order those born in 1950 (me) would be drafted in the future. I can remember I was in the student union with a bunch of non-ROTC guys who were avidly watching the lottery on TV. If you drew a number much higher than 175 or so you were pretty safe from the draft and could go about planning your future after college. I recall guys cursing when they drew numbers like 57 or 76. Somebody asked my when my birthday was so they could determine my draft number. I said, “Who cares, I don’t have to worry about the draft, I’m in ROTC.” They pestered me until I told them my birth date and somebody yelled out, “Man, you’re number 301, there’s no way you’ll ever get drafted!” I reiterated that I didn’t care. I’m not sure when I began to think seriously that I could now drop out of ROTC and do what most guys did after graduation – get married, look for a job, get on with life. On one hand the Navy meant I would have a job after graduation but on the other hand that job would likely keep my away from my wife for the first three years of our marriage.
I thought about it long and hard and took the remainder of my sophomore year and the whole summer to make my decision. When I went back to school the next fall I would have to take the oath of office and I would actually be in the Navy. They would start to pay some of my school expenses but not all that many of them. I recall meeting with the Professor of Military Science (the head Navy guy on campus) and telling him that I would not be continuing in the program. He was really ticked and asked me why. I told him the truth and also reminded him that the only thing the Navy had ever invested in me was my uniforms which I was about to give back.
There have been many times over the last 40 years when I’ve wondered how different my life would have been if I hadn’t dropped out of ROTC. I’ve always felt bad that I didn’t serve my country in the military but let others do the fighting for me. However, I know that God has blessed my life every step of the way and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. The two years of ROTC were a great experience and I think I’m a better leader for it.
Monday, February 22, 2010
THE CORVETTE AND THE FLIG
This is a story of a young boy’s fascination with an automobile that never went away when he grew up. I can’t remember the first time I ever saw a Corvette but to this day I examine every one I see closely. I was three years old when the first one was produced. My fascination with all things automotive came first from the fact that my father owned a Chevrolet/Oldsmobile dealership and second from the fact that my older brother knew just about all there was to know about cars (and especially Chevys). I suppose that I was about ten when I first started to get excited about the plastic models of Corvettes that the dealership got from GM. I guess they were to be given out to customers but I always got first choice. They were pretty much the same as the models you bought in the toy store except they were already put together. They came all painted the same color but I would often modify them by taking them apart and painting certain sections a different color. In my early teen years I put together quite a number of model cars. Many were Corvettes.
I can remember like yesterday the first Corvette that was sold through my dad’s dealership. Dad and his partner, John Cheeseman, were very conservative and they didn’t really cater to the “sports car crowd”. Their theory was that if you sold a Corvette the owner would hot rod it around, creating mechanical problems that would need repair under warranty. Even though great profit could be made by selling such higher-end cars, they never ordered one for dealer stock. So this first Corvette that I recall was a special order from a customer that they couldn’t turn down. It was a tuxedo black, 1963 Stingray "split-window" coupe with saddle tan upholstery and chrome side exhaust pipes. When it came off the delivery truck I stared in awe. I had never seen such a beautiful car in person - on the dealership floor where I could sit in it and touch it.
Unfortunately, models were the closest I would come to owning a Corvette for many, many years. Alas I was just about as conservative as my father had been. In 1974, when ordering a new Camaro I actually considered a Corvette instead. First, the price was almost double ($4,700 for the Camaro and $8,000 for the Corvette). Next there was the increased cost of insurance, and finally there was the problem of not having a garage in which to store such an elite car.
In the late ‘90s when the boys’ college expenses were winding down I began to think seriously for the first time about actually owning a Corvette (not a new one but a used one that I could afford to pay cash for). I took the first step by stopping by a used car dealership and taking a test drive in a well-used, red 1994 convertible. Even though I wouldn’t consider this car I was hooked by the performance and the feeling of being “encapsulated” in the driver’s seat. It seemed I was wearing the car and not merely sitting inside it.
While I continued to keep my eye out for corvettes on used car lots, I also began to utilize a relatively new tool – the internet. I found a number of used cars on-line – some from dealers and some from private sellers. I had a number of criteria for this search. The car had to be a convertible and have a 6-speed manual transmission. It had to be at least a 1990 and preferably a 1991 or 1992 (those were the years my budget could afford). Low miles were a bonus but I didn’t want more than 50,000. I really wanted the same saddle tan upholstery that I had fallen in love with in 1963 but I didn’t want the black paint job that car had - too difficult to maintain. My first choice was dark (polo) green, followed by silver or pewter, bright yellow, or dark blue. I would consider maroon but not bright red or white.
A private seller’s posting near Akron, Ohio caught my eye on autotrader.com. It was just about everything I was looking for and in my price range. The added bonus was that it only had 18,000 miles! I contacted the seller and we arranged to meet half way, in Boardman, Ohio, to take a test drive. It took all of about 2 seconds for me to decide I wanted the car. His asking price was $18,000. I would have paid it as it was a steal for a car like this. However, I posed the simple question, “Will you take any less?” He obviously didn’t have the car sales savvy that I do as he blurted out, “I will take $17,000 but that’s as low as I can go.” My response was, “When can I pick it up?” To my surprise, on the day we picked the car up, he came out carrying a bra, a car cover, and numerous boxes of original parts that had been upgraded with high performance parts. These represented thousands of dollars of upgrades of which I was unaware previously. Talk about sweetening the deal! The car came stock with 250 hp but these added parts took it easily over 300.
The only improvements I made to an already heavily modified car were to change the wheels to a ZR-1 style with new tires. I got these at a Tom Henry Chevrolet for a significant discount ($1,100) after someone had taken them off a used Corvette before trading for a new one. I sold the old wheels and tires to the friend of a co-worker for $800.
For the entire time we lived in Pennsylvania we really enjoyed the car. We took it to car shows around the area and developed a regular Friday night car cruise at our church. We had friends that had either classic cars or hot rods and they went along. My favorite memory in this car was a trip to Florida with my late brother to visit my parents and my sister and her family. I let my brother drive most of the time as he was an even bigger Corvette fan than I but circumstances had never been right for him to own one. His car toy at the time was a ’98 Camaro coupe he had dubbed “Blue Thunder.”
Alas, when we moved to Omaha, the Corvette got driven sparingly (less than 500 miles per year). It was too hot on most summer days to put the top down, we never enjoyed the drive with the top up, and we didn’t have any friends to cruise with. Since we had a three-stall garage we hung onto the car expecting the next move might change things. However, Texas was not much different weather wise and worse – we only had a two-stall garage. We put the car in storage and almost immediately advertised it for sale.
Autotrader.com had worked once, I tried it again. After a couple months and a few folks who made low offers I sold the car to a guy who was retired Navy, working as a security contractor in Iraq. He sent me the money in advance and I delivered the car to DFW airport and met him on his way home to Oklahoma. He was so impressed with the car he said, “I’d like to buy all my cars from you.” He said he was going to surprise his wife with the car. She must not have liked the surprise as I got word several months later that he had traded it on a Chevy SSR. I got this word from a guy who bought the Corvette from that Chevy dealer. He was so pleased with the car he told me he would guarantee that he would be the final owner.
From 2005 to 2008 I wasn’t thinking about Corvettes. We only had a two-stall garage in Texas and we needed two “mundane” cars – one for work transport and one for my wife and for longer trips. A Corvette just didn’t fit our lifestyle. However, as my retirement loomed I began to think that a Corvette might just be the ideal second car for a retiree such as me. Once again, the search was on. I already knew a great deal about the Corvettes produced since my ’91 (a C4). (There have been six iterations of the Corvette – C1 are 1953-1966; C2 are 1963-1967; C3 are 1968-1982; C4 are 1984-1996; C5 are 1997-2004; and C6 are 2205-2010.)
While a person could get a real bargain on a C-5, I decided there had been too many important technological improvements to pass on a C-6. Now the decision would be new or used. I decided used because these cars lose so much of their value in the first couple years. I decided against a 2005 because, while they looked pretty much the same as newer models, the ’06 had several better features. For one the ‘05 still had the satellite antenna on the roof as opposed to concealed inside. Also Chevrolet had pulled a cheap Malibu steering wheel out of the parts bin and slapped it on the ’05 Corvette (tacky). The biggest item in my decision was the upgraded ’06 six-speed automatic with paddle shifters on the steering wheel. Because we had transitioned to a preference for automatics in our old age, the 2006 made much more sense from a performance and drivability standpoint. So the search was narrowed to an ’06 and later, automatic, and a coupe (since we live in Texas). Colors were limited to orange and maroon (tied at the top), yellow next, and then dark blue. You can’t believe how many great deals I found on black and silver Corvettes (the greatest % produced). The upholstery had to be cashmere (light tan). Desired options were the adjustable ride system, an in-dash navigation system, chrome or polished wheels, and the LT-3 option, which meant everything was powered (telescopic wheel, heated seats, etc.). Mileage had to be less than 20,000. All of these desires made finding exactly the right car, at a good price, and close to home difficult.
After more than a month of searching the newspapers, local dealers’ lots, autotrader.com, vehix.com, classyauto.com, and e-bay, I found a strong possibility on Ebay at a Chevy dealer in San Marcos, TX (about 200 miles south). It was a maroon ’06 that met all of the search criteria and more. It had the added option of double roofs (clear and painted) and also just 3,800 miles. It was on sale for $18,000 under the original sticker price (a depreciation rate of $1,000/mo.). On the MLK holiday in 2008 we drove down to make the deal. It seems a local businessman owned the car and had little time to drive it before he saw an identical ’08 on the showroom floor and traded for it. It was raining the day we picked it up and the salesman said that would be the first time the car had seen rain. As of this writing, it is also the last time it saw rain. The only modifications so far have been a high performance air intake, painted door handles and spoiler, painted brake calipers, a car cover, and bra.
Being relegated to the role of toy as opposed to transportation the Corvette gets an average of 100 miles per month (many just to keep the battery charged). I keep claiming that I will use it for a long road trip – either west on route 66 or east to Bowling Green and the Corvette museum. My story of these two Corvette purchases was published in Corvette Magazine in December 2009.
Now the biggest quandary for The Flig is that a brand new Camaro just debuted. The power train is pretty much identical to the Corvette. Could such a car lure The Flig away from his life-long love affair? Time will tell.
I can remember like yesterday the first Corvette that was sold through my dad’s dealership. Dad and his partner, John Cheeseman, were very conservative and they didn’t really cater to the “sports car crowd”. Their theory was that if you sold a Corvette the owner would hot rod it around, creating mechanical problems that would need repair under warranty. Even though great profit could be made by selling such higher-end cars, they never ordered one for dealer stock. So this first Corvette that I recall was a special order from a customer that they couldn’t turn down. It was a tuxedo black, 1963 Stingray "split-window" coupe with saddle tan upholstery and chrome side exhaust pipes. When it came off the delivery truck I stared in awe. I had never seen such a beautiful car in person - on the dealership floor where I could sit in it and touch it.
Unfortunately, models were the closest I would come to owning a Corvette for many, many years. Alas I was just about as conservative as my father had been. In 1974, when ordering a new Camaro I actually considered a Corvette instead. First, the price was almost double ($4,700 for the Camaro and $8,000 for the Corvette). Next there was the increased cost of insurance, and finally there was the problem of not having a garage in which to store such an elite car.
In the late ‘90s when the boys’ college expenses were winding down I began to think seriously for the first time about actually owning a Corvette (not a new one but a used one that I could afford to pay cash for). I took the first step by stopping by a used car dealership and taking a test drive in a well-used, red 1994 convertible. Even though I wouldn’t consider this car I was hooked by the performance and the feeling of being “encapsulated” in the driver’s seat. It seemed I was wearing the car and not merely sitting inside it.
While I continued to keep my eye out for corvettes on used car lots, I also began to utilize a relatively new tool – the internet. I found a number of used cars on-line – some from dealers and some from private sellers. I had a number of criteria for this search. The car had to be a convertible and have a 6-speed manual transmission. It had to be at least a 1990 and preferably a 1991 or 1992 (those were the years my budget could afford). Low miles were a bonus but I didn’t want more than 50,000. I really wanted the same saddle tan upholstery that I had fallen in love with in 1963 but I didn’t want the black paint job that car had - too difficult to maintain. My first choice was dark (polo) green, followed by silver or pewter, bright yellow, or dark blue. I would consider maroon but not bright red or white.
A private seller’s posting near Akron, Ohio caught my eye on autotrader.com. It was just about everything I was looking for and in my price range. The added bonus was that it only had 18,000 miles! I contacted the seller and we arranged to meet half way, in Boardman, Ohio, to take a test drive. It took all of about 2 seconds for me to decide I wanted the car. His asking price was $18,000. I would have paid it as it was a steal for a car like this. However, I posed the simple question, “Will you take any less?” He obviously didn’t have the car sales savvy that I do as he blurted out, “I will take $17,000 but that’s as low as I can go.” My response was, “When can I pick it up?” To my surprise, on the day we picked the car up, he came out carrying a bra, a car cover, and numerous boxes of original parts that had been upgraded with high performance parts. These represented thousands of dollars of upgrades of which I was unaware previously. Talk about sweetening the deal! The car came stock with 250 hp but these added parts took it easily over 300.
The only improvements I made to an already heavily modified car were to change the wheels to a ZR-1 style with new tires. I got these at a Tom Henry Chevrolet for a significant discount ($1,100) after someone had taken them off a used Corvette before trading for a new one. I sold the old wheels and tires to the friend of a co-worker for $800.
For the entire time we lived in Pennsylvania we really enjoyed the car. We took it to car shows around the area and developed a regular Friday night car cruise at our church. We had friends that had either classic cars or hot rods and they went along. My favorite memory in this car was a trip to Florida with my late brother to visit my parents and my sister and her family. I let my brother drive most of the time as he was an even bigger Corvette fan than I but circumstances had never been right for him to own one. His car toy at the time was a ’98 Camaro coupe he had dubbed “Blue Thunder.”
Alas, when we moved to Omaha, the Corvette got driven sparingly (less than 500 miles per year). It was too hot on most summer days to put the top down, we never enjoyed the drive with the top up, and we didn’t have any friends to cruise with. Since we had a three-stall garage we hung onto the car expecting the next move might change things. However, Texas was not much different weather wise and worse – we only had a two-stall garage. We put the car in storage and almost immediately advertised it for sale.
Autotrader.com had worked once, I tried it again. After a couple months and a few folks who made low offers I sold the car to a guy who was retired Navy, working as a security contractor in Iraq. He sent me the money in advance and I delivered the car to DFW airport and met him on his way home to Oklahoma. He was so impressed with the car he said, “I’d like to buy all my cars from you.” He said he was going to surprise his wife with the car. She must not have liked the surprise as I got word several months later that he had traded it on a Chevy SSR. I got this word from a guy who bought the Corvette from that Chevy dealer. He was so pleased with the car he told me he would guarantee that he would be the final owner.
From 2005 to 2008 I wasn’t thinking about Corvettes. We only had a two-stall garage in Texas and we needed two “mundane” cars – one for work transport and one for my wife and for longer trips. A Corvette just didn’t fit our lifestyle. However, as my retirement loomed I began to think that a Corvette might just be the ideal second car for a retiree such as me. Once again, the search was on. I already knew a great deal about the Corvettes produced since my ’91 (a C4). (There have been six iterations of the Corvette – C1 are 1953-1966; C2 are 1963-1967; C3 are 1968-1982; C4 are 1984-1996; C5 are 1997-2004; and C6 are 2205-2010.)
While a person could get a real bargain on a C-5, I decided there had been too many important technological improvements to pass on a C-6. Now the decision would be new or used. I decided used because these cars lose so much of their value in the first couple years. I decided against a 2005 because, while they looked pretty much the same as newer models, the ’06 had several better features. For one the ‘05 still had the satellite antenna on the roof as opposed to concealed inside. Also Chevrolet had pulled a cheap Malibu steering wheel out of the parts bin and slapped it on the ’05 Corvette (tacky). The biggest item in my decision was the upgraded ’06 six-speed automatic with paddle shifters on the steering wheel. Because we had transitioned to a preference for automatics in our old age, the 2006 made much more sense from a performance and drivability standpoint. So the search was narrowed to an ’06 and later, automatic, and a coupe (since we live in Texas). Colors were limited to orange and maroon (tied at the top), yellow next, and then dark blue. You can’t believe how many great deals I found on black and silver Corvettes (the greatest % produced). The upholstery had to be cashmere (light tan). Desired options were the adjustable ride system, an in-dash navigation system, chrome or polished wheels, and the LT-3 option, which meant everything was powered (telescopic wheel, heated seats, etc.). Mileage had to be less than 20,000. All of these desires made finding exactly the right car, at a good price, and close to home difficult.
After more than a month of searching the newspapers, local dealers’ lots, autotrader.com, vehix.com, classyauto.com, and e-bay, I found a strong possibility on Ebay at a Chevy dealer in San Marcos, TX (about 200 miles south). It was a maroon ’06 that met all of the search criteria and more. It had the added option of double roofs (clear and painted) and also just 3,800 miles. It was on sale for $18,000 under the original sticker price (a depreciation rate of $1,000/mo.). On the MLK holiday in 2008 we drove down to make the deal. It seems a local businessman owned the car and had little time to drive it before he saw an identical ’08 on the showroom floor and traded for it. It was raining the day we picked it up and the salesman said that would be the first time the car had seen rain. As of this writing, it is also the last time it saw rain. The only modifications so far have been a high performance air intake, painted door handles and spoiler, painted brake calipers, a car cover, and bra.
Being relegated to the role of toy as opposed to transportation the Corvette gets an average of 100 miles per month (many just to keep the battery charged). I keep claiming that I will use it for a long road trip – either west on route 66 or east to Bowling Green and the Corvette museum. My story of these two Corvette purchases was published in Corvette Magazine in December 2009.
Now the biggest quandary for The Flig is that a brand new Camaro just debuted. The power train is pretty much identical to the Corvette. Could such a car lure The Flig away from his life-long love affair? Time will tell.
CHRISTMAS AT OUR HOUSE
Throughout my life Christmas has been a big deal. I don’t know of any other event that I’ve looked forward to so much each year (other than deer season during certain years but that has a chapter of its own). I suppose it has a lot to do with presents when I was younger and family times when I got older.As usual given my failing memory it is hard to remember Christmas in my early childhood; however, certain events do stand out. My earliest recollection of Christmas was probably when I was 5 or 6 years old. I can remember vividly of getting up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. In our small house a trip to the bathroom meant passing by the living room. This afforded one a sneak peak of the Christmas tree and presents thereunder. (I doubt I really had to go. I certainly didn’t have an enlarged prostate at that age. I’m sure it was just a ploy to see if Santa had been there yet.) I recall that the lights on the tree had been left on and the glow from them bathed the room in an almost magical light. That year I was looking for a rocking horse and toy cowboy guns and holsters. I tried to gather all the intel possible from that quick glance without risking the disaster that might result from disturbing Santa or waking my parents. I know that I didn’t see a rocking horse. That would have been obvious. The guns were still in play though as they would be wrapped up in a box. I don’t remember anything else about that Christmas other than I did get the guns. (Later Christmases would bring real guns as gifts from a father that never met a weapon he didn’t like.) What an exciting time for a young child to get something so special! I really wonder about kids these days who receive so many expensive gifts from parents and other relatives. It seems they get everything they ask for and can’t decide what to play with first. For an entire year I was Roy Rogers, Wild Bill Hickock, Cheyenne Bowdie, Gene Autry, and Hopalong Cassidy all rolled into one.
Opening the presents I believe first began with a free for all with everyone going after their presents together. Later we decided Christmas would last longer if we opened presents one at a time. My parents talked us into this by saying we would be able to see what our siblings were unwrapping but the bottom line was that they knew it made the fun last longer. My dad; however, loved to devil us by saying that he had to shave before we opened presents. After shaving there might be another excuse to delay the procedure.
We always got the Lionel train set out at this time of year. Of course my brother was the big mover behind this effort. He would get new cars or locomotives for Christmas to build the layout. I remember some of his prized possessions were a transformer with dual controls, a platform that loaded logs onto a flatbed car and another that loaded milk cans into a boxcar. It’s too bad that in later years Dad either threw out or gave away these trains that he didn’t realize had become quite valuable. Later on our fascination with trains was replaced by slot cars. I remember the first set we got was pretty crude. The cars had front wheel drive and the back end would slide out wildly around the curves. Little did we know then that we would be driving such FWD cars routinely in the future.
If we got a new board game for Christmas (I can recall Monopoly, Clue, Life, Risk, Camouflage, and Scrabble) there would always be marathon games in the ensuing days. Sometimes we would also get a jigsaw puzzle that would occupy a household table for weeks. Other significant gifts that come to mind were an erector set, tinker toys, a CO2 BB pistol, football helmets, baseball gloves, hockey skates, hockey sticks, and sleds. Clothing was rarely on our wish list but we often received socks, handkerchiefs or the like from well-meaning aunts or grandmothers. We always appreciated my bachelor uncle who lived next door buying us small trucks and cars. It seemed he knew what boys really wanted for Christmas.
I remember my dad cutting down Christmas trees from our backyard. Years earlier he had planted spruce trees as a border between our yard and the Ford dealer next door, as well as along the back of the property. This Christmas tree cutting program was really more of a “thinning operation” (in forest management terms). These trees had not been trimmed to be properly shaped so they were just spruce trees brought inside and decorated. (Our cat, Kumquat, used to climb up in the Christmas tree creating quite a stir.) I can’t ever remember getting a tree anywhere else until such time as my parents went to an artificial tree. At that point they really disturbed their children by putting up a four-foot table-top silver tinsel tree in front of the living room picture window. I also recall that we had a big plastic Santa face on the front door with a light inside. Also Dad decorated the outside pine trees in the front yard with the largest size colored lights imaginable. These lights were in series as opposed to parallel so that if one light went out, the whole string went out. One year he used those same lights indoors on the Christmas tree. They generated tremendous heat and I suppose it is no wonder there were so many house fires at Christmastime in those days. In retrospect I guess our household wasn’t all that much different than the one featured in the movie “Christmas Story” (without the Bumpis hounds).
We always hoped for snow at Christmas and living in Western Pennsylvania we got it quite often. This meant you could try out any new winter gear like skates or sleds. As I got older we might get a new shotgun to take hunting that afternoon.
As with most holidays food was a big part of the celebration. We would always entertain grandparents, aunts and uncles. The Christmas meal was a big deal with lots of cooks in the kitchen. My sister even made fancy place cards to denote where everyone was to sit. I’m not sure why but one old family photo (discarded years ago) still sticks in my mind. It was taken out of the picture window of our house of my grandfather walking up the driveway past a 1958 green and white Eighty-eight Oldsmobile. There was lots of snow on the ground and you could see how the driveway had been shoveled and the snow laying in piles. On the street was Grandpa’s 1954 Chevrolet. Grandpa had on a Woolrich coat, a brown ivy league cap, and eight-buckle galoshes. He held his pipe in his teeth and carried a large wooden box under his arm. It turns out he had made the box in his basement shop (and it stayed in our family for years to come). Inside the box were mason jars full of apple butter that he and Grandma had made. I can almost see this scene made into a Courier and Ives Christmas card. In my mind it is symbolic of a simpler time in my life and in our society.
There were always special programs at church and school. I played a shepherd, a wise man, a caroler, a child (one of my easiest roles), sang in countless choirs and choruses, and played in the band or orchestra. There was always something going on and the times leading up to Christmas were busy. Music was also a big part of the celebration at home. We loved to gather around the piano to sing Christmas carols while Mother played. My brother would get out his trumpet and play “Oh Holy Night.” Dad would even get into the act on the trumpet. (He had been a bugler in the Army.) To this day that carol is one of my favorites for this very reason. While most remember the words to the first verse I always thought the third verse worthy of pondering. “Truly He taught us to love one another. His law is love and His gospel is peace. Chains shall He break for the slave is our brother, and in His name all oppression shall cease. Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we, let all within us praise His holy name.”
I recall that when I got old enough to drive, Dad would rely on me to deliver Christmas candy and nuts from his auto dealership around to all the vendors in Slippery Rock with whom he did business. It made me feel special and I enjoyed the spirit of giving, in some cases to individuals whom I didn’t think deserved a gift. But I guess that is indeed what Christmas is all about. We (all of mankind) got the greatest gift of all that we didn’t deserve when the Savior was born! I guess that’s what makes Christmas such a special time of year. Too bad the feeling can’t permeate every day.
MEMORABLE EVENTS
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.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
CHILDHOOD GAMES
I can honestly say that I had a great early childhood from as far back as I can recall. The 1950s were obviously a simple time in our nation when most mothers were home with their kids and children were pretty much free to roam their local neighborhoods without fear of sexual predators or other hazards. Not that hazards weren’t there, we just didn’t recognize them as such. Parents today seem fearful of anything out of the ordinary that might impact their children. Growing up on North Main Street in Slippery Rock was a blast. My best female friend was Linda Mayhew who lived right across the street. Just up or down the block were Pauletta Locke, Debbie Duncan, Candy Hines, and Sharon Dunkle. Further out the road were the Cooper twin (Sharon and Karen). My best male friends were Barry Rose and Dan Birnley. Others were Kirk Jancse, Roger Markham, Don McConnell, and Danny Corso. When I was very young I played with my brother and sister and their friends but as I grew their interests outgrew the neighborhood. I can recall in the summer that we would all leave our homes after breakfast and flow around the neighborhood playing various games until our mothers called us in for lunch. Then it was back out until suppertime. When it rained we would play on someone’s porch or in a basement.
I recall on one such occasion Linda Mayhew and I were at Candy Hines’ house when we heard that there was a tornado warning (still not sure if there actually was one or not). The three of us took shelter in a walk-in hall closet, only to find that the door had locked behind us. We were trapped like rats! I, being the ever ingenious one, solved the problem by utilizing a canister vacuum cleaner as a battering ram. It was a wooden two-panel door and I took the bottom panel out cleanly. Candy’s mother was non-plussed when she returned home.
Below are listed some of the games we used to play as a group.
Cheap Monkey Grease Man – This was the earliest (and most famous) of made-up childhood games that I remember. It got its name from mechanics and service station attendants of the day who were known as “grease monkeys”. I suppose I am to blame for the adulteration of the title into Cheap Monkey Grease Man. (Like one time I said that I had been, “sleeping with my ear trunks open.” Sayings like that live in infamy in our family.) The game was played on the sidewalks between our house and the one next door. It was pretty simple – you chose a mode of transportation and rode it around the sidewalk, stopping occasionally to get service from the (you guessed it) Cheap Monkey Grease Man (CMGM for short). Normally my brother, Johnny, would play the part of the CMGM. In exchange for some Monopoly money he would feign some sort of needed service and send you on your way. His service station was normally one of the front porches on either house. In between service we would pass the time chatting with other “drivers” we encountered on the sidewalks, much like we saw our parents do as they ran errands in Slippery Rock. We had three modes of transportation to choose from in my early days (5-10 years old). My father had ingeniously fabricated a “kiddy car” (sort of a 3-wheeled push tricycle) and a wagon from odd bits of wood and metal rods and wheels from the radio-controlled target airplanes he had flown in the service. My older sister, Barb, had a blue 24” girl’s bike as well. As you can guess I was normally relegated to the kiddy car. Eventually Johnny got what we called in those days an “English” bike. It had thin tires, a three-speed shifter, and was totally different from the fat-tired “American” bikes. I inherited this bike when he began to drive, which meant I never had a bike of my own until after I was married. It is hard to imagine that such a made-up game could occupy children for hours at a time but it did.
Release – This was a glorified game of tag. The person that was “it” would hide their eyes and count to 100 while all the others hid. (Normally boundaries were set regarding how far away you could hide.) Then the person who was it would look for the hiders. When he found someone he would return them to a home base. There they would remain until a brave hider (not yet found) would sneak in to touch home base and yell, “release.” Then the game would begin over again.
School – This was an unbelievably simple game played on the steps of Linda Mayhew’s front porch. There must have been about ten steps from bottom to top. We started on the bottom step and the one who played “teacher” would hold a stone in one hand behind their back. When presented with the two clenched fists the “student” would pick one. If they picked correctly they would advance to the next step (grade), if not, they stayed on that step until the next round.
Orphans – Like Cheap Monkey Grease Man this was a very simple game invented by my sister. We would pretend that we were orphans and were out in the world on our own (homeless as it were). In the field behind our house, where the timothy grass grew tall, we would stomp down areas where we could crouch or lay down and hide from the rest of the world. Sometime we would make “rooms” that adjoined each other or pathways in the weeds between the grass “houses”. Obviously these were days before TV or formal indoor games.
Army – Playing army didn’t require much more than imagination, although it helped a lot if you at least had a toy gun. (In a pinch we just pointed our fingers at each other.) Birnleys had a number of army “supplies” that we utilized - toy machine guns, helmets, German luger pistols, and toy grenades. If you didn’t happen to have a grenade an apple would suffice. Perhaps the most challenging part of playing army was the ability to make just the right sound with your mouth when depressing the trigger or lobbing the grenade. A single shot or explosion was not difficult but a machine gun burst required much more sophistication. It was a good thing that none of our parents could afford braces or that could have put the kibosh on the army game. Our games were normally team games (or nationalities). For instance, we younger kids might play the American Army and our older brothers might be the Germans (Krauts or Gerries as we used to call them). Sometimes the opposition might be Japanese (Japs or Nips). We really never knew much about the Korean War so we did not have “Gooks”. A great home base was the crawl space under Birnley’s house. It had a 4’X4’ hole on each side that allowed for easy ingress and egress as well as moderate protection from incoming grenades (or apples).
Softball – Softball was played in a vacant lot next to Sharon Dunkle’s house or on the college tennis courts. There were always two captains that chose sides but I really can’t recall how the captains were chosen. I suppose the biggest or best just sort of appointed themselves and the remainder never challenged them. Players were chosen by the captains based on a strange mixture of talent and popularity. Even if you weren’t very good but were a good friend of the captain you had a good chance of being selected somewhere before last. Nobody wanted to be chosen last but somebody had to be. I recall one time that Willis Kennedy hit a “homerun” from the college tennis courts right through a window in the greenhouse atop the science building. We all stared in silent shock until the sound of breaking glass prompted the courts to clear in a matter of seconds.
Football – I remember one year in the mid-50s for Christmas my brother and I got tan and red leather football helmets, shoulder pads, and a football. We thought we had died and gone to Heaven. In later years after we got a TV I recall vividly how we would watch the pro football games and then at half time we would pester my uncle who lived next door to go out in the back yard to play football with us. He would be the quarterback and my brother and I would take turns going out for passes.
I recall on one such occasion Linda Mayhew and I were at Candy Hines’ house when we heard that there was a tornado warning (still not sure if there actually was one or not). The three of us took shelter in a walk-in hall closet, only to find that the door had locked behind us. We were trapped like rats! I, being the ever ingenious one, solved the problem by utilizing a canister vacuum cleaner as a battering ram. It was a wooden two-panel door and I took the bottom panel out cleanly. Candy’s mother was non-plussed when she returned home.
Below are listed some of the games we used to play as a group.
Cheap Monkey Grease Man – This was the earliest (and most famous) of made-up childhood games that I remember. It got its name from mechanics and service station attendants of the day who were known as “grease monkeys”. I suppose I am to blame for the adulteration of the title into Cheap Monkey Grease Man. (Like one time I said that I had been, “sleeping with my ear trunks open.” Sayings like that live in infamy in our family.) The game was played on the sidewalks between our house and the one next door. It was pretty simple – you chose a mode of transportation and rode it around the sidewalk, stopping occasionally to get service from the (you guessed it) Cheap Monkey Grease Man (CMGM for short). Normally my brother, Johnny, would play the part of the CMGM. In exchange for some Monopoly money he would feign some sort of needed service and send you on your way. His service station was normally one of the front porches on either house. In between service we would pass the time chatting with other “drivers” we encountered on the sidewalks, much like we saw our parents do as they ran errands in Slippery Rock. We had three modes of transportation to choose from in my early days (5-10 years old). My father had ingeniously fabricated a “kiddy car” (sort of a 3-wheeled push tricycle) and a wagon from odd bits of wood and metal rods and wheels from the radio-controlled target airplanes he had flown in the service. My older sister, Barb, had a blue 24” girl’s bike as well. As you can guess I was normally relegated to the kiddy car. Eventually Johnny got what we called in those days an “English” bike. It had thin tires, a three-speed shifter, and was totally different from the fat-tired “American” bikes. I inherited this bike when he began to drive, which meant I never had a bike of my own until after I was married. It is hard to imagine that such a made-up game could occupy children for hours at a time but it did.
Release – This was a glorified game of tag. The person that was “it” would hide their eyes and count to 100 while all the others hid. (Normally boundaries were set regarding how far away you could hide.) Then the person who was it would look for the hiders. When he found someone he would return them to a home base. There they would remain until a brave hider (not yet found) would sneak in to touch home base and yell, “release.” Then the game would begin over again.
School – This was an unbelievably simple game played on the steps of Linda Mayhew’s front porch. There must have been about ten steps from bottom to top. We started on the bottom step and the one who played “teacher” would hold a stone in one hand behind their back. When presented with the two clenched fists the “student” would pick one. If they picked correctly they would advance to the next step (grade), if not, they stayed on that step until the next round.
Orphans – Like Cheap Monkey Grease Man this was a very simple game invented by my sister. We would pretend that we were orphans and were out in the world on our own (homeless as it were). In the field behind our house, where the timothy grass grew tall, we would stomp down areas where we could crouch or lay down and hide from the rest of the world. Sometime we would make “rooms” that adjoined each other or pathways in the weeds between the grass “houses”. Obviously these were days before TV or formal indoor games.
Army – Playing army didn’t require much more than imagination, although it helped a lot if you at least had a toy gun. (In a pinch we just pointed our fingers at each other.) Birnleys had a number of army “supplies” that we utilized - toy machine guns, helmets, German luger pistols, and toy grenades. If you didn’t happen to have a grenade an apple would suffice. Perhaps the most challenging part of playing army was the ability to make just the right sound with your mouth when depressing the trigger or lobbing the grenade. A single shot or explosion was not difficult but a machine gun burst required much more sophistication. It was a good thing that none of our parents could afford braces or that could have put the kibosh on the army game. Our games were normally team games (or nationalities). For instance, we younger kids might play the American Army and our older brothers might be the Germans (Krauts or Gerries as we used to call them). Sometimes the opposition might be Japanese (Japs or Nips). We really never knew much about the Korean War so we did not have “Gooks”. A great home base was the crawl space under Birnley’s house. It had a 4’X4’ hole on each side that allowed for easy ingress and egress as well as moderate protection from incoming grenades (or apples).
Softball – Softball was played in a vacant lot next to Sharon Dunkle’s house or on the college tennis courts. There were always two captains that chose sides but I really can’t recall how the captains were chosen. I suppose the biggest or best just sort of appointed themselves and the remainder never challenged them. Players were chosen by the captains based on a strange mixture of talent and popularity. Even if you weren’t very good but were a good friend of the captain you had a good chance of being selected somewhere before last. Nobody wanted to be chosen last but somebody had to be. I recall one time that Willis Kennedy hit a “homerun” from the college tennis courts right through a window in the greenhouse atop the science building. We all stared in silent shock until the sound of breaking glass prompted the courts to clear in a matter of seconds.
Football – I remember one year in the mid-50s for Christmas my brother and I got tan and red leather football helmets, shoulder pads, and a football. We thought we had died and gone to Heaven. In later years after we got a TV I recall vividly how we would watch the pro football games and then at half time we would pester my uncle who lived next door to go out in the back yard to play football with us. He would be the quarterback and my brother and I would take turns going out for passes.
Winter Activities - In those years before global warming put an end to all of Pennsylvania's snow (tongue firmly in cheek) we always enjoyed spending the day sledding, building snowmen, or having snowball battles behind our snow forts. Dr. Vincent owned a piece of land across Kiester Road from where the middle school stands today. They used to flood a flat portion of it in the winter for ice skating. We had just enough cash to but some cheap hockey sticks but we had to be real careful not to lose the puck. There was even a small shack on the property where you could get warm or change your skates. We also used to build a fire to warm ourselves between games.
Board Games – When the weather didn’t support outdoor play we might get out Monopoly, Risk, Clue, or some other board game and settle in for marathon sessions. These sometimes lasted for days (especially Risk).
Kissing Games – I guess most elementary age kids have a fascination with the opposite sex, especially when it comes to kissing. We were no different. Before we were old enough to kiss at dances or the movies we “cut our teeth” (no braces pun intended) with kissing games. Our favorite game was spin the bottle although I can recall a few variations (if no bottle was handy). Sometimes the kissing was done right there “in front of God and everybody” as the saying goes. However, there were other times when the lucky couple got to lock lips in the privacy of a closet, the basement, or a nearby car. Parties (especially birthday parties) were favorite times for such games although you never knew when an impromptu game might break out when we got bored with softball.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
SRHS CLASS OF 1968 FUN FACTS
This listing of random thoughts and facts was prepared for the 40th reunion of the Slippery Rock Area High School Class of 1968
Did you know that?
· The Sarn actually published Bill Albert’s nickname as “Whop”?
· Other colorful nicknames were, “Snipe, Alf, Caveman, Ding, Shorty, Tiny, Bat Frad, Turtle, Bun, Farmer John, Diamond Jim, Frog, Grakus, Oss, Moss, Dumbwaiter, Horse, Foxie, Chunk, Camel, Indian, Anaheim, Sugarlips, Bass, Squeak, Sudsy, and Wildman.
· Bill Basham’s goal (along with 10 others) was to become a beautician?
· One of the most popular future goals was, “undecided”. Others were, “work”, “military service”, and “college”.
· Jim Lewis did NOT list a future goal of “pastoring five churches at the same time.”
· An incentive for making the varsity basketball team was you got your picture taken in your warm-up suit instead of short shorts like the JV team.
· One of the most frequent compliments when people signed your yearbook was that you were “tuff”. As in, “To a really tuff kid. Remember all the great times we had. Never change. AFA, Mole”.
· Doug McCool got suspended for wearing his hair in a “Beatle haircut” in 8th grade.
· Our Sarn had at least three examples of fathers and sons represented in photos. The obvious is Tim Benton and his father the teacher. The other two were Gene Allison and his father in his Isalys advertisement and me and my father in his car dealership ad. Of course the Cooper twins, Debbie Bussard, Barry Rose, Gary Baierl, and Marty Holtz had their mothers featured in staff photos.
· Mini Sharma, the class valedictorian, received a year’s subscription to the Reader’s Digest as a reward.
Do you remember?
· There were 185 in our graduating class
· Large wooden red and gray hall passes
· Getting caught in the hall by Mr. Nitowski without one
· There actually was a Latin Club.
· There was also a Library Club (I wonder what they did).
· There were both Rifle Team and Rifles Clubs.
· There were also clubs for future teachers and future nurses (I wonder how many actually achieved those goals).
· The cafeteria strike.
· Terri Lachuka, our foreign exchange student.
· Never seeing a girl in pants or a boy in jeans.
1968 Happenings
· Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr. were both assassinated that year.
· New songs in 1968 - “Lady Will Power”, “Jumpin Jack Flash”, “Honey”, “Spooky”, “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”, “Lady Madonna”, “Hey Jude”, “Up up and Away”, “McArthur Park”, “Yummy Yummy Yummy”, and “I’m Gonna Make You Love Me”.
· The TV shows “College Bowl”, “Laugh-In”, “Hollywood Squares”, and “60 Minutes” premiered.
· The Packers beat the Raiders in only the 2nd Super Bowl.
· Major League Baseball set its minimum salary at $10,000.
· The musical “Hair” opened in NYC.
· Nixon defeats Humphrey for president.
· OJ Simpson won the Heisman Trophy.
· First Boeing 747 produced.
· Man orbited the moon for the first time.
If I had to go to High School today at age 58
· I’d expect the teachers to do a better job since my tax dollars are paying their salaries.
· I’d have my arm around my girlfriend as we walked the halls so she could hold me up.
· With an enlarged prostate I’d have to ask for a hall pass about every half hour.
· The only drugs I’d be concerned with would be those that address heartburn, high blood pressure, arthritis, headache, allergies, and erectile dysfunction.
· With a pocket calculator I could immediately tell Mr. Webster what 13 times 15 was instead of having to memorize it.
· Now that I’m driving a car (or minivan) with a big back seat I’ve forgotten what to do back there.
· I wouldn’t be concerned about getting suspended for smoking I’d just be concerned if I could afford a pack of cigarettes.
· I don’t need to get drunk on the weekend to forget the week’s stress. I can’t remember what happened during the week, let alone what stressed me out.
· The teachers may caution me about wearing my pants too high instead of too low.
· No one would go out for the football team but the golf and rifle teams would be full.How did we ever graduate without cell phones, text messages, calculators, computers, or the internet?
Did you know that?
· The Sarn actually published Bill Albert’s nickname as “Whop”?
· Other colorful nicknames were, “Snipe, Alf, Caveman, Ding, Shorty, Tiny, Bat Frad, Turtle, Bun, Farmer John, Diamond Jim, Frog, Grakus, Oss, Moss, Dumbwaiter, Horse, Foxie, Chunk, Camel, Indian, Anaheim, Sugarlips, Bass, Squeak, Sudsy, and Wildman.
· Bill Basham’s goal (along with 10 others) was to become a beautician?
· One of the most popular future goals was, “undecided”. Others were, “work”, “military service”, and “college”.
· Jim Lewis did NOT list a future goal of “pastoring five churches at the same time.”
· An incentive for making the varsity basketball team was you got your picture taken in your warm-up suit instead of short shorts like the JV team.
· One of the most frequent compliments when people signed your yearbook was that you were “tuff”. As in, “To a really tuff kid. Remember all the great times we had. Never change. AFA, Mole”.
· Doug McCool got suspended for wearing his hair in a “Beatle haircut” in 8th grade.
· Our Sarn had at least three examples of fathers and sons represented in photos. The obvious is Tim Benton and his father the teacher. The other two were Gene Allison and his father in his Isalys advertisement and me and my father in his car dealership ad. Of course the Cooper twins, Debbie Bussard, Barry Rose, Gary Baierl, and Marty Holtz had their mothers featured in staff photos.
· Mini Sharma, the class valedictorian, received a year’s subscription to the Reader’s Digest as a reward.
Do you remember?
· There were 185 in our graduating class
· Large wooden red and gray hall passes
· Getting caught in the hall by Mr. Nitowski without one
· There actually was a Latin Club.
· There was also a Library Club (I wonder what they did).
· There were both Rifle Team and Rifles Clubs.
· There were also clubs for future teachers and future nurses (I wonder how many actually achieved those goals).
· The cafeteria strike.
· Terri Lachuka, our foreign exchange student.
· Never seeing a girl in pants or a boy in jeans.
1968 Happenings
· Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr. were both assassinated that year.
· New songs in 1968 - “Lady Will Power”, “Jumpin Jack Flash”, “Honey”, “Spooky”, “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”, “Lady Madonna”, “Hey Jude”, “Up up and Away”, “McArthur Park”, “Yummy Yummy Yummy”, and “I’m Gonna Make You Love Me”.
· The TV shows “College Bowl”, “Laugh-In”, “Hollywood Squares”, and “60 Minutes” premiered.
· The Packers beat the Raiders in only the 2nd Super Bowl.
· Major League Baseball set its minimum salary at $10,000.
· The musical “Hair” opened in NYC.
· Nixon defeats Humphrey for president.
· OJ Simpson won the Heisman Trophy.
· First Boeing 747 produced.
· Man orbited the moon for the first time.
If I had to go to High School today at age 58
· I’d expect the teachers to do a better job since my tax dollars are paying their salaries.
· I’d have my arm around my girlfriend as we walked the halls so she could hold me up.
· With an enlarged prostate I’d have to ask for a hall pass about every half hour.
· The only drugs I’d be concerned with would be those that address heartburn, high blood pressure, arthritis, headache, allergies, and erectile dysfunction.
· With a pocket calculator I could immediately tell Mr. Webster what 13 times 15 was instead of having to memorize it.
· Now that I’m driving a car (or minivan) with a big back seat I’ve forgotten what to do back there.
· I wouldn’t be concerned about getting suspended for smoking I’d just be concerned if I could afford a pack of cigarettes.
· I don’t need to get drunk on the weekend to forget the week’s stress. I can’t remember what happened during the week, let alone what stressed me out.
· The teachers may caution me about wearing my pants too high instead of too low.
· No one would go out for the football team but the golf and rifle teams would be full.How did we ever graduate without cell phones, text messages, calculators, computers, or the internet?
Friday, February 19, 2010
SUMMER JOBS
I've forgotten an awful lot about my childhood years but somehow the things I learned on my summer jobs have stayed with me.
My earliest recollection of doing work for compensation (an actual job) was mowing lawns for our neighbors. This period was probably from about 1962-1965. Sometimes I used our mower and sometimes I would use the homeowner’s. I believe the least I got paid per lawn was $1 and the most $3. That sounds pretty low but I guess when you figure the price of gas then was 25 cents and the price now is $2.50 to $3 that would be like getting paid between $10 and $36 per lawn. That sounds about right when I consider the size of the yards I mowed. (My “allowance” in those days was also a quarter/week.)
Before high school graduation and also one summer thereafter I worked odd jobs at my father's car dealership. I did whatever nobody else wanted to do or anything out of the ordinary. I helped out behind the parts counter, performed inventory, maintained the landscaping (mostly mowing grass), and performed general cleanup around the building. Most of my work; however, was detailing new or used cars for sale or delivery. It’s not hard to figure that is why I’m the detail nut I am today. Working at the dealership put me in contact with all sorts of employees with all sorts of values and personalities. The best were life-long employees like Rob Hilgar who would do anything for you and worked as though he owned the place. The worst were low-lifes who came and went and exhibited neither personality nor values. Needless to say a teenager learned a lot about life in such situations. Everybody had a nickname. There was Prior, the Kid, Higgie, The Jew, Rollo, Fixey, Duke, Hulie, Lolo, Jackson, and many more. I was “Tiny” as my brother, "Rollo" had dubbed me.
The summer after high school graduation was spent at Slippery Rock State College (now SRU). I knew that my upcoming ROTC enrollment at Penn State would require some extra credits if I was to graduate on time so I took three Phys Ed classes at SRSC in 1968. They were two swimming courses and a tennis class. It didn’t matter to me, I just needed three credits. In the afternoons I worked at the college library (mostly returning books to their rightful place on the shelves). I became well acquainted with the Dewey Decimal System. I developed terrible headaches and went to the college infirmary for them. They diagnosed my problem as never focusing my eyes on anything further away than a few feet for hours at a time.
The next summer (1969) I also took a couple classes at SRSC (one was Philosophy and I think the other was a history class but I’m not real sure). I worked at the dealership after class. It turned out that these extra credits actually enabled me to graduate from Penn State in March instead of June.
My first full time summer job was in 1970. My dad knew I guy who worked at the Kennametal Tire Stud factory in Slippery Rock and he got me a job that paid minimum wage ($1.90/hr.). I remember that they needed a photograph to attach to the application (I used one of my senior pictures from high school). At the time I wondered why they needed a picture and later figured the process would assure that they only hired clean cut white boys. My position at Kennametal was “Test Driver”. Can you imagine – a 20 year old kid as a test driver? I thought I had the world by the tail. That is, until I found out what a test driver did. My responsibility was to put miles on a Chevy Impala that had experimental studs in all four tires. You can imagine the noise they made (good thing the AM radio worked). I worked the afternoon shift. I clocked in at 4 PM and picked up the car from Butch English (who became a good friend and eventually an usher at our wedding). I drove down to Cranberry to pick up the turnpike and took it to Breezewood. I then took US route 30, 66, 356 and 8 from Breezewood back to Slippery Rock. The idea was to spend half the shift on the interstate and half on rural roads. Sometimes the route was shorter as I had to measure wear on the studs before heading out. The high point of the summer was when they asked me to take a sexy, Kennametal-yellow, Olds cutlass coupe to Pittsburgh International Dragway and drive it for a photo shoot for a national tire magazine. They wanted lots of tire smoke which was right up my alley. I still have the picture of me inside the car (you can’t tell who’s under the helmet) with the caption, “Kengrip testing doesn’t stop on icy roads” (see above photo). I only got one traffic ticket (a miracle) that summer. Luckily the cop didn’t have a clue how fast I was going (well over 80), he only knew I was passing a string of traffic in a no passing zone.
The next summer, 1971 between my junior and senior years, was my first professional experience. I applied for a ranger job at Moraine State Park since I was getting a minor in recreation (I still believed my future was in the forestry field). When I interviewed with the Park Superintendent I was stressing my recreation courses and all he was impressed by was that I was a forestry major (as he had been). I think I got the job primarily because a good friend from high school had worked there temporarily for several summers and put in a good word for me. At this point I was getting old enough to pay some attention to supervisory styles as I thought I just might be a supervisor someday. I learned lots about how not to supervise from the superintendent. He was the sort of guy that wouldn’t give you the time of day during working hours. He made sure you knew that he was the boss and you were insignificant. However, if he saw you on the street or in a social situation, he was like your best friend. A 21 year old is not prepared to understand such demeanor, at least I wasn’t. I loved the head ranger, though. His name was Mel Hayes and he had grown up with my dad. He told me that my grandmother used to bring soup to his family which was much poorer than Dad’s. She told them she had made too much but he knew that she was just trying to help them out. Mel was the antithesis of the superintendent. He had a great sense of humor and got a kick out of everything. He smoked big El Producto cigars which he would remove from his mouth and look at when he was giving this youngster advice. On the side Mel ran a used car lot. I can still remember him saying that his customers couldn’t go wrong with his 50/50 warranty. “Fifty feet or fifty seconds,” Mel would say, “then it’s theirs!” Mel taught me how to make a cigar last by waiting until just before it went out to puff it back to life. This job was both stressful and boring, and scary and exciting, depending on what day of the week it was and what the weather was like. A rainy Monday was boring. A sunny Sunday was unbelievably stressful. Especially when the park reached its carrying capacity and had to be closed. Sometimes I would spend hours at a time standing in the sun on hot pavement directing traffic. I can’t count how many times I heard, “Why can’t I park here, there’s lots of room on the grass.” I used to pray for rain on the weekends. Beach patrol could be exciting, strolling along watching bikini-clad women. It could turn real bad though when the lifeguards asked you to “handle” tense situations involving local thugs from nearby New Castle. I am ashamed to admit that the authority to write tickets went to this 21 year-old’s head. One time I cited a poor guy driving his family home from the beach for going the wrong way on a one-way road. He made an honest mistake and didn’t see the sign. I should have given him a warning but I gave him a ticket “just because I could”. If I had been the manager I would have fired me for doing something like that. Just one of many things I did in my youth that I’m not proud of. Other than the drownings (pulling dead bodies from the lake), I guess the most memorable part of this job was asking and obtaining my two days off for one week on Saturday and Sunday and my two days for the next week on Monday and Tuesday so I could have four days off to get married. There was no such thing as annual leave or vacation days on this job and if you didn’t work you didn’t get paid. I couldn’t afford a day without pay so I had a very abbreviated honeymoon (Sunday through Tuesday). I suppose this would be unheard of today.
Before high school graduation and also one summer thereafter I worked odd jobs at my father's car dealership. I did whatever nobody else wanted to do or anything out of the ordinary. I helped out behind the parts counter, performed inventory, maintained the landscaping (mostly mowing grass), and performed general cleanup around the building. Most of my work; however, was detailing new or used cars for sale or delivery. It’s not hard to figure that is why I’m the detail nut I am today. Working at the dealership put me in contact with all sorts of employees with all sorts of values and personalities. The best were life-long employees like Rob Hilgar who would do anything for you and worked as though he owned the place. The worst were low-lifes who came and went and exhibited neither personality nor values. Needless to say a teenager learned a lot about life in such situations. Everybody had a nickname. There was Prior, the Kid, Higgie, The Jew, Rollo, Fixey, Duke, Hulie, Lolo, Jackson, and many more. I was “Tiny” as my brother, "Rollo" had dubbed me.
The summer after high school graduation was spent at Slippery Rock State College (now SRU). I knew that my upcoming ROTC enrollment at Penn State would require some extra credits if I was to graduate on time so I took three Phys Ed classes at SRSC in 1968. They were two swimming courses and a tennis class. It didn’t matter to me, I just needed three credits. In the afternoons I worked at the college library (mostly returning books to their rightful place on the shelves). I became well acquainted with the Dewey Decimal System. I developed terrible headaches and went to the college infirmary for them. They diagnosed my problem as never focusing my eyes on anything further away than a few feet for hours at a time.
The next summer (1969) I also took a couple classes at SRSC (one was Philosophy and I think the other was a history class but I’m not real sure). I worked at the dealership after class. It turned out that these extra credits actually enabled me to graduate from Penn State in March instead of June.
My first full time summer job was in 1970. My dad knew I guy who worked at the Kennametal Tire Stud factory in Slippery Rock and he got me a job that paid minimum wage ($1.90/hr.). I remember that they needed a photograph to attach to the application (I used one of my senior pictures from high school). At the time I wondered why they needed a picture and later figured the process would assure that they only hired clean cut white boys. My position at Kennametal was “Test Driver”. Can you imagine – a 20 year old kid as a test driver? I thought I had the world by the tail. That is, until I found out what a test driver did. My responsibility was to put miles on a Chevy Impala that had experimental studs in all four tires. You can imagine the noise they made (good thing the AM radio worked). I worked the afternoon shift. I clocked in at 4 PM and picked up the car from Butch English (who became a good friend and eventually an usher at our wedding). I drove down to Cranberry to pick up the turnpike and took it to Breezewood. I then took US route 30, 66, 356 and 8 from Breezewood back to Slippery Rock. The idea was to spend half the shift on the interstate and half on rural roads. Sometimes the route was shorter as I had to measure wear on the studs before heading out. The high point of the summer was when they asked me to take a sexy, Kennametal-yellow, Olds cutlass coupe to Pittsburgh International Dragway and drive it for a photo shoot for a national tire magazine. They wanted lots of tire smoke which was right up my alley. I still have the picture of me inside the car (you can’t tell who’s under the helmet) with the caption, “Kengrip testing doesn’t stop on icy roads” (see above photo). I only got one traffic ticket (a miracle) that summer. Luckily the cop didn’t have a clue how fast I was going (well over 80), he only knew I was passing a string of traffic in a no passing zone.
The next summer, 1971 between my junior and senior years, was my first professional experience. I applied for a ranger job at Moraine State Park since I was getting a minor in recreation (I still believed my future was in the forestry field). When I interviewed with the Park Superintendent I was stressing my recreation courses and all he was impressed by was that I was a forestry major (as he had been). I think I got the job primarily because a good friend from high school had worked there temporarily for several summers and put in a good word for me. At this point I was getting old enough to pay some attention to supervisory styles as I thought I just might be a supervisor someday. I learned lots about how not to supervise from the superintendent. He was the sort of guy that wouldn’t give you the time of day during working hours. He made sure you knew that he was the boss and you were insignificant. However, if he saw you on the street or in a social situation, he was like your best friend. A 21 year old is not prepared to understand such demeanor, at least I wasn’t. I loved the head ranger, though. His name was Mel Hayes and he had grown up with my dad. He told me that my grandmother used to bring soup to his family which was much poorer than Dad’s. She told them she had made too much but he knew that she was just trying to help them out. Mel was the antithesis of the superintendent. He had a great sense of humor and got a kick out of everything. He smoked big El Producto cigars which he would remove from his mouth and look at when he was giving this youngster advice. On the side Mel ran a used car lot. I can still remember him saying that his customers couldn’t go wrong with his 50/50 warranty. “Fifty feet or fifty seconds,” Mel would say, “then it’s theirs!” Mel taught me how to make a cigar last by waiting until just before it went out to puff it back to life. This job was both stressful and boring, and scary and exciting, depending on what day of the week it was and what the weather was like. A rainy Monday was boring. A sunny Sunday was unbelievably stressful. Especially when the park reached its carrying capacity and had to be closed. Sometimes I would spend hours at a time standing in the sun on hot pavement directing traffic. I can’t count how many times I heard, “Why can’t I park here, there’s lots of room on the grass.” I used to pray for rain on the weekends. Beach patrol could be exciting, strolling along watching bikini-clad women. It could turn real bad though when the lifeguards asked you to “handle” tense situations involving local thugs from nearby New Castle. I am ashamed to admit that the authority to write tickets went to this 21 year-old’s head. One time I cited a poor guy driving his family home from the beach for going the wrong way on a one-way road. He made an honest mistake and didn’t see the sign. I should have given him a warning but I gave him a ticket “just because I could”. If I had been the manager I would have fired me for doing something like that. Just one of many things I did in my youth that I’m not proud of. Other than the drownings (pulling dead bodies from the lake), I guess the most memorable part of this job was asking and obtaining my two days off for one week on Saturday and Sunday and my two days for the next week on Monday and Tuesday so I could have four days off to get married. There was no such thing as annual leave or vacation days on this job and if you didn’t work you didn’t get paid. I couldn’t afford a day without pay so I had a very abbreviated honeymoon (Sunday through Tuesday). I suppose this would be unheard of today.
After college graduation I was blessed to obtain a professional position and never again had to work temporary or part-time positions. I know I was a better professional for the experience I gained those summers.
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