FAVORITE TV PROGRAMS

I can’t remember exactly when we got our first TV set. I suppose I was five or six years old. It was a big wooden console model (black and white of course) with a screen perhaps a little bigger than my computer monitor. I recall that the screen was not rectangular but curved on the corners. It took about 3-5 minutes to warm up and our antenna on the roof picked up ABC (WTAE Channel 4), CBS (KDKA Channel 2), and NBC (WIIC Channel 11). Once in awhile we could get WQED and WJAC. I recall endless hours of adjusting the vertical and horizontal hold dials. Since TV was such a “magical” thing – sound and pictures coming out of a box in your living room, the family gathered around the box every chance we got. Since I was in bed early on school nights, Friday and Saturday evenings were the times I remember most. My brother, sister and I usually sat on the floor “Indian” style and my folks sat on the couch. Here are a few of the programs I recall.

Everyone enjoyed the variety shows like Red Skelton, Ed Sullivan, Burns and Allen, and Tennessee Ernie Ford.

Mom was a big mystery fan and loved Perry Mason. I became quite familiar with Perry’s personal secretary, Della Street and his sidekick, private detective Paul Drake. I also learned to dislike Perry’s courtroom adversary, DA Hamilton Burger.

Dad loved Lawrence Welk. I still remember when Rob Hilgar got the first color TV of any of our friends and invited the whole family over to watch this show. We were all amazed! Dad also got a kick out of William Bendix in The Life of Riley.

Everyone enjoyed the antics of the Ricardos and Mertzes on I love Lucy as well as the Kramdens and Nortons on the Honeymooners. My dad was especially fond of Phil Silvers as Sergeant Bilko.

Then there were the all American family shows like Ozzie and Harriet, Leave it to Beaver, Donna Reed, Make Room for Daddy, Bachelor Father, and Father Knows Best.

Lassie, Rin Tin Tin, Fury and My Friend Flicka were some of my favorite animal heroes.

Gunsmoke with Marshall Dillon, Chester, and Miss Kitty was one of those shows nobody wanted to miss. I recall that George Jack, one of the regulars at the bowling alley was nicknamed “Gunsmoke” because he always had to leave in time to get home to watch it. Other westerns we watched with toy guns in hand were Have Gun Will Travel, Wanted Dead or Alive, Bonanza, The Rifleman, Lawman, Rawhide, Sugarfoot, Bat Masterson, Wyatt Earp, Broken Arrow, Wagon Train, and Cheyenne.

One of my favorites was Mike Nelson on Sea Hunt. I loved his underwater feats, especially the fights where he would cut his opponents air hose, forcing him to surface into the hands of the law. He could also tap out a Morse code message on his air tank with his knife.

None of us had ever been on an airplane and we didn’t even know anybody who had flown so Sky King and his plane “Songbird” amazed us. We envied Sky’s student pilot niece and nephew, Penny and Clipper, who got involved in all of the escapades like helping Mitch the sheriff capture criminals. We couldn’t wait for the announcer to start the show with his exclamation, “From out of the clear blue western sky… comes Sky King!” Whirly Birds was another aviation favorite.

We were enthralled by Highway Patrol where Broderick Crawford effortlessly wheeled his huge black and white ’55 Buick while gruffly barking, “10-4” on the radio. I loved Sargeant Joe Friday’s matter-of-fact deadpan on Dragnet – “Just the facts, Ma’am.”

I tuned in with baited breath to see the TV heroes and their trusted sidekicks like The Lone Ranger (and Tonto), Sergeant Preston of the Yukon (and King), Roy Rogers (and Dale Evans, Pat Brady, Bullet and Trigger). I also loved the predictable closing lines like, “Who was that masked man?” Or “Well King, this case is closed.” Or the melodic “Happy Trails to You.”

When I got a little older I enjoyed “hip” shows like 77 Sunset Strip (with Kooky and the gang), Dobie Gillis (with Maynard G. Krebs) and Route 66 (with Buzz and Tod zooming around the country in the early 60s Corvettes). I also got scared to death by Rod Serling on the Twilight Zone.

Other than the network shows we enjoyed local programming like Paul Shannon’s Adventure Time (featuring the Three Stooges), Ricky and Copper, Kinish and Rodney, and Studio Wrestling (with Ringside Rosie, Bruno Sanmartino, and Johnny Valentine).

It is unbelievable how the medium has changed between those early years and today. I wish I could say it’s for the better.

THE MOTORCYCLE AND THE FLIG

In 1974 Lynn and I had been married for three years. We both had good jobs and life seemed pretty stable. We had no children and no real plans for them yet. For some strange reason I became interested in motorcycles. We had a new 1974 Camaro and an older 1971 Camaro. I thought that if I bought a motorcycle I could unload the ’71 and get down to a single car. After all, Lynn and I often rode to work together and we only had a single stall garage. At a Ketzel family reunion I made mention that I was considering a motorcycle and Lynn’s cousin’s husband, Warren Hunt said, “Have I got a deal for you!” He had a 1972 Suzuki 550 with very few miles on it that he wanted rid of. We drove out to their place to see it and I fell in love. It was a brilliant green with gold trim. It was sort of unique in that it had three cylinders, was water-cooled, and had a six-speed transmission (most bikes had only five). The center exhaust split into two, giving it twin exhausts on either side. I also thought it was neat that it had a digital gear indicator between the tach and the speedometer (this was in the day before everything was digital). For a first motorcycle I thought it was “pretty snazzy” (as we used to say back then). Warren and I agreed on a price and he even threw in two helmets (which I repainted metal flake green to match the bike). One of the first things I did after I bought it was to install a smoked plastic fairing from JC Whitney (these were the days before Ebay). This made the ride much more comfortable for Lynn.

We never took the bike on any long trips but we enjoyed riding it around town and the local countryside. We rode it to work and I would drop Lynn off in front of the Social Security Office in Butler, even when she was pregnant with Matt. Eventually she got too big to fit behind me on the seat plus we didn’t want to take a chance on a pothole forcing early labor. I do recall that I used to watch the road ahead and shout “bump” so she could brace herself for small impacts.

I have discussed before what a worrier my mother was. She thought that riding a motorcycle had to be about the most unsafe activity one could undertake. She talked about motorcyclists as though they were all Evel Knievel types. In consideration of this fact I never told my parents that I had made the purchase. Many times on a nice Saturday afternoon in the summertime I would ride the bike to their house in Slippery Rock for a visit. I would park at the parts store (formerly Buckham’s Ford dealership) next door so they wouldn’t see it. On one occasion my mother asked if I would run an errand for her. She had ordered some corn on the cob (“roasting ears” as we referred to them at the time) from a local farmer and asked if I could go pick it up. I gladly agreed. I carried a small backpack on the rear fender of the bike and also had some bungee cords if I needed to strap a bag on the seat behind me. I arrived at the farm and identified myself to the farmer’s wife as Grayce Fleeger’s son. She immediately looked at my bike and said, “How in the world are you going to carry all this corn on that motorcycle?” My response was, “How much corn did she order?” To my dismay her response was six dozen ears. Now a smart person would have admitted defeat and returned home to borrow Mom’s car. I’m sure I could have invented some sort of story of why I needed it (I was pretty devious in those days – some say I still am). That would have been a smart person. I, on the other hand, had the lady help me to contain the corn in paper grocery bags. We put two dozen ears in each bag and then placed another bag over top. I then precariously balanced the three huge bags of corn on the seat behind me and strapped them down the best I could. I figured if I drove slowly and avoided tight curves I’d be ok – it was only about a four-mile trip. As I drove out of the farmer’s driveway I could see his wife shaking her head. I’m sure she figured her quality corn would never arrive at its intended destination.

I was doing pretty well on the way home despite some really strange looks from passing traffic. I suppose I was only going about 45 or so. As I approached town; however, a large truck passed me barreling down a hill and his slipstream caught the lopsided load of corn just right – spreading it over the pavement behind me like a crop duster. I don’t know why I was surprised. I parked the bike on the shoulder and gathered up as many ears of corn as I could salvage, stuffing them into the now-torn paper bags and remounting what must have been the remaining four-dozen ears. When I pulled into the parts store next door to my parents house Mom was standing outside waiting for me with her hands on her hips, wearing that look I had see all too often in my youth. “Where did you get that motorcycle?” she exclaimed as I began to un-strap the corn from the bike’s seat. It seems as though she had become impatient waiting for me to return. Being the accomplished worrier that she was she knew exactly how long it should take for me to get out to the farm and back. When the time approached twice that length she had called the farmer’s wife to inquire if I had come to pick up the corn. The farmer’s wife’s response was, “Yes, he picked up the corn but I don’t know how he’s going to get it home on that motorcycle.” “MOTORCYCLE!” my mother responded. She just couldn’t imagine any son of hers riding a motorcycle. Where had she gone wrong? As hard as it is to believe I actually coaxed Mom into a ride on the bike a couple years later. I guess we all mellow some with age – even mothers.

The following year, shortly after I learned that I would be working for the Corps of Engineers at Kinzua Dam, Darrel Brown (a friend and county co-worker we had nicknamed Browner) and I decided to use our Veterans’ day holiday for a motorcycle cruise to Kinzua. Lynn had to work that day so I figured it would be no problem to be gone. For mid-November it was a beautiful, sunny day in the high 60s. We got a late start because Browner was typically not ready on time. He had just purchased a Yamaha 400 and this would be its first long trip. We headed from Butler up through Eau Claire and picked up interstate 80 at Emlenton. Exiting 80 at Knox we took routes 66 and the 666 to our camp on the Tionesta Creek. At that point it became obvious that we wouldn’t have time to make it all the way to Kinzua. After a short rest we headed for home, taking another route through Tionesta, Oil City and Franklin. (Lynn and I were due to attend childbirth classes at the Butler hospital that night and I would be in trouble if I missed it.) The November sun went down early behind the northern Pennsylvania mountains and it got cold in a hurry. The fairing on my bike kept me pretty comfortable but Browner didn’t have one and so he slowed down to warm up. In order to keep him up with the pace I knew we needed to make I would trade him bikes for 25 miles or so at a time. It was well after dark by the time we pulled into our garage. I recall that Browner said, “It normally feels cool in this garage but it feels so warm in here tonight.” Lynn was steamed because she didn’t know I was taking the trip that day (one of many misunderstandings between us in those days). We had time to make the class but we would have to hit a fast food restaurant for a quick bite on the way (I had not eaten all day). We grabbed some fish and chips at Long John Silvers and got to the class a few minutes late. Lynn wasn’t real talkative. We were seated in a large room with folding chairs. I wasn’t sure if they had the heat cranked way up or if I was still chilled from the bike ride but it felt really warm in there. Soon they turned out the lights to show slides of new-born babies with all manner of misshapen heads. They said this was normal and the baby would grow out of it but the pictures were starting to make me a little squeamish. I was starting to get lightheaded so I told Lynn I was going outside to get some air. I tried to find my way out of the darkened room, stumbling over the other couples only to find that the aisle on the left side of the room had been eliminated as the room filled up. I must have gotten myself into the next row back and started back to my right. When I wound up right back where I started Lynn grabbed me and pulled me into my seat and said, “Sit down and put your head down.” In a minute I told her I thought I was feeling better and she grabbed my hand and led me out to the car and drove me home. I think she mumbled something about expecting one kid and having to deal with another one. It’s a day I’ll always remember.

In a couple years with a baby in the house and another one planned it was time to sell the motorcycle and get two real cars. Dad told me to bring it down to his car dealership in Slippery Rock and put it on the showroom floor for sale. He asked how much I wanted for it. I told him to ask $800 and take $700 if he got an offer. A couple weeks later he called to tell me he had sold the bike for $900. Dad was the consummate salesman!

FALL TURKEY HUNTING

(photo courtesy of www.tomjonesbuckeyephotos.com) Pennsylvania has two wild turkey seasons each year. One is during the spring mating season when gobblers can be called into a hunter’s stand. The other is during the fall when either hens or gobblers can be taken. In the spring one has to rise early (3-4 AM) and get set up in the field before the turkey get up. You have to do enough scouting to know where the turkeys are and where your stand should be. A spring hunter must completely camouflage himself and be accomplished at “calling a gobbler in.” All these requisites were why my dad never hunted in the spring and why I never became a spring gobbler hunter. Dad simply didn’t have the time. However, when the fall season rolled around it was different. Your chances weren’t as good at actually bagging a bird but it was a gorgeous time to be in Penn’s Woods. In the fall you could pretty much just get out for a leisurely walk in the woods at any time of day. You could sit around on a stump and take in the beauty of God’s creation. If you were real lucky a turkey might walk or fly by. If you weren’t real lucky you at least had a great day in the woods and you didn’t have to clean anything afterward.

In the fall Dad liked to get up to camp as many weekends as possible. The whole family enjoyed the crisp, dry air, the colored leaves, and the occasional early snowfall. Turkey season began in late October or early November so the leaves were past their peak and snow was always a possibility. Such was the case on the day in question. We awoke Saturday morning to find in had snowed a couple inches overnight. This would provide both contrast in the woods and the ability to track any turkeys that might be moving around.

Just after dawn Johnny and I walked behind Dad up the old roadway to the top of the mountain. He figured if there were turkeys around they might be up on the flat. As we went Dad suddenly crouched down and lifted his gun (he was carrying his Savage model 110, .270). He looked through the scope at a number of deer he had spotted on the road up ahead. Johnny and I strained our eyes to see where he pointed. One was a buck – a pretty nice 4-point. Dad commented that he wished it had been buck season. We watched the deer mill around for a few minutes and then continued our climb. The road didn’t go all the way to the top so when we got within 100 yards or so we found a deer trail that went straight up. Dad knew how to walk slowly and quietly through the snow without slipping. I, on the other hand, took two steps forward and slid back a few when I stepped on branches hidden by the snow. When we reached the top Dad found an old oil shack that had four pump lines running out to surrounding wells. These were interlocking steel rods that connected the power source to the wells. The operation had created an opening that was slow to overgrow. It would be a good place to have a seat and watch for any signs of turkey. Our plan was that if Dad saw a turkey at some distance he would use his rifle. If we had a close encounter Johnny and I would make an attempt with our shotguns.

Most trios of hunters would have spread out to improve their chances but dad kept us close by. He enjoyed the time with us and we with him. He described how the oil operation worked and we talked quietly about what we saw on the forest floor. Squirrels and birds were active that morning and we enjoyed their antics. Suddenly Dad motioned for quiet. He had heard something but wasn’t sure what it was. To me it sounded a little like the chalk on a blackboard when the teacher was writing out an assignment (not a pleasant sound). It definitely wasn’t a gobble but Dad thought it might be a hen. We all listened intently and the next time it sounded closer. Dad thought it was a hen coming in our direction, maybe several. It seemed like forever between calls and I began to wonder if the turkeys had sensed our presence and gone back where they came from. My dad; however, was a pro at this game. He could sit motionless for longer than anyone I had ever seen. As I watched him he slowly raised his rifle to his shoulder and studied the landscape through the scope. The crack of the .270 and the orange blast for the muzzle came as a shock. We weren’t sure what Dad was shooting at. Neither my brother nor I had seen a turkey. Had our father “lost it” and shot at a squirrel? As was his manner, Dad simply lowered his gun and said, “Let’s go see what we’ve got.”

I know we walked at least 75 yards before we came to a dead hen turkey lying in the snow. We couldn’t figure out how Dad had even seen this bird, let alone shot it right in the neck (spoiling no meat as usual). Always a stickler for the game laws, Dad unloaded his rifle, filled out his tag and attached it to the bird’s leg. Johnny and I admired the bird – the first I had ever seen up close. Dad rarely showed a lot of emotion but we could tell he was excited about shooting his first turkey. From the tracks in the snow it appeared there were at least three turkeys foraging together. The remaining two ran in the direction from which they had come. “Let’s see if we can track them down,” Dad said, as he hoisted the dead turkey over his shoulder. Johnny and I couldn’t keep our eyes off the big bird as its wings spread out over Dad’s back. Dad was intent on the tracks in the snow. He pointed out how far apart the tracks were as the birds ran. In about fifty yards it seemed they slowed down a little and then Dad showed us two perfect wing imprints in the snow where one had taken off. Then a few feet away the other lifted off. Dad’s gaze scanned the trees for as far as he could see to determine if they had gone to roost. He doubted they would and figured they would be in the valley someplace by now.

“Let’s get this bird back to camp,” Dad said, as he led us down over the crest of the hill. As we got close to the road we saw Ed Downing out behind his camp cutting some firewood. Dad hailed him and Ed said, “So that was you I head shooting back over the top. That .270 has an unmistakable crack. Who shot the turkey?” Johnny and I blurted out that Dad had made a great shot. Dad asked Ed if he had ever cleaned a turkey before, as this was his first one. I knew Ed would be all over this. “Why sure, I’ve dressed out dozens of ‘em. Here’s what you do….” Ed went into great detail and then gave us a hand with the bird. We saved several tail feathers to show our friends and proudly displayed some on the mantle at the camp. Mom refused to cook the turkey at camp as she didn’t have any of the necessary equipment there. It would have to wait until we got back home. What a great day it had been for me. I was proud of my father and happy for him that he had gotten his first (and only) turkey. I’m still waiting for my first.

THE FUNERAL AND THE FLIG

Now that I’m retired I sleep in late most mornings. Our dog, McDuff, gets me up between 7 and 8 AM to eat and then we both go back to bed. I don’t know why but it seems the dreams I have thereafter are more vivid than the ones I have during the night. Recently I had one such dream the details of which I particularly remember. I dreamed that I died in my sleep and awoke in Heaven. I am not sure what prompted this dream but I’m guessing it had something to do with folks at our church. The Pastor was discouraged because one of our members had died and not many other members had gotten to know her. Also another member of our church had been shot in a robbery and was in critical condition. I suppose such things make one think of their own mortality.

I don’t recall any details about what Heaven looked like – no clouds or streets of gold. The first thing I remember was Jesus running to me and giving me a big bear hug, like the kind you get from a close friend or relative you haven’t seen for a long time. This was not the solemn Jesus from all the artwork you see. I’ll never forget the smile on His face. He was definitely happy to see me. Jesus said, “Come on in, we’ve all been waiting for you.” As He swept His arm in a welcoming gesture I saw all of my loved ones who have gone on before me. My brother said, “Missed you, Bro!” My mom said, “I’ve been worried about you.” Dad was by her side and said, “Can’t wait to show you around, son.” There behind them were grandparents, aunts, and uncles, Lynn’s dad and nephew, cousins, and old friends. I even caught a glimpse of a guy in a white Goodwrench racing suit with a mustache and sunglasses giving me a thumbs up. It was a scene not unlike the opening of a football game when the players form two lines and the starters run down between them giving everyone a high (or low) five as they go. It seemed that the surroundings weren’t going to be that important here but it was all going to be about relationships.

Then a strange thing happened. The group all turned as one to look down at an ongoing event on Earth – my funeral. It was not a typical funeral - in a funeral home with a casket. It was a memorial service at our church. I heard the band playing some of my favorite hymns and worship songs and someone commented that the saxophone sounded “heavenly”. I was surprised at some of the folks I saw there, people I didn’t think would take the time out of their busy schedule to come. I was also surprised at people that I thought might come but were absent. (I remembered how I had opined at my retirement ceremony that the next time people would gather to say nice things about me would be at my funeral.) I heard comments like, “He’s in a better place now.” (Boy, if they only knew.) “He had a great sense of humor.” (PC speak for I won’t miss his dumb jokes in the middle of Sunday School.) “Tom had a nickname for everyone but we could never think of one for him.” (She didn’t know about “The Flig.”) They were all trying to comfort Lynn but she said, “I’ll miss him but he always said he was ready to go anytime.” That was true. Lynn and I always talked about the abundant life we had both enjoyed and that Heaven would just be the “icing on the cake.”

I heard someone ask Lynn what she thought she’d do with my ashes. Her response was that she believed she would sprinkle them on the 17th green at Mountain Valley since that’s where I had gotten a hole-in-one. I awoke from my dream with a start. “I’ve never had a hole-in-one,” I thought. I’ve got to get down to the golf course. Today might be the day!