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!

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!

THE FLIG'S CHRISTMAS LETTER

I can’t recall exactly when I received the first “form” Christmas letter from a friend in lieu of the traditional Christmas card. I suppose it was 20 or 25 years ago. Probably about the time people got computers and life got too hectic to sit down and write personal notes on the cards. For a few years I even took a shot at such letters. It seemed a good way to synopsize a year in your life for those you had lost touch with. (Now I guess FaceBook does that for us.) Writing such a letter always required a lot of thought and some tact to assure that it didn’t come off as bragging too much. Of course you were proud of your kids and wanted your friends to know what they were doing but writing down that, “little Johnny scored the winning goal on his soccer team for the third consecutive game and is already being scouted by Liverpool United,” or “Susie was just voted class president, prom queen, most likely to succeed, and was currently a finalist on American Idol,” seems a bit much. It was always nice to read these letters from our friends and see what they were up to but, unfortunately, they sometimes could be a little nauseating. Have you ever received a letter that painted a picture so rosy (and so sickening) that you were tempted to respond with the antithesis? If so it might look something like this –

Dear Friend,

We just received your humble yet newsy Christmas letter and picture of your beautiful family, all dressed up in their fancy clothes, in front of your great big house, with those expensive cars parked in the driveway. God has certainly blessed you! (Both God and a really good plastic surgeon from what we can see.) It just shows how He will reward one for faithful clean living. Who would have ever thought after bankruptcy, divorce, and that messy business when your son took you to court, that your life would turn out so great.

We just thought we’d respond to your letter and let you know that we have been blessed this past year as well. Your trip around the world sounded great but we too were able to take a fantastic vacation. Every Thursday the local senior center sponsors a bus to the Indian casino in Oklahoma. On our anniversary we decided, what the heck, let’s go for it. We got up early and boarded the bus at 7 AM. Can you believe the bus ride is free (you don’t even tip the driver) all the way to Oklahoma. Now here’s the best part – they give you a coupon for a free lunch and a $5 roll of quarters to play the slot machines with. No, actually here’s the best part – when the casino rep on the bus found out it was our anniversary, he gave us an extra role of quarters! (We decided we’d save those quarters and use them for the senior breakfast at the nearby restaurant on another special occasion.) All the way up and back we gawked out the bus window at the beautiful houses we passed. We tried to imagine who could possibly have enough money to live there. Now we know – somebody like you might live in those mansions. You sure have been blessed!

Of course we love our home too (even though it’s not big and fancy like yours). This year we were able to afford to get the drainage problem fixed so that nasty sewer smell is finally gone. We can hear the train go by on the nearby tracks several times a day. It makes us wonder where all those rich people are going that can afford train travel (folks like you taking vacations I guess). In Texas you get a homestead exemption and a senior discount on property taxes. That means we can afford to turn on the air conditioning anytime it gets over 100 (which it does quite often so we are blessed as well).

We can’t believe you’ve been to all those places you wrote about IN PERSON. Even the Super Bowl, right there at the stadium and all. We used to be able to watch those sorts of games on our TV but we couldn’t afford the converter box when they switched over to digital (darned Al Gore) so now we can get the local teams on radio. We just can’t imagine actually going to the Super Bowl!

You mentioned about your new tennis court in the back yard - well, we play tennis ALL THE TIME ourselves. Last Christmas the kids got us one of those Wii machines and you can use it to play tennis right in your own living room. (It still works on the TV since you don’t have to be hooked up to any antenna.)

Our kids are doing great just like yours. They call us several times a year so we don’t have to incur any long distance phone charges. We don’t have any grandchildren that we’re aware of but our kids don’t tell us much about their personal lives.

Like you, we attend church regularly but we don’t have 4,000 members like your church. They won’t let us tend the nursery ever since my emotional breakdown. It was probably due to the 401K tanking (darned Al Gore).

You mentioned that you were praying that all your friends will have a blessed new year. I guess we will just say that we pray you will get all that you deserve in 2010.

Merry Christmas,

THE CAFETERIA BOYCOTT AND THE FLIG

I think kids these days are pretty spoiled by the options they have in their school cafeterias. It seems as though they can always find something on the menu or from a vending machine that interests them. Such was not the case when I went to school. You had your choice of the offering of the day or packing your lunch. I normally packed my lunch for a couple reasons – first, I knew what I was getting and second, I didn’t have to stand in line. This guaranteed one a prime spot at the lunch table. The lunch table was an important social circle. It was the most gender-segregated time of the day when boys left their girlfriends to sup with the guys. It was almost fraternity-like in that there were hazing incidents, pecking orders for seating, etc. Everyone looked forward to lunchtime in the cafeteria.

That is until someone found a Band-Aid in their food (I think it might have been a hamburger). I suppose one of the cooks had cut themselves and applied the bandage to stop the bleeding. After making some burgers all of a sudden the bandage was gone. What a treat the student in question had when they bit into the food and found the prize. Now most everyone grumbled about the quality of the food but this was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

These were the early days of the Hippies and the Vietnam War. The protest movement was just getting started and there were a few in our class who were enthralled by it. Somebody made the off-handed comment after the Band-Aid incident that some sort of protest was in order. Something like, “We ought to boycott the place.” The idea began to snowball and before you knew it, more and more kids were packing their lunch. I think it started with the seniors and began to work its way down into the underclassmen. Soon the cooks were preparing way more food (with or without Band-Aids) than was needed.

There were no secrets in the high school and everyone from the lowliest freshman to the supervising principal was aware of what was going on. They just couldn’t figure out how to stop the boycott. After all it wasn’t like the leaders were SDS members or anything. It was a pretty loosely knit group that fanned the boycott flames. The school administration didn’t want to make an announcement over the intercom or at an assembly about the protest. I think they figured this might lend credence to the rumor that the students actually wielded some power. More subtle methods were employed. Teachers took some of their better students aside in an attempt at reason. I recall the National Honor Society advisor, Mrs. Grossman, asking me if the NHS leadership might play a role in ending the boycott. I had to sheepishly admit that most of the officers were involved in planning it. She was non-plussed by the revelation. I think her response was, “Well!”

I don’t think the boycott was ever officially called off. It was, as they say, just “overcome by events.” More important things came up (like basketball season or the Christmas dance, etc.) and mothers got tired of packing lunches. Most of the protestors went back to standing in line but they were more observant when they bit into their sandwiches. As always happens in such cases though the school administration had the last laugh in the end. They disapproved the traditional class outing to Kennywood Park late in the school year. While no official reason was given everyone knew that the protest’s pigeons had come home to roost. “Ski” had gotten his revenge!

THE PROM AND THE FLIG

I guess the prom has always been a big deal in high school. I know it was in 1968. This was our senior year and it was an even bigger deal for Lynn and I because we hadn’t been allowed to go to the prom as juniors the year before. You have to know a little about Lynn’s family to understand this. Her father was a minister and felt strongly that dancing was sinful. To allow his daughter to attend a dance not only went against his convictions, it also sent a bad message to his congregation. Lynn tried to convince him that the prom was more of a social event where dancing happened to occur by coincidence. It didn’t work. Another couple from their church had tried that line on their parents and gained permission to go if they didn’t actually dance. Through some bad timing (or perhaps bad karma) they happened to get their picture published in the newspaper the next day on the dance floor. Lynn’s mother held the paper up indignantly and exclaimed, “Be sure your sins will find you out!” So the following year when Lynn used that rationale on her parents we were stunned when they agreed. We could attend as long as we didn’t dance. This would be the first dance we had ever attended as a couple. I had been to lots of them in my wayward, heathen youth but Lynn had never even gotten close. The dancing part was no big deal since I was not the greatest dancer. Besides I figured I could coax Lynn onto the dance floor as long as there were no photographers in sight. We really just wanted to be a part of the overall experience as seniors.

There was quite the pre-prom ritual to go through in those days. First you had to have the nicest car that you could find. It was pretty common to prevail on an older friend or family member who owned a prom-worthy car. (I suppose these days most kids take limousines to the prom but no so back then.) While my dad’s Ninety-Eight Oldsmobile demonstrator was a car most people would be proud to be seen in, we thought it more of an older person’s car. I was looking for something a little more sporty. My brother had just purchased his first new car – a bright red 1968 Chevrolet Caprice Classic coupe with a black vinyl top. The “classic” meant it had the more formal “notch-back” roofline as opposed to the traditional fast-back. It was the perfect transport for a formal occasion. Based on my track record I am not sure why he allowed me to use this car but he did. The morning of prom day was spent detailing the ride. That’s what most other guys were doing as well. Afterward it was time to pick up the rental tuxedo (actually a white dinner jacket) at The Hub in Butler as well as the flowers at Kochers’ flower shop in Grove City. Guys didn’t spend the time primping that the girls did. The toughest choice was between English Leather or Jade East cologne.

When I picked Lynn up at her house there was the obligatory photo shoot, as well as the obligatory caution regarding dancing. Her parents pretty much painted the picture that if one were to take a dance step as a couple the gymnasium floor would split down the middle and you would free-fall into hell. I recall that Lynn was non-plussed by her hairdo. You could not go to the prom with an “ordinary” do – it had to be something out of the ordinary. It was. I thought she looked great but she was a little uncomfortable with the hair. I tried to convince her that we were actually going to a dance and not to be too concerned about something simple like a hairdo. I was the perfect gentleman – helping her with the flowers, opening the car door, helping her in, etc.

When we arrived it was neat to see all our friends in their formal attire. Most guys looked alike in their white dinner jackets and black pants. I seem to remember that a couple boys had gone the full tuxedo route but I can’t recall who they were. We got a seat at a table with our closest friends and waited for the festivities to begin. We had been among several couples nominated for prom king and queen but we never really considered the possibility we would win the competition. There were a number of much more popular couples on the ballot after all. When it came time for the announcement we were shocked that they called our names. We were equally shocked (actually more like horrified) to see that they had notified our parents and they were in attendance. After the “coronation” ceremonies and photographs they made the announcement that the king and queen would now lead the “spotlight dance”. We were to go out to the middle of the floor, all alone, and begin the next dance. I don’t think I have ever seen Lynn so scared in her life. When I took her hand and led her to the middle of the gymnasium floor she kept protesting that she couldn’t possibly do this. After all her parents were right over there in the corner watching. My retort was that we had no choice – we were the king and queen and this was really our only responsibility as such. As we stood in the middle of the floor I tried to get Lynn into some semblance of a dance pose. I said, “Let’s just move around a little right here so they think we’re dancing - just till the others take the floor and they turn the spotlight off.” She wouldn’t budge. She stood there stiff as a board (I’m sure wondering when the floor would swallow us both up). Eventually others did take the floor and they did turn off the spotlight. When they did we returned to our seats. I tried to deflect attention by mentioning that I was prone to leg cramps and I never knew when one might sneak up on me. We waved to our parents as they headed home and breathed a collective sigh of relief.

The rest of the evening is pretty much a blur. We did take a few dance steps (after we were sure the newspaper photog had departed). I’m pretty sure there was a movie as well. I do recall that the doors were locked and if you left for any reason you could not get back in. Those of us with Cinderella drivers licenses had to wait until morning before we could take our dates home. The twins had a bunch of us over to their house for breakfast and then we had a picnic at the Sportsman’s Club. Even though I can’t recall all of the details it still goes down as “an evening to remember.” Oh, and she’s still my queen 42 years later.

JESUS CHRIST AND THE FLIG

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.

"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.

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.

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.