1959 - Snow

1959 - Snow

The sunset was stunning.

I was watching an absolutely beautiful sunset in 20 degree weather with temperatures growing lower in sync with the setting sun. A lovely blanket of fresh snow covered everything as far as the eye could see. The only tracks were those made by my brother and me. There was no one in sight. I heard a car go by just over the snow bank but they were muffled and as completely out of sight to me as I was to them. I sat back prepared to take things as they came but a bit of worry wore at the edge of my mind as I contemplated the sunset…I had no choice…I was buried up to my shoulders in snow and there was no getting out without help.

A few hours before my brother, Steve, and I had gone sledding in the ravine that marked the end of our neighborhood. There were steep trails down that lent themselves perfectly to a seriously fast downhill slide. We were well worn by the time we headed back with our Flexi-Flyer dragging along behind. Steve had resisted going back home but with a look at the late afternoon light I knew it was time to head out. At 10 I was responsible for my 8-year-old brother so I knew mom would be pretty upset if I didn’t get both of us home before dark.

The last week had been one snow storm after another. None of them too heavy but definitely adding to and completely covering the previous weeks offering which had been much worse and had dumped several inches of snow that had quickly drifted into high snow banks and covered the roads, lawns and meadows with a level field of snow that went to the horizon. It had been a wet, heavy snow that caused a great deal of grumbling and whining when it was time to shovel the driveway. As it melted during the day and re-froze every night it had built up a deep foundation of wet snow that, when walked through, defined the meaning of “slogging through the snow”. The new offering this weeks of brand new snow was a welcome change. There had been several days of occasional light, fluffy covering that drifted easily and was easy to play in. Every day, as before, the top layer melted a bit and froze every night creating a firm crust that a couple of pre-teens were able to cruise over with very little effort.

Earlier in the week on our way to school we had been walking over drifts that were easily 4-5 feet high with the contribution of street-cleaning adding to the height of the drifts. The drifting snow had filled in all of the holes and drainage ditches in the field as well as any rocks, fallen trees and small bushes. A small lump in the snow revealed an occasional stump or boulder and slight dips revealed ditches and holes…all of which we had navigated all weekend with no problem. I was understandably surprised when the hard crust under my feet gave way and I dropped into a hidden field of wet snow which was, as of the current moment not compacted but protected from melting by the hard crust above. We had walked over a familiar but hidden drainage ditch that was several feet deep when standing at the bottom and of which the walls, easily climbable during the summer, actually towered 2-3 feet over my head. The crusty snow added an additional foot or so to the distance between my feet and the solid ground.

I now found myself sitting on a firm “saddle” of snow that easily compacted itself with the weight of my body. I warned my brother to stay back a-ways while I wrestled myself out of the situation I had found myself. I leaned forward to grasp the hard crust and lever myself up so I could spread my weight over a wider area and clamber out. The hard crust simply broke free from the main field of snow and gave no additional purchase. After a few minutes of trying to get something solid beneath my feet I had managed to kick a void around my legs that extended to the full reach of my legs and feet. On the surface hard crust and soft snow was crushed and fractured from my efforts and extended the full reach of my arms. Stuck on this saddle with no way to extricate myself I asked my brother to stretch out over the snow and hold my hands hoping this would give me the extra traction required to climb out of the hole I had, quite literally, dug for myself. It took sometime to convince him this was our only option but after several minutes of arguing, threatening and cajoling he agreed to try. It took less than 2-seconds to realize this would only result in my pulling him into the same situation I now found myself.

It was looking like dad was going to be the only solution to this predicament. Although Steve didn’t want to leave me alone in the snow he eventually agreed to go the 2-blocks home and retrieve dad. After a few short minutes I heard him coming over the crust that had looked so flat until my eye level was about equal to the snow-level. Now it was revealed that those little 1-foot lumps and dips in the snow, at ground level, were mountains of fluffy white snow that brought my visible horizon to within a couple of feet. For that reason I couldn’t see Steve until he was approximately 20 feet away. He was alone. He certainly wasn’t distressed that his attempt had failed to obtain the requested assistance because he was still confident his big-brother could get himself out of any situation. Ah, the false hopes of the naive!

After a second, more impassioned conversation that probably included offers of candy and comic books as well as threats and tears. Steve left to get dad.

In a very short time I could hear Steve returning. “Wahhh,” rang out across the field. Yep, that was definitely his cry. In sobbing voice he related that the first time dad had not believed him and this time he was no more convincing than he was in his initial request. As a side note here I should perhaps explain we were a family firmly fixed to the humoristic side of life. This included plenty of clever remarks to any innocent statement, puns, jokes and the occasional practical joke. Evidently dad was not about to be fooled into slogging through the snow to be the victim of someone’s misplaced sense of humor.

Attempting to stress the urgency and importance of the situation I had a short but serious conversation with my little brother. The sun was now sinking low and it was getting colder with every passing minute. The conversation ended with my instruction: “Go get dad and don’t come back without him!” That had been half-an-hour ago and there was no Steve in sight or sound. I was a bit worried but knew that panic or crying was not going to help the situation. I kicked about some more but only served to confirm my unfortunate situation. I sat back, watched the sunset and contemplated my next move.

As the sun disappeared over the horizon I heard the joyous sound of my yakking brother talking fast and furious trying to convince dad, who sounded far from joyous that “this isn’t a joke,” and “Larry really is stuck in the snow.” Dad’s reply was somewhere in the neighborhood of “This better not be joke.”, “It’s to darned cold to be playing these games.”, and “If Larry’s not where you say he is there will be serious repercussions.”

I heard the footsteps stop and I looked up in the twilight of dusk. “Hi, dad.”

After a couple of questions and, undoubtedly, a few choice words he lay down in the snow crust and extended his arms for me to grab. As he started to slide forward he directed Steve to sit on his feet to help anchor him in the hard-pack. With very little effort he pulled me to safety.

It seemed that since my instructions had included the direction “Don’t come back without dad,” and as dad was unconvinced, Steve had proceeded to start playing with the new toys he had gotten for Christmas. Some time passed. Some more time passed and mom eventually asked dad, “Bob, have you seen Larry?” He replied that I had gone out to play with my brother earlier that day and hadn’t seen me since. “Steve, where is your brother?” “I told you he’s stuck in the snow and can’t get out.” “I THOUGHT YOU WERE KIDDING!!” “Wahhh, no, I told you, wahhh.” Once they had calmed Steve down (wadda crybaby!) and gotten the full story out of him dad proceeded to get boots, jacket and scarf for a trip into the elements. With an occasional “You better not be kidding me.” They headed out on the rescue mission to my everlasting gratitude.

Ah, winter in the Midwest. Just another regular day in the life of those who live where the world dies once a year and refreshes itself every spring. Ahhh.

…And a simple illustration of just one of the many reasons I now live in San Diego.

1949 - An Introduction

Ok, so I waited a while to write my introduction. But until last week I didn’t even know I was going to be doing this. It took a little time to figure out who I am so I could create a reasonable introduction:

I'm a reader. Always wanted to be a writer but except for a dozen or so first chapters I have rarely succeeding in creating something that was personally satisfying...so I mostly I didn't try.

For a long time the stories about my life-experiences have entertained family, friends and relatives. They have been told and, the favorites retold, so much I never know which ones I've related and which I haven't. In reality some of my best audiences have been grandchildren - and I simply can't tell them ALL of these stories, some with themes just a bit too adult. My weekend as a junkie and the tale of how my mother became a Mexican hooker are in the near future. Oh yeah, the junkie thing...just for your comfort...it wasn't actually me - just an intimate association.

Now most people haven't minded a couple of repeats but my marriage and most of my friendships last YEARS. Of course it is neigh near impossible to remember who has heard what so some of them get repeats and some people never hear others...and may honestly have no interest except in passing of many of these tales. In examining my relationship with various people some of these narratives would never have been appropriate in any conversation I may have had with some of them. Some who have heard them before have gotten tired of re-hearing them which becomes obvious when their eyes glaze over half-way through. I really don't want an unreceptive audience, hence, my new blog.

Ok – as a means of introduction I should start out here by telling you everything here is true – as I understand it or remember it. That doesn’t mean another witness may have seen things slightly different but these are my memories and not theirs. For instance in “The Toboggan Run” someone else may have made that run after me, in fact someone else may have gone first. All I remember is my personal experience in which I definitely made my own suicidal trip downhill which over the years have been fleshed out with circumstances that were likely if not absolutely faithful to the circumstance…these are my memories and memories can be somewhat faulty – particularly after 40 or 50 years or more. These stories are matured so any embellishment is long forgotten and is certainly no longer required, and they are, in fact, factual as much as I can possibly relate. Most of them never needed embelishment as the facts were so fantastic. These are my memories as truthfully as I can possibly relate them which means the essence of the story is absolutely true even if the facts are not gospel.

Most of these are stories I have been telling for years whenever the situation called for it. If I mention you in here by name and you are unhappy with my writing I apologize in advance. Where the actions may be questionable I’ve changed names or only used a first name. If you read something about yourself you didn’t like call or e-mail and I’ll consider the change. In some cases I don’t remember the name so I’ll make one up…but the person is real. Oh yeah, I am a terrible speller and names are words that don’t take well to spell-checking so if the name in question is spelled wrong…I’M SORRY…GET OVER IT! Ahem…excuse the outburst. I also get names mixed so if the first and last name don’t match then it must be one I’m making up to protect the unwilling, unknown or incorrectly remembered. Where I can I check facts but the reality is half of the witnesses to these events have faded from my life long ago.

Now, truthfully, I have found I can't relate these narratives as told in person as without wide eyes, sweeping gestures and changing vocal clues. In these cases the words alone just don't sound the same written down. For this reason stories have been modified to accentuate things I could previously stress with a simple look or gesture. These are my memories. As mentioned previously, they are not necessarily accurate in fact but often the impressions or memories of a child, inexperienced teenager or naive young adult (and a still-learning older adult.) I don't always change the impression to fit the facts as I am often relating those faulty impressions or immature attitudes as a major part of the story-line. In other words...I'm not going to relate the impressions of a 5-year-old at his first church-revival by critiquing my own experience...I will simply relate them as they were or as they are remembered – as faulty or fantastical it may be – magic is real to children so mysterious circumstances that they have not before encountered can be easily misinterpreted to be something entirely different…did Grandma really tell me goodbye? We’ll save that question for a later entry.

In my 20's for a short-time I had a set of friends who called me Uncle Remus after my story-telling ability which I exercised late at night at the end of a Waukegan pier where they would give me a situation and a character and await the tale. Later an office with walls and no door and no ceiling, located in the middle of the manufacturing-floor earned me the nickname "Oz"... but I was never sure if it was because of the wisdom dispatched over the wall or because they were saying "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain."

Why am I writing these? Mostly because Vanessa, my eldest lovely grand-daughter used to ask for stories and name some of them specifically but, of course, her age would not allow some of the items that were the most fun to be related…and by the time she was old enough she wasn’t as curious about my life as she is fully engaged in her own. Nowadays some of the younger grandkids seem interested in my stories but, again, some of them will have to wait until...well maybe never...unless they someday read this...so I figure maybe I should save some of them here for them, or you, to discover on your own. I have no one else to pass the stories to so…whomever gets ‘em gets ‘em.

Hmmm…what else? I can be opinionated. Ooo, gasp, surprise, amazement! I am not foolish enough to think everyone will agree or even understand my logic but I never said I was right…just opinionated…and my opinion is no better than anyone else’s. You know what they say about opinions and a**holes…everybody’s got one and they all stink. Consequently, some of these may turn out to be rants about something of which I have an opinion or maybe an idea for a TV show or movie.

How to start…in the beginning…

Labor Day – first Monday in September – normally a holiday for all but my mom, my dad and the hospital staff. It was 10-minutes from the nurse’s lunch break when mom began the screaming. She was 18, scared stiff and not exactly sure what to expect…I was her first. Oh sure, she got good at this later – I’ve got 4-brothers – but for now – not so sure.

I was there…but I don’t remember this but I’m pretty sure she started screaming, at least I’ve been told she did not find her first child be a pleasant experience. I’ve spoken about this moment with the nurse that delivered me, Kay Evans. Kay later became the school nurse at the local school and gave me the feeling she was watching out for me even though she never gave me an overt reason to feel this. Mom had had 3 previous false labors and the doctor was not in a big hurry which was why he arrived around 3-minutes after I did. Dr. Walters had been mom’s doctor for the past few years and was scheduled to perform the delivery as, in those days, a GP did practically everything but major surgery. Even then they often assisted as it was their personal patients…of course this is back when doctors cared for you cradle-to-grave. Soon thereafter mom would change doctors, moving the entire family to Doctor Gere after whom my brother is named with a differently-spelled middle name. Dr. Gere was a gruff-voiced but kindly doctor who was our family doctor for most of my young life. The Dr. spoke with a gruff tone because his voice box, or vocal chords, had undergone surgery in which he was the surgeon operating with a local and a mirror and a single nurse assisting. DAMN!

My name: Just a few years ago I called my dad and asked him if I had been named for a specific person. He said no, mom just liked the name. I then asked why my name was Larry & not Lawrence. His answer: he had asked mom the same thing saying I would someday need an adult name. Mom was, evidently, adamant and wanted my name exactly as stated. This is actually why all of my other brothers have names that can change between childhood and adulthood. For most of my life I wanted to believe I had been named after Larry Talbot – Lon Chaney Junior’s Wolf Man. Hey, I was only around 12 when I came to this, admittedly weird, conclusion. I was a big fan of Universal Monster Movies and even today have around 15 various versions of Frankenstein in my collection.

I then related to dad the statement I had been making for years when someone asked why I wasn’t named Lawrence: My typical reply: My parents were so poor when I was born they couldn’t afford a real name so they had to settle for a nickname. Dad said, with a good laugh, it was an accurate assessment of the situation.

As a kid I was raised in a small Midwestern village in Illinois called Winthrop Harbor (originally settled as Spring Bluff) and was located midway between Chicago and Milwaukee, +\-10 mi. In my youngest boyhood I could have been mistaken for Opie Taylor (ref: Mayberry RFD). We had a very rural, innocent and traditional experience. Our backyard had an extended yard that took up part of the vacant lot behind us. After crossing the road boarding this lot was fields and woods that as far as I knew, as a kid, went all the way to Iowa. It was hot and humid in the summer and freezing cold in the winter.

“Wintertime is a razor blade,
that the devil made.
It’s the price we pay for the summertime.”
- Joe Walsh

As a teen I was a lot like Richie Cunningham. It was the same 60’s era of Happy Days, the popular TV show from the 80’s. I was a bit dorky, a bit shy – well, really shy, with a mischievous best friend and in a garage band. Unlike Richie I surfed Lake Michigan, participated in Scouts and swam like a fish. As a kid when everyone else wanted to be a cop or a fireman I wanted to be a diver for Scripps Institute of Oceanography. When I was transferred to San Diego with the Navy I visited Scripps the first week just to see the Scripps Pier – to me a sacred monument to science. Reading all of the diving stories I could get my hands on I discovered Arthur C. Clarke and, after running out of his diving stories began reading his sci-fi. Wow! Completely new worlds! From there Andre Norton (aka: Andrew North, Mary Norton) and Issac Azimov, Kurt Vonnigut and on and on and on. Eventually I found science fact even more thrilling and adventurous than fiction and continue today to divide my time between hard science, history, Sci-Fi and easy-read pop-mysteries like Sue Grafton or Janet Evonovitch. My favorite book is White Lotus by John Hersey – now out of print. This is a compelling book about slavery and revolution.

In 1967 immediately following my high school graduation we moved the family to Iowa City, Iowa. I was not crazy about this move and soon after Christmas I moved back to Illinois to room temporarily with Kerry, a very good surf-buddy whose parents were generous enough to take me in for a while. In February 1968 Kerry and I joined the Navy in the buddy system. It took about 48 hours to separate us – so much for the buddy-system. During my enlistment I got to see the Asian world and to experience Viet Nam, Hong Kong, Singapore, the Philippines, and Taiwan besides Hawaii, Guam and Midway Island. I'm sure there were ports I've forgotten. Kerry’s experiences were about the same as both of us were Pacific Fleet Radarmen – me at 32nd Street Depot in San Diego and he at Pearl Harbor in Hawaii.

After the Navy I wandered for a while seeking myself while playing rock n’ roll and jazz, becoming a manufacturing and process improvement professional and, eventually, meeting my wife and marrying into a ready-made family. This family I’ve written very little about and yet, today, is the most important thing in my life. The adventure of a rich family life may not be exciting in a minute-by-minute or blow-by-blow story but the adventure of a sustained relationship, the importance of family, kids, grandkids makes all my other adventures pale in comparison.

Don’t let the length of the narrative or the thrill of the experience indicate the importance of the experience.

Here we go…

1966 - A Gay Old Time

1966 - A Gay Old Time

There I was covered in grey, sticky mud up to my knees. My nicely tuxedoed knees. As I stood on one foot trying to retrieve my rented shoe from the mud to where it had disappeared in the last few seconds, I thought about the circumstances that had put me in the middle of farmer’s fallow field in the wee hours of the morning. I leaned against the well-stuck car and reflected on how happy dad would be when he saw his new Malibu covered with grey mud…not very.

I looked around. There was not much to see in the dark at around 3:30 AM. Prom night – my Junior Prom. Debbie and I had attended the dance and had a wonderful time. Thereafter we proceeded to the Dunes Lodge where many of us had our late supper and some of us proceeded to the Dunes Theatre for a movie, the name of which I have long since forgotten as we did not attend. Debbie was tired after our long evening and, with a picnic planned for early the next morning at Petrifying Springs Park in Wisconsin, she wanted to get a couple of hours shut-eye before we headed for the picnic. I dropped her off at her house around 3:00 AM and headed home.

A few blocks from home I realized that I was not tired - not in the least. I did know that if I went to bed I would have a hard time getting up but had nothing in mind to keep me occupied…when Jack and his date drove by. Jack lived at the bitter end of a road that ran out to the family farm. Knowing who it was, knowing where he was going and looking for something to do, on a lark I followed Jack. I stayed about a block back so as not to be too obvious and not to disturb either him or his date. I had just passed the last available road when I realized there was no where to turn around ahead of me except a quarter-of-a-mile ahead…Jack’s driveway – where I really didn’t want to go.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a tractor path that ran off into a farmer’s fallow field. Instantly deciding this was my only chance to get turned around I spun the wheel to the right and charged into the path intending to perform a 3-point reversal. As I began to apply the brakes to stop and throw the vehicle in reverse I realized I would be stopping in a deep and obviously very soft mud puddle in which I would probably get quickly and securely stuck. Hitting the gas I plunged on intending to follow this path to the logical end: a short neighborhood street only accessible from State-Line Road. With a couple of hours to kill that would be acceptable. I slid down the path keeping the speed high enough to maintain forward momentum riding the edge between stuck/stopped and motivating forward through the thick mud which was being thrown several feet into the air as the rear wheels dug in and forced their way through the grass, mud and the occasional waver in the relatively straight path. I could feel the mud pulling at the tires trying desperately to bog us down in the middle of a farmer’s field where neither it nor I wanted me to be.

I was feeling pretty good about my ability to complete this course when my headlights lit up a curve in the path. As I got closer I realized it wasn’t just a turn in the path it was a 90-degree turn that was going to require a certain amount of wrestling with the slightly underpowered vehicle, sucking mud, and the physics that want to keep a moving object moving in whatever direction it is currently moving. I stomped the brake to reduce my speed slightly and enable the vehicle to navigate the corner, instantly releasing it and hitting the gas to push the speed back up to traveling speed. I slid around the corner like it was banked and I was a pro. The road I was seeking should be just a few dozen feet ahead. My confidence soared. I was going to make it! When the first vehicle appeared in front of me I assumed there would be room to go around but when I scanned both left and right I realized that, although I had successfully navigated through the sucking mud and made it to the foot of the road for which I had been looking, the little house at the end of the road was engaged in a party. The participants had completely blocked the road thinking, usually correctly, that there would be no need to keep the field unblocked. They were parked everywhere leaving no access to the road just beyond.

As this was a private party in a home of which I was not familiar and the party sounded distinctly adult with laughter, clinking glasses and 50’s style dance music. I neither wanted to disturb an event to which I was not invited nor did I want to look like a total idiot driving through a muddy field in the middle of the night. When I know I am acting foolish I hesitate to advertise the fact as people get to witness those kinds of acts quite enough without any help from me.

I was Mr. Confidence. I decided if I could make it through the field one time I could certainly make it back through. I backed up close to the nearest vehicle and hit the gas intending to hit the path at a rate of speed that would send around the slippery corner and onto the straight and muddy. I didn’t count on tires so full of mud they spun more than pushed me. Although there was a much less forward momentum than expected I was past committed and would find it necessary to power through the curve and get speed up to push through the rest of the field. I could feel the lack in power as the front wheels turned to navigate the corner. As they sunk in I gently feathered the gas peddle trying to keep just enough momentum up to get past this obstruction and move in a direction in which I could get my speed up. I was more concerned with the mud puddle at the end of this path then the path itself. I certainly needed to get my speed back up after…I felt the rear end break loose and slide sideways as the front tires dug in and began to bury themselves in the soft, gooey mud. I slid to a stop in a short slip that represented the few inches from the top of the gouged-out curve to the bottom of the gauged out pit. It was quite enough to bring me to a complete stop. The car stalled and went silent. I was 50 feet from the end of the road and surrounded by what was, from my driving, an obviously REALLY muddy field.

I re-started the car and tried rocking it loose. I sent a lot of mud skyward. The only direction we moved was…down a few more inches. I forced the door open scrapping it against the tall grass and looked at the surface with the inside car light for illumination. It looked perfectly dry. Hoping the path had collected moisture leaving the field generally dry I extended a foot a placed it firmly in the ground. No problem! As I swung my other leg out I put weight on the outside foot which sunk an inch into soft soil. My caution renewed I tentatively put a bit more weight on my feet which sunk the same inch or so but seemed fairly stable. Confident I stood up and promptly sunk another six inches. In the illumination of the cab light my shoes had disappeared. Where they were supposed to be were dark spots in the shape of shoes. These were the holes into which my feet had disappeared. It wasn’t like I had a choice…I sat and thought as I pulled at my left foot…I was going to have to walk through this field one way or the other. I hadn’t pulled my feet back as the sucking mud held my shoes firmly in place.

My left shoe suddenly came loose and I placed it on the edge of the car door jamb preparing to stand. I put weight on my left foot and stood. My right foot was still held firmly by the heavy mud. As I readjusted my weight my right foot sunk deeper. Keeping my balance I quickly placed the other foot on the ground for stability. My left foot sunk to an equivalent level. Standing up to my ankles in mud I slogged toward the rear of the vehicle. On the second step I lost my right shoe which insisted on staying put when I pulled my foot free. Now, standing on my left foot and bending down to tug at my shoe I lost my balance and fell backwards, my rear end landing heavily against the rear door saving a full-body plummet into the muddy morass of which I wanted so urgently to be free. I contemplated my situation. I bent forward on one leg to get a firm grasp on the offending shoe. I pulled. Nothing. I pulled again jerking on the shoe with my full arm strength. I felt it move but it was still held firmly in place. Bending further I secured my grasp with two hands and tightened my fingers as I pulled backwards. I continued to resist until, with a loud sucking noise the shoe came loose. I wind-milled backwards in an attempt to regain my balance and, over compensating, fell forward. I landed with my full weight on my knees saving my forward plunge but now firmly stuck in mud…up to my knees.

Resigned to my fate I dragged myself to my feet and slogged around to the rear tires which were buried up to the axle. Stuffing found wood and pulled grass under the rear wheels I made it back to the driver’s seat to apply enough gas to watch my rear tires spun ineffectively in place as the wood shot out of sight and I continued throwing more mud to the rear. This was not getting any better. I had managed to sink a couple of inches lower and the car door was now firmly held open by the encroaching muck. It didn’t take too long to figure out my fate. It was time to interrupt that party and see if I could find assistance of some kind. I stopped at the edge of the field to knock and scrape as much mud off of me as possible.

The sounds of the party got louder as I approached the back door to the little house. I knocked. I knocked again, louder this time. I heard a voice and footsteps approaching. The door opened. Before me stood a unique individual. He stood above me arms akimbo, me on the step and him standing in the kitchen. Even so, he appeared to be about my height perhaps taller by an inch or so. He stood thin and straight with a little blonde moustache and a flat top haircut. His shoulders were approximately as wide as my own but spare with no extra meat. He was narrow-waisted with a rear-end about the size of two clenched fists held side-by-side. This picture was completed by two tiny little feet. My first impression was he was a human wedge: wide shoulders tapering to a thin waist and tiny little feet. He opened his mouth, “Hello! Where did you come from on a night like this? My you’re just covered with mud! Here! Take your shoes off and come in! Oh my! Here, sit on this newspaper!” He seemed to vibrate in place as he scooped a newspaper off a pile next to the back door and, opening a page spread it across the seat of a chair that sat at the kitchen table. “Now there, what’s the problem? How can I help you? Would you like a drink?”

I sat heavily on the offered seat. “No, thank-you, I’m not 18 yet.” I replied to his inquiry.

“Oh that’s ok, I won’t tell. Wouldyoulikeacoke then?”

“Sure, love one.”

He turned toward the refrigerator opening the door, “Now, what can we do for you?” He asked over his shoulder.

I quickly relayed my story and the problem.

“Oh, that’s ok.” He replied, “You’re not the first to be stuck in that field. Oh! I’ve got a friend with a tow truck. Would you like me to call him?” I replied positively and he made a quick telephone call. While he was on the telephone I looked around.

There were perhaps 10-15 people present all engaged in conversation or dancing to the music coming from the next room where most of them were. Although the women present seemed outnumbered slightly by 1 or 2 men there appeared to be a fairly even match of men to women as far as I could see. As I didn’t know anyone here I didn’t consider joining in but sat and contemplated my fate at the hands of my parents. I sat passively watching the party in the next room. The longer I watched the dancers the more something just didn’t seem “right.” I was hit like a ton of bricks when I came to a shocking conclusion: Not all of those women are women. About half the people here are cross-dressers.

I had no opinion at that time regarding alternate lifestyles as my family preached every individual was distinct and deserving of respect until proven otherwise. For this reason I didn’t find myself in an uncomfortable situation: they were all very friendly and concerned about my welfare, there were no insinuations that I participate except the offer of a drink and except for some unconventional modes of dress and the fact that I’d never seen men dance together, no one, except the host, was paying much attention to me. I watched, fascinated by the experience. The tow truck driver showed up in a short time and we proceeded to my car.

He confirmed that this was not the first time he had hauled a car out of this spot as we slogged out to dad’s car and hooked up the hook and wire to the undercarriage of the vehicle. As it was a bit chilly he offered me a seat in the cab of his truck while we pulled the muddy mess out of the field and onto the lawn of my temporarily new friends. There was now plenty of room as several people had left the party temporarily to move their cars into less intrusive locations. As we sat in the cab the driver seemed nervous for some reason as he tried to hold a halting shuffling conversation until he paused and looked at me, “Did they tell you I was their friend?” He mumbled.

“Yeah.” I replied.

“They tell everyone that!” He exclaimed. “They are not my friends!”

Personally I wasn’t sure why he was so adamant regarding his social relationship with people whom I had identified as very nice, honestly concerned and well-behaved people. Their idea of partying wasn’t the same as mine but I had always been taught by mom to accept people at face value until proven otherwise and, as I’ve mentioned, these people seem quite nice.

The driver towed me onto the dry road and I assume I paid him from the emergency money I had been carrying in case it was needed. Thank mom for making sure I had money in my pocket! I drove directly home with the dusk brightening with every passing minute. As I entered the house mom appeared from the parental bedroom. After a quiet conversation and a change of clothes she handed me a couple of bucks and told me to run down to the local carwash and get dad’s car cleaned up. Following that I picked Debbie up and we proceeded to the picnic and had a wonderful time.

I don’t actually recall if dad ever figured out how muddy the car had been but I’m pretty sure that the tux people figured it out on Monday evening when I handed the clerk a pristine suit bag, white coat showing through the 3” transparent panel. As he could feel the weight of the shoes in the bag he took it easily and hung it from a hook with several similar looking suit-bags. I felt a rush of relief as he hung the tux up with no comment and hoped he wouldn’t notice the condition of the mud-covered cummerbund which was in a bag with all of the ancillary pieces including studs, cufflinks and mud-spotted bowtie. I held the bag with the extra parts in my hand until I had signed the receipt and received my copy that said I had returned the suit. As I turned to leave the clerk said, “Excuse me is that the extra pieces?” I looked at my hand, nodded and handed him the bag containing all of the extras. They were in the bag in which they had originally been issued to me. “Thank-you.” He said and I turned to go. As the door to the shop closed I glanced over my shoulder. There stood the clerk peering into the open bag, mouth open in disbelief. As his head came up and began to swivel toward the exit I ran like the wind for the car.

They may still be looking for me.

1958 - Don't Steal

1958 - Don’t Steal – Don’t Even Take Change

My hand shook as I knocked on Don Young’s door. I stood in the closed-in hallway at the top of the stairs. There was a single light but, as there were no windows, I felt as though there was an oppressing weight on my shoulders as I knocked again.

Just an hour ago dad had gotten my tearful confession: I had stolen 3 comic-books from Young’s Drug Store. My penalty was to pay for the books using money advanced from my allowance which I would not be getting for 2-weeks and, even worse, I had to confess my crime to Don Young, the owner and proprietor of the local drug store. I was warned: There might be more punishment. This is the course that set me outside this door. Don and his family lived over the store in an upstairs apartment at the top of a narrow stairway. I climbed the stairs, slowly and with a great deal of trepidation. Despite my hesitation I eventually arrived at the door. I took a deep breath and knocked. I heard a chair move, as it scraped across the floor sounding like a chair pushed back from the dinner table. Footsteps approached.

The door opened. Don towered above me, “Yes?”

“Uhh, sir, my dad told me I had to come talk to you.” I mumbled.

“Hmmm, ok, come on in. Have a seat.” Mr. Young pulled a kitchen chair from the little kitchen only a couple of paces from the front door. Although there was a couple of chairs and a couch he had retrieved a chair especially for me. It was hard and uncomfortable. He placed it directly in front of his easy chair and sat down facing me. Unknown to me, dad had called and told Don I was coming by and why. Mr. Young didn’t let on. “Now, son, what can I do for you?”

I stammered as I confessed in a small voice, “I stole these from your store today.” I held out the offending comic books.

“What? Speak up.”

I repeated myself, probably no louder, “I stole this from your store today. My dad caught me with these and figured it all out. I’m so sorry.” I held the books out and looked at the floor. “He told me I had to pay for them and I have to give them back, too.” I stood and dug around in my pocket fetching the $.30 that reflected the price of the three 10-cent comic books. My shoes must have appeared to be absolutely fascinating as I looked down at them steadily, hesitating to look Mr. Young in the face.

“Well,” Mr. Young said, “this is very serious.” He stood, walked a few paces and looked out the front picture-window for a moment. He turned back. “I have to consider if I should call the police or not…this is a very serious problem to me. You see, I lose a lot of comic books and candy at the store. Do you know what happens to me when someone steals from my store?”

“No, sir.”

“You see, son, I have to pay for those comic books before I sell them to you. If all of my comic books were stolen I would not be able to afford to sell these things anymore. Then I might go out of business. You wouldn’t want that would you?”

No, sir.”

Mr. Young stood and walked to the window. “What do you think I should do about this?”

“I don’t know.” A very small voice.

I thought back to an incident a couple of weeks before when the same question had been asked of me. As usual I had attended Sunday School and the church service thereafter. This particular day mom did not give me the quarter for the collection plate as she usually did. Instead, this time, she handed me a fifty-cent piece saying, “I don’t have any quarters today so this will have to do.” “Wow!” I thought, “an extra 25-cents! I can buy that Superman Annual that I wanted!” Superman Annuals came out every three months (why they didn’t call them Quarterly’s I don’t know.) “Ok, mom,” was my only reply. I was already planning in my head how I would find the time to get to Young’s Drug Store that afternoon.

I attended Sunday School that day with a ½-dollar burning a hole in my pocket. In my excitement I could hardly wait. Immediately following Sunday School was church services. I listened with my usual disinterest, observing the congregation and surreptitiously staring at the Korean woman who was there with her husband, a chief in the Navy who often wore his uniform to services. She was the only minority person we had in town and her eyes, her hair, her short stature were all fascinating to the boys in town who, when we got together after church, often asked each other about her, pumping information from each other even though we all knew, with no children in her family, there wasn’t much chance we would ever get our questions answered. I sat and fidgeted finding my patience tried and my expectant-anxiety growing in anticipation of the collection and my desired goal of winding up with an extra 25-cents after they had passed the plate. My offering of 50-cents was sealed in a little white envelope. As I carefully placed it in the plate I captured a loose quarter with my little finger scooping into my palm…change! Got it! I performed this act with as much slight-of-hand as possible to avoid any questions even though, I told myself, I felt fully justified, after all, mom had already counted the money as spent and I wasn’t giving any less than usual…or that was my rationalization.

As soon as services ended I told my mom I was going to Jack’s house, of course, lying through my teeth. Unfortunately she informed me I had to go home and change from my good clothes first and we would be eating within the hour. I would just have to wait to go visit Jack. I sat for the next couple of hours restless with anticipation. Finally we had eaten, everyone else had settled in for the afternoon and I headed out. “I’m going to Jack’s house.” I threw this over my shoulder as I left, quickly closing the door behind me to avoid any protest that might follow my announcement. I ran as fast as I could to the store and purchased my heart’s desire…a Superman Annual.

I ran home and, stuffing the book into my pants, headed upstairs to my room. I began to devour the story. Dad busted me within the hour after I got home asking where the comic had come from. I calmly told him I had bought it with change from the collection plate, attempting to be fully confident in my flawless logic. After a lengthy lecture from my dad (he was really good at this) he informed me I would have to burn the magazine in the old coal furnace that resided in the dusty old basement. I was heartbroken. I was also informed I would have to confess this act to Reverend Kirk. The next day, a Monday, and immediately after school I found Revered Kirk in the basement of the church. We had a quiet talk, during which I thanked my stars we were protected by the building because I was pretty sure I would have been burned to a crisp by lightning. During the course of our conversation he had asked “What do you think I should do about this?” As a part of my answer I had promised to never steal from God again. Now 2-weeks later I was busted stealing from Don Young’s store and I was getting the same question. I snapped back to my situation. Don had spoken. “What?” I asked.

He repeated his question, “What do you think I should do about this?”

“I dunno,” I repeated.

“What do you think I should do? There are a couple of choices. I could choose to ban you from my store.”

“Ban?”

“Yes, if I ban you from my store it’ll mean you won’t be able to buy any comic books or anything else from me. You wouldn’t be allowed in my store. Of course we could call the police.” He paused and returned to his easy chair leaning forward, elbows on knees. He looked up and caught my eyes. Speaking directly to me in a quiet voice he said, “Tell you what, son, I’m going to call your dad after you leave. He and I will discuss the appropriate action.”

It sounded like I wasn’t about to go to prison. My relief was palatable. “Yessir. Thank-you, sir.” I twisted in my chair wanting to make a dash right then but held back…there might be more. I hesitated and looked back at Mr. Young…

“You can go now.” I practically ran from the room hiding my nervousness as best I could, which was probably: not at all. I paused outside the door at the top of the stairs taking a deep breath and trying to calm my shaking hands.

I headed home. Now I would have to deal with my dad. I had no idea what punishment he would mete out. One thing I did know: I didn’t seem to be too good at this life of crime…I figured from then on I would try to be a lot more honest.

I haven’t always succeeded…but I try.

1971 - Swim Call

1971 - Swim Call

The sea looked like glass. It was smooth and appeared to be completely calm with no swells, waves or turbulence as far as the eye could see. The sky was the color of a newborn baby’s eyes and was reflected in the crystal clear water.

As I gazed out over the water on this beautiful late-September morning I looked forward to diving in and washing all of the gunk off of my body. Having just crossed the equator and fulfilling the ceremony approved by both regulation and Naval Tradition I was in serious need of a rinse. An hour ago I was a “Pollywog” – I was now a loyal subject of King Neptune and now formally called a “Shellback” as any equator-crossing sailor was called, assuming the ceremony was adequately carried out with just the right amount of humiliation and pure fun. In reality was there was very little humiliation and a whole bunch of fun.

Cargo nets were hung over the side and gunner’s mates were stationed around the main deck to watch for sharks, sea snakes or any other dangerous sea creature. As we were at latitude of 00000, on the equator, and a longitude of 105.58.5 the sea was fairly shallow and the bottom was not far below us although considerable deeper than my 5’5”. On this September 22nd, a Wednesday, we arrived at our temporary destination. For the last few days we had traveled through the tropics with beautiful weather, snow-white seabirds in tow and exotic ocean life including flying fish that occasionally landed on the deck much to our delight. There were also hammerhead sharks, very few of which were the monsters we expected. In fact, most of these strange looking fish were no longer than 3 feet long and maybe 9 inches thick. The assorted fishermen on board, having caught a few of these weird looking sharks demonstrated how they seemed to be pure muscle and sandpaper skin. With their eyes spread out to the ends of their radically shaped heads they looked like something out of a Dali painting. The Flying Fish were equally strange looking, with elongated fins that stretched out to allow them to glide over long distances when they were threatened. A glittery silver thin body, big eyes and those long fins gave them a strange, otherworldly look.

Over the last 3 days we had been scheduled for an in-port stop in Australia half-a-dozen times with the ultimate decision to deny the visit. This was made-up for by sending us instead to Singapore, a delightful city with side streets full of strange shops and kiosks as well as snake charmers and fakers lying on beds of nails. There were elephants in the streets and monkeys in the trees. Within the next 24-hours I was to discover all of this as well as a fabulous French restaurant in which we spent every evening while we were in town. We were warned to “keep our noses clean” but to enjoy ourselves, which we did with great gusto. But at this immediate time all of that was in the future. Late the previous night our Captain had informed PACCOM “After the schedule changes of the last few days, these boys have anticipated Australia only to have it rescheduled several times. Since we are headed for Singapore I’m going to take an extra day to head south and fill this ship with Shellbacks.” The Captain, a Polliwog himself, had the same ceremony to look forward to as the rest of us and took it all like a man…or Honored Shellback. Anyway, PACCOM agreed and resulted in the situation we were currently in: disgustingly dirty, covered with grease, food garbage and assorted gunk. Our bodies stunk and our hair clung to our heads in a skullcap that made us all temporarily glad for a military haircut.

After our ceremony we were, initially instructed to climb down the nets to the water, but after a few slips and falls from several other greased-up sailors, most of us took the plunge by diving the 10 feet from the fantail into the bathwater-warm ocean. Although the sea had looked as smooth as glass from the deck of the ship, upon entering the water it was quickly realized that powerful swells continued to roll underneath us in a lazy motion that still raised us a good 5 feet or so above the trough. As the swells were so long and slow and there was not a breath of air turbulence, the surface had appeared to be flat to the horizon…until finding yourself immersed in the trough of one of these swells. The salt stung our eyes as we washed, laughed and played and performed general horseplay until, after about an hour of fun, swim-call was called to an end. This brought an end to our swimming party.

As I climbed over the rail and grabbed a towel I heard someone exclaim, “Hey, someone is way out there! It looks like they’re drifting with the swells!” Turning to see what everyone else was looking at was completely useless as, without my glasses, I was unable to see much but the color of the water and the little speck that was blurred, but obviously, a person at some distance. I grabbed my glasses as someone exclaimed, “I think it’s Louie!” Turning to see with new eyes I saw one of the seamen in my department a good distance away from the ship in a slow but insidious current that continued to move Louie away from the ship. He was about ¼-mile away and moving further away as we watched.

As the senior enlisted man in the department, outside my chief, who was still dressed as King Neptune, I felt responsible for Louie who had been apprehensive about swimming in the middle of the ocean where there was no land visable. Like a good sailor he had evidently overcame his fear and went for a swim anyway. As a fairly good swimmer, I volunteered to swim out to Louie and retrieve him before he was too worn to continue to tread water. Several others joined in volunteering for this job. We dove into the sea and began stroking in Louie’s direction. Although there were 6 sailors in our little company, Jimmy had to turn back when he realized the distance was simply too far. We were at the halfway point so I broke off Pat and asked him to accompany Jimmy back to the ship. We remaining 4 continued to stroke as fast as possible toward Louie who occasionally disappeared into a trough but always appeared at the crest a moment later.

After a little while we arrived to find Louie out of breath and scared – a condition with which we all sympathized. After a short period of reassurance we advised Louie that we were all fairly good swimmers and we would help him get back to the ship. As we mentioned the home base we turned to see the direction in which we had to swim. We all simultaneously realized we were a lot farther than we had been when we started out. The ship was the size of a small toy, about ¾ of a-mile away…perhaps farther. I could barely see any movement on board in my blindness but I was still able to see the blurry gray vessel well enough to know which direction we would need to go.

We reassured Louie, as we reassured ourselves, that this wasn’t as far as it looked and we were all good swimmers who would take turns towing him back. As I began the first leg of our trip Louie, now only having one person to rely upon, grabbed onto my swimsuit pulling it down near my knees. I immediately pushed Louie off and reassured him again that this should be fairly easy but he needed to trust us and not cling to either us or our clothes. We eventually convinced him to hang on with a light touch and we would all arrive safely. After all, we would need to be able to swim ourselves if we were to make the time we obviously needed to in order to overcome the current.

We soon fell into a rhythm that enabled us to slowly make progress toward the ship. After a lengthy and challenging but steady swim we were within hearing of the crew who were cheering us on with full voice and a level of excitement that made it impossible to pick out individual words or phrases. We had probably been gone for the better part of an hour at this point and were all anxious to get back to the security of a firm rolling deck. Talking among ourselves we noticed the gunners-mates were no longer spread out around the ship but were in the middle of the crowd with everyone else cheering and shouting encouragement. Someone asked “Aren’t they supposed to be watching for sharks?” We all agreed that they were becoming a bit casual as we still had people in the water but we chalked it up to typical crowd interest when a crew, desperate for entertainment had a "show" to watch. We simply hoped they wouldn’t be needed and, as we were just a few minutes away we would probably get to the ship before anything could possibly happen.

As we got closer we could more clearly hear the shouts and encouragement of my shipmates. “Come on!”, “Faster!” and “Hurry up!” seemed to be the general gist of the shouts which was actually kind of disturbing as we had been swimming for quite a while and were pretty much played out. Were they really that anxious to get underway? As we voiced our dissatisfaction among ourselves we began to catch other words. The words “Shark!” and “Hammerheads!” managed to get our attention just as we reached the side of the boat and the cargo nets at which we paused to get our breath. That was about when all of those words became so much clearer: “You are surrounded by hammerhead sharks! Get the hell out of the water!” The next line in this legendary tale is, as I overheard later that day, “They came out of the water like they had a rocket up their ass.” I do know we all reached the deck at the same time with our wet feet slapping the deck almost in unison.

Spinning around I looked over the side of the ship. There about 1-3 feet underneath the surface were what appeared to be hundreds of small hammerheads. I was told when they were first spotted we were still quite a ways from the ship and they were circling together in a formation that was about 30 feet across. By the time we reached the ship this circle had shrunk to around 15 feet across with the small knot of swimmers in the center of a circle that put all of us around 5 feet or closer to the wall of fish. this ring of shark-flesh was around 15-feet thick near the surface and seemed to extend at least 15-feet down...kind of like being in the hole of a huge donut made entirely of hammerhead sharks. They were closer than I am tall. We had no idea. Also later that same day Jim related that as they watched every so often a shark would break out of the wall and cruise underneath the swimmers. At times this lone-shark would make a quick break toward the group of sailors but would break-off the run just before reaching a person.

After changing clothes I went back out to the helicopter-deck overlooking the fantail. As I looked overboard toward I saw hundreds of hammerheads still in the area. The deck was going through a salt-water-wash-down after sweeping the ceremonial leftovers overboard and they were happily feeding on anything that hit the water. They were no longer circling and they were no longer confining themselves to depth but instead occasionally broke the surface before rejoining the teaming, frothing school of weird-looking fish.

As we got underway about 45 minutes later I donned the sound-powered telephone to ask the Aft-Lookout on the condition of the sharks. It seems they were still hanging around looking for a hand out…or a foot out…or an elbow out. They, evidently, had been looking forward to and contemplating an exotic meal.

Me? I’m still looking forward to another bath-water swim on the equator on another perfect day…someday.

1964 - The Toboggan Run

1964 - The Toboggan Run

A crisp bite was in the air as we exited the car at Petrifying Springs where we’d gone for a day of sledding and sliding on the snow and ice. The slopes were full of kids of all ages spread out in a chaotic maze of humanity as Ron M., Ron B., my little brother Steve and I walked under the trees surrounding the parking lot and topped the short hill that opened onto the first snow area. It was kind of slushy and muddy. This did not speak well of the upcoming main area which was a short walk up a rise and over the hill. As we topped the hill we were delighted to find laid out before us a lovely, lively white valley full of a chaotic mix of adults and kids.

After a short walk into the little valley, to our right there would be a short, gentle hill topped by a half-buried chain-link fence with only about 1 ½ feet of its 4-foot height exposed above a snow bank. This temporary fence surrounded a little pond that during spring and summer months was the home of several swans that laid their eggs there and raised their young until they could fly with the flock in the fall. Inside the fence were several concrete and wooden park benches facing toward the now frozen little pond but, like the fence, were now half buried in the snow banks surrounding the pond. It was such a small space that, although it was opened early in the season for ice skating, once the little hill became packed with snow and the lower area full of kids and sleds it was restricted from ice skating to avoid conflict of the resulting mixed crowd. The pond was eventually closed every year to ice skating and the skating moved to a much larger, and more accessible area that didn't quite have the scenery of this little private milieu. We couldn’t see from here but last nights light snow had dropped a dusting of a few inches of powdery-white dry snow over the solid frozen ice.

To our left was a tall hill that featured a long stairway flanking a narrow toboggan run that ran 4/5 of the way up the hill and emptied into the general population of the play area. A tiny shack sat at the top of the track that was big enough to hold a prep area where toboggans were set on the track while held in place by a simple release. The mechanical release was a simple 2x4 holding block at the end of a stick that served as a launch handle that dropped the block and allowed the toboggan to start downhill. The track itself was occasionally watered-down to assure a nice thick layer of ice used to assure a smooth and thrilling ride downhill. The route where the track crossed into the general play area was apparent as a worn track that created a narrow slick band of frozen ice that crossed the general play area and petered out about halfway up the gentle rise toward the little pond. As a toboggan does not steer easily revelers below had to watch for oncoming toboggans but people were rarely in the way as momentum was usually pretty much used up by the time the vehicle came to a rest in this area. Being from the Midwest we had all taken out turns on toboggans in the past. The toboggan, for those not fortunate enough to have taken this mild thrill-ride, was a wooden construct with an upturned and half-circled nose like an elf’s shoe. They came in various lengths holding anywhere from 2-10 passengers. The church owned 2 toboggans – one 4-person and one 6-person which we had used frequently the prior year. Today we had our sleds and were off on our own. Ron, at 17, was the eldest of us and had his dad’s car. We were out-for-a-day of fun and were looking for an unsupervised good time…which is probably somewhere in the neighborhood of were our next idea came from as there was no one there sane enough to tell us “No.”

We sledded and played all afternoon in the general play area including occasional breaks to take the short trip to the concession stand/bathroom where we would either fill up on hot chocolate or empty the same from our full bladders.

It was late in the day. Dusk had arrived and night was approaching fast. Most of the families had retreated to their cars and left for home long ago. The toboggan run had closed down with padlocks securing both the entrance to the shack and the release handle to assure no abuse of the equipment. We sat drinking hot chocolate when I mentioned the icy track my brother and I had built the previous year in our large extended backyard.

Because of the age of our house the bathroom was an add-on with a roof that rose from 10-feet off the ground to a gentle uphill slope that ended inches below my bedroom window. In winter the lake-effect snow frequently piled up in drifts against this west-facing wall. The previous year the drift had come within 4-feet of the roof so, of course, it took very little effort for a 13-year old and an 11-year old to supplement this with enough additional snow to create a sled-worthy hill that could be launched off the roof with only a 2-3 foot freefall. This freefall resulted in hitting the slope already moving at a fair rate of speed that sent us zooming across the backyard before fetching up in the weeds and bushes in the field that bordered our backyard.

It was early Saturday when we got the idea to build a track, just like the one in the Olympics. We made it wide enough for the sled and took great care to bank the turns, placing one of the old tires piled behind the garage at the top of each of those banked turns. They sat tall at every curve, a big open circle revealing the white covering of snow behind them that covered virtually everything. It was formed in a sinuous course that we hoped would allow the sled to slow naturally instead of having the ride limited by the end of the lawn. It dropped steeply down with a course headed toward the outside corner of the garage extending a few feet beyond that point and curving around in a 90-degree turn that then shot across the lawn toward the big old oak tree that was one of the main features of our yard. We had packed snow up against the base of the tree placing one of the tires against the trunk and packing it solidly into place. A couple of more turns took us on a trip that crossed our backyard 3-times and more than doubled the length of our usual relatively straight route. Through testing early in the construction process we had discovered that the packed snow was not as solid as we desired and a sled moving at a decent clip tended to plow right into the snow bank instead of moving up the banked turn and onto the rest of the track. It was late in the day so, realizing there was not much more time left in the day we contemplated getting full use from the track the next day, Sunday. Realizing this soft-snow-pack was a problem we hit upon an obvious solution: wet the track down, let it freeze all night and we would have a perfect track the next day.

The first bucket of water melted all of the snow upon which it was deposited. After a repair and some consideration we decided the bucket would have to be emptied much slower. We soon found that to empty the bucket of it’s load at a rate that would not melt anything it touched it would take all night – not an option – to this point out parents had no idea what we were doing. It was cold outside and warm inside. So far they weren’t curious about our activities that day and we wanted to keep it that way. There were no sidewalks to shovel in the back and the driveway was only cleared enough to get the car halfway up. They were staying inside. They had no idea…which was how we liked it as we knew that discovery would probably end in another “You can’t jump off that!” or “That looks too dangerous.” These were the last words we wanted to hear and so avoided a parent/child interface this afternoon. We put our heads together – we still knew wetting the track would put the desired layer of ice on the surface.

We were also well aware the garden hose had been put up for the winter to avoid frozen pipes so it was apparent that using the hose was not an option…or was it? We both arrived at the same idea at the same time: the hose screwed into the deep-sink that resided at the bottom of the rear outside entrance to the basement. Steve went inside via the usual side-door to open the basement-door which opened to the back yard and was locked from the inside. While he did this I dragged the hose out of the garage gently opening the garage door and squeezing through the opening to retrieve the hose from the darkened garage. Dragging the hose behind me back under the door I furtively looked around in anticipation of “Larry! What are you doing?” The coast was clear. I arrived at the back door as it opened from the inside. I quickly moved into the dark, hose clutched close to my body in an attempt to stop the loose coils of hose from unwrapping onto the ground.

We quickly screwed the hose onto the faucet and dragged the end outside stopping frequently to un-kink and untangle the chaotic mess of limp plastic. After considerable struggle we had extended the hose its full length and quietly turned the cold water on. Holding my finger over the open end as I had been taught, a fine spray of water spewed from the end and laid a gentle mist of cold water over the track. We sprayed the entire snow bank that was our launch point and proceeded down the track assuring the banked turns were well covered. We soaked the turns and the tires to assure solid banked turns. We even included filling the hollow of the tires with water to assure it would stay heavy and well imbedded into place where needed to protect us from wildly flying off the track when we were trying to navigate an aggressive turn. Just before dark we managed to sneak the still-connected hose out the back door one last time for a final, and heaver, layer of water for a solid run of ice following the freezing-cold night.

The next morning we awoke and ran to the window. Like a fairy wonderland the icy track glittered in the morning sun fairly inviting us to ride. Mom made us eat breakfast which we bolted as fast as we possibly could hoping to get some track-time in before Sunday School…no such luck…Sunday School first. This meant we wouldn‘t be on the track until after church, at least, 1:00 in the afternoon.

In the high sun the track fairly glowed with an icy glitter that welcomed us with open arms. Sneaking our Flexi-Flyers upstairs, into our room and out the window, I was to be first, over Steve’s protests. Hey, he is the LITTLE brother…decision: easy…overruled. With a deep breath I launched into space. I crashed onto the icy snow hard and began to careen wildly downhill. Within a few feet, and well before the bottom, I had barely regained control and was speeding at an insane pace toward the first banked turn and the icy tire. I prepared to “hop” the sled off the ground to relieve some of the angular momentum and shoot more directly into the turn. I waited to feel the upturn in the track leading to the banked turn. The tire rose up before me and – BLANG-G-G-G-G-G – the sled vibrated with the residual force of the fast moving sled impaling itself into the side of a frozen tire. I shot through the center like a performing seal through a fiery ring and began to roll through the soft snow. I came to a rest 10’ on the outside of the track surprised and invigorated. We were absolutely sure that with enough work that track would work perfectly! Unfortunately a warm snap helped the snow melt within the week and we never did get the track banked enough to get past that first high-speed 90-degree turn.

This was just an example of how things don’t always go as planned…which is why we maybe should have rethought our brilliant idea on this day some years later: a sled trip down the Petrifying Springs Toboggan Slide.

The shack from where the toboggans would launch, having one side open to the elements, was not completely unassailable so we figured a firm grip on the open jamb would allow us to each swing around the opening to gain access to the inside of the shack…and hence the track. As the launch handle was also padlocked to an immobile state we would have to drop onto the track, similar to our launch off the roof into our backyard. We would launch into space and catch the track after a short drop. I volunteered to be the first.

I gripped the sled firmly in my hands prepared to drop off into space. I looked downhill at the extremely steep slope. My heart was in my throat. The hill looked like it dropped straight down. I wasn’t sure this was a good idea after all. It was really steep and really icy. I gently laid the sled down on the holding block so it teetered insecurely as I gently lay on my stomach to test the feasibility of this somewhat more conservative launch. It didn’t feel much better than a contemplated drop into space seemed to be. I turned to speak over my shoulder, having second thoughts and ready to chicken-out “Ron…” I said and then “OOOPS! E-AH, AHHH!” as the sled unexpectedly tipped forward and dropped onto the track. I held on for dear life…speeding much faster than I had ever contemplated. It seems metal runners move a lot faster on ice than the wooden runners on a toboggan. I shot down the hill gaining speed with every foot of travel. Trees shot by like a jet passing a hang glider. MYGOD THERE’S PEOPLE DOWN THERE! I was barely hanging on much less controlling the direction or speed of the sled. I crossed the sound barrier and proceeded onto the speed of light in a matter of seconds with the sound of my passing bringing up the rear, “HHHEEELLLPPP!!! AHHHHHHH!” I shot across the level area that was, fortunately, almost emptied of people and headed for the rise bordering the little pond. I don’t believe I slowed at all as I screamed “GET OUT OF THE WAY!! LOOK OUT!! WHOAH!!” and headed up the little hill toward the pond. I cleared the fence by at least 2-feet and shot between 2 benches. I hit the ice feeling like I was the pilot of an out-of-control rocket-car and zoomed across the ice as though friction did not exist in this universe.

White. Soft. Cold. Quiet. I was buried headfirst in the snow bank on the far side of the pond. Sled still held in a death-grip. Nervous laughter bubbled from my lips. I was still alive. I rolled onto my back in the soft snow. I lay there for a long time appreciating life and the quiet. Eventually I heard my brother speak, “Is he ok?” I sat up, huge smile on my face. “Wow!! That was incredible!”

“…but I don’t think I’ll be doing it again.”

1955 - CHURCH

1955 - Church

A loud moan escaped from the lips of the woman sitting right next to my grandma…she jumped to her feet and began shouting. “May the power of the Lord course through me! Halleluiah! Oy-yay all ye, sinners! All ye who may hear my voice sayith the Lord unto you: ‘Worship me in my heaven! Give of yourselves to the sinners and teach the children to walk the path of the righteous! Halleluiah!” Her voice took on a rhythm that was somehow echoed by the band and the chanting of a similar voice across the room. The noise was too loud to clearly hear this vague chant over the congregation but there seemed to be an undefined link between our seating companion and this, barely heard, chant. “Open your hearts to the way of the Lord! Walk no more in sin! Oh, glory, glory! His is the way, the path of righteousness! The light! The way! Oh the love of the Lord is…” she dropped into her seat draped in sweat and worn to a frazzle. She jerked and bounced in the seat, at rag-doll who still moved to the beat of the music. She wept aloud and moaned. She began thrashing until she fell across her companion and into the aisle rolling and humping and jerking in uncontrollable rapture. After a moment she sat up, elbows on knees and head in her hands as her shoulders shook uncontrollably from the sobs that tore from her lips.

As she had dropped to her seat in this large ex-theatre-cum-tabernacle I had heard another voice across the large room take up her sentence without pause, “…beautiful and shall lift you up to heaven to be with the Lord for the rest of your days. Yay verily, sayith the Lord. Sit with me at the right hand of God Almighty in the glory if heaven forever. Believe the word of the Lord...” he continued to preach in a strange cadence with that other voice, that chant that sang along, in strange harmony, and barely rose above the din. The chant ended suddenly and was immediately taken up, again without pause, by a gentleman seated 3-pews back from us and a few pews to our right. His voice was clear and powerful as he spoke loudly in a babble-language that I had never heard before and have not heard since…the language of tongues. “Abba dabba rumbuddy! Oh hah nieno jadidgoda!” This voice ended but the rhythm and language was taken up instantly by another invisible voice a few rows up who continued, “Badda dum dodogee…etc.” The congregation was in a state of rapture and the near riot of movement and voice that was fascinating to a four-year-old who found so much of the world new and amazing. As the two voices rose above the babble of the crowd the rhythmic beat of the spoken word and the undertone of the drums and cymbals pulled my mother and grandmother irresistibly to their feet. The tempo took hold of the congregation and they all began to move in a surging beat with the rhythm of the speakers who now spoke strongly. I drew my feet in and onto my seat to obtain some relief from the crowd. After a few seconds I stood up and watched the crowd around me with rapt fascination.

After a life-time of experience I can say with confidence from my memory that this overflowing house originally held around 400 or so movie-goers on the main floor. With the balcony open there was room for another 150 or so. With the big screen removed from the stage there was plenty of room for the show, including preachers, deacons, choir and band. The was even a cut-short runway that ran about 5 feet toward the crowd and enabled the preacher’s to get in close to the congregation while still maintaining a position that towered over the parishioners. Stairs had been added on either side of the runway that allowed the congregation access to the stage, or alter. These stairs ran the length of the stage in both directions and each step was wide enough to easily hold a prostrate parishioner. As I think back of my seared memories of this event, the style of the room, the curtains and the runway I think it is ironic that this room had, at one time was almost certainly, a burlesque house which meant this was certainly not the first time this room had seen an unruly crowd, almost all of whom were singing, wailing, shouting, dancing in-place, and causing a general hubbub.

The revival was a clear demonstration of the rapture of a religious experience that outpaces the human ability to deal with an outpouring of emotion and raises the emotionally vested beyond their ability to process the frantic motion of the crowd, the music, the choir and the shouted preaching that spontaneously gave way to the parishioners speaking, shouting and wailing undecipherable words, or words that were only understood by the translator…for there must be a translator to qualify as speaking-in-tongues. To speak this language without benefit of a translator whom is spontaneously moved by the spirit to interpret the Word is, I understand, a sin as the meaning of the words could be an evil message delivered by the devil. Speaking in tongues always includes two people.

Brother and Sister Broker manipulated the congregation like marionette-masters and, starting with a hymn and a few bible passages, had raised the congregation’s emotional state, over the last hour and a-half, to a frenzy. There were several calls for collection and lay speakers read bible passages that were followed by another hymn that was accompanied with gusto on the left side of the stage by a choir and to the right a band big enough to draw a reasonable amount of attraction and loud enough to make a very noticeable “joyful noise.” There was a piano played with gusto by the band director and accompanied by an organ that mostly held a droning background sound that only changed chords when a change in the progression of notes occasionally forced a chord change to reliably create the requisite pleasing harmony. A big bass drum was played marching-band style and a drummer who played snare and cymbals in the more traditional fashion but with a great deal of freedom and verve were joined by two spirited performers who helped out with wood blocks, bells, chimes and any additional cymbals. There were a couple of acoustic guitars and an upright acoustic bass. There was a small horn section that more than made up for its lack of size with an excess of sound. As the preaching grew more emotional, the music picked up the pace and the hymns, always sung with great spirit by the choir, were echoed with greater and greater fervor by the congregation. At just the right moment the room exploded into a kind of controlled chaos and the spirit spontaneously moved the congregation.

This was a rock show of religion that to-this-day reminds me of a similar experience I had several years later when I managed to witness my Uncle Del and his Fire-and-Brimstone Tent Show. Uncle Del was a long-standing fire-and-brimstone preacher with a style that enabled him to hold a congregation in the palm of his hand inside his old, worn and heavily patched circus tent. He was a slight thin and short little man who towered over his congregation by radiating the power of the Lord. He took them on a roller-coaster ride that took up most of a good Sunday afternoon and ended in an alter call of the saved to come forward to be healed, prayed over or blessed depending upon the particular needs of the parishioner. This congregation could also be found speaking in tongues on occasion when Uncle Del felt the power of the Lord and his sermon was particularly moving. The alter-call was, of course, held after some singing, some preaching, a monetary collection, some more preaching, some praying, more preaching, another collection and some more singing. Following the alter-call and just before the last hymn there was a final appeal for financial support. I wasn’t sure exactly what Uncle Del did with the money he collected but I do know it didn’t go to his family except in amounts necessary to keep them fed, clothed and housed. As true believers they did not live extravagantly. Uncle Del was, indeed, termed a true believer who spent any extra income performing good-deeds for others and earning a good spot on the bleachers for the after-death-and-unto-eternity-show. Evidently this brand of religion runs in my family.

On the day, so may years before Uncle Del became a tent preacher, my 5-year old self, my mom and my grandma had ridden the big bus to Kenosha from Zion to attend Brother & Sister Broker’s version of the Revival event. We were picked up early in the morning at grandma’s door and boarded the big yellow bus for the ride to the church with the bus full of praying, preaching and singing believers. Although the service itself was very similar, when Uncle Del preached, we drove our car out to the country and parked in a big field with only 20 or-so other cars…as the majority of attendees were walking to the event from a small town somewhere within walking distance. I hadn’t noticed a town anywhere near our location but there was a steady stream of people carrying their bibles and walking with their families, all dressed in their Sunday best. Ladies and girls in long dresses and sun-bonnets, most apparently home-made, followed a pace behind their husbands. The men strode on, family bible in hand with the older boys while the younger bare-footed boys brought up the rear, yelling and pushing and playing war with sticks and shooting Nazis with their fingers. As this was a community in a more rural part of Illinois, often their Sunday best included bib-overalls and more than one well-worn straw hat that would be used as a fan to relieve the dead heat and to chase the insects that buzzed incessantly around everyone’s head. In 1955 that condition was normal for either event as air conditioning was rare and insects were not. There was of course no air conditioning in the theatre-cum-tabernacle so ventilation was accomplished using the same method that had been used in Uncle Del’s tent: open doors and hand-held fans which were only effective at blowing the oppressively hot air around for very little relief.

In either case, after church we would socialize for awhile outside but would leave soon thereafter to return home to fields of green and a dog that always wanted to play. Mom and grandma would be fixing fried chicken and mashed potatoes, the traditional Sunday afternoon meal, while chatting and caring for my little brother, still a babe in-arms. Dad and grandpa would be sitting on the front-porch engrossed in a low conversation about family or religion or politics until we were called in to our Sunday meal. We gathered at the family table and quietly bowed our heads to pray.

I’m sure at the age of 5 this seemed like just another typical Sunday. Only this one was just slightly more memorable than most.