I did quite well at Waldron Academy. It was a highly structured environment so there were very few distractions, but I still managed to amuse myself in ways that had nothing to do with academics (what else is new). But first, let me 'paint a picture' of Waldron.
The Waldron uniform:
Waldron students wore a light gray wool suit (with the school patch on the left pocket), a white long-sleeved dress shirt, a maroon necktie, maroon socks and maroon shoes. Yes - there was a store that sold all that stuff and yes - it was expensive. The dress code didn't say anything about undershorts but in the early 1960s there were only 2 choices and they were both white :-)
If the temperature got above 95 degrees (there was no air conditioning) we were allowed to take off our wool suit jackets and listen to the nuns bitch about how lucky we were because we could not imagine how hot it was in their habits. Personally, I preferred not to imagine anything about what was in a nun's habit :-)
BTW - I was really glad I was in the 3rd grade when I started at Waldron because the 1st and 2nd graders had to wear shorts, beanie hats and bowties. Talk about degrading!
Classroom etiquette:
During class you sat at your desk with proper posture. Your hands were folded and placed on the edge of the desk immediately in front of you and your attention was fixed on the teacher. You were required to stand when speaking or being spoken to and the teachers addressed you as "Master {LastName}". (Unfortunately, there was nobody named Bates in my class.)
You were required to use a real ink pen. (Those newfangled ballpoint gizmos were unacceptable.) BTW - Being left-handed is something of a nightmare when using an ink pen. The ink doesn't dry immediately so you have to contort your wrist to avoid smearing as you write. I went through a lot of blotter paper. (Look it up...)
I always used a 'cartridge type' ink pen. (Yes - once upon a time the term "ink cartridge" had nothing to do with computer printers.) But some of the kids had these 'lever fill' type pens that could shoot ink out of the tip. You had to be a pretty serious a&&h@le to blast somebody with one of those. That ink did not wash off of your clothes or skin. (I was never the blastee, thank goodness.)
Lunch Time:
Lunch was included in the tuition. There was always a decent selection, but (unfortunately) it was all healthy stuff - no fast food items. The dining room floor was hardwood as were the (4 person) tables and chairs (no institutional metal or plastic). The dining room ceiling was decorated with lovely crystal chandeliers, and the chandeliers were decorated with white 'drinking straw' wrappers... As one might expect, shooting wrappers into the chandeliers was highly discouraged but it was just too tempting - it was quite a challenge to get them to stay :-)
But none of that has anything to do with the topic of this post:
There simply aren't a lot of options for self-amusement when you are sitting perfectly still in a classroom. Luckily, there was a clock on the wall above the teacher's desk. So (naturally) I devoted my years at Waldron to improving my ability to hold my breath.
First, I'd oxygenate my blood by spending a few minutes breathing deeper and quicker than usual and then I'd see how long I could hold it. When I started the best I could do was about 40 seconds. By the time I reached the 5th grade (10 years old) I was up to a minute and 20 seconds. That's hardly world record territory but it's still pretty good...
BTW - They say that holding your breath kills brain cells. That would explain a lot.
My ability to hold my breath did get me into trouble once:
The Crofts (our neighbors on the left) had a back yard pool and I was over there almost every day during the summer. One day one of their sons (who was 5 years older than me) saw me coming up from the bottom of the pool and decided it would be fun to hold me under water for a while. Now, he was aware that I could hold my breath for a long time. But he was not aware that I had already been down there for over a minute and was on my way up for air when he spotted me.
I eventually reached the point where I couldn't hold my breath any longer and inhaled some water but didn't pass out. (Inhaling water is rather unpleasant, BTW). Luckily (or ironically?) the kid had lifeguard training and knew exactly what to do once he realized I was in trouble. He was seriously shaken by what had happened and was incredibly apologetic - he obviously never had any intention of putting me in danger.
I was completely fine after 10 minutes and suffered no real harm except for probably losing a bunch more brain cells :-) And I was back in the pool the next day...
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
The Cynwyd Club
A good part of my dad's life revolved around tennis - he played regularly into his 70s. When I moved to West Linn I bought a house that was on the same block as the neighborhood association tennis courts partly so my dad could come over and play on the weekends.
He was a 'crafty' player - always thinking many moves ahead. He could place the ball exactly where he wanted and never gave you an easy shot. And no matter where you hit it he was already there waiting for it. It was incredibly frustrating... I only ever beat him once - I was in my mid 30s and he was in his mid 60s. He probably wasn't feeling well that day :-)
But back to my childhood:
Upon arriving in Havertown we joined the Cynwyd Club. It was a very exclusive and expensive tennis and squash club in Bala Cynwyd (about 6 miles from our house). The club pro, Norman Bramall, was a legend, having trained a number of top players including a Wimbledon men's singles champion and 7 women's squash champions. (He was the guy I took lessons from.)
The first few times we went to the Club my dad took both my sister and I along. (My mom never went.) He'd be on one side of the net with a gym bag full of balls and my sister and I would be on the other and he'd hit soft shots to us.
It was pretty obvious from the start that my sister wasn't trying very hard... If the ball wasn't right to her she'd just watch it go by... Dad would yell "What was wrong with that one???" and she'd reply "I didn't think I could reach it".
One day there was a short break while dad was refilling the ball bag so I wandered over to sis and said "You know... If you don't start trying a bit harder dad is going to stop bringing you along". She replied: "That's what I'm counting on..." It didn't take too long for her to get her wish :-)
But life at the club did tend to get boring... Dad and I would play a bit but then his tennis buddies would show up and they'd play for hours. Sometimes I'd find another kid to play with, but adults had priority on the courts so we'd always get 'preempted'. I mostly amused myself by wandering around the club and watching people do whatever they were doing. But here's the cool part:
There were courtesy phones all over the club and when I got hungry all I had to do is pick one up and say something like "This is Master G*****. I'd like a cheeseburger, some fries and a chocolate shake on the veranda. Put it on my father's tab..." And about 15 minutes later a servant would deliver my food on a silver tray. Then when the monthly statement came my dad would rant "When did you eat all those cheeseburgers??" But I'm sure my food bill was a pittance compared to his bar tab :-)
Of course, there was a lot of socializing. I couldn't help but notice my dad's flirting - that was the way he was and it seemed innocent enough. (My mom would routinely interrogate me about it...) And when the men needed an escape from the 'refined atmosphere' of the club they could head down to the the mens' locker room. It was equipped with couches, a big TV (to watch sports) and a card table - that's where all the cursing, beer drinking and poker happened. I learned some new words there :-)
I do remember one incident that both puzzled and angered me:
My dad was a huge fan of Bart Starr (Green Bay Packers) and was always talking about what a great quarterback he was. One day we were having lunch with one of the Cynwyd Club board members who (in my opinion) was a loud, obnoxious, abrasive jerk. And at some point the conversation got around to football. I chimed in about what a great quarterback Bart Starr was. 'Mr. Obnoxious' told me I didn't know what I was talking about - Bart Starr was a worthless hack - Y.A. Tittle (NY Giants) was by far the best QB in pro football.
So I sat there waiting for my dad to back me up, but instead he went into 'butt kissing' mode and completely agreed with 'Mr. Obnoxious'! So my dad let this guy treat me like an idiot for echoing his opinions and then he hung me out to dry!!!
I'm sure there was some reason why dad couldn't risk pissing the guy off (proposing new members tended to be highly political) but it was still a complete shock to me. That was the first (but not the last) time I was 'thrown under the bus' by someone I expected to have my back...
The last year we lived in Havertown (when dad was unemployed) the Cynwyd Club membership was the one thing he absolutely would not consider parting with. He pretty much stopped taking me along - the club became his last refuge as our lives fell apart...
He was a 'crafty' player - always thinking many moves ahead. He could place the ball exactly where he wanted and never gave you an easy shot. And no matter where you hit it he was already there waiting for it. It was incredibly frustrating... I only ever beat him once - I was in my mid 30s and he was in his mid 60s. He probably wasn't feeling well that day :-)
But back to my childhood:
Upon arriving in Havertown we joined the Cynwyd Club. It was a very exclusive and expensive tennis and squash club in Bala Cynwyd (about 6 miles from our house). The club pro, Norman Bramall, was a legend, having trained a number of top players including a Wimbledon men's singles champion and 7 women's squash champions. (He was the guy I took lessons from.)
The first few times we went to the Club my dad took both my sister and I along. (My mom never went.) He'd be on one side of the net with a gym bag full of balls and my sister and I would be on the other and he'd hit soft shots to us.
It was pretty obvious from the start that my sister wasn't trying very hard... If the ball wasn't right to her she'd just watch it go by... Dad would yell "What was wrong with that one???" and she'd reply "I didn't think I could reach it".
One day there was a short break while dad was refilling the ball bag so I wandered over to sis and said "You know... If you don't start trying a bit harder dad is going to stop bringing you along". She replied: "That's what I'm counting on..." It didn't take too long for her to get her wish :-)
But life at the club did tend to get boring... Dad and I would play a bit but then his tennis buddies would show up and they'd play for hours. Sometimes I'd find another kid to play with, but adults had priority on the courts so we'd always get 'preempted'. I mostly amused myself by wandering around the club and watching people do whatever they were doing. But here's the cool part:
There were courtesy phones all over the club and when I got hungry all I had to do is pick one up and say something like "This is Master G*****. I'd like a cheeseburger, some fries and a chocolate shake on the veranda. Put it on my father's tab..." And about 15 minutes later a servant would deliver my food on a silver tray. Then when the monthly statement came my dad would rant "When did you eat all those cheeseburgers??" But I'm sure my food bill was a pittance compared to his bar tab :-)
Of course, there was a lot of socializing. I couldn't help but notice my dad's flirting - that was the way he was and it seemed innocent enough. (My mom would routinely interrogate me about it...) And when the men needed an escape from the 'refined atmosphere' of the club they could head down to the the mens' locker room. It was equipped with couches, a big TV (to watch sports) and a card table - that's where all the cursing, beer drinking and poker happened. I learned some new words there :-)
I do remember one incident that both puzzled and angered me:
My dad was a huge fan of Bart Starr (Green Bay Packers) and was always talking about what a great quarterback he was. One day we were having lunch with one of the Cynwyd Club board members who (in my opinion) was a loud, obnoxious, abrasive jerk. And at some point the conversation got around to football. I chimed in about what a great quarterback Bart Starr was. 'Mr. Obnoxious' told me I didn't know what I was talking about - Bart Starr was a worthless hack - Y.A. Tittle (NY Giants) was by far the best QB in pro football.
So I sat there waiting for my dad to back me up, but instead he went into 'butt kissing' mode and completely agreed with 'Mr. Obnoxious'! So my dad let this guy treat me like an idiot for echoing his opinions and then he hung me out to dry!!!
I'm sure there was some reason why dad couldn't risk pissing the guy off (proposing new members tended to be highly political) but it was still a complete shock to me. That was the first (but not the last) time I was 'thrown under the bus' by someone I expected to have my back...
The last year we lived in Havertown (when dad was unemployed) the Cynwyd Club membership was the one thing he absolutely would not consider parting with. He pretty much stopped taking me along - the club became his last refuge as our lives fell apart...
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Allowances
There used to be a drugstore with a soda fountain on Darby Road near the intersection with West Chester Pike. It was about 3 blocks from our house, and that was where my sister and I spent our allowances. Or to be more precise - that's where I spent our allowances.
My parents were quite generous - every Friday we got $1.75 each (that's about $12 in 2010 dollars). Goodness knows we didn't do a darn thing to earn it... And every week it was the same ritual:
My sister Keg (who at that point was far too lazy to walk 3 blocks) would give me her allowance and a list of magazines to buy. I'd head off to the drugstore, spend a quarter on a fountain drink (the old guy behind the counter mixed a wicked cherry cola) then buy the magazines for my sister and 3 packs of Topps baseball cards for myself (five cards and a piece of stale bubblegum per nickel pack)... I charged my sister a quarter for doing her shopping for her. Given how embarrassing it was to be seen buying crap like "True Romance" and "16 Magazine" I should have gotten a lot more :-)
The rest of my allowance was stashed in my Japanese puzzle box. That box was my most prized possession (after my Stan Musial memorabilia). It was a relatively simple one (7 moves to open) but it had beautiful inlay and was just plain cool. And it's another one of things I never saw again after the divorce (along with all my baseball cards). But I digress...
Every year I saved $40 (that's $280 in 2010 currency) to spend on Christmas presents for the family. I got my mom a bottle of Chanel No. 5 ($115 today), my dad an expensive silk necktie, and whatever was left over I spent on my sister. BTW - I loved the way clerks reacted to me... I would walk up and tell them what I wanted and they'd give me their patronizing little "You know, that's very expensive" routine and I'd be all "Yeah - I'm aware" and pull out the cash... It was very gratifying. But I digress (again)...
My sister, on the other hand, was always broke and trying to con money out of me. (You know, that never did change.) By the time I was 9 I insisted on a signed and witnessed contract before doing business with her. (Yes, I was drafting contracts at that age...) After my dad passed away my stepmother found one of them among his papers and gave it to me. Dad must have considered it pretty amusing to have kept it for all those years :-) So - after I'm gone, if anyone finds a little hand written note dealing with a borrowed radio, that's what it was all about...
I did occasionally buy other things with my money - like the Beach Boys' first 6 albums. I took them to Germany with me - I couldn't survive without them. And I bought a lot of car models (started building those when I was 6), an occasional Mad magazine and a baseball mitt. Pretty much everything else my heart desired my parents bought for me.
Except for a go-kart... When I was 9 I asked my dad if I could have one and he said I was too young. I asked him when I'd be old enough and he said "In a couple of years". Of course, I contemplated that go-kart almost every day for the next 2 years and on my 11th birthday I asked my dad about it again and he said "No way". And I said "But you promised!" And he said "We've never discussed a go-kart before!" I was stunned!!! I'd waited patiently for years and he forgot all about it... So yeah - be careful what you say to your kids :-)
One final drugstore story:
When I joined scouts (yet another story) I got a pair of hiking boots. Nowadays people usually refer to them as waffle stompers but back in the day they were called clodhoppers. The first time I wore them I was heading to the drugstore with one of my friends and encountered a big clump of dirt next to the sidewalk. I said "Watch this! I'm going to hop over that clod with my clodhoppers!" and being unfamiliar with the handling characteristics of my new footwear I tripped and fell flat on my face... I had intended it to be funny, but not that funny :-)
My parents were quite generous - every Friday we got $1.75 each (that's about $12 in 2010 dollars). Goodness knows we didn't do a darn thing to earn it... And every week it was the same ritual:
My sister Keg (who at that point was far too lazy to walk 3 blocks) would give me her allowance and a list of magazines to buy. I'd head off to the drugstore, spend a quarter on a fountain drink (the old guy behind the counter mixed a wicked cherry cola) then buy the magazines for my sister and 3 packs of Topps baseball cards for myself (five cards and a piece of stale bubblegum per nickel pack)... I charged my sister a quarter for doing her shopping for her. Given how embarrassing it was to be seen buying crap like "True Romance" and "16 Magazine" I should have gotten a lot more :-)
The rest of my allowance was stashed in my Japanese puzzle box. That box was my most prized possession (after my Stan Musial memorabilia). It was a relatively simple one (7 moves to open) but it had beautiful inlay and was just plain cool. And it's another one of things I never saw again after the divorce (along with all my baseball cards). But I digress...
Every year I saved $40 (that's $280 in 2010 currency) to spend on Christmas presents for the family. I got my mom a bottle of Chanel No. 5 ($115 today), my dad an expensive silk necktie, and whatever was left over I spent on my sister. BTW - I loved the way clerks reacted to me... I would walk up and tell them what I wanted and they'd give me their patronizing little "You know, that's very expensive" routine and I'd be all "Yeah - I'm aware" and pull out the cash... It was very gratifying. But I digress (again)...
My sister, on the other hand, was always broke and trying to con money out of me. (You know, that never did change.) By the time I was 9 I insisted on a signed and witnessed contract before doing business with her. (Yes, I was drafting contracts at that age...) After my dad passed away my stepmother found one of them among his papers and gave it to me. Dad must have considered it pretty amusing to have kept it for all those years :-) So - after I'm gone, if anyone finds a little hand written note dealing with a borrowed radio, that's what it was all about...
I did occasionally buy other things with my money - like the Beach Boys' first 6 albums. I took them to Germany with me - I couldn't survive without them. And I bought a lot of car models (started building those when I was 6), an occasional Mad magazine and a baseball mitt. Pretty much everything else my heart desired my parents bought for me.
Except for a go-kart... When I was 9 I asked my dad if I could have one and he said I was too young. I asked him when I'd be old enough and he said "In a couple of years". Of course, I contemplated that go-kart almost every day for the next 2 years and on my 11th birthday I asked my dad about it again and he said "No way". And I said "But you promised!" And he said "We've never discussed a go-kart before!" I was stunned!!! I'd waited patiently for years and he forgot all about it... So yeah - be careful what you say to your kids :-)
One final drugstore story:
When I joined scouts (yet another story) I got a pair of hiking boots. Nowadays people usually refer to them as waffle stompers but back in the day they were called clodhoppers. The first time I wore them I was heading to the drugstore with one of my friends and encountered a big clump of dirt next to the sidewalk. I said "Watch this! I'm going to hop over that clod with my clodhoppers!" and being unfamiliar with the handling characteristics of my new footwear I tripped and fell flat on my face... I had intended it to be funny, but not that funny :-)
Monday, February 22, 2010
Havertown
We lived in Havertown for exactly three years and two and a half months before my mother, sister and I left for Germany. And I'm still wrestling with trying to explain what happened...
Dad:
I really don't know what was going on with my dad at that point. He lost his job roughly a year after we got there. And while still unemployed he bought a new black Plymouth Fury convertible with red interior. The he got one of those Scottish driving caps and a pipe so he would look cool driving it. I thought it was funnier than heck - I'd never seen him 'pose' like that before. It was plain weird... :-)
He got another regional sales manager position rather quickly. But that also only lasted a year. And he was unemployed for the remaining year we spent in Havertown. I know he was actively looking for work but he wouldn't consider anything he felt was 'beneath him'.
And during that time he didn't come home much. He spent his days (and most of the evenings) at the Cynwyd Club (tennis and squash). But he wasn't always at the club because our neighbors were seeing him out and about with various young ladies (including our 18 year old babysitter)...
So yeah - he was clearly having some sort of crisis. I never really 'interrogated' him about it - he swore he never cheated on my mom when they were 'together'. So he probably already considered their marriage over... Of course, that would've been news to my mom :-)
Mom:
In retrospect my mother was clearly suffering from anxiety disorder by the time we moved to Havertown. She really did not function very well during those years.
BTW - I neglected to mention this earlier - my mom had O negative blood and suffered 3 miscarriages during the time in St. Louis. I know that she blamed my father for one of them (she fell on some icy stairs because dad wouldn't help her or something). It was just one of many things she was constantly angry at my father about. But I digress...
Shortly after we moved to Havertown my mom was diagnosed with uterine fibroid tumors and had a hysterectomy. That kind of surgery was a huge deal back in the day - they kept her in the hospital for a solid month. And they hadn't figured out the whole 'hormone therapy' thing yet so for the rest of our time in Havertown she was taking Darvon to go to sleep at night and amphetamines to wake up in the morning.
And for some inexplicable reason, after her hysterectomy my mother decided to become a follower of Paramahansa Yogananda. (This was way before the whole Beatles / India thing.) We had always been devout Catholics, so this greatly dismayed both my father and the neighbors (who were all Catholic). And there was a 20-something nerdy kid down the block who was also a devotee and was always hanging out with my mom. It was a bit weird...
During that final year (when dad wasn't working) my mom was selling stuff door-to-door and teaching exercise and yoga classes in our basement. Basically anything to bring in a few bucks. And she was livid that dad wasn't willing to do the same...
My sister Kathy / Keg:
My sister changed her name to Keg (her initials), sequestered herself in her room and gained weight. She spent her days reading 'romance' and 'teen' magazines and stuffing them under her bed. There were so many of them I'm surprised her bed frame still touched the floor... She got sullen and moody and my parents mostly either yelled at her or ignored her.
But she did have some cute friends :-) I remember Elizabeth Plater-Zyberk, who I just discovered is very famous in the world of architecture and urban planning (I got over 22,000 Google hits). And there was a lovely Cuban girl whose name escapes me (it'll come to me in a year or so). I remember her because the first time she saw me she said (this is an exact quote): "That's your little brother? Oh my gosh! He's so handsome! If he were older I would marry him!"
(Now -why did that kind of stuff stop happening when I reached my teens???)
And then there was me:
Well, I guess that's kind of the point of this blog :-) The posts will probably become less frequent for a while - I've realized that I never really sorted through the whole Havertown experience. It still amazes me that I saw everything that was going on but didn't see what was going on...
Dad:
I really don't know what was going on with my dad at that point. He lost his job roughly a year after we got there. And while still unemployed he bought a new black Plymouth Fury convertible with red interior. The he got one of those Scottish driving caps and a pipe so he would look cool driving it. I thought it was funnier than heck - I'd never seen him 'pose' like that before. It was plain weird... :-)
He got another regional sales manager position rather quickly. But that also only lasted a year. And he was unemployed for the remaining year we spent in Havertown. I know he was actively looking for work but he wouldn't consider anything he felt was 'beneath him'.
And during that time he didn't come home much. He spent his days (and most of the evenings) at the Cynwyd Club (tennis and squash). But he wasn't always at the club because our neighbors were seeing him out and about with various young ladies (including our 18 year old babysitter)...
So yeah - he was clearly having some sort of crisis. I never really 'interrogated' him about it - he swore he never cheated on my mom when they were 'together'. So he probably already considered their marriage over... Of course, that would've been news to my mom :-)
Mom:
In retrospect my mother was clearly suffering from anxiety disorder by the time we moved to Havertown. She really did not function very well during those years.
BTW - I neglected to mention this earlier - my mom had O negative blood and suffered 3 miscarriages during the time in St. Louis. I know that she blamed my father for one of them (she fell on some icy stairs because dad wouldn't help her or something). It was just one of many things she was constantly angry at my father about. But I digress...
Shortly after we moved to Havertown my mom was diagnosed with uterine fibroid tumors and had a hysterectomy. That kind of surgery was a huge deal back in the day - they kept her in the hospital for a solid month. And they hadn't figured out the whole 'hormone therapy' thing yet so for the rest of our time in Havertown she was taking Darvon to go to sleep at night and amphetamines to wake up in the morning.
And for some inexplicable reason, after her hysterectomy my mother decided to become a follower of Paramahansa Yogananda. (This was way before the whole Beatles / India thing.) We had always been devout Catholics, so this greatly dismayed both my father and the neighbors (who were all Catholic). And there was a 20-something nerdy kid down the block who was also a devotee and was always hanging out with my mom. It was a bit weird...
During that final year (when dad wasn't working) my mom was selling stuff door-to-door and teaching exercise and yoga classes in our basement. Basically anything to bring in a few bucks. And she was livid that dad wasn't willing to do the same...
My sister Kathy / Keg:
My sister changed her name to Keg (her initials), sequestered herself in her room and gained weight. She spent her days reading 'romance' and 'teen' magazines and stuffing them under her bed. There were so many of them I'm surprised her bed frame still touched the floor... She got sullen and moody and my parents mostly either yelled at her or ignored her.
But she did have some cute friends :-) I remember Elizabeth Plater-Zyberk, who I just discovered is very famous in the world of architecture and urban planning (I got over 22,000 Google hits). And there was a lovely Cuban girl whose name escapes me (it'll come to me in a year or so). I remember her because the first time she saw me she said (this is an exact quote): "That's your little brother? Oh my gosh! He's so handsome! If he were older I would marry him!"
(Now -why did that kind of stuff stop happening when I reached my teens???)
And then there was me:
Well, I guess that's kind of the point of this blog :-) The posts will probably become less frequent for a while - I've realized that I never really sorted through the whole Havertown experience. It still amazes me that I saw everything that was going on but didn't see what was going on...
Friday, February 19, 2010
Bewley Road
When we moved from Lakeshire (suburb near St. Louis) to Havertown (suburb near Philadelphia) we ended up buying a house on Bewley Rd. But before I dive into that topic there's a Lakeshire story that I haven't told yet:
When I started riding a bicycle I was under strict orders from my Mom never to get on the bike unless I was wearing shoes. So (of course) one weekend when I was 6 and my parents were out of town (left us with a sitter) I decided to go for a bike ride around Lakeshire wearing my "flip-flops" - I mean, what could go wrong? So, I was standing up pedaling hard up a slight hill when my left foot slipped. My toes hit the ground first, and the movement of the bike caused my foot to flip so the top of it got dragged along the pavement (with my full weight on it) thereby turning it into a bloody mess... Luckily I was riding my sister's (bigger) girl's bike so when I slipped I didn't suffer the expected 'crotch damage'. BTW - That upper cross-member on boy's bikes is another one of those 'natural selection' things - it's clearly intended to be a sterilization mechanism for incompetent riders :-) But I digress...
Now, I could not tell the babysitter about the injury because she would tell my mom and I'd have to admit that I disobeyed her and I couldn't possibly do that :-) So I just always wore socks until that foot healed. (I threw away the initial bloody ones and yes, the socks did tend to stick to the wounds for a while).
But here's the point (counterpoint?) of that particular story: If there was one thing that motivated me above all else during my childhood it was pain avoidance. Yes - I cannot stand to feel pain (just ask my wife - she'll tell you what a wuss I am). I did screw up occasionally (as the above story illustrates) but I was generally cautious and made it through my entire childhood without a single stitch or broken bone.
That also explains why I sucked at baseball (and other such sports) even though I was one of the fastest kids around and had incredible reflexes. I loved playing but my primary motivation was to avoid getting hit by the ball :-)
In other words, I was the exact opposite of almost every other boy on Bewley Road. I have never seen so many fearless, reckless, aggressive alpha male types on one blocks in my life. (OK... I know it doesn't compare with a typical inner city block but this was the suburbs.)
Hardly a month went by without somebody going to the emergency room. From fights (stitches and head wounds) to catching squirrels (stitches and rabies shots), to getting pushed out of trees (broken arms and legs) - not to mention the occasional firework mishap. It was quite a hostile environment for a pain-o-phobe like me :-)
There were a lot of kids on the block. The Devines were our neighbors on the right and had 3 girls and 2 boys. The Bradfields lived on the other side of the Devines and had 7 kids including 4(?) boys. The Crofts were our neighbors on the left and had 4 boys. The Howleys were a couple of doors past the Crofts and had 5 boys. Libby's family on the corner (the O'somethings?) had 7 or 8 kids. Not to mention a number of families with 2 or 3 kids. I can't even imagine what it was like before our house's prior owners moved away with their 14 kids (the oldest was 16).
So that was Bewley Road back in the day - I'll leave the details for a future post...
When I started riding a bicycle I was under strict orders from my Mom never to get on the bike unless I was wearing shoes. So (of course) one weekend when I was 6 and my parents were out of town (left us with a sitter) I decided to go for a bike ride around Lakeshire wearing my "flip-flops" - I mean, what could go wrong? So, I was standing up pedaling hard up a slight hill when my left foot slipped. My toes hit the ground first, and the movement of the bike caused my foot to flip so the top of it got dragged along the pavement (with my full weight on it) thereby turning it into a bloody mess... Luckily I was riding my sister's (bigger) girl's bike so when I slipped I didn't suffer the expected 'crotch damage'. BTW - That upper cross-member on boy's bikes is another one of those 'natural selection' things - it's clearly intended to be a sterilization mechanism for incompetent riders :-) But I digress...
Now, I could not tell the babysitter about the injury because she would tell my mom and I'd have to admit that I disobeyed her and I couldn't possibly do that :-) So I just always wore socks until that foot healed. (I threw away the initial bloody ones and yes, the socks did tend to stick to the wounds for a while).
But here's the point (counterpoint?) of that particular story: If there was one thing that motivated me above all else during my childhood it was pain avoidance. Yes - I cannot stand to feel pain (just ask my wife - she'll tell you what a wuss I am). I did screw up occasionally (as the above story illustrates) but I was generally cautious and made it through my entire childhood without a single stitch or broken bone.
That also explains why I sucked at baseball (and other such sports) even though I was one of the fastest kids around and had incredible reflexes. I loved playing but my primary motivation was to avoid getting hit by the ball :-)
In other words, I was the exact opposite of almost every other boy on Bewley Road. I have never seen so many fearless, reckless, aggressive alpha male types on one blocks in my life. (OK... I know it doesn't compare with a typical inner city block but this was the suburbs.)
Hardly a month went by without somebody going to the emergency room. From fights (stitches and head wounds) to catching squirrels (stitches and rabies shots), to getting pushed out of trees (broken arms and legs) - not to mention the occasional firework mishap. It was quite a hostile environment for a pain-o-phobe like me :-)
There were a lot of kids on the block. The Devines were our neighbors on the right and had 3 girls and 2 boys. The Bradfields lived on the other side of the Devines and had 7 kids including 4(?) boys. The Crofts were our neighbors on the left and had 4 boys. The Howleys were a couple of doors past the Crofts and had 5 boys. Libby's family on the corner (the O'somethings?) had 7 or 8 kids. Not to mention a number of families with 2 or 3 kids. I can't even imagine what it was like before our house's prior owners moved away with their 14 kids (the oldest was 16).
So that was Bewley Road back in the day - I'll leave the details for a future post...
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Olympic Dreams
I've been watching the Winter Olympics the past few days and it strikes me that a lot of the events are not as interesting (or challenging) as they could be. Here are a few of the (less disturbing) thoughts that have occurred to me:
Luge/Skeleton:
I did a lot of sledding when I was growing up and it bothers me that the Olympic event in no way resembles what I experienced as a child.
First off - there should be jumps. Every sledding hill I was on as a kid had at least one jump. If you can't handle a small jump you've got no business calling yourself an Olympic athlete :-)
Next - what is up with those banked turns? A sledding track should look more like a giant slalom course. You should have to drag body parts to negotiate the turns... And there should be places on the track where you have to slow down or you'll end up in the weeds.
This is probably a bit much to ask, but my favorite sledding hill had a 3 foot deep creek at the end of the run. You either stopped in time or ended up with hypothermia. Now that would be worth watching :-)
Biathlon:
I'm referring to that silly mix of cross country skiing and target shooting. It needs to be fixed... Two words: "Paintball Guns".
This event started out as a military exercise anyway so why not let the athletes be the targets instead of those little round things??? And none of this "cleared track" business! They should be skiing through the woods sniping at each other. Scoring would be based on total time, the number of times you got hit and the number of hits you scored on your competitors. Much more entertaining that way :-)
Long-track speed skating:
This event needs some of the excitement of short track. My idea is to have a 4 person team format where the skaters on each team would have to stay in physical contact with each other. Here's what I envision:
Each team would form a line. Skaters 1 through 3 would be wearing a belt or harness with a couple of handles on the back and skaters 2 through 4 would have to hold onto the handles of the skater in front of them. It would require incredibly precise teamwork plus I think it would look wicked cool and lead to some spectacular pileups...
I think starting a race this way would be darn near impossible so you'd have to allow the team a half-lap or so to get into formation ... But it could work :-)
BTW - Am I the only one who wonders why they don't speed skate down the luge track?
Figure skating:
This 'sport' needs real jumping. Not that hopping in the air and spinning around stuff. I'm talking takeoff and landing ramps - or even a small half-pipe! Real serious air time... (I imagine getting the ice groomed on a half-pipe would be tricky, but with the billions they spend on the Olympics they should be able to work something out.) That would open up a whole new world of possibilities...
That's probably enough of this nonsense for now. I'm sure none of this will ever come to pass... But I can dream, right?
Luge/Skeleton:
I did a lot of sledding when I was growing up and it bothers me that the Olympic event in no way resembles what I experienced as a child.
First off - there should be jumps. Every sledding hill I was on as a kid had at least one jump. If you can't handle a small jump you've got no business calling yourself an Olympic athlete :-)
Next - what is up with those banked turns? A sledding track should look more like a giant slalom course. You should have to drag body parts to negotiate the turns... And there should be places on the track where you have to slow down or you'll end up in the weeds.
This is probably a bit much to ask, but my favorite sledding hill had a 3 foot deep creek at the end of the run. You either stopped in time or ended up with hypothermia. Now that would be worth watching :-)
Biathlon:
I'm referring to that silly mix of cross country skiing and target shooting. It needs to be fixed... Two words: "Paintball Guns".
This event started out as a military exercise anyway so why not let the athletes be the targets instead of those little round things??? And none of this "cleared track" business! They should be skiing through the woods sniping at each other. Scoring would be based on total time, the number of times you got hit and the number of hits you scored on your competitors. Much more entertaining that way :-)
Long-track speed skating:
This event needs some of the excitement of short track. My idea is to have a 4 person team format where the skaters on each team would have to stay in physical contact with each other. Here's what I envision:
Each team would form a line. Skaters 1 through 3 would be wearing a belt or harness with a couple of handles on the back and skaters 2 through 4 would have to hold onto the handles of the skater in front of them. It would require incredibly precise teamwork plus I think it would look wicked cool and lead to some spectacular pileups...
I think starting a race this way would be darn near impossible so you'd have to allow the team a half-lap or so to get into formation ... But it could work :-)
BTW - Am I the only one who wonders why they don't speed skate down the luge track?
Figure skating:
This 'sport' needs real jumping. Not that hopping in the air and spinning around stuff. I'm talking takeoff and landing ramps - or even a small half-pipe! Real serious air time... (I imagine getting the ice groomed on a half-pipe would be tricky, but with the billions they spend on the Olympics they should be able to work something out.) That would open up a whole new world of possibilities...
That's probably enough of this nonsense for now. I'm sure none of this will ever come to pass... But I can dream, right?
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Ski Trips
We spent the 61/62 holiday season moving from St. Louis to Philadelphia but we were supposed to be spending that time skiing at Timberline Lodge in Oregon - we already had the reservations and plane tickets when my dad was transferred (that's how sudden it all was). My parents had planned the Timberline trip because they had skied a lot growing up and thought it would be a great family activity.
There were a lot of ski areas near Philadelphia so one of the first things we did after the move was to get the whole family outfitted with ski gear. It was expensive back then - adjusted for inflation the total cost was about $4500...
Even the smaller local areas had snow making equipment and some even had lights for night skiing. And most of them are defunct. I found a web site called "Mid-Atlantic Lost Ski Areas". It was quite a trip down memory lane... Lots of pictures of overgrown and abandoned buildings and rusting equipment. Apple Hill was my favorite of those areas back in the day - it was up by Allentown, about 50 miles from Philadelphia. That was the place with the chili. (Explanation):
After our first few outings my sister Kathy decided she'd had enough of falling on her butt. (She was easily discouraged.) Dad still insisted that she come along - so she just spent the whole time in the lodge eating and checking out the boys. She never bothered to learn the names of any of the ski areas. She identified them by whatever she liked to eat there. Hence she referred to Apple Hill as "the place with the chili" :-)
By the 62/63 ski season my mother was worrying about getting injured - she was in her mid 40s and wasn't sure how easily she would recover if she broke something. So skiing evolved into a father/son thing. Those weekend trips are among my fondest memories, and I know they were among my dad's.
BTW - Apple Hill was where I got curious about whether your tongue will stick to a metal ski pole... Yes - it most definitely will... I also discovered that ripping the taste buds off of your tongue is astonishingly painful... At the time it seemed like a better option than skiing over to my father and saying "Hep!!! Ay ongue ih uck oo ay ole!!! :-) But I definitely would not recommend it - it hurt like hell for a very long time and I couldn't taste anything for weeks. But I digress...
As I gained experience we spent more time at the larger areas like Split Rock, Camelback and Elk Mountain (those last 2 are still in operation). Elk Mountain was where I first rode a chair lift. Dad told me that you had to 'ski off' of the chair when you got to the top but he didn't make it clear that you had to do it really quickly and if you didn't the chair would suddenly be 6 feet off the ground. I ended up bailing off the chair too late and landing on him. He cushioned my fall and neither one of us was hurt... But when I taught my son to ski I explained the process of getting off the chair very thoroughly - I didn't want him landing on me :-)
And a final lesson from those trips:
There were a lot of curvy roads in the Poconos and it was driving on those roads that my dad taught me the proper way to negotiate a curve - setting up for it, picking the apex and exit and accelerating through it. He even demonstrated the difference between an early apex versus a late apex and why braking too deep into a turn was bad... I added it all to my OCD repertoire - I've spent the rest of my life (as both a passenger and a driver) figuring the optimal line through every curve... I even get irritated when a driver in front of me chooses a bogus line - sometimes I even shout instructions (as if they could hear me)... And yes, my mother was one of the worst offenders :-)
There were a lot of ski areas near Philadelphia so one of the first things we did after the move was to get the whole family outfitted with ski gear. It was expensive back then - adjusted for inflation the total cost was about $4500...
Even the smaller local areas had snow making equipment and some even had lights for night skiing. And most of them are defunct. I found a web site called "Mid-Atlantic Lost Ski Areas". It was quite a trip down memory lane... Lots of pictures of overgrown and abandoned buildings and rusting equipment. Apple Hill was my favorite of those areas back in the day - it was up by Allentown, about 50 miles from Philadelphia. That was the place with the chili. (Explanation):
After our first few outings my sister Kathy decided she'd had enough of falling on her butt. (She was easily discouraged.) Dad still insisted that she come along - so she just spent the whole time in the lodge eating and checking out the boys. She never bothered to learn the names of any of the ski areas. She identified them by whatever she liked to eat there. Hence she referred to Apple Hill as "the place with the chili" :-)
By the 62/63 ski season my mother was worrying about getting injured - she was in her mid 40s and wasn't sure how easily she would recover if she broke something. So skiing evolved into a father/son thing. Those weekend trips are among my fondest memories, and I know they were among my dad's.
BTW - Apple Hill was where I got curious about whether your tongue will stick to a metal ski pole... Yes - it most definitely will... I also discovered that ripping the taste buds off of your tongue is astonishingly painful... At the time it seemed like a better option than skiing over to my father and saying "Hep!!! Ay ongue ih uck oo ay ole!!! :-) But I definitely would not recommend it - it hurt like hell for a very long time and I couldn't taste anything for weeks. But I digress...
As I gained experience we spent more time at the larger areas like Split Rock, Camelback and Elk Mountain (those last 2 are still in operation). Elk Mountain was where I first rode a chair lift. Dad told me that you had to 'ski off' of the chair when you got to the top but he didn't make it clear that you had to do it really quickly and if you didn't the chair would suddenly be 6 feet off the ground. I ended up bailing off the chair too late and landing on him. He cushioned my fall and neither one of us was hurt... But when I taught my son to ski I explained the process of getting off the chair very thoroughly - I didn't want him landing on me :-)
And a final lesson from those trips:
There were a lot of curvy roads in the Poconos and it was driving on those roads that my dad taught me the proper way to negotiate a curve - setting up for it, picking the apex and exit and accelerating through it. He even demonstrated the difference between an early apex versus a late apex and why braking too deep into a turn was bad... I added it all to my OCD repertoire - I've spent the rest of my life (as both a passenger and a driver) figuring the optimal line through every curve... I even get irritated when a driver in front of me chooses a bogus line - sometimes I even shout instructions (as if they could hear me)... And yes, my mother was one of the worst offenders :-)
Saturday, February 13, 2010
The Move to Philadelphia
I was 8 years old and partway through the third grade when we moved to Philadelphia:
In early December of 1961 my dad's mentor passed away in my dad's car as they were returning from lunch. My father's career had been advancing rapidly and there was apparently a lot of resentment among the staff in the St. Louis office. Within a week he was offered a sales manager position on the east coast. We were originally supposed to move to Boston but that changed to Philadelphia a week later. My mom was absolutely convinced the change had something to do with an old girlfriend dad had in Philadelphia. Dad claimed he had no idea what my mom was talking about. Regardless, everything happened within a few weeks.
BTW - As soon as our house went up for sale we got a visit from some of our neighbors to make sure we weren't going to sell the house to the 'wrong' kind of people (yes, they used the n-word). My parents were unsettled by the visit - they were recent immigrants so the whole racial bigotry thing was kind of new to them... That was one of the problems with growing up during the baby boom - it was the best of times if you were a white male - not so good for everyone else...
On December 29th, 1961 we all hopped in the Chevy (including Bozo the retriever) and headed east. It was an uneventful trip except for Bozo going nuts in the tunnels (I mentioned that in an earlier post). We arrived at the George Washington Motor Lodge in Valley Forge right around 11PM on New Year's Eve. We turned the TV and the first thing we saw was a "Chock Full o'Nuts Coffee" commercial - we all had a good laugh over that :-) And the next day we dropped Bozo off at a kennel in Norristown and moved into the Marriott that used to be on City Avenue just off the Schuylkill Expressway.
It took a while to find a new house. Dad had to fly back to St. Louis to finalize the sale on the Lakeshire place and retrieve my mom's new 62 Valiant (aptly named Val). So we ended up staying at the Marriott for about a month. That was fun :-) By the time we moved into the new house I was attending Waldron Academy and my sister was at Overbrook (private Catholic girls school on Haverford Rd.- also not there anymore). Both schools were in the northwest suburbs across the Schuylkill (pronounced 'SKOOcull') River from Philadelphia so we were apparently focused on that part of town - I have no idea why...
We ended up buying an old house on Bewley Rd. in Havertown. The prior owners were moving because they had 14 children and were expecting twins... The house may have been cramped for a family of 18, but was plenty big for a family of 4 (three stories plus a finished basement on a 20,000 sq ft lot). The kitchen was huge. It had a counter down the center long enough for 16 people to eat at. It was a really cool house. Bozo loved it - he liked to run up and down stairs and that house had a lot of stairs.
Sidebar: Bozo had this bizarre quirk. If you were standing with your feet apart he would try and run between your legs. And if you met him on the stairs he'd go between you and the closest wall - if there wasn't enough room he'd knock your legs out from under you. Standing in the middle didn't help either - he'd wait until you moved to one side or the other and then run through the narrower gap. So if you were on the stairs and heard him coming it was advisable to move a little bit to one side, stop and grab the railing. But I digress...
It's going to be tough to tell the story of the Philadelphia years. That's when everything fell apart... My dad was out of work about a fourth of the time we lived there. Yet we continued to maintain a very affluent lifestyle... I became an obnoxious, arrogant little ass (it came quite naturally to me)... My sister spent her days reading True Romance magazines and eating everything in sight... My parents screamed at each other constantly. My father spent more time at the Cynwyd Club than at home... My mother was having both physical and mental health issues...
It seemed like we were living separate lives under the same roof. And worst of all - there wasn't much of anything amusing about it :-) But amusing or not there were some interesting bits and that's what I'm going to focus on...
In early December of 1961 my dad's mentor passed away in my dad's car as they were returning from lunch. My father's career had been advancing rapidly and there was apparently a lot of resentment among the staff in the St. Louis office. Within a week he was offered a sales manager position on the east coast. We were originally supposed to move to Boston but that changed to Philadelphia a week later. My mom was absolutely convinced the change had something to do with an old girlfriend dad had in Philadelphia. Dad claimed he had no idea what my mom was talking about. Regardless, everything happened within a few weeks.
BTW - As soon as our house went up for sale we got a visit from some of our neighbors to make sure we weren't going to sell the house to the 'wrong' kind of people (yes, they used the n-word). My parents were unsettled by the visit - they were recent immigrants so the whole racial bigotry thing was kind of new to them... That was one of the problems with growing up during the baby boom - it was the best of times if you were a white male - not so good for everyone else...
On December 29th, 1961 we all hopped in the Chevy (including Bozo the retriever) and headed east. It was an uneventful trip except for Bozo going nuts in the tunnels (I mentioned that in an earlier post). We arrived at the George Washington Motor Lodge in Valley Forge right around 11PM on New Year's Eve. We turned the TV and the first thing we saw was a "Chock Full o'Nuts Coffee" commercial - we all had a good laugh over that :-) And the next day we dropped Bozo off at a kennel in Norristown and moved into the Marriott that used to be on City Avenue just off the Schuylkill Expressway.
It took a while to find a new house. Dad had to fly back to St. Louis to finalize the sale on the Lakeshire place and retrieve my mom's new 62 Valiant (aptly named Val). So we ended up staying at the Marriott for about a month. That was fun :-) By the time we moved into the new house I was attending Waldron Academy and my sister was at Overbrook (private Catholic girls school on Haverford Rd.- also not there anymore). Both schools were in the northwest suburbs across the Schuylkill (pronounced 'SKOOcull') River from Philadelphia so we were apparently focused on that part of town - I have no idea why...
We ended up buying an old house on Bewley Rd. in Havertown. The prior owners were moving because they had 14 children and were expecting twins... The house may have been cramped for a family of 18, but was plenty big for a family of 4 (three stories plus a finished basement on a 20,000 sq ft lot). The kitchen was huge. It had a counter down the center long enough for 16 people to eat at. It was a really cool house. Bozo loved it - he liked to run up and down stairs and that house had a lot of stairs.
Sidebar: Bozo had this bizarre quirk. If you were standing with your feet apart he would try and run between your legs. And if you met him on the stairs he'd go between you and the closest wall - if there wasn't enough room he'd knock your legs out from under you. Standing in the middle didn't help either - he'd wait until you moved to one side or the other and then run through the narrower gap. So if you were on the stairs and heard him coming it was advisable to move a little bit to one side, stop and grab the railing. But I digress...
It's going to be tough to tell the story of the Philadelphia years. That's when everything fell apart... My dad was out of work about a fourth of the time we lived there. Yet we continued to maintain a very affluent lifestyle... I became an obnoxious, arrogant little ass (it came quite naturally to me)... My sister spent her days reading True Romance magazines and eating everything in sight... My parents screamed at each other constantly. My father spent more time at the Cynwyd Club than at home... My mother was having both physical and mental health issues...
It seemed like we were living separate lives under the same roof. And worst of all - there wasn't much of anything amusing about it :-) But amusing or not there were some interesting bits and that's what I'm going to focus on...
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
The Bad Day
Before getting into the 'bad day' story I just remembered something from when I was 2 or 3 years old - it involves the 'inky dinky' spider and the water spout:
As a child I was OK with spiders but I had no idea what 'inky dinky' meant - it sure sounded dark and ominous. I also had no idea what a water spout was but I guessed it was probably the drain in the bathtub. So, by my reckoning that nursery rhyme meant that after you let the water out of the tub a dark and ominous spider would come up out of the drain. (I figured that stuff about the rain and sun was just a metaphor...)
The funny thing is that my mom thought that I jumped out of the tub when she let the water out because I was afraid of getting sucked down the drain. Heck - that's just plain silly! I was merely trying to avoid an encounter with some goddam evil spider :-)
And now for the 'main feature'...
I spent a few months in the 3rd grade at Seven Holy Founders before we moved to Philadelphia. I'd been moved to the A-track class so I was not an official dumbass anymore, but (unfortunately) the pretty blond girl had moved away (and life went on)... However I do remember one really bad day:
By the 3rd grade the teachers figured we were old enough to 'hold it' during class, so bathroom trips were not allowed. One morning I forgot to 'go' before school and midway through the first period I simply couldn't hold it anymore - I wet myself.
Luckily I was wearing black slacks so it wasn't blatantly obvious, but when recess rolled around one of the kids asked how come my chair and pants were dripping wet. I told him I had spilled a bottle of apple juice before class, and (strangely enough) a kid I barely knew backed me up - claimed he'd actually seen me spill it... (All I can figure is he had 'been there'.) I don't think my accuser completely bought the apple juice story but at least it provided reasonable doubt :-)
And then my day got worse... I tripped and fell on the playground and tore up my left hand - cuts, abrasions and bits of gravel jammed under the skin. It hurt like h*ll, I couldn't get the gravel out, and I didn't dare tell a teacher because my pants were still soaked. So I spent the rest of the morning sitting there at my desk - cold, wet and injured - just hoping to make it through the day without being publicly humiliated.
After lunch we were out on the playground and one of my friends decided to have some fun with me. He pointed to a nun and said "I'm going to tell her you peed your pants" and walked over to her and started talking. I was about to run and hide, but (as it turns out) he was only telling her about my injured hand. Long story short - the school nurse picked the gravel out with some tweezers, the evidence of my 'accident' dried and I survived the day with my reputation intact.
I'm still not sure if it would have been worse to get caught than it was to spend the entire day scared of getting caught but regardless, I was quite glad when it was all over...
As a child I was OK with spiders but I had no idea what 'inky dinky' meant - it sure sounded dark and ominous. I also had no idea what a water spout was but I guessed it was probably the drain in the bathtub. So, by my reckoning that nursery rhyme meant that after you let the water out of the tub a dark and ominous spider would come up out of the drain. (I figured that stuff about the rain and sun was just a metaphor...)
The funny thing is that my mom thought that I jumped out of the tub when she let the water out because I was afraid of getting sucked down the drain. Heck - that's just plain silly! I was merely trying to avoid an encounter with some goddam evil spider :-)
And now for the 'main feature'...
I spent a few months in the 3rd grade at Seven Holy Founders before we moved to Philadelphia. I'd been moved to the A-track class so I was not an official dumbass anymore, but (unfortunately) the pretty blond girl had moved away (and life went on)... However I do remember one really bad day:
By the 3rd grade the teachers figured we were old enough to 'hold it' during class, so bathroom trips were not allowed. One morning I forgot to 'go' before school and midway through the first period I simply couldn't hold it anymore - I wet myself.
Luckily I was wearing black slacks so it wasn't blatantly obvious, but when recess rolled around one of the kids asked how come my chair and pants were dripping wet. I told him I had spilled a bottle of apple juice before class, and (strangely enough) a kid I barely knew backed me up - claimed he'd actually seen me spill it... (All I can figure is he had 'been there'.) I don't think my accuser completely bought the apple juice story but at least it provided reasonable doubt :-)
And then my day got worse... I tripped and fell on the playground and tore up my left hand - cuts, abrasions and bits of gravel jammed under the skin. It hurt like h*ll, I couldn't get the gravel out, and I didn't dare tell a teacher because my pants were still soaked. So I spent the rest of the morning sitting there at my desk - cold, wet and injured - just hoping to make it through the day without being publicly humiliated.
After lunch we were out on the playground and one of my friends decided to have some fun with me. He pointed to a nun and said "I'm going to tell her you peed your pants" and walked over to her and started talking. I was about to run and hide, but (as it turns out) he was only telling her about my injured hand. Long story short - the school nurse picked the gravel out with some tweezers, the evidence of my 'accident' dried and I survived the day with my reputation intact.
I'm still not sure if it would have been worse to get caught than it was to spend the entire day scared of getting caught but regardless, I was quite glad when it was all over...
Sunday, February 7, 2010
A few more things before 'leaving St. Louis'
Here's my favorite picture of me and my sister. I think we were 3 and 6 respectively - that would make it 1957:
This is a really poignant picture. It's the only one I have of us where we appear to be close... Mom put a lot of expectations on Kathy in the following years. She was supposed to look out for me, entertain me and let me tag along with her and her friends - it was a bit much. I was an expert practitioner of the 'art of the pest' - constantly coming up with new and interesting ways to get under her skin. And she more than got even:
When it comes to messing with people's heads Kathy was without peer. (I'm certain many of her psychiatrists ended up needed therapy themselves after a few months with her.) She could convince almost anyone of almost anything - she fabricated on the fly - never slipped up - never contradicted herself - never hesitated - always grains of truth and always plausible.
She'd tell me stories about 'goblins in the chimney' and 'mom is feeding us pig brains'. One time she even tried to tell me some preposterous story about steak coming from cows - of course I didn't believe her... Seriously! People killing animals, hacking them to pieces and selling the chunks at the grocery store?? Did she really think I was that gullible???
Then my mother confirmed it and to this day I cannot eat meat that has any visible clues that it came from an animal (bone, fat, etc) So I'm pretty much stuck with filet mignon and hamburger. (Thanks a lot, sis!) ... Sometimes I eat other meats but only when my patient and loving wife cuts and trims it for me... I'm such a wuss - if society collapsed and we ended up in 'survival mode' I'd be the first one to go :-) But I digress...
When I look at Kathy in this picture I also see the sadness that was always just below the surface... I never understood it. She just seemed to need something that nobody could provide... And me? Curious and clueless - nothing has changed in the past 53 years :-)
Another day I clearly recall is Dec 31, 1959. That was the day I had the epiphany about the passage of time - that the future was unavoidable and the past was both undoable and irretrievable. I remember sitting by my window that afternoon writing "1959" over and over on a piece of paper and feeling a deep sadness that it would never be 1959 again - soon the entire decade would exist only in my memory... I was one weird little 6 year old :-)
Here's another bizarre thing I've just realized. I remember the Reavis Elementary and Seven Holy Founders schools in incredible detail - the layout of the buildings, the classrooms, the playgrounds. Everything but the cafeterias... I recall the first time I encountered one of those little milk cartons (the ultimate child-proof containers) but aside from that it's a total blank. I have no idea why that would be...
There's obviously a lot more that went on during our years in St. Louis - from the countless trips to the airport to drop off and pick up my father to all the tennis tournaments my dad took me too (including some Davis Cup semi-finals). And, of course, my brain is full of completely inane and irrelevant trivia, like the facts that our phone number started with 'Flanders' and that one of our neighbors kept 14 turtles in the basement. I can even tell you the year, make, model and color of every car on our block. But I have to draw the line somewhere, right? So, the next entry will start covering the move to Philadelphia...
This is a really poignant picture. It's the only one I have of us where we appear to be close... Mom put a lot of expectations on Kathy in the following years. She was supposed to look out for me, entertain me and let me tag along with her and her friends - it was a bit much. I was an expert practitioner of the 'art of the pest' - constantly coming up with new and interesting ways to get under her skin. And she more than got even:
When it comes to messing with people's heads Kathy was without peer. (I'm certain many of her psychiatrists ended up needed therapy themselves after a few months with her.) She could convince almost anyone of almost anything - she fabricated on the fly - never slipped up - never contradicted herself - never hesitated - always grains of truth and always plausible.
She'd tell me stories about 'goblins in the chimney' and 'mom is feeding us pig brains'. One time she even tried to tell me some preposterous story about steak coming from cows - of course I didn't believe her... Seriously! People killing animals, hacking them to pieces and selling the chunks at the grocery store?? Did she really think I was that gullible???
Then my mother confirmed it and to this day I cannot eat meat that has any visible clues that it came from an animal (bone, fat, etc) So I'm pretty much stuck with filet mignon and hamburger. (Thanks a lot, sis!) ... Sometimes I eat other meats but only when my patient and loving wife cuts and trims it for me... I'm such a wuss - if society collapsed and we ended up in 'survival mode' I'd be the first one to go :-) But I digress...
When I look at Kathy in this picture I also see the sadness that was always just below the surface... I never understood it. She just seemed to need something that nobody could provide... And me? Curious and clueless - nothing has changed in the past 53 years :-)
Another day I clearly recall is Dec 31, 1959. That was the day I had the epiphany about the passage of time - that the future was unavoidable and the past was both undoable and irretrievable. I remember sitting by my window that afternoon writing "1959" over and over on a piece of paper and feeling a deep sadness that it would never be 1959 again - soon the entire decade would exist only in my memory... I was one weird little 6 year old :-)
Here's another bizarre thing I've just realized. I remember the Reavis Elementary and Seven Holy Founders schools in incredible detail - the layout of the buildings, the classrooms, the playgrounds. Everything but the cafeterias... I recall the first time I encountered one of those little milk cartons (the ultimate child-proof containers) but aside from that it's a total blank. I have no idea why that would be...
There's obviously a lot more that went on during our years in St. Louis - from the countless trips to the airport to drop off and pick up my father to all the tennis tournaments my dad took me too (including some Davis Cup semi-finals). And, of course, my brain is full of completely inane and irrelevant trivia, like the facts that our phone number started with 'Flanders' and that one of our neighbors kept 14 turtles in the basement. I can even tell you the year, make, model and color of every car on our block. But I have to draw the line somewhere, right? So, the next entry will start covering the move to Philadelphia...
Friday, February 5, 2010
The Springs
When I was growing up my parents were doing their best to live the 'typical' American life. That meant lots of road trips. We're talking about the days before the Interstate highway system - there were still interesting roadside attractions everywhere. Some of the major U.S. highways were 3 lanes where the center lane was a shared passing lane (either direction can pass anywhere) - you don't see those much anymore (for obvious reasons)... But one trip I remember in particular was our "Ozark springs tour".
There's a large aquifer system under the Ozarks in Southern Missouri that feeds some amazing freshwater springs, and in the summer of 1960 my dad did got out the map and planned a 2 day trip that included visiting 7 of the springs - I don't remember all of them but I think it included the Big, Round, Blue and (maybe) Meramec springs.
Now I have to admit that I inherited most of my road trip mannerisms from my father. I plan everything in advance and I don't like to deviate. I'm focused on 'getting there' and don't like to stop any more than necessary - and I sometimes try and get in a 'few extra miles' before stopping for the night. (Stopping to smell the roses is never on the itinerary.) But unlike my father, if I happen to miss a turn I don't yell at everyone else in the car (for a half hour) for distracting me :-)
My dad could be such an ass on those trips - mom would come up with games to keep us occupied and he'd yell at us to knock it off because it annoyed him. Sometimes I would stare at the back of his head thinking about how angry I was at him.
Recently I got to wondering if my kids had done the same thing on our trips, but apparently they only stared at the back of my head thinking about how irritated they were with me, so I guess I didn't evoke the same level of emotional response as my father did.
BTW - My wife and kids usually go on vacations without me. They have a lot more fun that way... But I digress :-)
The trip through the Ozarks was a lot different than our usual trips. On most trips we stayed on the highways and stopped only at 'nice' motels. But there were no highways or nice motels in the Ozarks. And some of the springs were so remote that we went for long periods of time without seeing another vehicle. It was all incredibly beautiful but also primitive and isolated.
I only have one memory of the place we spent the night: I woke up at about 6AM and went to the bathroom. I was greeted by a curious cow who had stuck her head through the open window to see what was going on... I'd never had a cow watch me go to the bathroom before (from 3 feet away) - I really wasn't sure what the proper etiquette was :-)
Getting to one of the springs (I don't remember which one) required driving down a one lane dirt road with potholes so deep the car was bottoming out. And the road was so choked with weeds that the car was overheating - my dad had to stop and clear all the plant matter from the radiator. Mom was begging him to turn around and go back (breaking down in the middle of nowhere was not her idea of a good time). My dad (of course) refused - you have to stick to the itinerary :-)
At the end of the road was an abandoned motel inhabited only by rattlesnakes (lots of them) and it was a short hike to the actual spring. I remember that the spring was quite beautiful. Mom stayed behind in the car - she was not OK with the snakes. (I can't believe she actually let my sister and I get out of the car.) But we made it back to the 'main' road with no major incidents...
Another one of the springs I remember in particular is Round Spring. The color is simply indescribable. Here's a picture from the net - it doesn't convey the impact of actually seeing it:
The other spring I have vivid memories of is 'Big Spring'. It flows over 3000 gallons per second. That's the capacity of one of those tanker trucks you see on the freeway - every second. When you're six years old it's a pretty mind boggling sight.
We went on a number of other trips (of course). But they didn't really make that big of an impression on me. I'm not even going to post clips from our home movies :-)
So I think I'll probably do one more 'odds and ends' post about St. Louis and then talk about the move to Philadelphia...
There's a large aquifer system under the Ozarks in Southern Missouri that feeds some amazing freshwater springs, and in the summer of 1960 my dad did got out the map and planned a 2 day trip that included visiting 7 of the springs - I don't remember all of them but I think it included the Big, Round, Blue and (maybe) Meramec springs.
Now I have to admit that I inherited most of my road trip mannerisms from my father. I plan everything in advance and I don't like to deviate. I'm focused on 'getting there' and don't like to stop any more than necessary - and I sometimes try and get in a 'few extra miles' before stopping for the night. (Stopping to smell the roses is never on the itinerary.) But unlike my father, if I happen to miss a turn I don't yell at everyone else in the car (for a half hour) for distracting me :-)
My dad could be such an ass on those trips - mom would come up with games to keep us occupied and he'd yell at us to knock it off because it annoyed him. Sometimes I would stare at the back of his head thinking about how angry I was at him.
Recently I got to wondering if my kids had done the same thing on our trips, but apparently they only stared at the back of my head thinking about how irritated they were with me, so I guess I didn't evoke the same level of emotional response as my father did.
BTW - My wife and kids usually go on vacations without me. They have a lot more fun that way... But I digress :-)
The trip through the Ozarks was a lot different than our usual trips. On most trips we stayed on the highways and stopped only at 'nice' motels. But there were no highways or nice motels in the Ozarks. And some of the springs were so remote that we went for long periods of time without seeing another vehicle. It was all incredibly beautiful but also primitive and isolated.
I only have one memory of the place we spent the night: I woke up at about 6AM and went to the bathroom. I was greeted by a curious cow who had stuck her head through the open window to see what was going on... I'd never had a cow watch me go to the bathroom before (from 3 feet away) - I really wasn't sure what the proper etiquette was :-)
Getting to one of the springs (I don't remember which one) required driving down a one lane dirt road with potholes so deep the car was bottoming out. And the road was so choked with weeds that the car was overheating - my dad had to stop and clear all the plant matter from the radiator. Mom was begging him to turn around and go back (breaking down in the middle of nowhere was not her idea of a good time). My dad (of course) refused - you have to stick to the itinerary :-)
At the end of the road was an abandoned motel inhabited only by rattlesnakes (lots of them) and it was a short hike to the actual spring. I remember that the spring was quite beautiful. Mom stayed behind in the car - she was not OK with the snakes. (I can't believe she actually let my sister and I get out of the car.) But we made it back to the 'main' road with no major incidents...
Another one of the springs I remember in particular is Round Spring. The color is simply indescribable. Here's a picture from the net - it doesn't convey the impact of actually seeing it:
The other spring I have vivid memories of is 'Big Spring'. It flows over 3000 gallons per second. That's the capacity of one of those tanker trucks you see on the freeway - every second. When you're six years old it's a pretty mind boggling sight.
We went on a number of other trips (of course). But they didn't really make that big of an impression on me. I'm not even going to post clips from our home movies :-)
So I think I'll probably do one more 'odds and ends' post about St. Louis and then talk about the move to Philadelphia...
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Citizenship
There was something else going on in the background during our years in St. Louis:
In 1956 there was a groundswell of opposition to the Soviet backed communist regime in Hungary. My father bought a "Zenith Trans-Oceanic" shortwave radio and I remember him sitting there in the evenings listening to Radio Free Europe and other communications related to the goings on.
In late October of 1956 the Hungarian people rose up and toppled the communist regime. And while the Soviets amassed a force at the borders and rolled into Hungary (crushing the rebellion) the U.S. government did nothing...
The U.S. has always contended that it did not encourage the Revolution and there were no promises of military aid, but anyone (like my father) who heard the actual broadcasts would contend that support was at least 'strongly implied' if not actually promised... My dad wasn't angry. He had a keen understanding of politics and completely sympathized with the desire to avoid yet another land war in Europe. But he was clearly disappointed...
Regardless, Eisenhower did (at least) allow tens of thousands of the refugees into the U.S. (beyond the existing immigration quota). And a number of those families ended up in St. Louis.
Even though I was only 3 years old I had a good grasp of what was happening. I had seen 'war' on television and I understood that war had forced some people to leave their homes and they were now coming to live in America - just as my parents had done 6 years earlier.
My parents worked actively with local charities sponsoring refugees. I remember going with my mom to look for apartments and used furniture. A lot of it was paid for out of our own pockets and the sacrifice was more than worth it... I still remember the tears of gratitude when those families arrived and discovered that (after everything they had been through) there was a furnished apartment stocked with a month's worth of groceries waiting for them (and a community willing to help). It was amazing to see their reactions - it made quite an impression on me... It was America at its best.
My parents became full citizens in 1958 (7 years after they immigrated). I remember how they studied and stressed over the citizenship test - and how happy and proud they were the day they went to the Federal courthouse to be sworn in as citizens. Heck - they were downright ecstatic! It really made me appreciate the things that so many Americans take for granted.
So, if any of my descendants ever wonder why there's an old Zenith radio among the 'family heirlooms', this is the story that explains it :-)
In 1956 there was a groundswell of opposition to the Soviet backed communist regime in Hungary. My father bought a "Zenith Trans-Oceanic" shortwave radio and I remember him sitting there in the evenings listening to Radio Free Europe and other communications related to the goings on.
In late October of 1956 the Hungarian people rose up and toppled the communist regime. And while the Soviets amassed a force at the borders and rolled into Hungary (crushing the rebellion) the U.S. government did nothing...
The U.S. has always contended that it did not encourage the Revolution and there were no promises of military aid, but anyone (like my father) who heard the actual broadcasts would contend that support was at least 'strongly implied' if not actually promised... My dad wasn't angry. He had a keen understanding of politics and completely sympathized with the desire to avoid yet another land war in Europe. But he was clearly disappointed...
Regardless, Eisenhower did (at least) allow tens of thousands of the refugees into the U.S. (beyond the existing immigration quota). And a number of those families ended up in St. Louis.
Even though I was only 3 years old I had a good grasp of what was happening. I had seen 'war' on television and I understood that war had forced some people to leave their homes and they were now coming to live in America - just as my parents had done 6 years earlier.
My parents worked actively with local charities sponsoring refugees. I remember going with my mom to look for apartments and used furniture. A lot of it was paid for out of our own pockets and the sacrifice was more than worth it... I still remember the tears of gratitude when those families arrived and discovered that (after everything they had been through) there was a furnished apartment stocked with a month's worth of groceries waiting for them (and a community willing to help). It was amazing to see their reactions - it made quite an impression on me... It was America at its best.
My parents became full citizens in 1958 (7 years after they immigrated). I remember how they studied and stressed over the citizenship test - and how happy and proud they were the day they went to the Federal courthouse to be sworn in as citizens. Heck - they were downright ecstatic! It really made me appreciate the things that so many Americans take for granted.
So, if any of my descendants ever wonder why there's an old Zenith radio among the 'family heirlooms', this is the story that explains it :-)
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
My Mom's Driving
My mother was what you would call a nervous driver (she was easily 'freaked out'). She rarely got a ticket and was only ever in one accident (a minor one) but her excessive caution (and 'flustered' decision making) resulted in constant close calls. And it drove everyone around her nuts. (pun intended)
She would slow down when approaching a green light (it might turn yellow) and when stopped at a red light she'd wait a few seconds after the green to make sure the cross traffic was stopping... She drove slowly on winding roads and wouldn't pull over to let people pass (they shouldn't be going that fast anyway)... Many years later (around 1969) she actually came to a complete stop on a freeway on-ramp in Los Angeles...
And then there was the 'left turn' issue: She would only make left turns at 4 way stops or left turn lights. The rest of the time she relied on '3 rights make a left' - mom spent a lot of time going around the block. Whenever I asked for directions to a friend's house I had to ask detailed questions about every left turn and ascertain if there were alternate routes. It was embarrassing :-)
I particularly remember that year when my sister Kathy was going to Villa Duchesne but not yet boarding there. Mom would pick me up from Seven Holy Founders and then we'd make the 25 mile round trip (most of it on busy Lindbergh Blvd) to get Kathy. Sometimes mom brought Bozo the retriever along. He was concerned about her driving too - he would sit behind mom with his paws on her shoulders watching the road ahead and giving her little nudges when he thought it was necessary. Like if there was an oncoming truck he'd push her to the right to help her avoid it. (You can't make this stuff up.) I don't have any specific stories about those trips. It was just impossible to relax when riding with her...
As I've mentioned before, when dad was out of town mom rarely cooked, and our favorite dinner spot when picking Kathy up from Villa was the Parkmoor drive-in on Lindbergh. It was the quintessential 1950s drive-in - girls on roller skates and everything. We usually ate inside the restaurant (you ordered using speakers at the tables) and we amused ourselves by watching the teenagers in the parking lot - they were pretty entertaining :-)
I think the reason I don't remember specific incidents is that almost every time you got in a car with my mom something scary happened (nothing really stands out). And my dad apparently had no clue about any of this until decades later when I made a remark about it - he was stunned... But my sister and I survived it all physically intact (with only minor psychological trauma) and it was just part of what made life with mom 'interesting'...
She would slow down when approaching a green light (it might turn yellow) and when stopped at a red light she'd wait a few seconds after the green to make sure the cross traffic was stopping... She drove slowly on winding roads and wouldn't pull over to let people pass (they shouldn't be going that fast anyway)... Many years later (around 1969) she actually came to a complete stop on a freeway on-ramp in Los Angeles...
And then there was the 'left turn' issue: She would only make left turns at 4 way stops or left turn lights. The rest of the time she relied on '3 rights make a left' - mom spent a lot of time going around the block. Whenever I asked for directions to a friend's house I had to ask detailed questions about every left turn and ascertain if there were alternate routes. It was embarrassing :-)
I particularly remember that year when my sister Kathy was going to Villa Duchesne but not yet boarding there. Mom would pick me up from Seven Holy Founders and then we'd make the 25 mile round trip (most of it on busy Lindbergh Blvd) to get Kathy. Sometimes mom brought Bozo the retriever along. He was concerned about her driving too - he would sit behind mom with his paws on her shoulders watching the road ahead and giving her little nudges when he thought it was necessary. Like if there was an oncoming truck he'd push her to the right to help her avoid it. (You can't make this stuff up.) I don't have any specific stories about those trips. It was just impossible to relax when riding with her...
As I've mentioned before, when dad was out of town mom rarely cooked, and our favorite dinner spot when picking Kathy up from Villa was the Parkmoor drive-in on Lindbergh. It was the quintessential 1950s drive-in - girls on roller skates and everything. We usually ate inside the restaurant (you ordered using speakers at the tables) and we amused ourselves by watching the teenagers in the parking lot - they were pretty entertaining :-)
I think the reason I don't remember specific incidents is that almost every time you got in a car with my mom something scary happened (nothing really stands out). And my dad apparently had no clue about any of this until decades later when I made a remark about it - he was stunned... But my sister and I survived it all physically intact (with only minor psychological trauma) and it was just part of what made life with mom 'interesting'...
Monday, February 1, 2010
Odds and Ends
My narrative is getting close to the point where we move from St. Louis to Philadelphia and there are a few 'leftovers' that don't seem to fit into any particular topic. Here they are:
When I was 3 years old (1957) my folks took me and my sister along to buy a replacement for my mom's 48 Dodge. (It had had seen better days.) As we were walking toward one of the cars the salesman said to us: "And look! It's got whitewall tires! The kids'll like that!!". I remember staring at those tires trying to figure out exactly what about the whitewalls I was supposed to like. I puzzled for hours and still didn't get it. I figured I must be missing something... Seriously. Have you ever heard a kid say "Hi! My name's Tommy and I like whitewall tires!!"... It just doesn't happen :-)
We ended up buying a barely used 55 Dodge. It was a standard Royal model but with the optional Super Red Ram engine - I remember the 'gearhead' teenage boy next door in Lakeshire practically drooling over it. My mom described the car as "peppy" :-)
And this is the perfect excuse to post a picture of me with the car in the background (whitewalls and all):
I have no idea what was up with that bow tie...
My mom's Easter eggs were incredible. She'd poke holes in both ends and blow the innards out (so the eggs wouldn't rot). Then she'd paint beautiful intricate patterns on them. She'd finish by threading a ribbon through the holes and hanging them in the kitchen window. They were amazing works of art. (Unfortunately, we never took any pictures of them...)
One day after a shopping trip my mom was putting away some soap when (on a whim) she grabbed one of the bars, a paring knife and a dollar bill and carved me a perfect miniature bust of George Washington (it took her about 5 minutes).
It was one of the most amazing things I'd ever seen and it became one of my most prized possessions. (Another one of the many things I never saw again after the divorce.)
Our neighbor in Lakeshire (Tiny Nordman) had some hounds chained up in a fenced enclosure in his back yard. One day I heard a horrible yelping from back there and discovered that one of the hounds was hanging by his collar halfway down the outside of the enclosure. I ran to the Nordman's back door and started pounding on it. Tiny had been taking a nap and by the time he came to the door the yelping had stopped. Since everything was now quiet it took a lot of pleading to convince him to take a look. And when we got down there the hound had managed to climb back into the enclosure and was lying there looking totally innocent, like: "Who me?? I would never try to get out of the enclosure. Only bad doggies do that..."
Tiny was pretty mad at me for waking him up - all I was trying to do was save his dog's life... So this is another one of those 'injustice' stories except this time the culprit was a lying dog. (Pun intended.) :-)
Finally: I was kneeling next to my bike one day (when I was 5) and somehow managed to get the skin on my knee caught between the chain and the front sprocket. (That really, really hurts!)
I was completely paralyzed - time had ceased to exist - I couldn't figure out how to free myself, there was blood running down my leg and I thought the pain would never stop. My father heard my screams and came running. He calmly and gently separated me from the bike (thereby saving my life) and carried me into the house. And that's (by far) my fondest memory of him...
When I was 3 years old (1957) my folks took me and my sister along to buy a replacement for my mom's 48 Dodge. (It had had seen better days.) As we were walking toward one of the cars the salesman said to us: "And look! It's got whitewall tires! The kids'll like that!!". I remember staring at those tires trying to figure out exactly what about the whitewalls I was supposed to like. I puzzled for hours and still didn't get it. I figured I must be missing something... Seriously. Have you ever heard a kid say "Hi! My name's Tommy and I like whitewall tires!!"... It just doesn't happen :-)
We ended up buying a barely used 55 Dodge. It was a standard Royal model but with the optional Super Red Ram engine - I remember the 'gearhead' teenage boy next door in Lakeshire practically drooling over it. My mom described the car as "peppy" :-)
And this is the perfect excuse to post a picture of me with the car in the background (whitewalls and all):
I have no idea what was up with that bow tie...My mom's Easter eggs were incredible. She'd poke holes in both ends and blow the innards out (so the eggs wouldn't rot). Then she'd paint beautiful intricate patterns on them. She'd finish by threading a ribbon through the holes and hanging them in the kitchen window. They were amazing works of art. (Unfortunately, we never took any pictures of them...)
One day after a shopping trip my mom was putting away some soap when (on a whim) she grabbed one of the bars, a paring knife and a dollar bill and carved me a perfect miniature bust of George Washington (it took her about 5 minutes).
It was one of the most amazing things I'd ever seen and it became one of my most prized possessions. (Another one of the many things I never saw again after the divorce.)
Our neighbor in Lakeshire (Tiny Nordman) had some hounds chained up in a fenced enclosure in his back yard. One day I heard a horrible yelping from back there and discovered that one of the hounds was hanging by his collar halfway down the outside of the enclosure. I ran to the Nordman's back door and started pounding on it. Tiny had been taking a nap and by the time he came to the door the yelping had stopped. Since everything was now quiet it took a lot of pleading to convince him to take a look. And when we got down there the hound had managed to climb back into the enclosure and was lying there looking totally innocent, like: "Who me?? I would never try to get out of the enclosure. Only bad doggies do that..."
Tiny was pretty mad at me for waking him up - all I was trying to do was save his dog's life... So this is another one of those 'injustice' stories except this time the culprit was a lying dog. (Pun intended.) :-)
Finally: I was kneeling next to my bike one day (when I was 5) and somehow managed to get the skin on my knee caught between the chain and the front sprocket. (That really, really hurts!)
I was completely paralyzed - time had ceased to exist - I couldn't figure out how to free myself, there was blood running down my leg and I thought the pain would never stop. My father heard my screams and came running. He calmly and gently separated me from the bike (thereby saving my life) and carried me into the house. And that's (by far) my fondest memory of him...
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