Dad and son(s) bonding...

I kept hearing it over and over. It was as if I was deaf or didn’t understand. It was if I was in another room and was doing something that kept my attention. It was as if I just wasn’t listening. Really, I was. I was thinking about a response. I was thinking about the logistics of the whole matter. I was trying to wrap my mind around the activity and I wondered if it was time or not.

Kath and I discussed it away from William. We talked about the where and the when. Then we discussed my licensing. And we decided that since the weather would cooperate it would be this Saturday.

I looked at the forecast and concluded it was the right day.

I went out to the garage and located the dirty old yellow cooler that lacked a top. I slid the cooler from underneath the gray metal cabinet. The sliding noise was familiar as it scraped across the smooth concrete floor. Inside of the cooler was dark green box with a beige handle. I lifted the box out of the cooler exposing other elements under. A mesh net with rusted wire and a handle was the first item I saw. I picked it up exposing a knife in a sheath. A spool was also in the cooler as was a flat plastic measuring device that had a built in clamp.

From around the van I heard William ask, “Dad where are you?” I didn’t want to answer; I wanted it to be a surprise. I turned around and he saw me with the cooler. He asked, “What is that?” I was busted. I said, “A cooler.” He said, “It looks dirty. What’s it for?”

Okay, too many probing questions. I either lie to him or I tell him the truth. I deliberated for an instant and replied, “What have you been asking me to do?” Simple question right? Not so much. He couldn’t remember because the question was baited. So I reached up on top of the black metal lockers that stood next to the grey metal cabinet and I took down a box we’ve been saving in case we had to move. Upon placing it on the floor next to the yellow dingy cooler William was able to see what I was after.

He looked up and smiled really big. He said, “Are we?” “Are we really?” I nodded and handed him the fishing rods. He ran out in front of the van doing a happy dance. And I put the box back and followed behind him. I put the rods together and he was flipping it around making a high pitched sound that fishing rods make when you shake them fast.

I put some drinks in a soft cooler, four folding chairs, a cart to carry the chairs and cooler with the tackle box in it and then the van was loaded. Breandan and Kath joined us in the van and we left the house for our first stop, Wal-Mart. Like all states, it is illegal to fish without a license, so I bought one at Wal-Mart along with some night crawlers (worms).

Our next stop was Hungry Howie’s Pizza. For $8.88 you get a large one topping pizza and a “loaf” of garlic bread. Next we stopped at the pavilion up the street from the lake where we were going to fish. We sat in the shade of the pavilion and enjoyed a pizza picnic. The breeze and the temperature were ideal for a picnic or fishing. We spared no time consuming the pizza. Loaded the van back up and drove a few hundred feet to the bottom of the hill closer to the pier. We set up the gear and chairs. Then I tied the hooks onto the line, added a bobber and the worm. I casted out about ten yards and William was fishing. He watched as the bobber floated on the water. I rigged the other rod for myself and casted it into the water when I heard a little voice say, “my turn.” I handed the rod to Breandan and now both of my boys were fishing. I repeated the casting over and over to their delight until Breandan tired of the reeling exercise and passed the rod back to me. Kath took him to the nearby playground to swing, leaving William and me to our fishing excursion.

Time after time I casted the line for William, reluctant to watch him throw the rod and line into the water. He insisted over and over that he wanted to try to cast and so I allowed it. The first four times he couldn’t get the thumb action correct and on the fifth try the bobber went out into the water. He tried again and it went further, again and even farther until he had figured the casting out. I stopped watching him as his confidence had built to the point that he was actually doing very well.

It was time to go; nearly six o’clock and we had been there for almost four hours. We hadn’t caught anything but that didn’t matter, we had a great time.

I was so proud. I had gone fishing with my boys.

On the way back to the van I was whistling a familiar tune, I cannot describe it, but you all know it as the theme song to the Andy Griffith show.

Publishing Deal???

About three months ago I submitted a query to a publishing company. That night I got a response from the President of the company. It impressed me and unnerved me at the same time. Why would the President of the publishing company be doing this kind of call?

During the call he interviewed me on my ability to verbally communicate. He told me that it was as important as my writing. He told me that authors need to be able to market themselves and cannot be hermits. He said he considers the author as much or more than his content in the book.

He asked me to send him the first chapter, I suggested the first three.

Three weeks later he called and asked me to send him the whole manuscript. I did, and then I waited. I've been waiting since the beginning of February.

Today he called and he said he wanted to send me a proposal, not a contract but a proposal. He liked my book up to the point he had read and he knew he was ready. So, later tonight or tomorrow i will get a proposal in my inbox of AOL.

So, I guess this means I have a publishing deal, if I want it.


Do you think I want it?

cap guns

If it wasn’t evident before it should be now. I feared my father. I respected him yes, but I truly feared him more than anything.

A trip to Ben Franklin in Grasso Plaza netted some caps for our cap guns. You remember those red rolls. Individual caps on a perforated roll made the caps turn with each pull of the trigger. Many times the caps would explode and destroy the paper. You would then pull them through and tear off the burnt paper. On occasion there would be some good dimples of gunpowder that could be ignited by other means.

My brother found at age eight that a hammer was a good tool to blow up the unspent caps. He would lay them on the floor in the garage, it was smooth, and he would strike the little disks with the ball peen hammer. They would explode in a similar fashion to those in the gun, one at a time.

I almost always played games the way that games were designed. I followed the rules and I would get angry when my brother wouldn’t. I used the cap rolls in my gun to play cowboys and Indians or cops and robbers as they were intended to be used. We would pair up and have good guys and bad guys.

For some reason Pat always bored of traditional games and found a way to amuse himself. Since he had discovered the ball peen hammer/cap trick he decided to accelerate the explosion process and create a new way to play the game. He thought that blowing a whole roll at one time would bring more satisfaction to the process.

Roll after roll exploded in loud fashion until his rolls were gone. A sledge hammer to the roll expedited the process and in no time he was through his dozen or so rolls. He turned to me. I was enjoying the shot by shot version of the game and Pat was impatient. He tried to convince me that doing mine like he had done his own was far more satisfying. I disagreed. There was a scuffle.

He tore at least two rolls from my hands and I began to cry, I was only six. He exploded the first roll with laughter. I was screaming in anger. He set the second roll on the floor and I would have none of that. There wasn’t any chance I was going to lose my last roll of caps to his sledge hammer.

He reared back and with all his might he trust the hammer towards the ground, while keeping me at bay with his other hand. I wiggled free and at the moment of impact between the sledge hammer and the caps my hand covered the caps stopping the explosion of gunpowder but replacing it with the explosion of finger tissue and blood.

Naturally I pulled back my shredded fingers and shook them like any injured child would spraying blood on Pat and the car and inside the garage walls as well as on the floor. My angered screams were replaced with pain filled screams and both Mom and Dad appeared in an instant.

Mom grabbed me and took me inside to access the injury while Dad was left behind to deal with my brother.

I cannot imagine ever being angry enough at my son to hit him with a 2 x 4. Dad was and Dad did. My Dad struck his eight year old son with a piece of lumber from the garage not once but several times. I was told one of them sent him down the hall of our house.

My Mom settled Dad down cleaned my brother’s tears up and life went on as normal.

I have to defend my Dad. You see he didn’t have a very good role model in his parents. His Dad would often beat him while he was inebriated and his Mom would do the same to his Dad. My Dad witnessed a lot of violence in his childhood and participated in his share. So it might have seemed normal to him or maybe more acceptable to behave the way he did, as it was far less violent that what he had experienced as a child.

I had to go to the hospital that day. The doctor couldn’t stitch up my fingers; they bandaged them and sent me home. I didn’t have much of a lasting mark from that experience, at least on my hand.

Between Musick ...

I really had hoped that I could have posted these stories one at a time. Let's face that would have been a lot of work and since most of you have read them already it didn't seem worth the trouble.

I will be continuing with the next installment soon. It will probably show up on the weekend. I think most of them will show up on the weekends.

The last one was really long. It is the longest one of all. I'll be previewing some works that are not related to memories just to see what your reaction is.

Until next time.

Mike

Between Musick and Baptist Church roads

Some occasions are filled with excitement and some are filled with fear. The first haunted house on Halloween can emit the both feelings. There is a cool breeze in the 1979’s air and you’re in line. You look at those in front of you and they seem to be happier than you. You look at those behind you and they too seem happier than you. You are tense as the line begins to move. You can hear screams from inside of the building. These are screams of terror that are followed by laughter. You are getting closer to the door and then you hear a blood curdling scream. It is soon followed by vicious laughter. You begin to wonder why you are about to give a way the few dollars that you have to be scared. It doesn’t make sense to you. But then you remember the whole reason why you and this cast of characters drove the long trip to Winchester Missouri between Ballwin and Manchester. It wasn’t to be scared; it was the hopes of being next to that special girl. You knew she’d be there and you knew that after the screams were over there would be discussion at the nearest Pizza Hut and that you might catch a glimpse of her smiling back at you. That’s the reason you braved the chill in the air and the monsters in the house. At least it was the reason I did.

The fear of a haunted house or doesn’t really compare to the next fear…
As you pass through the gates you can hear girls screaming from off in a distance. The screams are preceded by a clinking sound, clink, clink, clink, whoooooooosh roooooaaaaar, ahhhhhhhhh, wooooooooosh, rooooooooooar, chink, chink, chink…repeat.

It’s summer time and you are in shorts and your favorite t-shirt. Mine had an imprint on it that was wearing away from my desire to look cool. It’s hard to look cool in a shirt that has an iron on graphic and so I later forgot the image that was on it. Since it was forgotten then, it is still forgotten. What is remembered is that it was round and multi-colored against a dark colored tee. You begin to look around for evidence of the place where these distant scream emit. Up upon a hill stands white wood framing higher than anything you’ve ever seen, next to the Gateway Arch. You Inspect the frame until you see cobalt blue tacks and then the source of the screams; a car carrying passengers up to the top of the frame, chinc, chink, chink, chink then the whooooooosh, aaaaaahhhhh, roooooaaaarrrrr. You marvel and wonder as you see the passengers in the front row raise their hands as they plunge more than sixty miles an hour to a place you cannot see. You stop to think. The excitement takes over so you quicken your pace to the fastest walk you can without running. Your buddy next to you trying to keep up quickens his pace to a run and so do you. You are jogging towards the screams and you don’t even hear them. Your heart is pounding with anticipation of the thrill. Finally you reach the end of the line as passengers have disembarked with smiles bigger than any at the place. You stoop one to ask about the ride and they exclaim, “It was awesome!!!” That was the evidence you needed you break into an all out sprint for the line, it would soon be your turn, you could feel the intense please of the thrill.

Around the corner you see the end of the line. You rush to find your place. As you enter the line you look for familiar face ahead to join, there are none. You take your place at the end wondering how long you’ll be there.

The line snakes around and appears to be endless to you but the thrill has to be worth it, so you stay put, moving only inches every other minute.

Finally after what seems to be an eternity you have reached your destination. The shiny blue and white cars screech to a stop in front of you. The hydraulic sounds release the previous passengers. You push your way to the front or the back for the best ride. You aren’t fortunate enough to get the front so you settle for the third row. The bar closes down on top of your legs and you grab hold. You can only hear your pulse in your ears. Your friend says something but it goes unnoticed. You look at each other and his lips are moving, you want to hear him but then there is a jerk and you head catapults back and then forward and you now know you are on your own. You face forward into the first turn, it is slow and then the hill. Chink, chink repeating until you reach the top. It’s slow at the top as you make the turn. You look out to the west and you can see trees. Trees green as green can be. You wonder in that instant if that is the last thing you’ll ever see and before you can answer your own thought the greens blend into a blur as you plummet to the ground. Just before would have been an impact the car you are in turns. There were screams but you couldn’t hear them over your own laughter. You chose laughter in place of screams because it could release the pressure against your solar plexus and prevent you from expelling the earlier eaten hot dog.

Within a minute the ride is over. For that instant you think about doing it again, the bar lifts and you are free. Your legs are slightly weakened so you opt out of the hour and a half line for other fun Six Flags has to offer as you were one of the first to brave The Screaming Eagle!

So far I’ve covered two kinds of fear. Here’s a third.

The weather in St. Louis in September is either beautiful, rainy or a hot as the opposite of the heavens. On this day I was wearing a jacket. I was carrying something I had never had to carry before and I was about to do something I had never had to do before. I was going to a place I had never been to and I was about to be away from my parents for three whole hours.

There was excitement in my new adventure. I would see people I had never seen before. I would hear things and learn. And for the first time, I waould sleep on a mat on the floor.

My Mom woke me up very early in the morning. She had tried to prepare me for this day, but for some reason I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t completely alone; Jean from next door was with me for the ride. She’ll tell a different story, her perspective.

That morning we stood at my driveway. It was me and Jean Bornholdt and Cathy Adams. I clung to my mom’s leg and Jean to her Mom’s. From across the street came a heavy set woman. She was carrying a camera and a cup of coffee. She was still in her house coat and slippers. Her hair was mussed up like she had just woke up, she had. She raced over to record the day.

Up the street walked another boy. He was turned away to go back to the bottom of the street and he was really early, his name was Joe Schweiner, he was a year older than me, I was five.

I could hear a squeaking sound from my left and up the hill. I couldn’t see anything but I knew the time had come. I tried to run back to the house, but Mom held me tight against her leg. Another boy had just arrived. He belonged. I said hi to Rick. I was feeling more comfortable, with Rick there.

Then it appeared in all its yellow glory. The hydraulic brakes brought the bus to a stop and the doors opened. First on was Cathy Adams. She didn’t have a leg to hold onto. Next was Jean, then Rick and I was last. By now I was crying, I didn’t want to go. Rick waited for me at the top of the step and my Mom helped me up. I took the steps up and turned to look at her. Mrs.Manson was snapping off Polaroid’s in her house coat. The bus driver muttered something to me then he closed the door. I looked for Rick. He was just a few seats back. I went and sat next to him and we both looked out the window at our Moms as they cried and waved goodbye.


I am a Dad of a first grader at this point in my life. I look on his effort as different from what I can remember. I only have faint memories of my teacher and the classroom. Which is disappointing for my son, as his teacher is stellar. She is caring and conscientious; she has been kind enough to review my manuscript.

So when I consider what he might remember, I am saddened.

As for me I remembered the classroom and the letters on the walls. That wasn’t enough though. One more thing; my third grade brother was in the boys’ choir and so was I. It was Christmas time and as usual at most Catholic churches, Seven Holy Founders, or SHF and Founders as we would call it, prepared a nice celebration for all to enjoy. Sister Maureen was the new Choir director. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. I thought she was pretty. She wanted to do something special so she decided to put on a concert with the choir. It would be her last one. She enlisted the choir boys from the school and we began to practice. I was partnered with two other boys and we would each have a part in a song.

The music started and the Choir began. “Come they told me, par rump a pump um…(you know how this goes) our parts were somewhere in the middle and I was last It would be my job to finish the number. Standing there alone next to these experts in their field I sang out my line. That’s right one line and I exited the stage. It was my debut as a singer and also the end of my career. In my Mom’s eyes I killed. In everyone else’s eyes, it was a flop.

I had my time on stage and I did my best. When you’re standing on stage you always have to do your best.

That is the end of this memory installment.


A warm day in January.

An odd thing God does for us. It’s usually bitter cold in January in Saint Louis and then for no reason at all comes something called the “January Thaw.” Sometimes the January that is warm enough for the bees to come out. From what I can remember it needs to be in the fifties or even the sixties for the bees to come out. But for some reason when I was six years old it was warm enough for the bees to come out on my birthday. It was warm enough for me to have a birthday party that would include some outside entertainment.

I remember my family throwing me two birthday parties. My first one was, yes as aforementioned, when I was six. My Mom invited a few chaps from kindergarten and of course Jean from next door. I can clearly remember running up and down our driveway in shorts and a t-shirt and it was January the sixth. That’s right in 1967 it was thawing on January sixth. For those of you there in STL you know it doesn’t usually come until later in the year. But God gave me a birthday present too. It wasn’t warm enough for the trees to bloom or for the grass to change to green again but boy was it warm enough for a few games on the driveway.

Grass in January is usually very wet. I didn’t dare sit down on the grass or walk across it, by then I knew better. I lived in a modest house. From where I stood at nearly forty four inches that house was huge. We had a dark green garage door and matching shutters, a big picture window in the front next to the garage door. A curved sidewalk no more than ten feet or so but for me it went on for miles led you to a door painted green to match. We had a brick front house and stone above. I used to love to play cars on the brick windowsill outside. In front of the picture window was a grassy area with a few bushes. I remember my Dad called them Hughes or however they might have been spelled. They were small back then maybe half as tall as I was.
Inside that picture window as I ran up the driveway was someone very special to me. She was smiling bigger than I can remember her smile. She wore her horn rimmed glasses and her cool-lots or whatever you want to call them. She had a light yellow shirt on and her cool-lots were a light plaid of pink and yellow. Her hair was to her shoulders in a bob. She ran to the door to open it as I came in. She crouched down on one knee and met me at the door with a hug and a kiss. I was Momma’s little boy.

Across the tiny living room of ten feet sat her mother holding a baby. That was my little sister. She was only six months old and on this rare occasion Grandma was holding her. Grandma rarely came to visit. But for my birthday she was there. She rocked as she tried to get my sister to take a nap. To no avail, I was too excited and kept her up.

It was mid afternoon and my guests were about to arrive. I couldn’t wait. I kept going outside to see if anyone was coming down the long hill to our driveway. I could see to the top of the hill as the houses were only a few years old and the trees were still young.

Finally a car I recognized came down the hill and pulled into our driveway as I moved out of the single car way. I stood next to the gas lantern at the end of the sidewalk waiting. Someone got out of the car and approached me. For some reason I cannot remember who that might have been.

My memory of the day fades at this point. What happened after that didn’t seem to embellish my thoughts worth retrieving. We might have had a meal and we might have had ice cream. I can almost guarantee there was angel food cake. It seems every single birthday celebrated by my family included confetti angel food cake. It was never iced. And it was always just for the kids. Ah, the taste of confetti angel food cake. Do you remember it?
Now you do. This is the end of installment five.

Installment 6 - going boating

It was unusual to even hear discussion of a boat when I was growing up. It was one of those things we all knew we couldn’t afford. Dad barely made enough to buy us shoes and for me it was all hand-me-downs. It didn’t matter, and I didn’t care.

The neighborhood I grew up in had a similar class of people as us. They were hard working underpaid stiffs. They drank and they partied and sometimes they took out a neighbor’s bush with a ’56 Merc. There were the rich kids in the all brick houses up the hill to the right and then the first left. I knew a few of those kids. They weren’t as nice as the ones on my side of the tracks.

Then there were the real slums of the ‘hood. These were frame houses. They were sided and they didn’t have garages. Today I would know this as three different builders. Back then it was rich, poor and dirt broke. Again, it didn’t matter to me. I liked everyone except for the people on the corner. They were scary. I’ll get into that in a different installment.

My best friend from grade school was Steve Deposki. Steve lived in one of those frame houses. His house backed to Gravois creek, one of our favorite places to play. So Steve had a huge back yard. That was so that some of it could be used as flood plain. Anyway I had always walked past Steve’s Dad’s boat on the way to his back yard. It was a little boat by today’s standards. And I never paid much attention to it.

So when the weather got warm the river rats would go to the Meramec river or the Missouri river and some even to Alton, IL to the Mississippi. I had no idea that Steve’s dad was a river rat. He loved Alton, IL and the Mississippi. He loved to get in the water and just boat around.

So, now it was summer time and it was hot and Steve was going to go boating with his Dad. For some reason he thought it might be fun for him or maybe me to go to Alton with them.

So early in the morning on this particular Saturday they came by to pick me up, boat in tow. We drove for what I considered days. When in all actuality it was probably a little more than an hour.

Mr. Deposki told us to wait on the shore and he would put the boat in the water. We would then go down a gang way to the dock. This gangway was like a rope bridge. It was narrow and it was made of planks. It had ropes to hold onto and it swayed in the breezes. Every time a boat would go by the dock would move as would the gangway.

Did I mention I was frightened of water? Did I mention I couldn’t swim? Did I mention at the time I was claustrophobic and deathly afraid if close quarters?

This gangway was going to be a challenge for me. Steve was ahead of me and he just trotted down and onto the dock. I watched him and stood deathly still on land.

Steve’s dad brought the boat around to the other side of the dock and waited for us. Steve was on the dock handing his Dad stuff and I was still on land. I really wanted to go down the gangway but fear kept my feet from moving.

Steve’s Dad hollered for me to come on. I took a few steps and saw the water under the gangway and stopped. I turned around and went back to land. Steve’s Dad yelled to me again and so I ventured down the gangway. I got about half way when a boat came by and shook it senseless. I clasped on to the rope, bent my knees and rode the bridge. Up and down, side to side I was surfing the gangway and I wasn’t likin’ it. I turned to go back and some people were coming my way. “oh no, what will I do?” I panicked and froze. They came to me and asked me to move, I could not so they simply went around me.

By now Steve’s Dad had enough of this and he sent Steve to rescue me. Steve came over and said, just run down the bridge. I was thinking, “I cannot walk, what makes you think I can run?” Instead just said, “I cannot.” Steve then said, “you better come or my Dad said, ‘He’ll leave you here’ and we’re going to be gone for hours…”

I had to make a decision and I did, I turned to walk back to land when I saw a gigantic man headed my way. There was no way he was going to get past me. He approached me and offered to help me… He put his hand on my shoulder, just the reassurance I needed, and he led me to the dock.

When I got to the dock it was no better. The water was crashing against the barrels and it was swaying and shimmying. I quickly followed Steve to the boat. Then it was time to climb aboard. I was on the dock and the boat was sloshing in the water about a foot down. I would have to jump like Steve did to make it. Steve’s dad was at the wheel of the boat so there was no help from him.

Just then the big man was there to help me into the boat. I sat down behind Steve’s dad and off we went. Once I was on the boat it was a great time. I got to drive it and we played in the stinky Mississippi water.

When I got home, I was dead dog tired. I thanked Steve’s dad and went inside.

You know, I never knew why Steve never invited me to go boating again, do you have any ideas?

In my last installment I mentioned Gravois Creek. You cannot imagine the enjoyment boys can have in a place like this. As an adult I found out that MSD (Metropolitan Sewer District) owned a swath of property between two subdivisions. Right down the street from me was a kid’s paradise. It included fields, hills, dried creek beds, rocks to climb, woods to hide in, large milk weeds to rip out of the ground and use as javelins. We had it all.

It was about two thousand feet wide from side to side. One side was to the east and the other to the west. It was about five hundred feet deep until you reached the creek itself. On the other side of the creek seemed a mountain. It was just a hill with woods and paths and boulder walls. It was probably common ground for the subdivision on top of the hill. But for us it was heaven.

At the deepest part of our two thousand feet of creek it was no more than a foot. The water was always running and it was filled with crawdads and tiny fish. There was a spot where it seemed to be deeper and we always avoided that area. In the springtime the creek would swell but hardly ever deeper than twice the normal. As children we would try to negotiate our way across the creek. We were usually not dressed appropriately for the dangers that lie ahead. We were usually in sneakers and shorts. The hills would turn to mudslides after rains and we didn’t mind that we would come home covered in mud and guck.

There are so many stories to come out of this place, so many things that I remember. It was the best place on earth for me.

Here’s one.

My brother took our lawnmower down there. He carved a path in the weeds, ahh the smell of the weeds. When they were wet they were delightful. When they were dry they crunched under out feet. My brother carved a path with Dad’s lawnmower so that we could ride our bikes. (if Dad ever knew) He made a complete circle in the two thousand by five hundred foot space. It weaved around trees through hedges and down hills. Our bikes weren’t equipped for the ride. We had slicks on the back and street tires on the front, but that didn’t stop us. There we were; Johnny, (the youngest) Marty his older brother, Rob, Mitch, my brother Pat and me. We would race through the weeds at top speed, turning and twisting and crashing into piles of dead bushes. I couldn’t imagine any more fun than this. But there was. And it is to come…

So with comments come new memories. At Baptist Church there was a concrete bridge abutment there were two separate but equal tunnels and if you hollered inside they would echo. We always thought there were rats in there but there never was. The water on the west side of the abutment was dangerously deep. I’d say almost ten feet deep. Or maybe three.

On the other side there was a small hole in front of it. It was the place where you might find the biggest fish. We never did.

At Musick Road there was only one tunnel and it was a tube or a corrugated pipe. It seemed like it went on forever and it had really good echoes. If you banged on the side it made great sounds. We used to think you could hear them from the neighboring houses.

In either direction from our piece of two thousand feet there was danger lurking. To the East the Farber boys were sure to kill you. And to the West it was one of the Lucas boys. So we stayed in our little area and we terrorized anyone who might invade. Actually we would have played with them but I think we had a reputation of being a bit wild, we were.

On a few occasions we followed the creek in either direction. We never went the whole distance. We did walk all the way to Gravois road but never through the creek because there were some very deep spots. Yes, we walked through the creek. In the shallow water we would walk barefoot and splash the water, making as much noise as we could stand.

One day we went to the East and on our South side there was a clearing and a flat spot. The water was very deep there and someone had hung a rope and made a rope swing down a really steep hill, over the water and back again. I was never brave enough to swing on it. Some parent must have removed it because it didn’t last long, maybe two weeks.

One spring it rained so hard that the water flooded the creek and came all the way up to my friend’s back door. It was amazing. When it receded a bit we took our G.I. Joe boats to the creek and we played in the storm water. It might have been dangerous. No, it was dangerous, but it didn’t matter. I think the guardian angels kept a very close eye on us. I can think of hundreds of times I should have been seriously injured or killed.

I lost my G.I. Joe boat in that water. The boat was named “Rosie,” after the African Queen. Humphrey Bogart’s boat was Rosie and it encountered similarly rough water. But Katherine Hepburn and Humphrey survived. My boat and my G.I. Joe did not, lost at sea.






Tomatoes

The “creek” and “woods” netted a lot of innocent fun and some that wasn’t so innocent. As boys growing up we found that at the top of the hill just past the woods was a field. When we were really young we couldn’t climb the rocks to get up to the top of the woods. We didn’t know the dangers that lurked past the woods into the clearing.

Our world was small and so there couldn’t be homes over that hill. Certainly we were the only people that existed. As we explored the area we found a low spot way down almost further than our boundary. It was far to the east. It was a slippery slope with a spring that ran down it and fed the creek . A tree had fallen across the creek and we used it for leverage to manipulate our way onto the path that had been cut by the older kids over years of play. The east was to the left and the west was o the right.

We wanted. No. We needed to know what our portion of the woods held. So off we ventured to the right. In formation, six of us walked with sticks as our guns. Like terrorist with an untrained leader we made our way up the muddy hill. We held onto anything connected to the ground and I know I couldn’t stay clean. Dirt is the badge of excitement.

We came to a crossing in the path. The crossing had three connecting paths. One went high, one went low and the other continued on. Each path was worn equally so we split up into teams of two. My brother and Mitch took the high path. Marty and Johnny took the low path and Rob and I took the one before us. We had no idea if we would cross again or what we might encounter.

For a while Rob and I could see the other parties. We could talk to them and they could hear us, but they couldn’t hear each other. We were the interpreters and we shared what we saw.

Our path had no excitement. It snaked through the woods, over some downed trees and culminated at a path that crossed from high above where Mitch and Pat were to a place beyond our sight, down to the creek.

Johnny and Marty came to a small cave in the hill. A rock cliff protruded above them giving shelter to anyone or anything underneath.

Mitch and Pat hit pay dirt, the Holy Grail, the explorers dream. Mitch and Pat discovered tomatoes. Tomatoes as far as the eye could see.

Off in the distance out of their sight was a house. Inside the house was a disturbed old man.

Mitch and Pat hollered to us to come quickly. We passed the information on to Johnny and Marty and we met back at the crossing. We followed the path to where Mitch and Pat were standing.

A barbed wire fence separated us from fun to a tomatoey fun, from sticks for guns to guns and hand grenades. Pat with the longest arms reached for some tomatoes, to no avail. Our only option was to overcome the fence. We had to get over. Wait. Johnny, the smallest could be lifted over and he could pass the tomatoes to us. And so it was. Our innocent fun just became grand theft tomatoes. Johnny retrieved what seemed like hundreds of tomatoes. We filled up or pockets, created hammocks of our shirts to stored them as we ran leaving Johnny on the wrong side of the fence. We headed to our right towards the path the led to the creek. Johnny was trying to keep up running through the tomato plants along the fence until he found a breach in the wire and escaped.

In no time we split up into teams. Rob and Mitch always together joined Pat. Johnny the smallest, me the slowest and Marty the dumb guy were sure to lose the battle of tomato land. The hurling began. It continued until Pat’s team was out of tomatoes. My team in an effort to avoid the onslaught kept our tomatoes. We charged but Pat’s group didn’t run. They didn’t hide, well, Rob ran. Mitch and Pat stood their ground and we started throwing tomatoes. Pat charged us and took the tomatoes from Johnny. I turned to run and got hit square in the back with a green one. I fell to the ground smashing what was left in my hammock and crying.

The war was over and so was the battle. Pat, the big kid rose victoriously, as usual.

Knowing there was an opening in the fence we went back to refill our hammocks. We crossed the dmz and into the field of tomatoes. At around age seven I had no idea that tomatoes didn’t grow wild. I had no idea tomato stakes weren’t a natural part of the plant. So I never consider that these plants belonged to someone or that I might be stealing them.

My brother, the fastest and biggest went the deepest into the tomato forest. So deep he saw the old house. He stopped suddenly and watched. There wasn’t any movement so he walked across the perimeter of the tomato field to our right again. He was investigating what could be there.

What he was unaware of was the old man in the house was busying himself by loading his shotgun. He was quietly preparing our demise or from where he stood, my brother’s demise. Once ready he burst out onto his back porch and shot his gun in the air. In a split second Pat made a decision. It would be freeze or run. He chose run. The rest of us were already on our way back to the breach. A second shot rang out. I feared for the worse. I made it back to the crossing first. Johnny and Marty were right there with me, then Rob, Mitch and where’s Pat?

Seconds seemed like hours as we stood in silence huffing out of breath. We waited and we kept still. Our fate might be that of Pat’s if we make a sound. We heard the sound of moving weeds across the back of the field. We looked at each other in horror. We looked around trying to spy from where the sound came. More time passed and still no sight of Pat. The weed sound was getting closer. No one panicked, we stood still waiting. The weed sounds stopped. My heart stopped as I stood waiting for the old man to shoot us just like he had done to my brother. Then from behind us Pat appeared. He was unhurt. He was scared but he was fine. He suggested that we get out of there so we slowly made our way back through the woods from where we came.



Installment 10 Fuzzball

First I have to correct something. Johnny’s name was John John.

So the weather is just barely warm enough to go outside without a coat. The buds are creeping out on the trees and from a distance it looks like they might even be turning green. The grass on the side of Mitch’s house is still dead but not at the Schweiner’s it is green (Kentucky Blue grass). Mitch’s Dad put in Zoysia when they first moved in some ten years earlier, it doesn’t turn green until it is hot. Mitch’s grass was always the toughest and the most fun to play on. I’m talking about playing in the street.

Mitch and the Schweiners both have mature Maple trees about thirty feet from the street. They both have corner lots and they are across the street from each other at either side yard. The street in front of their house is flat (Clearwater) and the street that separates their houses (Goldenrod) goes up a gradual hill. At the bottom of the hill lives Mr. Grant. He doesn’t have a tree in his front yard he took it out when he moved in.

Directly in the center of Goldenrod is where most of the street fun culminates. On this particular day that spot is home plate. First base is at the corner by the Schweiner’s house. Third base is at Mitch’s corner. Second base is going up Goldenrod. Next to the Schweiner’s live the Freys. They have two mature trees in their yard and if you hit the ball the distance of the first tree it is a home run. If you hit a house it is an out and we run like hell. Not really.

Most days it was the six of us playing, Mitch, Rob, John John, Marty, Pat and me. Everyone played well together, Mitch was the best player then came the youngest, John John. Marty and my brother were the challenged ones and Rob and I were about equal with me being slightly better. I was the strongest and the most likely to hit a home run, then came little John John. Pn a rare occasion we had a few older guys play, but mostly they weren’t interested in playing with us little guys.

The game is fuzzball. If you know how to play baseball, and you can get a glove you can play fuzzball. It is simply baseball with a tennis ball so that you do not break windows on houses and the ball doesn’t go very far.

We would play fuzzball when ever the weather allowed and it was light outside. We always had a game going until the Schweiners moved to Quincy, Illinois.

There aren’t any specific memories about fuzzball until we changed venues later to the top of my hill. The homerun was a hit onto the grass of the house at the top of the street. One day Rick Brueggeman hit the tennis ball over the two story house. He shattered the distance record held by Tom Anderson. After that he routinely hit them over the house. Rick became quite the hitter, kudos to you Rick.


Installment 11 the Confectionary

If you left my subdivision onto Musick Road, turned right(or South) you would be headed towards Tesson Ferry Road. When ever I did I was usually on my bike, the same banana seat Schwinn that I used in the fields. I would crank that coaster bike as hard as I could down the hill, under the canopy of mature tree, most time so hard the pedals would move so fast my feet would slip off and I couldn’t keep up. Pedaling as fast as I could meant less of a hill to climb when I got to the bottom.

Off of Larskpur down pass Roscommon then to Meath and if I had enough speed I could climb the hill to Lavina and beyond. When I was young, seven or eight I barely made it past the bridge over Gravois Creek. My little legs wouldn’t allow me to pump the pedals up the hill, oh the burn. And I would give up and walk it up the hill. Once I was up to the top of the hill it was smooth sailing to Old Tesson Ferry Road.

I’d roll past Dressel School and slow down as I got to Old Tesson. A quick left and down the hill to the best place in the world. A place where you could bring your collected soda bottles and trade them in for candy. That’s right, two cents or five cents and if we were lucky we’d have six of them. It was tough to carry them on a bike but we managed. Six - five cent bottles and I got a “Bubsdaddy bubble gum stick for a quarter. It had to be three feet long. Nothing like it. I would try to put the whole thing in my mouth and chew. The drool would run down my face, it was a sight. Actually it never fit. And I don’t drool.

Some times we’d haul in a bunch and save a few coins until we had enough to get some baseball cards. Topps baseball cards had the very best chewing gum. That was my favorite. I really liked the hard ones that would snap when you put them in your mouth. Ahh, stale bubble gum.

This little piece of childhood heaven was called the confectionary. It was a drug store, a liquor store a small food and meat market, also a dime store. They had all kinds of candy and that’s what I was interested in. We would ride the two or three miles for twenty five cents of candy. Then we had to go back. Some times Mom would give us some money to go there and bring back some milk or bread. We got to keep the change for what ever we wanted.

On the way there, there was one big hill to climb and most of the rest of it was down hill. On the way home there was no other way but to climb those hills, brutal!

The confectionary could not exist after traffic was diverted by the new highway, so it closed in the mid to late seventies. A builder moved into the building and it was gone forever from reality, only to be seen in dreams and memories.




It’s Saturday morning, the breakfast dishes are cleared and cleaned. The newspaper had been read and it is put in its proper place, the trash can. The coffee pot was cold and won’t feel heat until after dinner. The kids were quietly sitting in the car. Dad had rested in front of the TV for a short nap and Mom hurried out to the kids.

We fought about who was going to get the front seat and it was usually a matter of who called it first. My oldest sister always thought she deserved the front seat but Mom always made it fair. She must have kept score as to who sat there last and whose turn it was next. I don’t think it was ever unfair.

On this occasion it was I, that won the front seat, I called it first, I was there first and I wasn’t budging. I held tight to the seat as my brother worked hard to remove me, pulling and tugging until my Mom appear to referee the situation. Wendy, my older sister sat quietly in the back seat. When Mom saw that I was in the seat she ordered Pat to the back. There wasn’t a fight about which side he would sit on as Wendy was already on the passenger side behind me. Her feet were under the seat and if she wanted to she could further torment me. If Pat was there his feet would have been digging into my backside.

The sixty three Pontiac station wagon pulled out of the driveway and we headed up the hill. Mom took a right so we knew where we were going. If she took a left it would be the Sunset Cinema. The Sunset Cinema was next to Korvette’s, one of Mom’s favorite places to shop, so when it closed she was distraught. It was also near one of Dad’s favorites, Central hardware. If we went to Crestwood Plaza Sears was everyone’s favorite. Dad liked to look at the tools and as we came down the escalator you could always smell the roasting nuts in the kiosk at the bottom of the escalator. We often came in the back door just so Dad could stop and buy a half pound of cashews. He would share them with us as we made our way through the store. Most times they were gone before we left. He never got more.

No, on this day we went to the right. Down the hill under the canopy of mature Maple trees, up and then down the short hill to Musick Road. We then made a left and we were on our way to Gravois.

We had two choices now. One choice would have a cheap movie and a limited type of popcorn, candy or drinks but I would bet Mom got out of there with spending less than two dollars a piece on us. Once on Gravois we headed east. We continued and we would know our fate and our candy chances if we didn’t make a left at Rock Hill. We also knew we would be more entertained by the movie if she continued on Gravois.

Back then Seven Holy Founders would show old classic Stooges movies all afternoon in the Gym. They would set up chairs and sell candy, popcorn, hotdogs and soda. Most times our friends from school were there and I hardly ever paid attention to the movie I had seen time and time again.

No, this time Mom kept going. We were going to the Crest Theatre. We were going to see a first run movie. She would get us there more than a half of an hour early and she would just drop us off with an allotted amount of money. It was always enough to buy some candy, popcorn and that huge sixteen ounce soda. We didn’t have soda at home so it was really a treat. Most days other kids were there that we knew so we were occupied until the movie started.

Then Mom would race home so Dad and she could have a little quiet time. Back then it was safe to drop your kids off at the theatre. Seemed most Saturdays were their quiet times.

As I got older I began to venture to other theatres. We loved to all get into that ‘63 Pontiac and go to the drive in, I’m sorry the 66 Park-in or Ronnie’s Drive-in. When I was old enough Mitch and Rob and I would ride our bikes to the drive in. Did you know they had a spot in the back of the fence where you could sneak in? Now you do. I miss the drive-in theatres. I bet you do too. The movie was never as good as inside but it sure was fun. The parties of high school kids at the drive-in, memories, those are irreplaceable.

Then for the adventurous types you could head to some odd movies at the Varsity Theatre and if your taste as a seventeen year old was soft porn it was the Fine Arts. I only heard about that place.

Either way on this day we’d be seeing Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. When we walked into the theatre there was an unmistakable aroma of fresh popcorn, which no one could resist. The glass was always smeared with buttery hands but I could still see my choice. My sister got black licorice, my brother; Junior mints and I got Milk Duds. One inside the movie you avoided the seats with the snow caps piled on the floor and the slippery or sticky spots on the carpet. We sat in worn out chairs and squirmed until it was over. It was a long movie and when it was over I was pumped up on chocolaty caramel deliciousness and Pepsi. Popcorn was stuck in my teeth and a trip to the bathroom was necessary. It was warm outside so we hung around outside until Mom showed up.

She was always smiling when she came to get us and we almost always had Spaghetti on those nights. It would be something easy for Mom because she was tired.











A forest full of trees.

At the end of Cosmos Drive where houses now stand was a forest. A forest filled with the most delightful things you could imagine. In the dawn of the day it was forbidden to eat these delightful things and so was it on this day. A fence separated us from the sight and flavor of the day. We could see the edge and the trees filled with fruit. Some red, some green some on the ground and some low enough for us to partake in.

A fence rarely kept us away from our desires and this one was not going to stop us today. As the usual suspects began climbing, one suspect was looking for another avenue in. He saw that there was another place to enter but he would have to go through someone’s yard.

So up the driveway he went. It was a long and steep driveway. When he made it to the top of the driveway at the corner of the house it flattened and in front of him was a detached garage. Both the house and the garage had light blue clapboard siding and behind the garage were more trees. It looked to be quite a distance to enter the forest of fruit trees. He carefully walked past the house expecting a dog to emerge from somewhere and growl or bark at him; there was none. Next he passed the end of the driveway to the garage and he looked back this time expecting someone to scold him and chase him off of the property. No one uttered a sound. He continued past the garage on the left into the thicket of trees obviously belonging to the home owner until he reached the orchard.

There he stood with apple trees in either direction. In rows as if they had been intentionally planted there. He called to the rest and they joined in an aisle of trees. As the beheld the beauty of the full ripe trees they couldn’t decide which tree to first approach. Bees buzzed all around. The dropped fruit attracted many varieties from honey bees to bumble bees and wasps. They were feasting on the rotting fruit. The first to take a piece of fruit was the honorable Patrick as he held the post of the leader. He grabbed an enormous Jonathan Apple. He rubbed it on his pants as you’re supposed to do with apples and he bit into it with a juicy crunch. He pulled the apple away from his mouth and wiped the juice from his face with his arm.

While chewing he gestured for the rest of us to dig in with a wave of the apple filled hand. We did.

My favorites were the Jonathans with their tart sweetness. I found the largest one I could reach and repeated my brother’s cleaning motions. I bit into the best apple of my life, fresh from the tree, warm as the afternoon sun.

Rob tried a green one. He took one bite and tossed it aside. John John went to the Red Delicious tree and enjoyed one within his reach. Marty followed Rob to the green apples and had his way with a green one. Marty eat it all completely, seeds and all. John John also ate the entire thing.

Mitch was filling his pockets with apples. He managed about four. Then he tried the Red Delicious; he ate it until he reached the seeds and discarded the core. By that time Pat was on his second one, a green one. We all consumed more than a normal human amount.

We negotiated our way through the trees and the bees to a clearing where a huge Oak tree stood in the center. There was a swing hanging from one of the outstretched branches. We took our turns swinging from the tree.

I stopped to look around at the beauty and noticed my elevation had changed and now I could see a valley of homes that was behind me from where we came. I could see Baptist Church Road at the top of the hill heading north. I watched the cars as they crested the hill and raced down. In the distance I thought I heard a tractor. I didn’t pay close attention. My friends were busy enjoying the swing and I was busy enjoying the view. John John was climbing on the tree and Marty was throwing half rotten apples at John John. Mitch thought it was funny and he joined in and so did Rob.

I looked out over the valley trying to get a glimpse of our house but it was no where to be seen. Just then the tractor showed up in front of us. We had been caught red deliciously handed.

We tried to run but the apples on the ground made us slip and fall. It was if our wheels were spinning. An old man in overalls came over to us. We were all frightened, John John was still in the tree, hiding. Rob hid behind the trunk of the big oak tree. The old man called us into a group. We were expecting to be scolded and for him to get our names and to chase us off. Remarkably he did not.

The old man started with a “Howdy young fella’s.” We said hello and then he went on to tell us that the orchard was his and God’s. And that God blesses him with many apples, many more than he could ever harvest or eat. He told us we were welcome to eat as many as we wanted but he asked us not to take any home. He asked us not to bring too many friends to eat apples and then he asked us if any of us wanted to help him pick the apples.

The rest of the day we picked apples and put them in bushels for the old man and at the end of the day we had seen more than our fare share of apples, never to return.





It’s snowing in STL

It seems appropriate that this installment be about snow since a lot of you are preparing for a snow day on Tuesday.

In the neighborhood that I grew up we had many fun things to do in the snow; from snowball fights and sledding to playing football. It was all a blast.

My Dad worked in a garage putting truck tires on tractor trailers. He had to lug these monstrous tires around, hoist them up onto the axles and make the trucks road ready. It was hard work and most days he’d get home and have to take a nap for a few hours before dinner was ready.

He worked for Brown Shoe Company so all of our shoes were from there. We had the latest in style and comfort. But what Brown didn’t do was cold weather boots. Mom insisted to Dad that we needed shoes and boots from other companies but Dad was the Dad. I had the ugliest sneakers, they didn’t do those well either and I wore cowboy boots for my snow boots.

My Dad always insisted that we get our shoes big so that we could grow into them. And so I got my boots big.

Wait, this isn’t about shoes it’s about snow. Okay so Dad brought home the perfect sledding apparatus. He dug it out of the back of the 63 Pontiac and took it into the garage. I could hear the sound of a bicycle pump but I had no idea what he was doing.

I also heard the sound, the unmistakable sound of the metal against concrete, as the neighbor kids used their sleds on our street. If they got out there before the street crew came to salt we could use our street for hours. Many times we blocked the street and the street crew would just let the street go. On this day it was almost packed down like ice. Then out from the garage came Dad rolling a tractor trailer tire. It was big enough to fit three of us on it. We rolled it up the hill to the top.

Not knowing what to expect we took our turns on the tube. Can you guess who went first? Right, Pat. He jumped in with his legs over the side. And down he went. He started off sliding straight and then it began to turn and rotate. Off the street he went and into a parked car.

He came up laughing and Dad came out with a second tube. The tube protected you from hurting yourself as a huge cushion.

I took the second tube and Pat and I went down together, this time he was face down lying across it, the thought he might be able to steer it crossed his mind, but he didn’t mention that to the tube. The next time he found a tree. He bailed out right before impact and again came up laughing, covered in snow.

Before long news traveled through the land that the Doran boys had the coolest sleds around and everyone wanted a try. Mitch got a try, Rob had a try and of course I let Stacy Harmon try too. The best thing about the tube was that you could do it anywhere. The sleds would only go on packed snow but the tube, it went anywhere

We had short hills. Hills with obstructions. Dangerous hills, so we took the tubes to Crestwood Park. You know the place, with the creek at the bottom of a three tiered hill.

Starting at the top we would run and drop the tube and face first we would start down the first hill to a flat surface. We would be going fast enough to continue to the next hill and then the next tier and then the big hill. It seemed to go on forever and then the creek. We would slide all the way across the soccer fields on the tube and crash into the creek. It was an amazing ride; totally out of control the whole way down, exhilarating.

On one of the trips down into the creek we had a casualty. The tube’s life was cut short by a branch. We had to share one tube with as many as six of us. We managed.

So now with the snow falling in St. Louis, remember the fun you had and let your kids do the same, I know I would.


Some people say St. Louis sits on top of a plateau and so the weather seems to go around it. So many times we hear or heard warnings of major snow accumulation only to wake up to a dusting. Often time’s rain turns to sleet and then snow and that was how the accumulation happened. Yesterday was no different from that pattern, several hours of sleet followed by heavy snow as deep as eight or nine inches.

I can’t specifically remember an incident where we had significant snow fall. I was gone in 1982 when eighteen inched fell in one day.

Wait, one incident is coming to me. The snow was so deep we couldn’t open our doors; we had screen/storm doors that swung out. So when the snow piled up on the doors there was no way out. We pushed and pushed, to no avail. My Dad had left for work before five in the morning and from five until noon when we decided to go out, a foot of snow had fallen and more than two feet rested on our back door.

Without Dad at home it was up to my brother and me to figure out how to get outside to play. We spent the traditional half hour preparing to go out; dressing in layers and finding multiple hats and gloves, none as efficient as today’s versions.
We were trapped inside with a superfluity of enjoyment within our sights. It was persistence that freed us from the bondage of mid-day soap operas.

Together we pushed. That didn’t work. We tried kicking. That didn’t work. I was sweating and the house was getting colder from our effort. Finally we decide to take the door apart. We ran to the kitchen where we knew we would find a screwdriver. Everyone needs a screwdriver in the kitchen. Everyone needs a junk drawer and that was where you would find the screwdriver.

Immediately we began dismantling the door, while Mom watched over us. We removed the screws around the plate of glass and carefully brought into the house. Now wind was blowing straight into the house and those who were not overdressed for snow play began to complain about the cold.

Pat loosened the screen and it fell to the ground in the snow. He backed up a few steps and jumped through the open window head first.

He had forgotten that the steps in front of the door were concrete so he felt a little pain on contact. I closed the inside door and stepped to the picture window to watch as he removed the snow and freed me.

He immediately took the shovel and began shoveling the driveway. He couldn’t go shovel other driveways until ours was done first. The snow was still falling at a good clip so whatever he would shovel would have to be shoveled again.

I dove into the snow for my first of the day, snow angel. The snow was like powered sugar and it tasted like the best snow cone ice ever.

At the south end of our house was a drop off to the Eichenlaub’s house. They had a sidewalk that led to a patio behind their garage. The snow had blown off of the top of the house and was more than four feet between the houses. It could have been five or six, I know it was over my head.

I screamed to my brother to come and see. He didn’t hear me. I think it’s odd that when it’s snowing you can’t hear very much. Our lot was only about sixty feet wide and Pat didn’t hear a word I hollered. So I trudged my way through the mid thigh height snow to tell him of the great drift that was the side of the house.

He brought the shovel to the side yard. We stood in awe as the beauty of the snowfall captured the moment. Then he began to clear away the snow from the front of the house. He made a path to the edge of our landscaping where Dad had put a few courses of railroad ties. So under the fall from the top of the railroad ties was usually about three feet today it was even with the side of the Eichenlaub’s house.

Pat backed up several steps and ran, sliding and slipping until he dove head first into this deep pile of drifted powder. He rose with powder on his stocking cap that was pulled down over his face at the last second. It wasn’t enough to prevent the snow from getting on all of his face so he came up looking like the abdominal snowman. He was spitting snow and wiping the burning cold off of his face. He shook his coat, laughing all the while.

We took turns diving into the snow for about an hour or maybe ten minutes, we were kids and everything took an hour. Then Pat went shoveling, I finished the driveway and went out to rescue neighbors, digging our doors and sidewalks.

As kids we didn’t need expensive toys. We were able to enjoy the simple things. A great snowfall brings great memories. So much better than a video game.

Here in Florida, we don’t get snow days; we have hurricane or Tropical Storm days. You are trapped in the house or shelter for the whole day and sometimes longer. So, my advice to you; forget that you’re an adult and almost fifty. Put on some layers and snow boots, gloves and a hat and go outside and play.

Some day soon you won’t be able to do it and snow like that only comes around a few times a year, if at all. Enjoy it, be a kid again!!






















How many children can you fit into a VW bug?

Recently I was sitting in a parking lot in front of a Dollar General store. I was waiting on my wife and as I was sitting there my eyes were fixed on the door. The kids were being good in the back and I just stared at the door.

A Dodge Caravan pulled up as a man in a wheel chair had just left the store. He was being pushed by a large dark woman. There was nothing too odd about this. I sat and watched as she helped him into the driver’s seat. That I thought was odd. Then the person who had brought the car to the front of the store opened the back, I thought to put the wheel chair in began putting a roll of something into the back. Next an even larger dark skinned woman came around to the driver’s side, opened the back door exposing both doors to my view.

Once she did that I could see what appeared to be a crowd of people waiting to get into the car. Two teen ager got into the storage compartment in the back trunk area, then I watched four get into the back row of seats and then another and then another.

The center row of seats was captain’s chairs and two people sat on the passenger’s side. I watched as two climbed into the passenger’s seat in front. Then another joined the large woman behind the driver. They closed the doors and away they went. I counted fifteen people in a Dodge Caravan. Not fifteen kids. No, fifteen full and overgrown Mexicans in a Dodge Caravan and the handicapped man in a wheel chair was driving.

So that reminded me of a trip to the park. I hate meri-go-rounds. If you go on a meri-go-round and you don’t look in the appropriate place you’ll get dizzy. If you get too dizzy, you’ll vomit, sorry.

So on this occasion we were going to a park in Crestwood somewhere that had a meri-go-round. My mother didn’t have a car that day and my Aunt Fran and she decided we had to get the kids out of the house and to a park.

During the sixties, my uncle created the Chow, chow, chow ad campaign for Garner Advertising and became renowned. Then he created the Chuck Wagon commercials where the dog chased the little covered wagon to the dog bowl and the dog ate.

Those two ads gave my uncle some exposure. He began to travel for Garner Advertising. They had a branch in Dallas and my Uncle had to spend a lot of time in Dallas. That’s where he met his second wife, while he was still married to my aunt or his present and first wife; needless to say the divorced. He left my aunt and her five kids and went to live his new wife and her four kids that he had fathered.

He left her with a 1966 Volkswagen Beetle. It was light blue and as usual it seated four comfortably. She had five kids and a Beetle; it was all she could afford on her income from being a cocktail waitress at Lums on Gravois in Sunset Hills. Every time they had to go somewhere the six of them piled into the car and off they went. It was crowded but not like the day we went to the park.

Aunt Fran came to the house with four of the five kids and of course she drove. She pulled into the driveway and we ran out of the house preparing to pile in. We looked at the bug and wondered how we would all fit.

First the two older sisters in probably eighth and seventh grade got in then my brother and sister and Jill, who was the same age probably nine and ten. Then me and my younger cousin piled on top. My Mom sat in the passenger seat and held my then one year old sister.

So technically you can fit fifteen Mexicans in a Dodge Caravan and at least ten people in a 1966 VW Beetle. And it’s not so bad in the Beetle with all those kids unless one of them still had vomit on the front of his shirt.


Installment 17 cats and dogs

When I sleep there’s not much that can wake me. Bad storms didn’t keep me up. And I dream. I really have some vivid dreams, they don’t usually wake me.

One of my favorite shows growing up was the Mary Tyler Moore show. I loved the dialog between Mary and Ed Asner. The boss, employee relationship that looked to me like a crush Ed had on Mary. He would never go there. The whole cast seemed to be in love with Mary and so naturally I fell in love with Mary. Granted Mary was a hundred years older than me, but as a young boy I had my fantasies.

There were other TV stars that warmed my blood, like Farrah and Cheryl Ladd and later, Daisy Duke.

But Mary was my original sweetheart. Remember the song, “I want a girl just like the girl that married dear old Dad?” Well, Mary looked a lot like my Mom did in my first memory of Mom. My Mom wore her hair in a bob and kind of dressed the way Mary did. So as creepy as it might seem I had a thing for Mary.

I think it was warm outside because I don’t remember frost on the windows. When my little sister was born my brother and I had to move to the basement. It wasn’t finished. Dad always promised Mom, some day. He even bought a shower to put in the basement but then he found out he would have to tear up the floor to connect it. He scrapped that idea. So, the walls were concrete and bare. Dad had put in some extra electricity so that Pat and I could have lights. The basement always had the best seasonal temperatures. If it was cold outside it was warm in the basement and the converse was also true.

So, in the middle of the night, I was dreaming about Mary Tyler Moore. It wasn’t really a fantasy of non-biblical proportions, it was just a dream. I was at Mary’s house and it was like the show. I was observing her as she did what Mary did and then I heard what sounded like babies fighting. In my dream Mary had a baby and it was fighting with another baby. It disturbed me because Mary separated the babies and yet they continued to fight. Fight and fight and fight they did. Then a strange sound came from the babies, a sound more like ARRREEEOOOOWWW. In my dream I said to myself, babies, these aren’t babies. All of a sudden the babies turned to cats and Mary couldn’t shut her cats up. Try as she might there was no way for her to do it. It went from idle curiosity about Mary’s life to fear. I began to fear that these cats, which I didn’t like, would attack me and begin to scratch me and claw me like they were each other. I tried to run but I couldn’t get any further from them. Then for some reason I woke up. I was sweating and panting and afraid. I lied in my bed with the covers close to my face. The fighting had stopped. It was dark in the basement. I was certain the cats were there with me. I tried to hide, but from what? Hide from fighting cats in my dream, absurd. I closed my eyes preparing to go back to sleep when the fighting began again. It wasn’t inside; it was right outside my window. And the cats weren’t fighting – it was springtime.


When I was little we had the white dog I had mentioned in an earlier installment. We had a lot of other dogs too; most of them, sorry, all of them runaways or strays. Dad used to bring them home from work. They would wander onto their parking lot and Dad felt sorry for them. He only planned on keeping them for a while.

One dog, a saddleback beagle, if there is such a breed, wandered onto the lot. It looked hungry and tired and Dad felt sorry for it. They called it a saddle back because the back had been flattened out, kind of like a saddle. It wasn’t one of those cute little beagles I see now, it was big and round around the middle. She had short legs and floppy ears. She was probably a mutt, but we didn’t care, to us she was a pure breed, saddleback beagle.

My Aunt Pat was living with us when Dad brought her home. Aunt Pat was a loud and obnoxious drunk. She always had a cigarette hanging out of her mouth and she was either drunk or hung over. In her early days I was told, she was quite fetching. She had long black hair and a voluptuous figure with deep olive colored skin and mysterious black eyes. Aunt Pat had a similar look to Cher, but much prettier. She was a bartender and she managed to have a lot of male friends, so I had a lot of short term uncles. She was only five foot two but her voice was about six foot eleven. She was and still is very loud and she has very colorful language. Expletives that start with an “F” are her favorite.

So, here it was, two forty five in the afternoon and Dad pulled into the driveway in the dark blue 63 Pontiac station wagon. He normally got home around two thirty. He threw open the front door and hollered something so we all came running. Right there in front of us was this hideous looking beagle contraption. And out of the mouth of my Aunt came, “Lord God Agnes.” And so it was, the dog’s name became Agnes.

More on Agnes later…


Installment 18 Bullies

Who are bullies? Why are there bullies? Why did so many fear them?

Just a few questions I asked when I was in grade school. As good as I can remember I had three run-ins with bullies. Many times on the play ground I would be teased for this or that but these three events were a real threat to my being.

In the case of one bully he was a few years older than me and was always getting into trouble. I don’t remember his name so, for the sake of this story I’ll call him Jimmy.

There I was in the first chair next to the door. I could feel a breeze if someone opened up the outside door. It hardly ever happened. On this particular day I felt the breeze before I heard the door closed. I was the only one in the class that could hear the door. I could even see down the hall to the rooms that were adjacent.

So when I felt the breeze in the middle of class time I knew something was up. I stopped paying attention to my nun of a teacher and paid attention to the something that was about to happen in the hallway. Jimmy crept up to the door, shushed me with his finger over his mouth and ran by. The nun saw something out of the corner of her eye and said, “What was that?” I didn’t answer and then there was a loud boom and as fast as she could, she ran to the door. She didn’t see Jimmy escape down the other flight of stairs and out to the parking lot where his bike waited.

The teachers converged in the hallway asking if either of them had seen anything. None saw who made the big sound. I did.

The nun came back into the room and began questioning. She looked deep into my eyes and viciously extracted Jimmy’s name from my brain. She asked, and I said, “It was Jimmy ____.”

He was caught the next day. I expected that he would be expelled from the school and I was right, I was safe.

Then one day I missed the bus going home. I was about to walk the three miles home when I exited one of the side doors and who do you think I saw? Right, Jimmy, and he was there for me. He was planning on showing me why he was feared so much. I turned and ran in the door. Up the stairs I went. Up the stairs he went. Down the hall I went. Down the hall he went. Down the stairs I went and so did he; out the door towards the rectory. I ran as fast as I could. I went to the right to the convent instead. I went around the convent to the street and then across the front of the convent. He was still the same distance behind me, and I was getting tired.

Fear kept me running until I got around the building to the bell tower. I climbed the many stairs to the top of the bell tower where I hid. I tried not to breathe for fear he’d hear me. I could hear the door at the bottom of the stairs if someone came in. No one came in.

So, I waited. About an hour had passed and I felt safe that he wouldn’t get me. I left the building and walked to corner of Rockhill and Gravois and began walking home west on Gravois. I had my thumb out and within a half mile I had a ride.

When I got home my Mom scolded me for not calling and for walking. She didn’t know that I hitch hiked. Do you know how dangerous that is today? Why? Why is it more dangerous today, I bet it isn’t.

I think I was in the fifth grade when I was being teased by Mark Abkemeir. We were in the same class together and he played a bunch of sports. I didn’t play on any organized teams, but I played a lot and he didn’t know it. He was giving me a rash of trouble and then he pushed me. Desks went everywhere and I almost fell down. Then I got up and he pushed me again. By now the kids were screaming, “Fight, Fight.” He threw a punch that landed on my ear and it hurt. It really burned. That was all it took. It was my turn. Rage took over my otherwise calm body and my temper wouldn’t yield to reason. I must have punched him twenty or thirty times in the stomach making him fall back against the desks and messing up the room even more.

Somebody hollere, “teacher” and we put the desks back together; he regained composure and left me alone.

He might have left me alone but his friend Danny had heard of the altercation and I guess he thought he would give me a whirl.

Now, I have to say, fighting ain’t my thing. I used to say, I’m a lover not a fighter. Really, I don’t like it, I think it is unnecessary and unless I’m backed into a corner, it is not going to happen with me as I stay away from corners.

That’s what Danny did. He backed me into a corner. He was punching on me; my hands and arms covering my head until I could take no more. One punch and I bloodied his nose. So for the next three years no one messed with me, I beat up the two meanest guys in our grade. It wasn’t me I am peaceful, it was God or it was the only way out.


Installment 19 Crushes

Sooner or later I had to get to it. It’s what fuels our heart. It’s love.

I was over Mary Tyler Moore. It was the first day of fourth grade and the bus stopped at Musick and Meath. The bus was going to pick up some kids on the west side and then turn left or East onto Meath Dr.

I was sitting on the west side of the bus as the crowd of kids lined up to get on. I could see my friend Dan and his sister Sue and then there was a new girl and her older sister. This new girl had her head down and all I saw was her long wavy medium brown hair. I could see that she was tanned from being out in the sun all summer long. She looked like she might be taller than me, I didn’t care.

When the line of kids got on the bus she was at the end. I watched them all and then when Dan got on he sat next to me. She got on and passed my seat up. I was caught by the love bug. I asked Dan about her and he told me she was brand new to the neighborhood. He said he just met her the other day and her name was Michelle.

The first thing I thought of was “Michelle, my bell” by the Beatles. It started playing in my head, I was sick.

A few days later I tried to talk to her, she shut me down immediately, and I was devastated.

I rebounded quickly, well a year later when another new girl got on the bus. She lived on the East side of Meath Drive. As the bus turned left onto Meath her house was on the left right before the curve. The same scenario played out. She had wavy light brown hair and a round face and mesmerizing blu/green eyes that she almost hid behind her little round glasses. I loved girls with glasses, they always seemed smart, and I like the conversations with smart girls.

This time I was in fifth grade and I was confident enough to call her. I did. She was kind on the phone. We had a short conversation and I hung up feeling triumphant. I had a crush and the girl talked to me, it was amazing.

A few days later I called again. I wasn’t prepared for the crushing blow that she would deal. The phone rang and she answered it. I identified myself and she was silent. I began some small talk and she was silent. I stopped talking and I can remember it as if it was five minutes ago, I repeated it to myself for the next few years, she wasn’t cautious in her words she just said, “Why don’t you just buzz off.” As a glutton for punishment, I asked her to repeat herself, I was shocked. She did, she raised her voice slightly and said, “Buzz off.” For the next four years I was tormented by her vision every single day of the school.

Danielle would never utter another word to me, ever.

There was a laundry list of girls in grade school with wavy or curly brown hair that caught my eye, one was Laura May. Laura was really smart and she had a lot of class. She was cordial to me but never gave me the time of day. She captured more of my desire than either Danielle or Michelle because of her personality. But like Danielle and Michelle, I moved on to Lindbergh and to my first crush. That crush will go un-named. I told her about my crush and I’ve long since moved on. Thanks for understanding.

The rest of my teenage year crushes will some day see the pages of this book of notes. Until then, I am sure you all have similar heart throbs that didn’t feel as you did.


Installment 20 “Are you cool?”

We can be influenced by a lot of things. As a young child I was influenced by the likes of Pete Rose and Steve McQueen, Joe Morgan with his pumping arm as he batted and John Wayne with his stern command of the screen.

And Dad.

To look at my dad as an outsider he was not cool, but to me he was the coolest guy on earth. He had some Pete Rose in him and a lot more John Wayne. He wasn’t an actor or an athlete. He wasn’t successful or fit. He was my Dad and I wanted to emulate his every move.

The sound of paper wrapped in cellophane being tapped against the table followed by a high pitch sound, then a swishing and finally the tearing of the paper meant it was time. I heard the chink and then the sound of metal hitting metal, which was followed by flint on steel. The sound was his lighter, a gift from his father, like a best friend was always at his side. I can still hear him inhale through the filter-less Camel cigarettes. I remember the smell of the first one in the morning.

Out in the field a group of boys dug a hole in the ground. They dug for days until it was eight feet across and four feet deep at the center. Those boys led by my brother gathered scraps of two by fours and plywood and began building a fort. With borrowed tools we built a top to our hole in the ground. We fastened it together with nails stolen from dad’s collection. A trip to Target garnered a few hinges and a lock. Pat installed a door alarm and we were set.

Down the street and across from Mitch lived Wally Benwell. He had a few muscle cars. One such car was a 1968 AMX. Wally stripped the car out and was painting the inside. I’m not sure why anyone would do that to a three year old car. Most of the time Wally, a teenager, had a cigarette hanging from his mouth like Steve McQueen or John Wayne or my Dad. Wally was a pretty responsible role model and he never shared his cigarettes with the youngsters in the neighborhood. Naturally Dad didn’t want his ten year old son smoking so he never offered.

Cigarettes could be purchased by anyone so long as they were for an adult. The allure of cool brought me to the pack. Could I be as cool as Dad? Could I be like Steve McQueen? All I needed was a Winston.

Down in the fort Pat had acquired a pack of cigarettes and Mitch and Rob and I ran there to try them. John-John and Marty weren’t far behind. We lit them up and not a single one of us could keep the smoke in our mouths without coughing and choking. I hung the lit cig on my lips and the smoke went into my eyes; it burned. It burned my mouth and it tasted terrible. The taste stayed with me for hours, no, days.

The allure of cool led us on a rampage of theft. John-John and I were sent to Target at Baptist Church and Lindbergh to “acquire” some Marlboros. Once inside we bought a poster board. Since we were on a bike we asked the clerk to bag it. We would then go outside and discard the bag and fold up the bag and go back in. We collected some goods; a catcher’s mitt for John-John, a baseball for me and cigarettes for all of us. We put it in the bag and we walked right out unscathed.

Back at the fort our accomplices waited for our arrival. When we returned it was like Christmas morning. We dumped the goods out on the ground that was our floor and ripped open the carton of cigarettes. Each of us had a pack to roll up into the shoulder of our shirt. Now we were cool.

A few weeks later, on another “shopping spree,” I was caught. I learned two very valuable lessons. First, not to steal and second, that cigarettes are really bad.

Steve McQueen and John Wayne and Dad all died from smoking related illnesses and that wasn’t cool at all.

Installment 21 Punishment

John, John and I were headed for the exit when for some reason I decided to detour to the bathroom. As you left Target the bathroom was directly on your right. The Customer Service Desk was to the left of the door. If you followed the outside wall where the customer service desk was away from the door you would dead end into the cigarettes. That was where John John and I had just finished our last deposit into our poster bag. We cut through an open lane back out to the main aisle. We headed back to the exit door when I decided to stop and go to the bathroom.

I placed the oversized full bag of goodies on the floor next to the urinal. Unzipped and began to relieve myself when a voice from behind me said, “I am in charge of security here at Target. We know you have a full bag of stolen property. Now if you want to leave here Scott free you can leave the bag right there and just go.”

At that very moment I made a defining decision. It was a time and place I won’t ever forget. I still smell the popcorn in the air and the stale urine from the toilet. I clearly remember the voice, the guttural sound and then my objection to his accusation. I remember looking at John John and picking up the bag and leaving the store.

I didn’t leave the store, outside of the bathroom the police were standing in waiting. A woman officer leaned down and took the bag from my hands. She handed it to the security officer and right there in front of everyone they searched the bag. He said, Umm hmmm and, I thought so and then he handed it to the manager. The woman police officer took out her handcuffs and asked me to put my ten year old hands behind my back that was when she handcuffed me. She took her partner’s handcuffs and handcuffed my partner and then they escorted us back to the main aisle, past the check outs and the cigarettes to a side door.
Once inside the side door they removed the handcuffs. The woman officer asked me if I knew why we were there. I think I said “no.” She got in close to me and said, “It was because we caught you shoplifting and it looks like it’s over fifty dollars and that is pretty serious.” They asked me who else was involved and I said my brother and my friend Mitch and his brother Marty.

They asked a whole bunch of other questions and kept us there for what seemed like days. Then they were done. They were ready to take us home. That was when the handcuffs came out again. We were told to stand up and put our hands behind our backs. Click, click on me, the same on John John and we were led out of the room.

Out into the main aisle a neighbor of mine happened to be standing at the end of the hallway. She gave me a strange look and then stared at the whole scene. She was one of my mother’s best friends and also the Mrs. Cravits of Brookhaven Estates. Whatever Karen knew, everyone knew.

The officers removed the cuffs at the police cars. I was placed in the front seat of one car and John John the front seat of another car.

Nothing in my life was more frightening than the moment the door opened at my house. I felt like I had to pee and also I was sweating. Sweating blood and the tears were ready. They were poised in my eyes, I knew the voices would be loud and I knew hands would be flying and I knew I was in deep, deep trouble.

The door opened and the police officer stepped in front of me. She blocked my view as the other officer explained what had happened to my mother. They asked to be let in and she obliged. There we stood in the living room as my mom held onto my arm. Her grip was tightening with every word they delivered. Then she let go. She told me to go to the basement and wait for my Dad to get home.

I listened through the floor at what was being said. The conversation lasted less than five more minutes and the police were gone.

I was lying on my bed and I fell asleep. I woke up to the sound of the front door slamming. It was a sound like no other sound I had heard in the house. Then I heard very heavy footsteps across the floor. Dad was stomping in my direction. Mom was screaming in my defense but he would hear none of it. He stood at the top of the stairs and he screamed my name so loud I’d bet the people back at Target heard him and that was miles away.

He told me to come up stairs immediately. I couldn’t budge. I couldn’t move. I tried as he continued. Somehow he it got louder than the time before, until.

He could take no more, here he comes. Thirteen steps and I was in for the beating of my life. I wasn’t ready, who could ever be ready for that. I was defenseless and doomed. He stood two feet taller than me and outweighed me by more than double. His occupation required that he lift tractor trailer tires for a living. His biceps had enough strength to tear me in half.

I saw the rage in his eyes and he saw the fear in mine. He didn’t stop. He picked me up and put me in a chair. He grabbed my hands and put them face down on my desk/table. He told me how in foreign countries they cut off the hands of thieves and he will not have a thief living in his house.

At that time I clearly expected a big butcher knife. I expected him to hack my hands off at the wrists. I deserved it in many cultures and in his eyes I deserved it.
He let go of my hands and I immediately hid them under the table. He screamed to put them back. I didn’t. He grabbed them and put them down on the table again. Then he removed his belt. I expected the belt to hold down my hands but instead it was the butcher knife. Blow after blow on the back of each hand. Each blow seemed more painful than the previous, until he calmed.

I was wailing and he put his hand over my mouth. He said, “This isn’t all. You and your brother are both grounded for a year. You will not leave the yard for a year.”



As a Dad there is no way I could stand grounding my 10 year old in my yard for a year. I would have to have some time away from them. Dad eventually caved. But, it wasn’t until after I had my day in Juvenile Court.



That was the last time I got grounded. It was the last time I smoked a cigarette and it was the last thing I ever stole. In fact I’m the guy who comes back to the store with my change saying you gave me too much when that happens.

Some lessons cannot be taught by words alone. For me that lesson and that extreme punishment changed my life.

On a side note John John’s dad got a job in Quincy, IL not long after our court date and they moved. I believe it was out of embarrassment.



Installment 22 Bikes, ramps and bushes.

As the weather turned and the ground began to dry new opportunities arose. The football season was over, no one wanted to play hockey and Mitch wasn’t home to play basketball on his driveway. Ordinarily that wouldn’t have mattered except that Mitch’s Mom’s car was parked in the middle of the driveway and we certainly couldn’t ask her to move it.

It was just Rob and me so we didn’t have enough players for fuzzball and then my brother showed up. He was riding his bike so Rob got his out and I ran home to get mine.

Rob lived at the bottom of a hill where a street almost terminated at his driveway, it didn’t, it turned. If you went to the top of the hill and pedaled down you could ride straight onto his driveway. We did some awesome skids in his driveway in the early days. At this time his driveway was worn and pitted. It was uneven and dangerous at high speeds. We didn’t care. We would zoom down the hill and do power slides in his grass in his back yard, purposely crashing in the grass in really cool rolls and tumbles. We acted as if we had no control of our bikes when in fact we had complete control.

The ground had dried completely on this day and somewhere in his back yard we found a piece of plywood. It was a full sheet and we dragged it over to the entrance of his back yard. An old kitchen chair made the perfect support for our ramp.

Pat was first. He started at the end of the driveway by the street and accelerated his pedals up the ramp and landed on both tires. Rob was next and then me. Over and over we safely rode the bikes across the plywood.

Pat thought it would be more entertaining if he went high upon the hill and got a better start. He bounced across the uneven pavement and up the ramp at double the previous speed. He flew more than twice the distance and landed on his back tire. His front tire safely rested on the ground and he turned the bike to fall and stop before hitting the fence across the back of the yard. It was so cool. We were cheering and hooting and hollering.

Pat found some more elements to raise the ramp up and now it was my turn. With the angle of the board at more than forty-five degrees the results looked promising.

I started a few driveways up the hill, raced down, into Rob’s driveway across the bumpy terrain, up the ramp and at the last second I pulled up the handlebars. That caused the bike to begin to rotate away from my body and I fell flat on my back some ten feet from the ramp. I had the distance record and I had the wind knocked out of me. Gasping for air I turned to see Rob and Pat jumping up and down at the sight of my demise. I couldn’t cry until the air returned to my body. Once it did, I realized I had hit my head on the ground and it was hurting too.

I rode my bike home and got my Cardinals football helmet, my camouflage jacket and pants and returned for more ramp wrecks. We continued for hours crashing in Rob’s back yard until we bored of that. On the way home I was riding by Mitch’s house when I saw his small bushes on the corner next to the street. Mitch’s Dad had planted progressively larger bushes along his corner of his lot. I thought it would be fun to ride my bike into the bush with my entire protective garb on. It was.

Rob and Pat saw me do it and so they did it too. Then Pat dragged the ramp over to the bushes and we jumped the bushes. Suddenly Pat got the idea of abandoning the bikes and so we ran up the ramp and dove over the bushes. The contest was on, we ditched the ramp and with a running start we jumped and dove over and into the bushes.

It was craziness, but we were kids, being kids.

A new Era

This begins a new era in my life.

Not really.

I have decided to quit FaceBook and in an effort to keep my writing alive I will be posting stories and view points here.

I will enjoy any comment that you might have. For my FaceBook friends the next post will be redundant. It will be the entire note section of FB. I had begun a series that I entitled "Between Musick and Baptist Church roads." The group was and will continue to be my memories from childhood. It was originally brought to the pages of FB to spark memories of my classmates from high school.

I hope you enjoy the stories I write. Thanks for tuning in.

for Tracy Heimos

For Tracy in her time of need.

The few times I met him he made me smile.
He was kind and gentle all the while.
A caring soul you cannot deny.
And to lose him would sure bring a tear to your eye.

So, now I heard he’s in a better place.
And surely he has that smile on his face.
He knew God like he was supposed to know
So please find comfort for where he’d go.

He’s with the angels and he’s out of the rain.
He won’t have to endure that constant pain.
His life was great he rose up you.
So you know what you’re supposed to do.

Lift you head and be really proud.
Cause your Dad stood out in any crowd.
He was a man among men, with the biggest heart.
You know he always did more than his part.

Remember the good times when he held you near.
Remember the holidays filled with good cheer.
Remember the times when he gave you advice.
He’d come to your aid and never think twice.

He was a guy that would rarely sin.
So take comfort in the fact that you’ll see him again.
And when you do it’ll be forever.
An eternal journey an epic endeavor.