Rhyming Game

Our whole family were driving on Hwy 48, north of Englewood. I must have been about 20, because my sister Kym was with us and participating in our conversations, so she must have been at least six or seven. Dad was driving and we were playing a game.

Someone would see an object, say its name and the next person would have to rhyme and so on, each taking a turn until someone was stumped.

House, mouse, blouse, etc. Tree, fee, bee ... street, feet, meet ...

Then it was my turn and I saw a little pond with some birds swimming on it and said, "Duck!" One of your aunts said, "Buck!" and another quickly chimed in with "luck!"

Then Dad said, "Let's play a different game."

Can You Read Cursive?

"Beware the Ides of March!"

This letter is from my best friend, Larry Schieltz, sent in 1970.  He was a student at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio.  It was mailed just a few days before we left on our very first ski trip to a real mountain - Killington in Vermont.  The "Bond flick" he mentions at the end was "On Her Majesty's Secret Service."

Click the image to get an easier to read blowup.

Wow! This is my lucky day!

This is a short, but very cute story that always tickles me when I remember it.  The people involved were dear friends who I shared many good times with.  However, I'm not sure I'm a good enough writer to accurately convey its humor and poignancy.

In about 1983 I was the assistant director of the ski school at China Peak Ski Area.  One day I was skiing with my good friend Mary Dawn.

As you can see from the photo Mary Dawn was very pretty, she's also nearly six feet tall.  If you were male and had a pulse, you'd probably notice her.

Mary Dawn about 1983.

So, Mary Dawn and I finished a run and got in line to go back up the chairlift.  As we were waiting our turn our friend Spencer, a fellow instructor, joined the line.  For some now long forgotten reason, I wanted to talk to Spencer about something.

But the chairlift we were taking was a double - only two persons could ride together - so I turned to Mary Dawn and told her that I was going to ride with Spencer.

At almost that exact moment, Brook, a nice young instructor, also joined the line.

Brook was in his first year on the ski school.  He was a bit shy and still trying to find his place in the mildly competitive and modestly ego-driven world of ski instructors.  He had not yet developed the typical instructor's "too cool to be cool" demeanor.

I yelled over to him, "Brook, I'm riding up with Spencer, why don't you ride with Mary Dawn?"

Brook looked at her, and Mary Dawn, who is one of the friendliest people you could ever meet, gave him a big smile and said hello.  Brook looked back at Spencer and me and said, "Wow!  This is my lucky day!"

That's all there is to it.  I hope you can use your imagination to understand why I remember this incident so fondly.

How Dad Quit Smoking

My Dad started smoking in his late teens, as was common with young men of his generation.  He usually smoked Lucky Strikes, which was a popular, "manly" cigarette, known for (and valued due to) its high tar and nicotine.

Dad stopped smoking sometime in the mid-60's.  As I remember, it was a year or two after we moved to Stonequarry Road.  He did not make a big deal out of it, or even mention it.  Someone noticed and asked.  At the time, we all (Mom, my sisters and other family and friends) just figured he decided that it was bad for his health and an unnecessary expense.

Those letters on the bottom - LS/MFT say
Lucky Strike/Means Fine Tobacco

But it turned out there was more to the story.

I suspect that it's probably nearly impossible for youngsters to believe, but in those days you could buy a pack of cigarettes from a vending machine.

Remembering this, I realize that it was very odd that these machines existed as parents would send their kids to the store for cigarettes, but only if they gave them a note to show to the cashiers.  And the cigarettes were stored in a location that was not accessible to customers - you had to ask for them.

Perhaps the machines were not considered a problem as they were usually only located in places where children were not commonly present, like bars, workplaces, bowling alleys, veterans' organizations, gas stations and suchlike.

And cigarettes were really cheap in those days too.  When I first became aware of their cost, I'm pretty sure that they were 25₵ a pack.  Yes, just a quarter.

OK, so what's all this got to do with Dad and how he quit smoking?  I think this story says a lot about Dad's personality - his pride, his determination and his resolve.

In 1968, after I got out of High School and started college, I got a job working at Delco-Moraine, a GM factory that mostly manufactured brake and transmission parts.  It was the same place where Dad was a manager in charge of production lines which made most of the disc-brake parts used in GM vehicles.

Working there I got to know many of Dad's friends, co-workers and employees.  One guy I really liked was named Ruben.  Ruben was a jobsetter - his duties were to relieve other workers, do minor repairs and help out when someone's station backed up or they had some problem.

Talking to Ruben one day the subject of smoking came up and Ruben asked me, "Did you ever hear the story of how your Dad quit smoking?"

I was unaware that there was any "story" associated with Dad quitting and said so.

So Ruben tells me:

One day your Dad and I were talking.

And, in the course of this conversation, one or the other of us says, "Hey, I need a pack of cigarettes."  The other says, "Me too."

So we walked over to the vending machine.  Arriving there, we discovered that they had just raised the price of a pack from  25₵ to 30₵.

"G-d d-mn it!" your Dad says, "I'm not paying 30₵ for an f-ing pack of cigarettes!"

Reasonably, I replied, "But Bill, what choice do you have?"  I laughed, "What are you going to do?  Stop smoking?"

"H-ll, yes." your Dad replied, "I'll quit.   I'm not paying 30₵ for a d-mn pack of cigarettes!"

So I went back to our Department and told the rest of the guys, "Hey everybody, guess what?  Locker's going to quit smoking because they raised the price a nickel!"

We laughed and laughed.  Everyone was teasing him.  One guy started a pool about how long he'd last.  For a dollar you could pick the date you thought he'd start up again.

But he never did.

I Must Be In The Front Row!

Older folk may remember this Beer Commercial.  These were broadcast in the late 80's and were very popular.  Bob Uecker was the star of many of them.  After this commercial came out, "I Must Be In The Front Row!" became a sort of catchphrase indicating self-importance.

If you've watched the clip you've seen that he was not given a seat in the front row, the seats he was moved to were often called the nosebleed seats then, but are now frequently called "Uecker Seats."In 1984 I went to a game at Dodger Stadium.  We sat very close to the exact seats that Uecker sat in during this commercial, which looks to me like it was filmed in Dodger Stadium.A remarkable thing about this game was that we saw Hall-of-Fame Member Steve Carlton hit a tremendous Grand Slam Homer off of Fernando Valenzuela, a perennial All-Star and a very fine pitcher.I happened to be keeping score at this game and here are the scoresheets.  I highlighted Carlton's Grand Slam.

Accident Report

Forest Supervisor                                                         

Inyo National Forest

873 N. Main Street

Bishop, California  93515

Thomas Locker

Casa Vieja Guard Station

Inyo National Forest

August 9, 1979

Dear Sir,

I am writing in response to your request for additional information in Block 13 of the CA-1 (Federal Employee’s Notice of Traumatic Injury and Claim for Continuation of Pay/Compensation).  I put “bad decisions” as the cause of my accident. You asked for a fuller explanation and I trust the following details will be sufficient.

On the day of the accident, I was providing logistic support to an Environmental Analysis Team analyzing options for cheatgrass reduction in the Red Rock Creek drainage near Jordan Hot Springs.  My assignment was to pack the Team’s supplies and equipment on a mule string.

We arrived at Jordan at about 1500 hours.  My assistant packer, Bill Schofield, and several members of the Team unsaddled the horses and removed the mules’ packs.  We hobbled the animals for the night.  As we planned to continue on to Redrock Meadows the next morning we only took that evening’s supplies from the packs.  After cooking dinner and finishing cleanup, since there had been reports of considerable bear activity in the vicinity, Packer Schofield climbed a nearby tree and looped a rope over a branch.  We hoisted the packs, which contained surveying and scientific equipment as well as food, about 50 feet above the ground.

After this the rest of the party went down to the hot springs.  I remained in camp by myself.  I had planned to finish a book I had brought along.  Unfortunately I had forgotten to take it out of the pack before hoisting.  I knew that the total weight of the packs we had hoisted up was about 400 lbs. and that I could not lower and raise them by myself.  I decided to use one of the mules.

After refastening the hoisting rope with a slip knot, I scooped a few oats into my hand and went towards the pasture.  “Vudu” was the closest mule and I quickly enticed her with reach.  This was probably not the wisest choice as Vudu can often be skittish.

After untying the hobbles, I wrapped the bitter end of the hoisting rope around her chest, tying a loop just behind the forelegs.  I then pulled the slipknot loose.  The packs dropped about two or three feet, taking the slack out of the rope.  The sudden tug and the rattling of cans and equipment spooked Vudu.

She began to run, kicking and bucking until the packs snagged against their supporting branch.  At this point I would say that the mule panicked.  The bucking became extremely violent and the loop I’d tied around her chest slipped back to her belly and rear legs.  The next couple of kicks freed her from the rope and the packs began to fall.

Knowing the value of some of the equipment in the packs, I grabbed the rapidly moving rope, in the process tangling my left foot in the line.

I weigh about 150 lbs, the packs about 400 lbs.  When I realized that I would not be able to stop the packs, I released the rope.   Imagine my surprise at being jerked off the ground by the tangles around my leg.

Needless to say, I proceeded at a rapid rate up towards the supporting branch.  At about 25 feet, I met the packs, which were now proceeding downward at an equally impressive speed. This explains the broken right ankle.  Slowed only slightly by this impact, I continued my rapid ascent, not stopping until the packs hit the ground, leaving me hanging momentarily by my right leg approximately 45 feet in the air.

Unfortunately, when the packs hit the ground, the cord tying them together snapped, freeing all the packs save one.  Now devoid of the weight of most of the packs, only approximately 50 lbs. remained at the other end of the rope. As my weight was now greater, I began a rapid descent back towards the ground.

In about 25 feet, I encountered the remaining pack on its upward journey. This accounts for the broken tooth, several lacerations of my arms and upper body and the partially detached ear.

Here my luck changed slightly. The encounter with the attached pack seemed to slow me enough to lessen my injuries when I fell into the pile of packs and suffered only three cracked vertebrae.

I am sorry to report, however, that as I lay there on the pile of packs, in pain, barely able to move, I lost my composure and presence of mind.  I untangled the rope from around my now-broken ankle and lay there watching the pack begin its journey back down upon me. This explains the fractured skull, minor abrasions and the broken collar bone.

I hope this explanation adequately answers your inquiry.

**********************

For further reading on this subject see:

Can I Go Too?

One summer when I was young, probably 1967 or 1968, I and a bunch of my friends and acquaintances from Butler High School went camping.

I’m thinking that this was in 1968.  This was just after we had graduated from high school and shortly before many of us would be leaving for jobs, various colleges or military service (this was during the Vietnam era), so it was a sort of last fling.  Most of the campers on this particular trip were from my “Class of 1968” but there were a number of "69ers” – the class behind us – there too.

Our camping spot was in a little depression, a glen or hollow, north of Kershner Road, between Dogleg and Fredrick Pikes.  You took about a quarter mile or so drive up a dirt road.  When you got to the spot, you’d have thought that you were a lot further from “civilization” than you actually were as you could see no signs of any homes or buildings. I’m not sure how we happened to get this spot, I think the land belonged to someone’s family or relative.

I'd guess we were camped just about where the yellow circle is.

The group was all guys and we were a pretty tame bunch.  Someone might have brought some beer, but I’m not sure of this (and if there had been any, it would have been 3.2 – the low alcohol content type).  There were definitely no drugs.

So we were talking and joking with one another around the campfire.  I remember that we walked over to an abandoned farm house which we’d been told to avoid.

I’m trying to remember who was there.  George Moore, Steve Schieltz, Larry Schieltz, Ron Stapleton, Jack Hopkins, Dale Dalrymple, Monte Henderson, Tom Hertlein.  There were quite few others.  I guess about 10 or 12 guys altogether.

I also remember that the Father of Nancy Knuge, a girl in the Class ahead of us, ’67, visited us.  They lived on Frederick and I guess he heard us or maybe saw the campfire.  He was very pleasant, stayed and talked for a while.  I’m sure he was just checking us out.

Anyhow, getting to the point of this story, during the evening we had used up most of the firewood.  A couple of the guys dragged a log into camp.  One of them decided to cut it into smaller pieces and began chopping it with an ax.

Well it only took him four or five swings before the ax ricocheted off the log and into Larry Schieltz’s leg.  A good sized flap of skin and muscle was seen looking through the large slit in his pants’ leg.  He wasn’t in a huge amount of pain, but it was obvious that he would need medical treatment.  There was a car parked quite close, I think it was George Moore’s.  A bunch of guys quickly piled into the vehicle.  The driver started the motor and the car began to move out.

Then a voice was heard.  Somewhat meekly, as though the speaker didn’t really want to bother anyone, but still feeling the need to have his say, he said, “Can I go too?”

All eyes turned toward the speaker.  Why did this person want to go?  Didn’t he know this was an emergency?  That there was no time for fooling around?

Many of us were stunned when we saw who the speaker was.  Yes, it was Larry!  Apparently the injury to his leg had slowed him down to the point where he was unable to move fast enough to get a seat before the car left.

The driver stopped the car and the other passengers sheepishly got out.  Yes, they had filled every available seat.  Larry got in and they went off to, I think, Good Samaritan Hospital.

They were back a few hours later.  The injury wasn’t serious.  They’d taken a few stitches and Larry was fine.

Probably the most serious and lingering injury was to the axe man – he was teased much after that and even got the frequently used nickname of “Hack.”   I remember hearing him addressed by that name by people who I’m sure had no idea why he was called that.

He Walks Just Like His Father.

My Dad was a great storyteller.  He could make the most insignificant sorts of incidents memorable to all.

I can easily visualize Dad telling one of these stories.  He would get this great smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye.  He would start off very seriously, but he could never maintain that long.  Pretty soon he'd start to giggle.  He got so much joy out of sharing these with those he loved.

Towards the end of his life Dad would tell his favorite stories pretty often.  Some of us thought this was an indication of minor dementia, that he'd forgotten he'd just told this.  Now that I've thought more about this though, I don't think that was the case.  I think he knew that he'd told the story recently, but that he got so much happiness telling his stories, and he knew that we got just as much joy hearing him tell them, that he could not resist.

In our family laughter can easily be triggered by just saying any number of short phrases -- "Turn Around?"  "Ma-TRO-Buis?" "Pull Over If You See a Good Spot" "He Knows the Near Way!" "Flat Tire"


One of the most famous though, is the story of the man who walks just like his Father.

Here is the story as Dad would tell it:

One summer we were driving up to Boston.  This was probably in the late 70s and only Kim & Bill were with us since they were the only kids still living at home.  On this trip we had decided to visit Marge's cousin, Jack Meade, who lived on Staten Island in New York.

Marge had met Jack, but Jack was about 10 years younger than Marge and the last time they'd seen each other was when Jack was just a kid, so Marge wasn't sure she'd be able to recognize him.  We'd never been to his house, so when we got to Staten Island we stopped at a McDonald's near the area where we thought he lived and called, telling him where we were.

Jack said he knew exactly where the restaurant was and that he'd be over to meet us in a few minutes.

So we sat there snacking, looking out the windows waiting for our guide to show.

After a few minutes a guy walked through the parking lot. He didn't appear to be coming into the McDonald's, just passing through, but Marge looked closely at him and said, "Bill, I think that's him.  He walks just like his Father."

So I quickly went out the door and whistled.  That got the guy's attention and he turned towards me.  "Hey," I said, "We're over here!"

He turned and gave me a quizzically look, but didn't say anything.  He looked about the right age, so when he turned and started to walk away, I started following him.  "Hey, Jack?" I yelled, "Where are you going?"

He turned and looked at me, so I started walking a little faster, then, so did he.  Next thing I knew we were running down the street.  When he jumped over a hedge and tripped, I was able to catch up to him.  He jumped up and took a swing at me, so I knocked him down again.

"Jack," I said, "What the hell's the matter with you?  I'm Bill Locker, your cousin Dolly's husband."

"What the hell's a matter with me?" he replied, "What the hell's the matter with you?  My name's not Jack and I don't have any cousins named Dolly."

Well, this embarrassed me a little, so I apologized to the poor guy and went back the the restaurant.  While I was gone, the real Jack had shown up, so we left and went to their home.

**********************

Now here's the way Mom and Uncle Bill say it happened:

The stories are the same until about the time your Nana said, "Bill, I think that's him.  He walks just like his Father."

The guy she said this about actually did come into MacDonald's.  Dad went over to him and said, "Are you Jack Meade?"

The guy said, "No," so Dad sat back down and waited until he did show up.

Sense of Direction

I’m often accused of having a good sense of direction.  I usually have a feeling for which way North is.  I can usually find my way anywhere I’ve been before and sometimes even to places I’ve never been.  Here are a few stories about this.

************************



Murlin Heights Elementary

When I started school in Vandalia, in 1956, the town was growing quickly.  There were so many new homes going in, and we were in the early wave of the “Baby Boomer” kids, so Vandalia didn’t have enough schools for all of us.  They were building a new school, Stonequarry Elementary, that I was scheduled to go to (at the southeast corner of Dogleg and Stonequarry Roads, it's now a church), but it wasn’t ready when the year began.

So I began school at Murlin Heights Elementary, but was only there for a few days. Then we were sent to Vandalia Elementary (VE) where our class was seated in the gym, with about three other classes.  The “classrooms” were divided by curtains hanging from ropes stretched across the gym.

Vandalia Elementary

We attended “VE” for a good while, not sure how long, but I remember that the first day we went to Stonequarry the weather was a bit cool.


I remember, very clearly, another thing about our first day at Stonequarry.  The School Bus picked us up that morning as usual and took us to VE where the students who attended that school were to get off, while those who were to go on to Stonequarry remained on the bus.  But for some reason, the driver decided that I and other boy, Rickie Heeter, who was my best friend in First Grade, were confused about where we were supposed to go.

Tommy Locker

We told him we were now at Stonequarry, but he insisted that we were VE students and had to get off the bus.  So there stood two six-year-olds, outside a school which wasn’t theirs, where none of their classmates, teachers or friends were, watching the bus drive off.  Rickie started crying.  I don’t remember feeling scared.  I knew where I was, I knew where I lived and I knew how to get there.  I told Rickie, “I’m going to get my Dad!” (At that time Dad worked the evening shift.)

 

Rickie Heeter

So off I went.  I had started walking towards my house before the bus was out of sight.  Our house on Spartan Avenue was more than a mile from VE and on the other side of US 40, at that time one of the Nation’s major east-west highways.  I think I knew the route partly because Dad worked evenings and, as we only had one car, we would sometimes walk from our house over to the library, which was then near the corner of Dixie & Kenbrook (Kenbrook was called Nelson at that time), very near VE.

It probably took me about a half-hour to get home.  My Dad’s sister, Aunt Norma, lived on Donora Drive, very near us, and I had to pass her house to get home.  She noticed me walking past and, realizing that I should have been in school, called out to me, “Tommy, where are you going?”

Our neighborhood was so new it wasn't on the map yet!

To get my Dad!” I responded.

Well, Mom and Dad were a bit surprised to see me!  I explained what had happened and Dad drove me back over to VE.  We found Rickie in the office, still crying (why we didn’t think of just going into the office initially I don’t know – we were six).  Dad took both of us to Stonequarry and explained the situation to our teacher, Miss Cole.

Stonequarry Elementary

One last memory of this event – Dad often told this story and he would say that I had “walked a mile and three tents.”  I couldn’t remember seeing any tents while I was walking home.  Sometimes when we would drive along the route I’d walked I looked for those tents.  Eventually of course, it dawned on me that he was saying a mile and three tenths.

************************

One summer when I was 19 or 20 I drove with Mom and some of my younger siblings up to Boston for vacation.  Driving home it was getting late and I was pretty tired, having driven most of the way.  By this time we were just north of Columbus, maybe an hour and a half or two hours from home, but I was just getting too sleepy to continue.

I woke Mom up and told her that I was going to pull over and sleep for a while.  She said that she felt fine and would drive the rest of the way.  I climbed into the backseat and soon fell asleep.

At this time, the Interstate Highway system was not complete and to get on the Interstate from Columbus to Vandalia required several miles of traversing city streets.

In the backseat I felt the car turn and was suddenly wide awake.  I sat up and said, “We’re going the wrong way.”

Mom explained that no, we had just gotten to US 40 and we’d be home soon.  Just at that moment the headlights illuminated a sign very like this one.

************************

In May of 1994 I visited my friend Mark in London.  Mark grew up in London and enjoyed showing off his city to me.

Late one afternoon he said to me, “There’s something  I want to show you over in the Docklands part of East London, down by the Thames.”

So we jump in his car and head from Hammersmith, west of London, towards the Docklands.  Now, we were traveling generally east, and since it was late afternoon the sun was right behind us.  We drove along, talking and laughing.  As Van Morrison says in Coney Island, “The Craic was good.”

Mark was driving, of course, but as we drove along I noticed that the sun was gradually moving from more of less directly behind us to coming in the windows on the left side of the car.  We were going north.

Now, I knew that we were north of the Thames when we started and that the Docklands were near the river, so it seemed to me that we were not getting any nearer to our destination, but it was Mark’s city and I assumed he knew where he was going.

But after driving another little while, Mark said, “I thought we’d be there by now.”

I told him that I didn’t think we were getting any closer to the Thames.  He was surprised and wanted to know why I thought that.  When I explained my reasoning he couldn’t believe it, “I’ve lived here all my life and never used the sun to help me find out where I’m going.”

"But Mark," I said, "we were north of the Thames when we started and we're going north now.  We can't possibly be getting any closer to the River."

We never did get to the Docklands and he wouldn’t tell me what he had wanted to show me.

************************

In 1993 Mom and Dad visited California.  Accompanied by Bill we spent about a week driving around the state from Truckee where Bill and I were living then, down the coast to San Diego and back up through Bishop and Mammoth returning to Truckee.

We visited several friends and relatives along the way and we had been on the road several days when Mom mentioned that we hadn’t looked at a map the entire trip.  Then it became a challenge to complete the trip without using a map.

Over the years my career as a Forest Ranger had taken me to many nooks and crannies of California over the years -- going to fires in different places -- so I was pretty familiar with the road systems and the general “lay of the land” and we were able to do it.

Daddy Con & the Drive-in

I don’t think my Grandfather, Daddy Con, ever learned to drive.  At least I never saw him drive.  He didn’t have a television for many years, and when he did finally get one he rarely watched it. He just got it because he knew that his Grandkids enjoyed watching it when they visited.

I’m pretty sure that Daddy Con wasn’t a movie-goer either, but I remember one time when he went to the drive-in movie with us.  My own memory of the actual event is very hazy, but I well remember Dad telling the story.

I can’t really say what year this happened, but it was before Kim was born in 1962.  We all piled into our car, probably the green & white ’56 Ford Fairlane.  Mom, Dad and me were probably in the front seat with Daddy Con, Helen & Chris in the back.  I have no idea what movie we saw that night, and by the time the second feature rolled around all us kids plus Daddy Con were asleep.

'56 Ford Fairlane

Now, as I said, Daddy Con didn’t spend a lot of time in cars.  We kids were sleeping restlessly and causing the Ford to move about a bit.  And of course Daddy Con had had a few bottles of “Old India Pale Ale” so our movement probably made him think that the car was moving.

As Daddy Con dozed in the back with us kids he felt “nature’s call.”  He sat up against the front seat and looked out the windshield at the movie in front of us.  That apparently increased his feeling that he was in a moving vehicle, because he tapped Dad on the shoulder and said, “Bill, if you see a good spot, pull over.”

My Funniest Christmas Present

I’m the oldest of five and there’s a 15-year difference between me and my younger brother, Bill.

One of our family Christmas traditions when we were young was that the siblings exchanged their gifts to each other on Christmas Eve.  One Christmas when I was in college, so I was probably 19 or 20, and Bill was four or five, he gave me a very interesting gift.

When it was Bill’s turn to give out his presents he gave me a thin package about 12 inches long.  I unwrapped it and found a clear, flat piece of plastic.  One side was a standard 12-inch ruler and the other edge was curved on one side and flat on the other.

I looked at it with curiosity, not immediately exactly sure what it was.

Bill beamed at me, “Do you like it?”

“Oh yeah,” I answered, hiding my confusion, “this is really great!  I can’t wait to use it.”

His smile got even brighter, “What is it?”

I, and all the rest of the family burst into laughter.  Fortunately, I had just set the item down on the wrapping paper and realized that it was a combination ruler/magnifier, something designed for older people to read small text. 

I explained to Bill how it worked and we examined a few books and other objects with it.  He found it fascinating and played with it a great deal that evening.  Of course, when he got his presents from Santa the next morning it was back in my possession.

I actually found this gift to be pretty useful.  As I recall, I kept it with my school supplies and used it to read equations in my textbooks.

Dad, the Monte Carlo & the Highway Patrol

Sometime in the late 70’s or early 80’s Dad bought a Chevy Monte Carlo.  Lots of people liked the looks of the Monte Carlo, and thought Dad’s, with its green paint and green vinyl top, was very nice.

Dad’s Monte Carlo had a pretty powerful engine and Dad could sometimes be a in a bit of a hurry to get places which the engine’s power facilitated quite nicely.

One day while Dad was “hurrying” along.  He noticed a Highway Patrolman behind him.  Sure enough a few seconds later his lights came on.  Dad pulled over.  As the cop approached Dad noticed that he was really giving the Monte Carlo a good looking over.

Dad rolled his window down when he got closer.

“Man,” the cop said, “this is really a nice looking car!”

Dad looked at him, “Yeah, and it’s fast too.”

The cop started laughing, “Go on, get out of here.  And slow it down!”

Daddy Con & the Midwesterner

Here is a story about Daddy Con that your Aunt Christine passed on.



Mom once told Christine that Daddy Con often spoke about the time when he was working at Maverick Mills (a textile factory) in East Boston (near where Maverick subway station is now) and an engineer came from someplace inland, somewhere in the Midwest.

Mom thought that he might have said the man came from Oklahoma.  But in any case this was the first time that the man had ever been near the ocean.



Maverick Square - near where Daddy Con worked.



One day as they were working together the engineer happened to look out into the distance.  He said to Daddy Con, "What is the name of that water I see over there?  Is there a pond or a small lake or river over there?"

 Daddy Con was tickled as he replied to the man, "A pond! That's the Atlantic Ocean there, me laddie!"

They were looking straight into Boston Harbor.

Mom, Auntie Jo & the Coal Chute

Truck dropping coal down coal chute.
That is not Aunti Jo!

When my parents were young a lot of homes were heated with coal.  Usually there would be furnace in the basement with a coal storage bin nearby.  The coal bin was filled periodically from a passing truck which would open the access door and drop coal down a chute into the bin.



Auntie Jo, Aunt Eileen, Uncle
Tom & Mom

 Once when Auntie Jo was very young the truckers apparently forgot to re-secure the access door to the chute.  Auntie Jo noticed this strange little opening in the front yard and decided to investigate.

Well, she got a little too curious and the next thing she knew, she was sliding down the chute right into the piled coal.  The chute was too steep to climb back up and the bin door latch was too high for her to reach.  Struggling to escape she soon found herself coated with coal dust.

Realizing the hopelessness of her plight, Auntie Jo began to cry.  Her parents hearing the faint cries and noticing her absence began a search and soon located her. Daddy Con opened the coal bin door and found a “little black baby” inside.  Pretty quickly Auntie Jo was in the tub and her clothes in the laundry.



This became an oft-told tale in the family.  By the time all four children (Uncle Tom, Mom & Aunt Eileen also) were teenagers they had all shared many a good laugh over it.  Once when the story came up in conversation between Mom and Daddy Con, Mom happened to say that she remembered when it happened.



Auntie Jo, Uncle Tom, Mom & Aunt Eileen



Daddy Con looked at her strangely, “How could you remember that?”

“I don’t know, I just do.”  Mom replied.

“It’s not possible, Dolly,” he said, “you weren’t born yet.”

These are the tricks our memories play.  Mom had heard this story so many times, in her mind she thought that she had been there and actually experienced the event.

Jacob, the Serpent & the Dead Porcupine

I wrote about Jacob a while ago, and that story reminded me of a couple other adventures he participated in.

One day when we lived in Meadow Lakes Jacob and I went for a walk.  Towards the end of the walk, he seemed to be slowing down and just trudging along.  This was a bit unusual, even though he wandered all over as we walked through the fields and forests nearby, he usually seemed to be just as eager and excited at the end of a walk as at the start.

Shortly after we got back to the cabin dinner time rolled around.  I poured some food into his bowl and he got up from where he was laying in the living room.  He sniffed at the food, took a quick drink of water from his bowl and went back to lie down.

This was really odd.  Wondering what was wrong with him I took a close look at his face.  One of his upper lips was quite swollen.  Looking closer, I saw two little holes on the fleshy part of his lip. Wanting to see the inside of his lip, I touched it intending to pull it out so that I could see.  Jacob whined and I let go.  He was obviously very uncomfortable.

I turned on a couple more lights and got down very close to him.  What could have made these little holes, a thorn bush or barbed-wire fence?  Then I noticed there were actually four of these little marks, two sets, exactly the same distance from each other.

They were puncture wounds from a rattlesnake bite! Good old curious Jacob – one bite wasn’t enough for him.  He had to go back for seconds!

Fortunately for him, the snake bit the thin flap of his lip and passed clear through – most to the poison was injected in the space between the lip and gum.  I was sure that he wasn’t in any serious danger and a few days later he was back to normal.

Quite a few years later, when living in Truckee, I came home from work to find Jacob with a snoutful of porcupine quills.  I wasn’t terrible surprised, even though this happened during the day (porcupines are generally nocturnal).  This was the first time I’d seen Jacob tangle with a porcupine, but they were pretty common and lots of other dogs in the neighborhood had come home with quills.  He did not enjoy it when I got the pliers and pulled them out, but there were only about a half dozen and none were really stuck in deeply.

But the next day – same thing – Jacob had a good half dozen quills around his mouth.  Strange, that there’d been a porcupine around, during the day, again.  Well this repeated itself every day for quite a few more days – I’d come home to pull six to ten quills from his snout.  No one else in the neighborhood was having this problem, and no one had seen any porcupines for weeks.  The last time anyone had seen one it had been fatal for the porcupine – she killed it because it was chewing up the side of her house.

On the morning of my next day off, I took Jacob for a walk.  I let him lead thinking if I just followed him he might show me where he was finding this porcupine.  There was a creek about 20 or 30 yards from the house and he headed that way.  We walked along upstream for about a half-mile until we got to a point where a dirt road came near.  Jacob walked up to the road and started home.

Just as we got to the edge of the little group of houses where we lived he stopped and was sniffing near a bush.  I walked on past towards the cabin.  A few minutes later he followed and as he approached I saw that he had a couple more quills on his nose.  I walked back to the bush and there were the remains of a dead porcupine.

He had to sniff it every time he passed!

I got a snow shovel and tossed the carcass in the dumpster.  End of problem!

Tharn Fawns in Euer Valley

Deer fawns have survival skill of lying down motionless when a predator is near.  Sometimes this is called “tharn” which is a phrase from the excellent story Watership Down.

In the summer of 1988 the Tahoe National Forest was getting a lot of lightning and the resultant fires.  I was working in Truckee and we got a report of a smoke high on the slope south of Euer Valley (which is just west of the Tahoe-Donner area).  I headed out with one Engine.  We located the smoke just where the report stated.  It was on private land inside the National Forest.

Euer Valley

It was a good distance up the very steep slope.  I directed the crew to attack it by hiking up with handtools and five gallon water bladder backpacks (about 45 pounds each).

While they were making their way up to the fire I went down to the home of a long-time local to inquire about alternate access to the vicinity of this fire.  Since the fire was on private land I had very little knowledge of the area and any roads or trails there.

My friend and I examined maps at his house and I pointed out the approximate location.  He told me that the land owners had done a timber sale in the area a few years prior and that some of the logging roads might still be accessible.  We drove out to an area above the valley to a gate to which he had a key.  He opened the gate and we drove out the road.  The road was overgrown but passable.  We had to move some small fallen trees and used a chainsaw on one which was a little too big to drag out of the roadway.

A few minutes later I drove right up to the fire.  It was about ½ acre, but not doing much.  There wasn’t a lot of other vegetation around it, but I called for another Engine, since I now knew how they could easily drive to the location. 

I also called the crew that was hiking up from below.  I figured they were probably about to the fire but depending on how far they still had to go I might have told them that there was a road, and to go back to the Engine and drive around.  But he told me that they were almost there, so I didn’t add any more.

Then I walked back along the road, looking down the very steep slope for them.  I moment later I saw the first crewman, Jeff.  Sweat was pouring from his face and his shirt was soaked.  I felt bad about them hiking when there was a road right there, but it was funny.

Just then he saw me, “What?  How’d you get here?  Oh my God, don’t tell me that there’s a road!”

“Yes Jeff, I’m sorry.  I didn’t know this was here until a few minutes ago – too late to turn you back.  But, yes, there is a road and the look on your face is priceless!”

So – I’m getting to the point here eventually – after a while we had a line around the fire and had used up all the water in the Engine.  I sent Jeff and another fireman off in my truck to get the Engine they’d parked down in the valley.  Another crew member, Tami, and I went off in the Engine to refill with water.

There was a creek about ½ mile away, so we accomplished this with no difficulty and started back.  About halfway back we saw a doe with twin fawns.

Tharn Fawn

The three of them started running away and then suddenly the fawns disappeared.  What happened to them we wondered.

We came around a little bend in the road and there the two fawns were.  Lying right in the middle of the road – tharn!

Tami and I got out, assuming that if we got close enough they would get up and run.  We walked right up to them and neither of them moved a muscle.  I got a stick and gently poked them.  Absolutely no reaction.

Hum!  We were stumped. We looked for a way to maneuver the Engine around the fawns, but there were large trees and boulders which made that impossible.

Finally we got some largish branches and scooted/dragged the two fawns off to the side so that there was room to get past them.  During this entire process they gave no indication that they were even alive except for the rise and fall of their little chests as they breathed.

We went on to the fire.  When we went back for the next refill they were gone.

Flat Tire at the Southern Ohio Lunatic Asylum

When I was a kid growing up in Vandalia there was a hospital for the mentally ill on Wayne Avenue in Dayton.  It was called the Dayton State Hospital, but before that name it was actually called the Southern Ohio Lunatic Asylum. 

In those days it was common for us kids to kid one another by saying things like, “Keep doing that and you’ll end up on Wayne Avenue.” or “Did you just get out of Wayne Avenue?”  This wasn't as mean-spirited as it sounds today, it was another way of saying "You're crazy." or "You're acting crazy."

One time, after one of us kids had made this joke about “Wayne Avenue” Dad told us a story.

“I was driving down Wayne Avenue one day,” he began, “when I got a flat tire.”

“I pulled over and began to change it.  As I took each lug nut off I was very careful to put them all into the hubcap so that I wouldn’t lose any of them.

“When I brought the spare out of the trunk, I noticed that there were a number of men just inside the fence watching me.  I got the spare in place, but I knocked the flat tire over as I was doing it.  The flat one fell over and hit the hubcap.  All the lug nuts flew into the air, landed and rolled right down the sewer!”

(At this point I should add that Dad told this story using very “colorful” language.)

“I was fuming!  Now what was I going to do?  Then I heard a voice.”

“’Hey, Mister.’  It was one of the guys on the other side of the fence.”

“What?”

“’Why don’t you take one lug nut off each of your other three wheels and use them to attach your spare?’ he suggested.  ‘That will at least get you to a service station where you can get some more nuts.’”

“Wow,” Dad said, “that’s a good idea.”

“So I did what the guy suggested.  After I got everything put away and was ready to leave I thanked the man again.”

“Look, I said to him.  I don’t understand why a guy as smart as you is in this hospital.”

“‘Well.’ the guy responded, ‘They put us in here because we’re crazy, not stupid.’”

You know Grandad.  Do you think this is a true story?