Y-Town and Beyond

New Math And Glory Days

2011-03-11T07:07:00.000-08:00

Being a student in our educational system in the 60's and 70's, I was a Guinea Pig like my peers into some of the experiments are educators thrust upon us. New Math was probably the biggest fiasco in any school system. 1 + 1 was no longer 2. It was 1 + 1 = 2 - 1 = 1. All facts had to be proven. Forget a parent trying to help you with your homework. This fact strongly lead to its demise.

Administrators also tried to separate classes by grade point. In my 7th grade, there were 4 classes labeled 7A,B, C, and D. The theory being that the "Smarter" class wouldn't get held back by slower students. I was in the "A" class. Why? I don't know. I certainly wasn't a particularly smart student, nor did I have the attitude to become one. Our class had more misfits in it than any room in the school. They just got away with more because they knew the system better.

In my hometown of Struthers, Ohio, the schools were bursting at the seams with the large number of Baby Boomer Children. The steel mills were still going strong and the population was at an all-time high of about 17,000. Six elementary schools and one high school served the city's needs. An 8th grade building was used for a few years in the 70's to ease the overflow. Lyon-Creed School became notorious.

Kids entering 8th grade were hitting those famous years of Teenage Rebellion and hormones running amok. No longer were they bound by a class or two in a school of seven or eight grades. About 400 hell-raising 13 and 14 year olds were now in one building. It became a competition amongst the boys to see who could get the most paddlings, in the days of corporal punishment allowed in school. Three swats at a time were administered by the Principal or the teacher if they desired. The sound of the paddle and the subsequent yelp of a student as wood met pants bottom echoed in the halls, met with a snicker by all who could hear it.

I was the unofficial leader of getting the most cracks with twenty seven. The worst paddling I ever received was from a female teacher everyone knew as "Tootsie". Her years spent as a majorette, twirling a baton, gave her VERY strong wrists. Her swats about lifted me off the floor. Paddling did become a deterrent not to act up in her history class. Of course, to my children that attended the same school system, I disavow any knowledge of bad behavior.

The social experiment of a solitary 8th grade also lead to numerous altercations between students. Struthers was about 98 percent white and this was the first experience of many kids to share a classroom with black students. For those that inherited the bigotry of a parent, it was quite a learning curve to grant acceptance. More fights were between boys from different grade schools that didn't grow up together. The 8th Street Basketball Court was the usual gathering place for an after school brawl. about six blocks from the school that was far enough away that teachers were out of eyeshot to what was going on.

After much discussion, cajoling, begging, and down-right sucking up, our 8th grade was allowed to go to the high school on Friday afternoons for the Varsity Football Assemblies at The Struthers Field House. Football was King at that time and brought our community together. Struthers was undefeated for two seasons in a row. Standing room only was the norm at the home games and several buses took students to many away contests. One of my best memories was of us beating perennial powerhouse, Youngstown Cardinal Mooney, 7-6 at South High Stadium. Many of us "Boomers" reminisce about those days and wonder how we would have done if the state playoffs were held then. Each generation has their "Glory Days", I think those were mine.

Rolling Along On Saturday Mornings

2010-11-23T08:37:00.000-08:00

Most urban areas of a decent size have roller skating rinks, Youngstown being no exception. In my youth in the 60's and 70's, The Boardman Rollercade was the place to go. What better place could mom dump her kids at on a Saturday morning to get a little peace and quiet?

My dad would give me a dollar to cover my day's entertainment. 50 cents admission, 35 cents for skate rental,(50 cents if you wanted "Precision"skates), and 15 cents for a soft drink. Any snacks or games of pinball came out of my allowance of a dollar a week.

I probably began skating regularly in third grade following numerous Cub Scout Outings or birthday parties there. I seldom missed a Saturday during the Cold Weather Months, which in Ohio is about eight months long. I usually didn't see any kids from my school and made friends with lots of the "Regulars" that were always there.

The session lasted from 9 A.M. until Noon. It was always structured the same way. It was started out with the mysterious man in the glass booth on the second floor playing the organ and announcing,"All Skate"! A stampede of kids would come flying out on to the main floor trying to be the first one to complete a lap. Naturally, there would always be a "Wreck" with numerous kids falling on the floor and others tripping over them. The dreaded Skating Guards would do their best to limit the pile-up by skidding to a halt behind them and blowing their whistles to alert everyone. The Skating Guards had ultimate power out on the floor and had boys sit for a period of time for horseplay, racing, tripping, and other stupid stunts.

The Rollercade played records most of the time of popular songs that were at least a year old. They must have bought them on sale at The Record Rendezvous up the street. I can still hear "Winchester Cathedral" and "Green Tambourine" playing in my head. After several songs a Couples Skate was called and all the boys scrambled to find a girl to skate with to the lame organ music again. I always sought out Debbie. She was a neighbor of my aunt and uncle and skated in a lot of competitions. She was cute and pleasant and all the boys watched us as we skated by.

About halfway through the session, everyone gathered in the middle for "Fun and Games". The Mexican Hat Dance led off followed by The Hokie Pokie. The Limbo Rock was played as some little squirt would win the competition and get a ticket for a free drink. The last event was racing with boys and girls racing separately by age. The same kids would usually win every week except the boys' races looked more like Roller Derby. More than one kid got laid out or "accidentally" got pushed into the wall.

By my junior high years, I switched to skating on Friday night, Teen Night. I met more girls from other schools which led to numerous altercations with boys from their school that apparently didn't like me moving in on "their" women. After an adjustment period of the boys putting their testosterone in check, girls seemed to be clamouring to skate with me. Of course, I was full of myself. Little did I know that the real reason they wanted to skate with me was: (A) To make another boy jealous or (B) Because I could skate well backwards and they could continue talking to a girlfriend beside them as they skated with me.

Business wasn't doing to well at The Rollercade. Competition from a modern rink and it's location in not the best part of town contributed to it's demise. The elderly brothers that owned the rink sold it to Schwebel's Bakery for a warehouse. I still drive by the place from time to time when I'm in town. I reminisce about a lot of good times as I rolled through the years.

You're Really From Murder Town USA?

2010-08-31T12:16:00.000-07:00

I am always truly amazed by the reactions from people, where ever I may travel in this country. Mention you're from the Youngstown, Ohio Area and usually they say,"Murder town USA" or "Is it still ran by the Mafia?" Old mystiques die hard. I moved away from Struthers, a Youngstown suburb, twenty five years ago. As soon as people hear I came from there, a comment ALWAYS follows.

I guess a little history is in order to give you a background why Youngstown became so notorious. The steel industry put Youngstown on the map. At one time, the area had twenty three miles of steel mills along the Mahoning River. It required a huge labor force to work at the hot, back-braking jobs that paid very well in a union environment. Thousands of immigrants flooded Youngstown and settled into neighborhoods usually of the same ethnic persuasion.

Just like in much larger cities like New York City or Chicago, "Turf Wars" often broke out with rival ethnic groups fighting over who controlled a certain part of town. After World War II, things settled down considerably. Tensions now were often directed towards individual "Families", especially those of Italian decent. Allegiance to "Families" stretched far and wide with one group loyal to their main family from New York and maybe another representing a family from Chicago.

Growing up there, it was second nature to know somebody that was in or connected to a mob. They had their hands into anything and everything to make a buck on. The mob touched every part of people's lives in Youngstown, whether they knew it or not. Many labor unions were controlled by "Wise Guys" with their hand in the coffers of the working men. Another business they took over was vending machines, Juke Boxes, and amusement games. Many merchants didn't have a choice but to put a machine in ran by a mobster, if he knew what was good for them.

The "Murder Town USA" acronym came from a survey that determined more murders per capita were committed in Youngstown than any other city in the country. Mob violence spilled over into the streets and gangland-type murders and bombings were frequent in the 1950's and 60's. One car bombing in the 60's took place in downtown Youngstown with a rival mobster's leg being found on top of the Lustig's Shoe Building. This generated many jokes for months to come just to show you how calloused people became to the violence.

Yes, many communities were controlled by The Mob. Many politicians had to answer to some mobster. It's amazing how deep they had their hooks into every facet of government,too. So many people are still in denial about the influence of criminals on communities. I assume these are the same folks who bury their heads in the sand at the first sign of trouble.

My first direct contact with a local Wise Guy was as a young teenager at my friend's apartment. This guy had a typical platinum-blond bimbo girlfriend that lived next door to my buddy. Seeing us outside the complex one Thanksgiving night, he insisted we come in and eat dinner with them. We protested to him that we just finished eating at our own homes. Wise Guy said he didn't care as he filled our plates with turkey and mashed potatoes with all the trimmings. "Eat!", he bellowed and we wolfed down the food as quick as we could.

After dinner, my friend and I just looked at each other and rolled our eyes, not believing what we just had to do. Wise Guy wanted to play around with us now and started to throw soft slap punches at us in the living room. He said, "Let's see how tough you are. Punch me in the stomach." I hit him without much force and he glared at me. "I said PUNCH ME!", he growled. I cranked up and hit him with my best fourteen-year-old Haymaker. He never even flinched. I sprained my wrist and it hurt for a month. Now I see how he got his reputation, tough as nails.

I was fortunate to come in first on the Civil Service Exam for Fireman in my home town and received the appointment. Right after the Swearing-in Ceremony, one of the older firemen told me to consider myself lucky. I asked why and he replied that I was the first Fireman appointed that wasn't approached to pay for his job. He said the going rate was $500. I let him know it would have been a cold day before I would have paid a dime. Maybe they knew that or the Wise Guy I knew just let me slide. I never said I was smart, but I did have honor.

I don't really know who gets the credit for it, but by the mid-80's, The Mob was all but eliminated in the Youngstown area. Some say it was the FBI. Some say it was a new breed of politicians. Some think it was just a poor economy after the steel mills closed. After all, It was pretty hard for the mob to function with so many businesses gone or struggling. I do know that the Wise Guy I knew disappeared, just like Jimmy Hoffa. Rumors ran rampant for years to come, but apparently he's still sleeping with the fishes. I think of him every time I get indigestion.

The Sandmen Are Gonna Getcha!

2010-08-24T08:00:00.000-07:00

Growing up in the 60's in The Youngstown Area, my "Must See" TV was "4:30 Showtime" on WFMJ-TV, channel 21, an NBC affiliate. Showtime always showed a Sci-FI movie usually the "B" type, that usually made you laugh more than be scared by the monsters, etc. that graced the screen. You could always see Space Ships flying across the skies and notice they were suspended by a string or see the zipper on an actor's monster suit. What a hoot!

Being eight or nine at the time, a few of the movies grabbed my attention and caused nightmares that reoccurred for years. Back in the Cold War Days, our parents were more worried about Nuclear War than what their children were watching on television. A family very seldom had more than one TV, a color set was a real luxury. Of course, my Dad controlled what shows we watched in the evening. After school until dinner time, I had my choice and "4:30 Showtime" was my favorite. I never dared telling my folks that some of the movies bothered me, knowing that I'd never get to watch Showtime again.

The movie that bothered me the most was, "The Sand Men". One of the corniest "B" movies ever made. Aliens landed in the outskirts of a small town and built an underground network of sand tunnels that unsuspecting locals walked upon and fell into the tunnels. The people were then captured and converted into Zombie-like creatures that were returned to their community. They slowly took over the town by attracting others to the sand dunes that swallowed up most of the town's people, including the Eight year old boy main character's father. Naturally, no one believed the little boy until it was almost too late. The military came to save the day, the boy was a hero, yadda, yadda, yadda...

Not long after seeing this flick, I had a nightmare that featured my aunt and uncle as the leaders of The Sandmen. They were always trying to capture me in my house by hiding in our furnace ducts and reaching through the grates to try and grab me. Our house actually did have huge furnace grates on the walls, being a converted coal furnace. The unmistakable sign that someone was an alien in the movie was two puncture marks on the back of their neck. This showed they had undergone the alien medical process of conversion. Never saying anything to anyone, I was always secretly checking adults for the tell-tale scars on their necks, especially my aunt and uncle.

I frequently was asked to go to my aunt and uncle's house after church on Sunday. I'd spend the day with them getting spoiled and knowing there would be special treats, like Dairy Queen. After the movie and my nightmares, I politely declined. I don't know what they thought about it, I just knew I wasn't going to become an alien! My days of visiting them alone were over.

Fast forward to 1973 when I was eighteen years old. Growing up in the Blue-Collar Steel Town of Struthers, I was a self-proclaimed Tough Guy. I admitted no fear and was always up for a challenge to prove my manhood. Then, I saw the movie, "The Exorcist". That movie scared the Crap out of me! When Linda Blair was spinning her head around and hurling Pea Soup, I was cowering low in my seat. Never appearing weak, I laughed along with my buddies afterwards proclaiming how lame the movie was. If my friends only knew then that the next day I moved my bed back upstairs after being in the basement most of my teen years.

I never trusted that dark, dank basement anyhow. When I was down there alone, I always had a feeling of someone was watching me. I'd race up the steps before anything could ever catch me. I heard enough hype about the Exorcist movie and some of the bizarre things that happened to the cast and crew. It was probably just conjured up to generate interest and help publicity. I just wasn't taking any chances. For all I knew, my aunt and uncle were still hiding in the furnace ducts!

Just Love To Be Headed Down The Highway

2010-08-11T06:26:00.000-07:00

I don't know what first sparked my interest in motorcycles when I was a kid. It might have been an older neighborhood kid who was always tinkering with his broken down Harley in his garage. Living two doors away, we knew what time he came home every night. The loud rumble could be heard two blocks away. It became a standing joke in my family. We'd look at each other when we heard his bike and exclaim, "Paul's home!"

Mini-bikes were a big craze in the late 60's. They were miniature motorcycles with lawn mower engines on them for power. The problem with them was they weren't street-legal and there were very few places to ride one in Struthers, my hometown, a suburb of Youngstown, Ohio.

As much as I begged and pleaded, my folks never gave in to me to let me have anything on two wheels other than a bicycle. I did sneak a ride or two on some friend's mini-bikes and it instantly transformed me into feeling like Peter Fonda in the "Easy Rider" movie. Feeling the wind through your hair and enjoying the freedom of the open road. The Steppenwolf song, "Born To Be Wild" immediately began playing in my head....."Get your motor runnin', headed down the highway, lookin' for adventure and whatever comes our way..."

When I was thirteen or fourteen, my Uncle Jack got a Honda 750 and I immediately became his passenger for Sunday rides all over Northeastern Ohio and Western Pennsylvania. I loved every minute of it and can recall many rides in detail. It seemed to awaken all my senses. A couple bucks worth of gas and a cheeseburger and Coke at some Greasy Spoon Restaurant gave us a whole day of enjoyment for less than five dollars. What a deal!

My parents remained adament about not allowing me to get a motorcycle. In the Spring of my Senior year, when I was eighteen and totally responsible for my own actions and debt, I purchased my first bike. a brand-new Honda 360 CL. It was a combination road and off-road motorcycle. High exhaust pipes and a lot of ground clearance made it possible to take it anywhere and I did. I really learned to ride well off-road before I put too many miles on it on a busy highway. I gained confidence and respected the power I had underneath me. I saw the results of what happened to a lot of kids I knew when they showed off or drove too fast for conditions.

That Summer, my buddy, Greg and I headed out on our motorcycles to Gainesville, Georgia, where my Uncle Jack and his family had moved to a couple of years earlier. We hit torrential rain the ENTIRE way down South. The cheapo rain suit I bought didn't last fifty miles. I bumped my leg again the hot exhaust pipe and a small hole was burned into the rain suit. The wind started blowing into the hole and before you knew it, the complete rain gear was ripped from my body at 60 M.P.H.! Shazam! We stopped periodically under overpasses to empty out our boots and wring out our shirts. We made it in one full day. A distance of about 750 miles. Ahh, to be young again! I could never drive that many miles on a motorcycle in one day today. I used my turn signals as foot rests from time to time, just to change my position.

Greg and I had many adventures during our week stay in Northern Georgia. I'll have to go into detail in a future post about that. We headed back home riding side by side. By now we were so attuned to each other's riding style, all we had to was nod our head in the direction we want to go in. We moved in formation like The Blue Angels, gliding in and out of the lanes on the interstate. We made it as far as Cincinnati and fatigue took over. we pulled into a Rest Area and slept on picnic tables for a couple of hours only to be awakened by a State Trooper tapping us on the bottom of our boots with his night stick, telling us we couldn't sleep there. We made the final push home, five hours of "White Line Fever".

Until recently, I've had a motorcycle. I moved up to bigger and better ones over the years. I've traveled to most of the USA on a Honda Gold Wing Touring Motorcycle. There's no better way to take in the country. A bike allows a panoramic view of your surroundings and you can always feel that rush of wind through your hair, albeit, these days there's less of it to blow around. Plus, you can always play that music in your head without a stereo, "Get your motor runnin'..."

You Drive For Show and Putt For Dough

2010-08-05T06:25:00.000-07:00

One of the great outlets in life when growing up in Northeast Ohio is the game of Golf. As a kid with nothing to do in the Summer, Golf filled that void for me all through my school years. My folks knew that they could drop me off at Countryside Golf Course near my home in Struthers and I'd be out of trouble for the entire day.

I bought my first set of golf clubs with the money I made caddying at Tippecanoe Country Club. I was twelve years old and purchased them at Strouss-Hirshberg Department Store in downtown Youngstown. An unlikely place to buy sporting equipment at an upscale store, but my sister worked there and I got them with her discount which made them affordable with my meager savings.

My early days of golfing was strictly trial and error. I learned basically by observation. I caddied for some really good golfers and some real duffers. I picked up all sorts of good and bad traits that others were all too happy to correct me about over the years, whether I wanted help or not.

Believe it or not, I refined my putting skills at none other than a regulation Putt-Putt course. I played there often and learned how to judge the speed and distance of putting a ball. My "Short Game", the part of the golf game from 100 yards to the hole, became my strong suite. There's an old adage in golf that says,"You drive for show and putt for dough.", meaning that a long hit off the tee might be impressive, but if you are accurate with your short game, you'll do much better.

I never was great at golf, but I could hold my own with the average weekend golfer. Because golf requires so much timing and repetitive skills, it's next to impossible to be a terrific player without playing several times a week. Those of us the had to hold down a job and had a family seldom had the time to devote to the game. Also, golf in northern Ohio in the Winter months is downright impossible, even if you do use orange balls. So taking a 3-4 month break from the game each year doesn't help hone your skills.

As a young adult, I played in a men's league at Tanglewood Golf Course, near the Pennsylvania border. A beautiful hilly course that was one of the longest in the area. Our League was divided into two groups based on Handicaps. Handicaps level the playing field, so to speak, and a certain number of strokes are deducted from your score based on your average. I think the best handicap I ever had was a six, meaning I scored an average of six shots over par for an eighteen hole round.

At the end of the golf season in our league, I was fortunate enough to play for the league championship against a much older guy that was close to retirement age. I began to lick my chops at the thoughts of beating the heck out of this guy on the course. After all, I drove the ball twice as far as he did. Our match commenced with "The Old Timer" hitting the ball 150 yards at a time, right down the middle of the fairway. I snickered at his feeble attempt and promptly put my first drive in a pond. This is how the rest of the day pretty much went. I "got my clock cleaned" by this old guy! I was beaten and humbled by a guy three times my age. I guess there is something to that saying, "You drive for show and putt for dough." I certainly learned my lesson.

Fast forward about 25 years. My oldest son, Matt and I are playing golf occasionally before he moves out of state. Matt was a gifted athlete and an excellent golfer, frequently shooting par and sub-par rounds. Talk about de javu all over again! I've seldom seen anyone hit a ball as far as Matt. He frequently hits it over 350 yards from the tee! When he cranks one out there that far his accuracy falls way off. Here comes dear old dad, 200 yards down the middle and my good short game. Amazingly, Matt has never beaten me in all these years. I guess I've learned my lesson. It's time to pass on my wisdom to my son.

Chad And The Bonnie And Clyde Award

2010-07-18T11:33:00.000-07:00

I recently attended a four day all-class reunion in my hometown of Struthers, Ohio. It's been many years since I spent more than a few hours there. My family moved away as well as most of my friends. I saw so many people I haven't talked to in 25 to 30 years. What a Hoot!

I could probably write a post about each person I talked to and how their interaction with me affected my life. I'm sure a few stories will trickle out of me in the coming months, but the rest of this post I'm going to concentrate on my friend Chad and his impact on the man I have become. As an impressionable teenager, I don't think anyone had an impact on me more than Chad.

Chad was the Special Education Teacher at Struthers High School during my years there in the 70's. Special Education was really still in it's infancy in those years, at least in Struthers. Poor Chad had to struggle to get ANYTHING for his classroom, including the classroom itself. Originally, class was held in a converted concession room in the field house, know as Room 99. All students became known as "99er's" by the regular student body, a nasty acronym as bad as calling someone mentally-challenged "Retarded". The Principal decided the school needed that room for other purposes and once again moved Chad's class to a small coach's office up the stairs in a farthest corner of the field house.

I originally befriended Chad on the freshman track team, when he was a coach. He had and still has a very easy-going nature and an infectious smile that immediately puts you at ease. I complained to him one day how boring school was because of all the Study Halls I had, instead of real classes. He told me he could always use help in his classroom and invited me to become a Teacher's Aid for him. I readily agreed and for the next three years, I spent every extra minute at school helping out in his class.

For some unknown reason, the kids with special needs became like part of my family. Chad came up with "Special Projects" for me that he said would be a challenge for me, but thought I could handle it. I fell right into his hands. He knew my competitive nature and that I wouldn't let him down once he put his trust in me. Most of the "Projects" involved me working one on one with a student. Usually it was related to learning the "three R"s, where a student was having particular difficulty grasping an understanding. He put me one-on-one with someone to learn multiplication tables, for instance. It was very rewarding to me to see "The Light Bulb" go off when they understood a concept.

Sometimes Chad would give me a task with a student that had nothing to do with school work. One pupil had very poor hygiene habits and wore dirty worn out clothes. Chad told me to take this boy under my wing and teach him proper bathing and personal hygiene, including how to wash clothes. Chad gave me phone numbers of agencies and churches and said the rest was up to me. A daunting task for a sixteen years old. In working with the boy, he gave me every excuse under the Sun for not being clean and having dirty clothes. His family was Dirt Poor, that much I understood. I received a small amount of money from a local church to buy him some clothes. I think socks, shoes, underwear, and three changes of clothes was all we could afford. It was a start. I had him shower every day in the gym locker room when no one else was around. The poor kid had never used a wash cloth or washed his hair with shampoo. We kept all his clothes and toiletries hidden away at school and washed his clothes in the washer and dryer used for the basketball team. Within a month, the transformation was incredible. The kid looked good and brimmed with confidence!

The High School principal, long known as a tyrant to students and staff alike, fought Chad over everything. A simple request like a chair with rollers on it for the concrete floor in his class room was denied. Every time Chad moved his squeaky wooden chair, it disrupted his class. Knowing of his dilemma, I "borrowed" his chair over night and installed Rollers on it. It was sitting in it's usual place the next morning under his desk. The look on his face was priceless the first time he glided across the floor, smiling from ear to ear.

For deeds like that and other clandestine acts of daring to obtain items for the class room that Chad couldn't get through normal channels, another young lady and myself were awarded Chad's first "Bonnie And Clyde Award". A small plastic Precious Moments-Type statue of a little boy and girl accompanied Chad's short speech at the end of the school year, thanking us for our efforts. Our celebration included the ever-present Popcorn and RC Cola that I'd slide out of school to obtain down the street at Mike's Party Shop.

The System finally got the best of Chad a couple of years later and he left the school to begin his own successful excavation business. I don't know if Chad ever regretted his decision to leave teaching. I know He had a lot of impact on every life he touched and everyone was better off in life having known him. His influence on me propelled me into seeking a teaching degree in Special Education and being kinder and gentler to those less fortunate in life. Thanks, Chad.

Keeping Busy At Mauthe Park

2010-06-28T06:51:00.000-07:00

Mauthe Park in Struthers, Ohio was dedicated in the early 60's. A large park by small-city standards, Mauthe filled a niche in the west end of the city for a recreation area. Little League Baseball fields were created and the park became the focal point of Summer activity, sun up to sun down.

A large playground with the usual assortment of equipment was available. Teeter-todders, a Jungle Gym (better known as Monkey Bars), a Merry-Go-Round, and swings that were suspended from sixteen foot poles kept all the kids busy trying them all.

The city version of Horse Shoes, Ringers also was played there. The Ringers game for the uniformed, was similar to tossing horse shoes except large washers were used and thrown towards a five inch piece of pipe that was buried to ground level. I remember getting many a bruised shin bone from the washers bouncing off the pipe and banging into your leg. Many a boy derived extra pleasure in beating an opponent and causing a few bruises to their shins in the process.

During Struthers' good economic years when the steel mills and industry was going strong, the Parks and Recreation Department hired playground supervisors and held craft and activity classes. I'm sure there are still some Popsicle houses, plaster crafts, and vinyl braided key chains laying around some one's basement. I remember my dad using a key chain I made him well into his Golden Years.

The City Fathers acquired a retired fighter jet and mounted it on large concrete pilings in the park. Many a boy spent countless hours sitting in the cockpit pretending to shoot down enemy aircraft. Unfortunately, the jet fell victim to senseless vandalism and it had to be removed after a couple of years. I never did or never will understand the mentality of kids to destroy things for no good reason. I guess our high school principal was right when he said it the two percent that ruin it for everyone else.

Back in the 60's, I encountered one of my life's biggest disappointments at Mauthe's Baseball practice field. I was "cut" from the Little League team I tried out for, The Fifth Street Plaza Cardinals. I cried all the way on my bike ride home. It was tough to take as an eight year old. My father consoled me and immediately took me to the batting cages at Riley's Fun Spot to begin working on making the team next year. It paid off. I made the teams I tried out for every year after that. No one gets left off the roster in baseball these days. I can see both sides of it, but in my case, I thinking it created ambition in me I didn't know I had. Learning to live with rejection builds character, too. There was no coddling, just perseverance taught by our parents.

A new municipal swimming pool was built at Mauthe Park in the 70's. a rather non-descript Z-shaped pool with a nice size bath house. A lot of children learned to swim there with morning lessons and cooled off on those sweltering Summer days. Unfortunately, The pool was permanently closed when it developed large cracks in it and loss of water. Investigation revealed that the pool was built over abandoned coal mines and the ground had collapsed beneath it. I don't know if anyone took the blame for that mistake, but the kids of Struthers are now left with running through their sprinkler in the back yard.

All the neighborhood city parks have been closed. Economic factors and population shift is to blame. I'm so disappointed for the area youth. I spent many hours of my formative years in the city parks and it helped keep me out of mischief I'm sure I would have gotten in to if left to my own entertainment. The Mill Creek Park Commission of Youngstown took over ownership and maintenance of Yellow Creek Park which is the last vestige of nature left in my home town. I hope that the citizens of Struthers continue to use and appreciate the beauty of what's left in a once proud, thriving city.

Those Boring Summer Days

2010-06-15T10:06:00.000-07:00

Contrary to popular belief, Struthers, Ohio, a suburb of Youngstown, was not always an exciting place to live. Especially for a school-age kid in the sixties and seventies. As much as we celebrated the end of a school year and the beginning of Summer vacation, within about two weeks, most of the kids in my neighborhood were bored to tears.

All of us kids seemed to go through spurts of different activities. Someone would come up with an idea and by acclimation, the group decided if it was worthy of wasting an afternoon doing it.We always had the old stand-bys of going to Fifth Street Park and hanging out and playing Washers or go hiking through Yellow Creek Park or maybe fishing at Hamilton Lake.

One boy's father made him a pair of stilts out of a split two by four with triangle wood wedges for footrests. We all faked admiration to his dad about what great workmanship he did on the stilts and before you knew it, he made a pair of stilts for every boy on the street that wanted them. For a good two weeks, we became Stilt- Walkin' Fools! Up and down the street, in and out of driveways, across yards, and even up concrete steps. After many scraped knees, bumps on the Noggins,(before Bike Helmets), and countless races, the stilts began collecting dust in the corners of our garages.

By the time I hit the junior high years, we neighborhood boys apparently had reached an intellectual phase. He started getting into board games every afternoon on some body's porch. Risk, Mouse Trap, Monopoly, and Scrabble were just some of the few we played. Jeopardy! was probably the group favorite with it's little "Cricket" clicker you used to signal you had an answer. Within a couple of weeks, everyone had memorized the answers and it wasn't fun any more. Time to break out a different game.

Many of us took up golf and learned the game while caddying at Tippecanoe Country Club. Many an afternoon was spent at Countryside Golf Course playing as much golf as daylight would allow. It was fairly cheap to play there. The course was in it's early days of being constructed and part of the hazards was an occasional cow on a fairway. I do remember bouncing a golf shot off a silo on the ninth hole and the ball landing about three feet from the hole. Every dime we made caddying was spent on green fees and golf equipment.

During our pre-driving years, most of the neighborhood kids walked to Struthers' Municipal Swimming Pool, better know as "The Birdbath", down at the bottom of Wetmore Hill. A huge circular pool with a fenced-in diving platform in the center. The chlorine was so strong that if you opened your eyes under water, they would sting and be red for days. All the Little Leaguers were forbidden to swim on game days and the red eyes were a dead give-away to your coach if you had been to the pool.

By the time we got our driver's licenses, the world became our oyster. All though most of us were restricted to staying within the city limits by our parents, trips to Cincinnati that was five hours away or a one hour trip to Pittsburgh, were not uncommon. We just pooled our gas money and hit the road. It was nice when gas was 32 cents a gallon. If our parents only knew we would still be grounded.

It's funny now, thirty years later when I bump into some one from the old neighborhood. Many a conversation begins with,"Remember the time...". Yes, I DO remember the times. Looking back on some of the best times of my life that I thought then, were the Boring Days of Summer. We made our fun and created memories we will always cherish and tell our kids about.

First Born And First Loved

2010-05-28T13:52:00.000-07:00

It's hard to believe, but my First-Born, Jennifer Lynn is 32 today. Wait a minute! What's going on here? It feels like I just left The Expecting Fathers' Waiting Room at North Side Hospital in Youngstown. A glorious day that started out with not a cloud in the sky. I sat on the ledge of a huge window on the third floor watching the 1st shift trickle into work. It was starting to sink in that I'm now a father. Would I remember my vow as a rebellious teenager to never raise my child like my parents did? My turn now, to mold this kid into every thing I wanted her to be. As all of us parents know, easier said than done.

I was a young father. At 22, I was very energetic and excited about our first child on the way. My wife and I went to weekly Lamaze classes as I prepared to be the coach when my wife went into labor. I'll never forget, "Three Hees and a Hoo", one of the breathing techniques that we practiced religiously. My wife was in labor for 22 hours and was on the verge of needing a C-Section. After a dose of Pitosin, things happened quick. My beautiful daughter was born! 8 pounds, 9 ounces, full head of dark hair. Hell, the kid looked ready for first grade!

The television mega-hit, "Roots" was on the weeks leading up to her birth. I couldn't resist when the nurse handed me Jenny in the Delivery room. I kissed her on the forehead and lifted her skyward saying,"I Name you Kunta Kinta!", mimicking the scene in Roots when the lead character was born. I got a good laugh from The Delivery Team and a scornful look from my wife.

One of the first things I did when we brought Jenny home from the hospital was to go to a Nursery and buy a tree for her. A 5-foot beautiful Mountain Ash was planted in the back yard right next to where the Swing Set would go. At the base of the tree, I put in a small cement plaque with her name and date of birth on it. In later years, she made sure she told everyone that it was HER tree. The tree would also become first base for kick ball games.

When Jennifer turned two, I became a full-time Fireman. Working 24 hours on, 48 hours off, gave me a lot of time with my daughter in her formative years that most dads didn't have. I was able to attend a lot of pre-school field trips and events. I especially remember the trip to the Christmas Tree Farm. Being the only dad there, I was elected to cut the tree down the class selected. I think I still have bits of Pine Tar on my hands and arms, not to mention soaked pants from having to crawl under the tree. I can't imagine how many scores of pumpkins I carried back to the bus from The farm field Halloween trip.

Most Saturday mornings while my daughter was of pre-school age, It was "Mommy Time". My wife had the morning to herself to do whatever she wanted to do. Shop, visit friends or relatives, or just sleep. In nice weather, Jenny and I took off on my ten-speed bike with her strapped to the child carrier on the back. Our first destination was Casey's Restaurant in Poland for breakfast. All the folks there fussed over this adorable little girl and Jenny reciprocated with laughs and giggles. I do remember bringing home a free kitten from a house along our bike trail. The poor little thing scratched me from head to toe by the time I got it home.

One of our favorite things to do when Jennifer was about three was playing, "The Price Is Right!", her favorite show. Jenny would go to the top of the carpeted steps and wait for me to yell from the living room, Jenny Benny Rupe, C'mon Down!" she'd slide on her butt down the steps and ran across the floor into my arms, where I would lift her high in the air and say, "You are the next contestant on The Price Is Right!" She would always squeal in laughter. To this day, I Still call her Jenny Benny. She may be a mother herself, but she'll ALWAYS be my Little Girl.

How Ya Gonna Keep 'Em Down On The Farm?

2010-05-20T08:10:00.000-07:00

Growing up in suburban Youngstown, Ohio, I didn't really learn too much about nature and the Great Outdoors other than my hiking in Yellow Creek Park out to Hamilton Lake. Sure, I did a lot of fishing in my youth and some hunting, but nothing prepared for for the rural life that awaited me in the late 80's, when I moved to North Central Ohio. Podunk wasn't a good enough name for this place. I think their were more dirt and gravel roads than motorized vehicles.

Other than The Canfield Fair, The Mahoning County's agricultural fair, I had never even seen any farm animals, up close and personal. outside of a vegetable garden in the back yard, I didn't know squat about crops and the effort it took to plant, fertilize, nurture, and harvest bountiful acres of corn, soybeans, wheat, and alfalfa. The only Alfalfa I knew was on the Little Rascals.

For about a year, I rented a small house that overlooked a five acre pond, set in the middle of a huge farm of several hundred acres. To me, it was an ideal setting. Previous to this place, I could always hear my neighbors flush their toilets. Ahhhhh, the peace and quiet! I had moved there in late Winter, little did I know what would befall me when the growing season commenced. I was surrounded on three sides by crop fields and by mid-March, the tractors were roaring by the house pretty much 24/7 until the fields were tilled and the crops planted. This usually took until late May.

About 5 feet from my bedroom window was a four foot high pasture fence. I never paid much attention to it or the large pasture that led to a barn about 300 yards away. One morning, I was blasted out of bed by the loudest MOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! I had ever heard in my life. Yeah, that's right, a cow was straining hard against the fence to reach my window to let me know it was time to get my City Ass out of bed! At first, all I could do was run around in circles in my bedroom. After the cobwebs cleared out of my brain, I finally realized what the hell was going on and had a good laugh. I proceeded to have a talk with the farmer who owned the pasture and he agreed not to let the cows into that pasture so early in the morning. Maybe my telling him I was from Youngstown and I'd hate to put a contract out on his cow had something to do with it.

Near the end of Summer, I noticed the same cow laying down in the grass about 10 feet from the fence. Gee, I thought, there sure are a lot of flies on that poor cow. I walked up to the fence and realized the cow was dead. I called the farmer up to give him the bad news and he asked me to jump over the fence and physically check to make sure the cow wasn't breathing. Apparently, he didn't trust this City Slicker. I obliged him and high jumped over the fence, only to land in a large cow pie that was plopped down right in my landing zone. This of course, made me lose my balance and I promptly fell on to my back, in you guessed it, MORE cow pies! Naturally, I had just got off work and still had my dress clothes on. There was even cow poop on my tie! I dutifully went over to the cow to make sure it was not breathing. I lifted it's front leg and was able to turn the cow over like I was using a long-handled jack. Yep, it was dead all right.

Don't get me wrong, the place did have it's charms. It was built in the 1840's and I actually saw the property deed that was written on sheep skin and signed my President James K. Polk. The support beams were cut with an axe and the floors were made of Ironwood, which can't be found today. I learned all about Ironwood after ruining two Circular Saw blades by cutting out a small section of damaged floor. The best part of the property was the pond. Heavily stocked with Pan Fish and Small and large-mouth Bass. There was nothing like coming home after a long, hard day, cracking open an iced-cold beer and "Dippin' a Line" for an hour or so. You were almost guaranteed to catch something, even though I never kept what I caught. It never failed to wind me down after a stressful day.

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So, How's The Weather There?

2010-05-11T05:50:00.000-07:00

Anyone who hails from Northeast Ohio knows the type of weather that is typical and unique to the area. We know that Oklahoma gets rain sweepin' down the plain. We get Gully Washers whippin' across the Mahoning Valley. Other locations get the publicity, like Tornado Alley. Sure, they get a lot of tornadoes in the Summer. Northeast Ohio gets severe weather year round.

Some of my earliest childhood memories are of playing in snow taller than I was. We didn't have to pile up snow to make a structure to play in. All we had to do was start tunneling. Our yard looked like giant hamsters had taken it over with tunnels in the snow going in every direction. There was a good chance that a snowman that was built in December would still be there in March. Kids were booted out of their homes to go play, when the parents had had enough of restless behavior. You quickly learned how to dress warm and stay warm for several hours in below freezing temperatures.

The boys in my neighborhood played football a lot in this weather. How fun it was to be tackled hard and never getting hurt in a foot of fluffy snow. No one could get up much speed while running. It was a game in slow motion. the only downsides were the football itself which would turn into a frozen rock and feel like it when you landed on it and when you would get your coat and shirt pulled up while being tackled and get snow in places where it definitely didn't belong.

You know it gets cold when the HIGH temperature for the day was MINUS 22 degrees f. We had a cold snap like that in the late 70's. Schools were closed for several days and the only happy people were the Tow Truck Drivers and the gas and electric companies. The poor guys that were on the water company repair crew were kept busy by a large number of waterline breaks. I was a Fireman at the time and we had to drag our fire hose back to the station behind the truck. It was too frozen to roll up. Now that's cold!

Spring rains often came in torrents. It wasn't uncommon for it to rain for a solid week. The ground would become totally saturated and sewers and creeks overflowed into many an unfortunate homeowners' basement. Construction methods weren't what they are today. You considered yourself lucky if your basement was completely dry. Little League games were played much later into the Summer than planned. So many Spring games and practices had to be cancelled, that it extended the season.

The first paddling I received in grade school was because of the heavy rains that flooded our school yard. During recess, I ventured off the blacktop into the forbidden section of yard that had a good foot of water in it with three other boys. Naturally, we all got soaked to the bone. Our teacher took us to the Principal's Office for three swats each (on a wet butt, to boot), then off to the Nurse's Office to disrobe and sit under a blanket while our clothes dried on a radiator.

The Summer brought many severe thunderstorms to our area. Fourth of July weekend of 1969 sticks in the minds of many locals. A brutal storm that rolled across the Mid-West, slammed particularly hard in Ohio with several inches of rain, hail, and 70 M.P.H. winds. The storm hit our area shortly after the dinner hour. My sister, brother-in-law, eight month old niece, and myself, being fourteen at the time, found ourselves in a pop-up camping trailer at Berlin Reservoir. The warning systems weren't in place like they are today and we had no clue a storm of this magnitude was upon us. We heard the forecast for rain, but what else was new?

At the height of this powerful storm, the trailer began rocking like a see-saw. It would literally touch the ground on each side, front to back, with us huddled in the middle. We unzipped a door flap to look out, only to see a large tent with a family in it, begin rolling across the campground. My brother-in-law and I ran out and laid on top of the tent until the worst of the storm had passed. I had no idea that rain could sting so bad on bare skin! Fortunately, everyone escaped with no injuries. Every town in the area was devastated with downed power lines and trees that blocked many streets.

In 1980, an F5 tornado, the most powerful, left a path of destruction of over fifty miles long. It was over a mile wide at times and never left the ground as it scoured everything in it's path from Warren, Ohio to Beaver falls, Pennsylvania. The only thing I can relate the images of the aftermath to were of pictures I have seen of Hiroshima after the atomic bomb was dropped. I saw first-hand what the power of Mother Nature can do. Steel corrugated building panels wrapped around the top of 100 foot tall Oak trees and semi trucks rolled into a corner of a huge trucking yard like bowling pins are just a couple of the scenes I observed. To this day, that tornado ranks as the most destructive in terms of it's length, width, and total property damage in U.S. history.

Tin Soldiers And Nixon Coming

2010-05-04T07:05:00.000-07:00

Forty years ago, on May 4th, 1970, The Anti-War Movement against The Vietnam War came to a peak with the shooting of four students at Kent State University. America was forever changed that day. Anyone who remembers one of the blackest marks against our freedom has an opinion about who was right or wrong and who was to blame for the shootings.

I was fifteen years old when the shootings occurred at KSU. Kent was only an hour's drive from my home in Struthers, Ohio. One of the four students that was shot that day was a girl from Boardman, a suburb next to us in the Youngstown area, so it really hit home literally to anyone from our geographic location. I recall following the news intently on the television that day as grainy videos were shown of the mayhem that resulted from The National Guard firing upon students as they marched towards the Administration Building up The Blanket Hill Area of campus. I will never forget the photograph of a girl kneeling over a slain student and the horrified look on her face as she screamed for help.

Governor James Rhodes was vilified by the students for allowing the National Guardsmen to carry live ammunition and fire on the students if threatened. The Guard always claimed that the students fired upon them first. Even after years of scrutiny and debate, No one can definitively say exactly what happened. A lot depends on what side of the issue they were on. America became very divided over the Kent State Shootings and did hasten the politicians to taking great strides to end American involvement in Vietnam.

Because of my involvement and leadership in DECA, The Distributive Education Clubs Of America, I was offered a "Full ride" scholarship to Kent State. KSU was the only university that offered a Major in Distributive Education in Ohio. I declined the offer directly because of what happened there and the student unrest. I didn't want to be any part of it. At least, that's what my 18 year old mind was telling me. Three years had past and the U.S. involvement in Vietnam was winding down and The Draft had ended. I suppose I used it as a convenient excuse to stay close to home.

Ironically, my Senior year, we had a student teacher in Distributive Education that came from Kent State. He had the unique prospective on that fateful day on May 4th, 1970, to be a student AND a National Guard Soldier. Talk about conflicted. He told my class, no matter what, he knew he would not fire his rifle that day. If commanded to do so, he said he would have fired over every one's head. He took us for a tour of The KSU Campus and showed us Blanket Hill and a abstract sculpture that had two bullet holes in it. If you looked through the holes and lined them both up in your field of sight, you can see that it was in direct line with a fire escape on a student dormitory building. This supposedly supports the allegations from the Guard that the students fired upon them. Again, I don't think we will ever know the whole truth.

In the Summer of 1973, I had just graduated from high school and attended my first major rock concert at Cleveland Municipal stadium, called "The World Series Of Rock". Among the performers that evening was Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. They played their recently released anthem of the Anti-War Movement, "Ohio", a moving song about The KSU Shootings. Over 100,000 kids sang the song along with them while holding up their Bic Lighters. Chills ran down my spine and as I looked around, there were not many dry eyes to be seen. That was my first experience of the power that music can have on our lives.

In a perverse way, I suppose I'm glad I lived through those days. I learned a lot about how powerful a movement of people can be when supporting an issue. Our forefathers fought for our independence much the same way. America's heroes were those that stuck their necks out for all of us. This includes our soldiers and the protesters that believe the course our country is headed is in the wrong direction. That's freedom, like it or not. We all need to defend it to our last breath.

Oh, Danny Boy, I Miss You So

2010-04-20T06:16:00.000-07:00

I guess I met my buddy Danny on the blacktop basketball courts of St. Nicholas Church in Struthers. We were in junior high in the late 60's. He went to a St. Nick's School and I was across the street at Fifth Street Elementary. He obviously, was Catholic and I was raised a Baptist. He had strong Irish roots, I had a Heinz 57 variety heritage of English, French, and German. By high school years, my older sisters had "left the Nest" and I was the only child at home. Danny's family consisted of six kids. Four boys and two girls. Despite all this, Danny and I became very good friends and shared many an adventure together.

To me, Danny's house was a place of fascination. It was like Grand Central Station at all hours of the day and night, especially in the summer time with everyone out of school. Dan's father was disabled and confined to a wheelchair. He was a very pleasant guy who was always happy to see you and was a permanent fixture at the kitchen table. You never knocked on Danny's door. You just walked right into the kitchen and his dad was there to greet you.

Dan had two older siblings, a brother four years older and a sister two years older. All of Dan's friends thought his sister was Hot. A brunette version of Susan Dey or Peggy Lipton from The Mod Squad. She was very friendly with us which of course, drove all the hormones just wild in all us teenage boys. Her group of girlfriends were just as pretty and we just loved them all coming by to see her. None of our group of boys was bold enough to ask an older girl out, but we certainly discussed the possibilities.

As our group of six or seven got our driver's licenses, the fun really began. Of course, wheels meant freedom and we practically lived in our cars from the time we were sixteen until we settled down after high school. Cruising the local fast food restaurants is a rite of passage for all American teenagers, isn't it? Dan and I spent a lot of hours in a car going to all the Hot Spots in the Youngstown area. I remember every one's fascination with seeing the Market Street Robot, as it was called. From Youngstown State University on Wick Avenue, if you looked south towards downtown, the street lights on the Market Street Bridge looked like the outline of a body and the head of the robot was the huge lighted Amoco Gasoline sign. Anyone new to cruising with us was asked if they ever saw the robot. If they answered no, we felt obligated to show it to them.

We befriended some girls from rival Cardinal Mooney High School. A group of about a dozen of us "hung out" together for the better part of two years. Many late Summer nights were spent at The Penn-Ohio Truck Stop enjoying mass quantities of French Fries and Root Beer. I do believe Danny hooked up with one of the red-headed sisters that frequented our group. I was never that lucky. We spent many evenings at The Sky High Drive-In Theatre watching the latest horror movie. Several of us would often hide in the trunk to sneak in if we were broke. We took the girls to Locust Grove Lake, a swimming hole in New Springfield. We had a lot of fun there, especially going down their huge slide. You were guaranteed a "Wedgie" each trip down the slide.

Growing up in The Youngstown Area, fights were common and you never knew when a confrontation would take place. Dan and I should have known when we accompanied our buddy, Greg to a function at New Springfield Local High School. Greg was dating a Cheer Leader from there and the local boys didn't like the idea of anyone cutting in on their turf. Once outside, someone started a fight with Greg and then all Hell broke loose! Three of us against probably twenty of them. Fists were flying and we each managed to handle anyone that came at us. None of us had a scratch! We were lucky to escape unscathed. Legends were born that night. For months afterwards, kids from both schools talked about the Big Fight where some Struthers boys put a whippin' on those Farm Boys from New Springfield. Needless to say, we never went back for an encore performance.

During our high school days, Dan and I worked in landscaping, preparing new yards for seeding or for sod. Often very long hours of back breaking work. We had blisters on top of blisters. We would ride in the back of a dump truck to a sod farm and fill it up with rolls of sod that weighed 70-80 pounds, ride to the job site and unload all of it into place in the yard. A large yard would take two sun up to sun down days to finish and we looked like Coal miners by the time we got done. The black silt filled every nook and cranny on your body. Danny began doing a lot of work in concrete construction and excavation, learning a lot along the way.

Not long after graduation in 1973, Danny headed to California to work in construction. He did really well for himself and started his own company. We talked on the phone pretty often and as many times as I told him I would come out to visit sometime, something always seemed to get in the way. He came back to Ohio several times for weddings, funerals, and reunions. It always felt great to reconnect and I miss our friendship. We all have had friends in our lives that have had that special bond. Danny was one of those guys. Always somebody I could count on.

Want To Buy Some Swamp Land?

2010-04-13T07:23:00.000-07:00

The Summer of '66 found me on vacation with my parents to Florida. I don't remember why my sisters didn't go that year, but the back seat was occupied by Me, Myself, and I. Boring. Mile after mile, not much was said to me, except Mom's never-ending spiel on points of interest from the AAA Trip-Ticket Map. Gheesh! Summer vacations were suppose to be fun, not educational!

Finally, we arrived in Florida and set up our tent trailer at a campsite on the banks of the famous Swanee River. (I still hear Wayne Newton singing that song in my head.) One thing I clearly remember was the humidity. A swimming towel I hung up that evening to dry was even wetter the following morning. I can't imagine how folks dried their clothes before dryers were invented. Clotheslines were of little use. Talk about Jungle Rot, now I know what G.I.'s had to deal with in damp conditions.

We visited Silver Springs, the h0me of the Glass-Bottomed Boats. The tour of the river was amazing to a Ohio boy that had never seen a clear body of water. Through the boat's floor, you could easily see sixty feet down. There were Catfish six feet long and scores of other colorful species. A recent episode of "I Spy" was filmed there and props of a ancient ruins were left behind for tourist to "ohhh" and "Awww" over. Some Tarzan movies were also filmed partly at this location and monkeys hung down from branches looking for handouts from the boat operators. My parents bought an end table made of abalone shells encased in acrylic. It sure didn't go with our decor, but my dad loved it. It sat next to his recliner until the day he died.

One afternoon a man approached our campsite, dressed in a suit and tie, looking totally out of place. He asked my parents if they would like to go on a one hour plane ride, have a full course lunch and tour a resort development. Their only obligation was to listen to a one hour sales presentation on possibly buying some land to build a vacation home on someday. My father readily agreed and the man said a bus would pick us up in the morning to take us to the airport.

The man left and Mom looked at Pop like he was out of his mind. He eased her mind by telling her, "Don't worry. Buying property is the last thing I'm thinking of. I figured we would get to go on a free plane ride, have a nice lunch, and enjoy the afternoon, free of charge." Yeah, right...

We hopped on the bus for the short trip to the airport and boarded a beat-up silver Turbo-Prop plane to Lake Wales, Florida. This was my first plane trip, so my nose was glued to the window.

We arrived at the resort called River Ranch. The adults were ushered into a large conference hall and the kids were led away like Lemmings to a play area, stables, and marina. Everything was free of charge and I had a blast doing everything they had to offer.

My last activity was taking out a small motorboat with an outboard motor. The man at the marina asked if I knew how to operate the boat. I assured him my family had a boat and I drove it all the time. What he didn't know was I did it from my father's lap. I was only eleven, but he let me take the boat out on my own on Lake Wales. I lost track of time, zipping up and down the lake. What fun! When I did finally show up at the marina, several adults were standing there waiting on me. I was holding up the bus that was returning us to the airport. I thought I was in big trouble, but my parents said they were just glad I was back safe and sound.

My folks did buy property at River Ranch. Not one lot, but two. Two and a half acres. The sales people convinced them that property values would soar with Disney World being built soon, just a stone's throw up the road. This was a Ground Floor Opportunity according to them and streets and utilities would be put in soon to start housing. A "Convenient Payment Plan" enticed my parents and made it affordable to middle-class people like my mom and dad.

They began making plans to build a retirement home there. Months turned into years and no development was ever done at River Ranch. Finally, the property developers were nailed for committing fraud. It was learned that no one could build on this property because it was part of a Federal Flood Plain and no permanent structures could be built there. My parents along with thousands of others were Hood-Winked, Swindled, and just plain Ripped-Off. They were literally sold Swamp Land in Florida!

Many years later, as part of a Class-Action Suit, my parents were offered another piece of property in Cape Coral. They didn't bother following up on it and my dad thought it was just another swindle. After the time limit expired on this land swap, "60 Minutes" ran a story on "The Great American Land swindle", detailing what happened to these hapless victims. They said that at least a lot of the people got a fair deal by being able to trade their property for one in Cape Coral. My dad heard that and you could have knocked him over with a feather!

Long after I was married and had children of my own, my father told me that the property in Florida was intended as an investment for my college education. He was sorry I had to struggle on my own to pay for college. Property deed in hand, I went to River Ranch to see what was there in the 90's and to try and sell it. The land could be sold to campers or fisherman to use and have access to the local river. The past property taxes that were due was worth more than the value of the property itself. So much for trying to unload a White Elephant.

A Great Way To Spend A Summer Weekend

2010-04-07T07:31:00.000-07:00

I was very fortunate that my family went on a vacation every year during my adolescence. My parents, two older sisters, and I packed up our big ol' Chrysler and Tent trailer and hit the open road. We saw most of "The Lower 48" and had some memories I'll never forget and cherish forever.

Now what's a family to do the rest of the Summer, after vacation is over? Why, buy a boat,too! My father found a good deal on a sixteen foot Ski Boat and decided we could all enjoy camping and boating weekends at Berlin Reservoir, a huge lake just south of Youngstown, Ohio. I don't know where my dad got all this money to buy all these extras to daily living. His adage was, "Live today, pay for it tomorrow." He was right. We had a ball! Every weekend from Memorial Day to Labor Day, we usually could be found at the Berlin Campground.

My oldest sister was recently married and my new brother-in-law would haul the trailer out to the campground on Friday night and Dad and I would follow behind pulling the boat. We would set up camp and launch the boat into the water. We took the boat about two hundred yards down the lake and beached it in front of our camp sight. We were all set for the weekend. Dad always had to work Friday night, so he would leave for work straight from the reservoir and return Saturday afternoon after a few hours of sleep.

Friends and other family members would trickle out to our campsite during the day on Saturday or even Sunday. It was understood to bring your own food and refreshments. Let the party begin! We skied and boated from sun up to sun down. I especially liked to water ski first thing in the morning when the lake surface was like glass. I tried to Barefoot Ski several times, but the boat just wasn't fast enough. By the time I was fourteen, I could slalom ski, (one ski), and actually touch my shoulder to the water as I cut back and forth across the wake of the boat.

We even talked my mom into trying to get on our hard plastic sled that we pulled behind the boat. Let's not say my mom was fat, we'll just say she was fluffy. we went into very shallow water and even with the help of my brother-in-law and me, we couldn't get mom on top of the sled to go for a ride. We all laughed so hard we cried. What a sight to see my mother flop from one side of the sled to the other! We all gave her an "A" for effort. What a good sport.

I had an uncle who thought he was a Hot Shot on Water Skis. He would play around with jumping real high over the wake and even skiing backwards. His Hot Dog antics finally caught up to him one day. His plan was to let go of the ski rope and glide quickly into shore and jump out of his skis as he hit land. However, his speed was way to fast and he hit the shoreline at probably twenty miles per hour. He was vaulted head over heels several times and separated his shoulder. We teased him about that stunt for years.

I was never bored when we went to the lake. Over the years, I made many friends there, who's families also camped there every weekend. Many late nights were spent in front of a campfire roasting marshmallows or making smores. My favorite campfire treat was dripping juice from hot bacon fat on to fresh Italian bread that was covered with onions. Talk about an instant coronary! Ahh, anything in moderation is OK, right? It wasn't uncommon for some of us kids to fall asleep in front of the fire while telling ghost stories.

All good things have to come to an end and our days at Berlin Reservoir slowly dwindled to rare occasions. My sisters were both now married and had little children and my high school activities and work cut in to my time to camp or ski. Mom and Dad weren't getting any younger either, so they decided to sell the camping trailer and boat. We all felt bad about it, but understood. We all resolved to do the same thing with our kids when they got older. Truth was, it never happened, for a variety of reasons. At least we all have the memories of some great times.

Working Until They Turn Out The Lights

2010-03-29T06:27:00.000-07:00

Fresh out of high school in June 1973, within two weeks, I got hired at a steel fabrication plant in downtown Youngstown, Ohio called The William B. Pollock Company. This place had started in the middle of The Civil War in 1863 making items used in the steel mills and foundries.

I really had no experience or knowledge of factory life. My dad worked in a food warehouse and my high school jobs ranged from grocery stores to gas stations. The father of one of my good friends was a foreman at The Pollock Company and the head of personnel went to my church and knew my family well. Nepotism never hurts. My initial job there was a Helper, which was just that. Helping some one else in doing their job which could be assembly, welding, or a Fitter. A Fitter built steel fabrications and tack-welding things into place that were completely welded and/or machined by others.

After six months at mostly menial jobs, I was eligible to bid on other jobs in the plant, which were awarded on basis of seniority in this Union environment. I next became a Black Smith's Helper which involved heating an bending huge steel parts like rings that reinforced steel ladles that had a thirty foot diameter or putting rivets in hooks that were eight inches thick that picked up sixty- ton ladles full of molten steel. Many days I looked like a coal miner by the end on my shift. Fortunately, a locker room and showers were there and I didn't have to bring the dirt home with me. Because of the grease and grime, my work clothes needed to be replaced about every three months. That's when I learned about Goodwill and other thrift stores. They sold work shirts for fifty cents and pants for a buck. What a deal!

My next occupation I advanced to was the Burning Department. No, this wasn't where you learned about becoming an Arsonist, this is were steel parts were made by burning out patterns on a sheet of steel on varying thicknesses with a cutting torch powered by acetylene and oxygen.
My initial job was a Scrap Burner, where I cut left over steel pieces into to small sections to be loaded in a scrap box to be recycled. I still have scars where a hot spark shot down my neck, through an opening in my shirt, or the worst, down my boot. When a hot ember went down your boot, you grabbed anything liquid nearby to douse the ember that was now burning your sock. I then graduated to running a Burning Machine that looked like a toaster holding a burning torch. it ran on small portable tracks to burn a straight line on the piece you were cutting.

Bored with that job after a year, I bid on an overhead craneman job and got it. I began operating a small five-ton crane thirty feet high that ran on railroad tracks the length of a hundred yard building. I advanced to a eighty- foot high one, then a crane with two hooks, one capable of lifting forty tons, the other ten tons. It was scary using two hooks at once to flip over a steel ladle that was thirty feet in diameter and thirty feet high. The chains used for such a big lift were huge. One link was two feet long and four inches in diameter. I guess years earlier, a man was killed while standing behind a ladle as the crane man moved the chains to the far side of the ladle. They came together like cymbals, crushing the poor guy who was out of sight of the crane operator. Ever since then, a worker was assigned to guide the crane operator for large lifts.

My final assignment was in the Machine Shop as a Horizontal Boring Mill Operator. I felt at home doing this job. I had three years of Machine Shop in high school and learned how to operate everything. This humongous machine traveled ten feet high and bored holes in casting up to forty inches in diameter, up to eight feet long. It often took an entire eight hour shift to bore one pass through a large cylinder. When milling a large piece of steel with a rotating cutting head, chips flew off the work like red-hot Cheetos. These cuttings were hot enough to light a cigarette on and often found their way into the most inaccessible parts of your clothing, safety glasses, or bare skin. I quickly learned not to wear anything made of polyester or nylon!

My seven years there served me well. I was making over twenty bucks an hour in the late 70's. not bad for a young Buck, still wet behind the ears. It financed my college education and afforded me the chance to study quite a bit during slow periods on the job. This wasn't uncommon for a guy in the Youngstown area.

Making that kind of money was standard in just about any position in the Steel Industry. Most of the steel mills were out of business by the early 80's. No wonder. The strong union environment that was so necessary during the earlier days of organized labor became the downfall of many businesses that could not pay the high cost of labor and afford to modernize to keep up with foreign competition. Union officials will tell you it was greed of the corporations that kept them from modernizing. In any event, twenty three miles of uninterrupted steel mills that stretched from Warren to Struthers was no more. The Mahoning Valley was no longer the "Cradle Of The Steel Industry". We all moved on, but it will never be the same.

Ding-Dong, It's The Knife Man

2010-03-24T03:40:00.000-07:00

Ding-Dong---Ding,Ding-Dong---Ding. When I was a little kid, the sound of those bells would bring me running to the street. What was it? No, it wasn't the Ice Cream Truck. It was The Knife Sharpener! That's right. A little old Italian man, authentic right down to his Beret and Bandanna around his neck with Half-Bifocals perched low on his nose. If I didn't know any better, I would have thought this was Gipetto.

He would push this humongous green cart up and down the hilly streets of Struthers. No easy task, given the terrain. I couldn't pedal my bike up some of the streets the Knife Sharpener traversed. I would follow him, usually with a collection of other neighborhood kids as he plied his trade.

The unmistakable sound of those loud bells would alert the housewives to bring their knives outside to him to be sharpened in the middle of the street. Quite a sight to see these women come flying out of their houses brandishing large Butcher knives, often waving them over their heads to draw the attention of the Knife Sharpener. I'm sure in this day and age, a Cop seeing this would have plugged them full of lead before they reached the sidewalk. So much for Zero Tolerance in the neighborhood.

Gipetto, as I'll call him, would pull his cart to a halt. I can't imagine how much it weighed, but it took him quite a few feet to stop the cart's forward momentum. The cart itself was ingenious. He had a metal stand he pulled the cart backwards on to, much like a large kickstand. The Covered Wagon size wheels would then be six inches off the ground. This stabilized the cart and he had foot pedals he pumped to turn the Grinding Wheel and operate the water pump that bathed the stone in water as he grinded away. He put a razor sharp edge on anything you brought him. Knives, axes, hatchets, lawn mower blades, scissors, and garden shears all were sharpened to precision. To demonstrate this, Gipetto would take a piece of paper and slice it with a deft stroke of his hand with the newly sharpened item.

Gipetto was a sharp business man. Knowing that crowds often attracted more business, he offered penny candy to the children hanging around his cart. he would sing or whistle Italian Opera while he worked and always had a smile on his face that was infectious. I can recall him being at one spot in a suburban neighborhood for hours, as mothers or their designated offspring lined up to get that precision hone on their item.

Eventually, Gipetto no longer appeared in our neighborhood. I don't know whatever happened to him or his business. Was it a lack of customers with so many moms now working? Did the electric can opener do him in with it's built-in knife sharpener? Did he simply retire with no one interested in taking over his trade? I'd love to know. It was sort of like Puff The Magic Dragon. Another childhood memory that vanished in the mist. Ding Dong--- Ding, Ding-Dong---Ding...

DECA And Another Dose Of Humble Pie

2010-03-16T05:44:00.000-07:00

In the early 70's, Vocational Education was just coming into it's own in Ohio. The premise being to prepare students for a job, especially if they weren't necessarily geared towards going to college. I thought that would suit me just fine. I had no desire in high school to further my education.

I enrolled in Distributive Education and began classes my junior year. Distributive Education, better known as DE to those involved, had a tag line of "Developing future leaders for Marketing and Retail". We learned about a lot of facets of business and it was fairly easy if you paid attention. Another part of the program was obtaining a part-time job in the field of retail or marketing and your teacher would follow-up with your employer on your development.

I worked in a grocery store and my boss never saw my teacher. Too bad, I had a very young guy for a boss and I had him all primed for the visit from my teacher. He was going to tell my teacher what an excellent employee I was and what a fine example of today's youths I was. Yeah right, he wasn't going to tell him we split a six-pack in the parking lot some nights when we clocked out. I did learn quite a bit about running a grocery store, stocking shelves, ordering merchandise, preparing produce, and sweeping the floors. I pushed a pretty mean Dry Mop. We had contests to see who could do it the best and the fastest. It helped stem the boredom.

My class of about fifteen students was mostly a collection of misfits from the junior class. Better known as non-conformists, they could bring a weak teacher to the point of tears. The year before, the Senior DE Class caused the instructor to have a nervous breakdown and he quit half way through the school year. That's when Mr. Frank entered the picture. A burly, no-nonsense kind of guy, he quickly turned the program around and got students involved in all aspects of Distributive Education and got them to participate in DECA. DECA was the Club Portion of DE and had competitions on the local, regional, and state level.

Every student was required to select a contest to participate in. My choice was Job Interview, where a mock job interview was conducted with an area Personnel Director and you were judged on appearance,inter-personal skills, knowledge of the job, and aptitude. Apparently, I knew how to dazzle them and I made it to the state competition in Columbus. a couple of my classmates also advanced and had quite the weekend at a Sheraton Hotel in Ohio's Capitol. I won at the state level and I must have made an impression on the Head Muckity- Mucks of the DECA Program. They convinced me to run for Student President of Ohio.

I first had to be elected President of my Region. I won that one hands down, mainly because my competition of three others showed little enthusiasm. I gave a "Fire And Brimstone" kind of speech. One that Jimmy Swaggert would have been proud of.

Part of the responsibility of the job was to visit all the other Deca Schools in my region of Northeast Ohio at least once a month. I then had a monthly meeting with the adult DECA staff, including The State Director of Vocational Education. I complained at a meeting that my principal would not always let me out of school to visit other schools in my region. the State Director immediately placed a phone call to my principal and read him "The Riot Act". My red-faced Principal called me in his office to tell me I could leave school when ever necessary, I didn't even have to ask! Of course, I never abused the privilege, not me...all I can say is it's amazing how the golf courses are deserted on weekday afternoons.

I had to pass an interview with a panel in Columbus to run for State President. I was ill-prepared and arrogant with my answers. I didn't study about who all the Muckity-Mucks were by name and knew before I left I choked at my chance. Another dose of Humble Pie, served up hot and fresh!

My Senior year consisted of three regular classes of English, Math, and History and then I left school at 11:00 A.M. to go to my part-time job. Surprisingly, I was offered a full scholarship to Kent State if I would major in Distributive Education. At the time, I had no interest in doing that and turned it down. I had a full-time job waiting for me upon graduation, so I thought I was all set. Funny how life turns out, a year later I was enrolled at Youngstown State University, majoring in Business and EDUCATION.

My Adventures With Uncle Jack

2010-02-23T05:58:00.000-08:00

My Dad grew up in the inner-city of Youngstown, Ohio. The youngest of five brothers, he didn't have much time for outside activities or sports. Dad's father died when he was three, so any time outside of school was dedicated to supporting the family. He was a standout in Basketball. I found that out by accident when going through his jewelry box one day and finding a Bronze Basketball charm he was awarded as League MVP. Dad was never one to brag about his exploits.

I gave a little background to this story to explain why my father didn't have much influence into my endeavors in sports and the great outdoors. He never had much experience himself, let alone teach me the proper ways to do things. Enter my Uncle Jack. Jack was my Mom's youngest brother, by a lot of years and only twelve or so years older than me. I can't confirm it, but I do believe Jack was born with a fishing pole in his hand.

Jack grew up in Struthers, practically a stone's throw away from Lake Hamilton. Jack became an accomplished Fisherman and Hunter very early in life and spent every extra minute he had perfecting his craft. I was the first nephew Jack had, so by the time I was old enough to walk and feed myself, I became one of Jack's Fishin' Buddies.

Jack would frequently have me stay overnight at my grandparent's house on Omar Street. We spent hours hunting Night Crawlers by flashlight and he would wake me up before the crack of dawn to go fishing. Jack would often have to wake up Slim, the care-taker of the lake if he needed to rent a row boat or buy some bait. We would usually be the first ones on the lake for the day. I still remember the fog-shrouded water that was as smooth as glass and the sounds of the oars rhythmically plunging softly into the water for another stroke.

After Jack got his Driver's License, we often went to The Mahoning Valley Sportmen's Club at Crystal Lake. This small lake was stocked with tons of fish and I have fond memories of getting into Blue Gill Catchin' Contests with Jack off a small porch of a cabin that overhung the water. Jack let me win, of course, and I beamed with pride. As a young boy, Jack had me use a Bamboo Pole with about 10 feet of line and a round Bobber. Much to his surprise, I caught a huge Rainbow Trout with that Bamboo pole that Jack and his friend thought was a club record. I never enjoyed a fish dinner as much as that one. Jack was an expert at filleting and preparing fish, too.

On another occasion, I was fishing with Jack and his buddy, when I accidentally bumped a Fishing Pole and Reel that sat on the rail of the boat. Over the side and into 60 feet of water went a brand-new Garcia Rod and Reel! Jack could see the fear in my eyes and just told me to be more careful. A hard thing for fidgety five-year-old to do. Jack mentally marked the spot and he and his buddy Scuba-Dived for the fishing gear, retrieving it the next day.

As I got older and Hunting Season rolled around, Jack would pick me up to go hunting. He frequently took me to a Trap Shooting Range to hone my skills with a Shotgun. Carefully standing behind me, he'd coach me in the finer points of shooting. Slowly squeeze the trigger and line up your sights on the target. I had several perfect scores, thanks to Uncle Jack's guidance. What a thrill for a twelve year old!

Jack bought his first motorcycle when I was about fourteen. A Honda 750, that I spent many a Sunday riding on the back of, all over Ohio and Western Pennsylvania.
Again, there was Jack at the crack of dawn, tooting his horn in the driveway to wake me up to head out on another adventure. Riding in the early Spring in Ohio on a Motorcycle isn't the warmest. I recalling my hands aching from the cold and Jack stopping at a General Store ninety five miles from nowhere to buy me some gloves.

On another excursion, we stopped at Back Woods Bar far from home to warm up and catch a bite to eat. We played pool with a few locals for a pitcher of Beer to the winners. Naturally, Jack being good at everything, easily won. I drank my first Beer that day(and then some!), and only Jack and I ever knew. I figure the Statute of Limitations is up on that caper. I think Jack kept me at his house for several hours before taking me home.

About the time I graduated from high School, Jack moved to Georgia. I felt like Little Jackie Paper of Puff, The Magic Dragon fame, when the dragon left and Jackie lost his playmate. I was on my own, so to speak. Things would never be the same again. The guy that showed me so much and was my mentor, now had a wife and children of his own. I found out that it wasn't as bad as I thought it might be. I now knew enough to function by myself and even show others.

Admittedly, Jack gave me opportunities I never would have had and he taught me many skills I would use all my life. I got the Motorcycle Bug from him and have traveled most of the country on one, just about every year since. I've even taken my Grandchildren fishing, which any Grandfather would cherish those memories. Thanks, Jack for showing me the ropes. I treasure those days.

When A Young Man's Fancy Isn't So Fancy

2010-02-16T06:17:00.000-08:00

Another Valentine's Day has come and gone. I began thinking of my earliest forays into romance, all were met with limited success. Apparently, I watched way too many exploits of the love-lorn Alfalfa on The Little Rascals always pursuing Darla and considering himself a Ladie's Man.

Love has gotten me in trouble since the first grade. I was called into the Principal's Office for the first time for kissing girls at recess. After a stern lecture, the Principal sent me back to class with my promise not to do that again.

Valentine's Day in grade school was a great time to exchange cards with class mates to show them how much or how little you cared about them. Those fifty cards you bought for ninety nine cents were all you had to express your emotions. Of course, you would save the best ones for that particular someone who made your heart flutter. The cards with pictures of Skunks or farm animals were reserved for your buddies or the Nerd that's constantly picking his nose in class.

Each class spent Art Period for weeks, decorating shoe boxes or oatmeal containers with red construction paper and white hearts and lace. All the completed mailboxes were placed on the window sills that ran the length of the room. At the appointed time, each kid would pain-stakingly place a card in each box. So no one would be slighted, the rules were that each child must get a valentine card from each class mate. A party was held in the afternoon to open your cards and consume mass quantities of cookies, candy hearts, and heart-shaped cinnamon Red Hots. Much of the time was spent going around the room thanking one another for the cards or shaking your fist at someone for getting a not-so-nice one. The ultimate was getting a mushy card from that certain someone that made your heart go pitter-patter.

Relationships in grade school changed like the wind. No sooner would a boy write some girl's initials on his notebook, then she'd change her mind and like someone else. By the end of the school year, my notebook had every square inch scribbled out of some body's initials. Sitting with someone at a football or basketball game constituted a relationship. Walking home with them meant things were getting serious.

My first "Real" date was in fifth grade. We walked to the Struthers Bowladrome and bowled a few games. After my date soundly beat me in every game, we walked to the Isaly's dairy Store for Sundaes. After one bite, my date decided she wasn't hungry and didn't want it. I thought to myself how many yards I had to mow and driveways I had to shovel to raise money for this date. This couldn't be the girl for me if she wasted a perfectly good sundae without any thought to who was paying for this anyhow. I immediately walked her home and that was the end of that relationship. The nerve!

In seventh grade, I was one of three boys that were always invited to parties with girls in my class. Usually, eight to ten girls and the three of us boys. Not bad odds. We wound up playing Spin-The-Bottle in the dimly lit basements. After several rounds, it always seemed to break off into couples with each boy getting into a serious make-out session with a selected girl. It wasn't exactly the "Days of Wine and Roses", but I wasn't complaining.

I don't know why the mind-set developed in my class, but dating outside of our class was taboo. Everyone had nothing good to say about under-class men, over-class men, or people from other schools. I broke that mold in high school after figuring out it was a conspiracy by the girls to keep all the boys to themselves. I exhausted all the possibilities in my class anyhow. By now, a lot of the girls in my class were more like sisters.

I could go on and on about dates I had in high school. Maybe I'll write about some of them at some point. I just can't go into great detail. You know, hormones start to run amok in teen-age boys. The best piece of dating advice I ever got was from my Mom who told me that,"Gentlemen Never Tell Their Secrets." I always honored those words. Even all the locker room banter where boys often boasted about their latest conquests, found me strangely silent. I wasn't one to kiss and tell. It served me well. I always had a date lined up for the weekend.

They'll Think That You Can Fly!

2010-02-06T03:30:00.000-08:00

I was ten years old when I saw the made-for-TV movie, "Billie" starring Patty Duke. A goofy little predictable flick about a high school girl who wanted to join the boy's track team because of her amazing speed. She attributed her fast running to "Having The Beat", timing her strides to a fast Rock Music song she played in her head. Remember, this was way before I-Pods or even personal cassette recorders.

For some unexplained reason, this movie stuck in my head for a long time. To the city park or several friend's houses, it was several blocks. I often ran to where I was going. This is before we called leisurely running, Jogging. I thought of a tune in my head as I began to trot along. The beat would pick up and so would my pace. I was thoroughly convinced that this method made me extremely fast. Concentrating on the melody of the song made me less focused on my running and it DID actually seem to work.

I kept this little "secret" to myself, figuring it gave me an edge over any of my buddies in a race. Ten year olds frequently challenge each other to all sorts of physical skill competitions. Kind of like young Tiger cubs testing each other before going out on their own. Don't mess with me, Boys, I got The Beat! Never mind that my friends were always slower than me, before I had my new-found Super Powers, I now had great confidence that nobody could out race me.

About this time, the advertising assaults began for Red Ball Jets and PF Flyer Tennis Shoes. The media blitz touted these shoes with jingles that extolled the virtues of owning a pair that would "Make you run so fast, they'll thing that you can fly!" Needing new tennis shoes, I remarkably down-played the hype for these shoes until my dad suggested a pair in the shoe store. "Well, if you think they're a good shoe, I'll try a pair.", I said, as I held my breath. Dad must have been subjected to the Subliminal Advertising and agreed to buy them for me. Who could beat me now with my new Red Ball Jets? I felt invincible!

You would think these shoes were rocket-powered the way I began streaking through the neighborhood. I'm sure they didn't add one mile-per-hour to my speed. It was all a mind-over-matter situation in my head. As always, a dose of reality is necessary to bring someone back to earth. My dose was received one afternoon at the high school track. The track team was practicing after school and I began trotting around the track. Every time I caught up with someone running slowly, I'd run beside them for a few seconds, look over at them, then take off in a sprint. Obviously, these varsity team runners weren't accepting the challenge of this "Speed Racer" in his Red Ball Jets.

Finally, a guy realized what I was trying to do and began matching me, stride for stride. "C'mon, Rocket Man, stay up with me!", the kid said, " You can run faster than that!". He literally began to run backwards and began patting me hard on top of the head, while imploring me to run faster. I couldn't keep the pace and began to fade way back in the pack of runners who had now caught up to us to witness this spectacle. I felt humiliated. My fantasy of being The World's Fastest Runner was over. I had visions of being Bob Hayes, who just won the Gold Medal in the '64 Olympic Games in the 100 meter Dash and was billed as " The World's Fastest Human".

I lost my fascination with running after that episode at the track. All though I did my share of laps while conditioning for other sports, I never ran competitively. There were several boys that were faster than me during my school years, with or without Red Ball Jets. Regardless of my footwear or the tune I was playing in my head, some of these guys just whizzed right past me. Hmmmm, I wonder if I can get a refund on those Red Ball Jets? "...they'll think that you can fly!" Yeah, right.

I Did Have A Basketball Jones

2010-02-02T04:28:00.000-08:00

Athletics have always been a big part of my life. Growing up in Struthers, Ohio, a suburb of Youngstown, sports became an outlet for many and brought the community together. Football is king in the area. Stadiums are packed every Friday night to watch some very talented athletes apply their skills. Basketball became very big in my home town starting in the 60's, thanks to an undefeated high school team of the 1960-'61 season.

After that season, it seemed every kid had a hoop nailed up on their garage. I was no exception. Most days after school, if it wasn't football season or too snowy, I could be found out in the driveway practicing my basketball shooting prowess. I would pick out a spot on the driveway, usually an oil spot made from one of my dad's "Beater" work cars, and shoot baskets from there until I made ten in a row. I'd then move a few feet going in a semi-circle from one side of the court to the other. Make ten shots, move, make ten shots, move until I had completed the entire perimeter around the hoop. Sometimes this routine would take me fifteen minutes, some days hours, but I seldom quit until I completed the drill.

Public outdoor courts were few and far between in Struthers until St.Nicholas Church put up about ten hoops in their parking lot for use by the neighborhood kids. Six hoops were the standard ten feet high and were laid out so that three full court games could go on at the same time. Four hoops were at eight feet for smaller kids to practice on. St. Nick's became a Mecca for area Basketball Players. After school and on weekends, the courts were packed with boys of all ages trying to become the next "Doctor J" or Jerry West of NBA fame. I became a "Gym Rat" and was there most days, always available for a pick-up game.

My grade school had a team that played the other six elementary schools in town. I was fortunate enough to make the team but didn't play much. Boys in eighth grade usually started the games and a lowly sixth-grader like me only got in if the game was a "Blowout". In other words, I rode the bench unless we were killing the other team. Our "Gym" if that's what you could call it, was only forty feet square. Not even half of regulation size. We didn't care, we played like it was Madison Square Garden.

I tried out for our Freshman team in high school. I impressed our coach with my ball handling skills and shooting long-range jump shots. I guess those hours in my driveway were starting to pay off. a week before the season was to start, I got in a heated argument with our coach over some trivial matter I can't even recall. I quit the team. Being the "Hard Head" I was in school, I wasn't going to back down from this Squirrelly Math Teacher who called himself a Coach. Too bad my ego got in my way, I might have had a good career playing high school Basketball.

I played Intramural Basketball all through high school and led the league in scoring. I'd drop the news clippings from The Struthers News Journal on the Math Teacher's desk as I left his room, so he could see how well I was doing. It took me years to realize the only one I was punishing was myself. A clear case of cutting off my nose to spite my face. In all the sports I played all through my school years, that Math Teacher was the only coach I couldn't get along with, unfortunately. I needed a third party to teach me how to swallow my pride. I was selected as Student Athlete of The Year for my class in 1971. A very nice honor, but it didn't do a thing to reduce my over-inflated ego.

I continued playing Basketball at The YMCA after my high school days. It was fun playing pick-up games there against some very good area talent from all over Youngstown. Many of the guys I had a chance to play with and against, went on to successful college careers. I always thought to myself that maybe if I had my head on straight in my younger days, I too, might have got a scholarship. In any event, I truly enjoyed playing the game and it kept me in pretty good shape in my adult years.

Basketball had a resurgence in Struthers in the late 70's. The high school girl's team won the State Championship. The first state champions in any sport in Struthers history. Once again, Basketball hoops sprung up all around town as girls were now thinking they could be playing on a championship team someday, too.

About ten years ago, I was asked to coach a boy's team in Basketball for The YMCA. I had about twelve 10 and 11 year old boys to mentor in the basic skills of the game. It was a lot of fun teaching these kids and watching their faces light up when they mastered a skill I was attempting to teach them. I remembered all the boring practices I endured as a youth and I would frequently break things up at practice to let the boys have fun. After all, I wasn't coaching a Varsity Team and these kids just needed to enjoy the game and learn the basic skills. I kept thinking about that Math Teacher Coach in high school. Just learn to love the game and the rest will follow.

The comedy team of Cheech and Chong had a great routine on one of their albums of having a "Basketball Jones". A "Jones" being a irresistible urge for something or someone. I clearly had the "Jones" for Basketball in my younger days. I never passed up an opportunity to play a game. I STILL have that urge to dribble and shoot a three-pointer and hear that unmistakable "Swish" as the ball falls through the hoop. I still marvel at some of the players I've watched play the game over the years. Especially the ones that had more moves than a can of worms! Poetry in Motion!

Youngstown Makes My Mouth Water

2010-01-28T05:09:00.000-08:00

I moved from the Youngstown, Ohio area in 1986 to Ashland, a couple of hours away. I visit frequently, now probably once a month, to see family and friends. While I'm there, I can't resist the urge to partake of some of the different foods that are available exclusively there or at least were when I was growing up.

Often noted, Youngstown was the melting pot of many ethnic persuasions, due to many Europeans immigrating there to work in the steel mills at the turn of the twentieth century. Almost every area had a specialty restaurant or store to supply the masses with their favorite food, reminding them of their homeland. It was understood by the local population of what side of town you were going to drive to for dinner depending on your palate that night.

Everyone has their favorite Comfort Food. I'll mention a few of mine and where to find it, if it's still available. I became partial to Italian food, which is the dominant heritage in Youngstown, hence the wide array of anything that came from Italy. Pizza parlors or restaurants that featured many Italian foods dominated the landscape of places to eat. My mouth waters just thinking about some of those dishes.

It's hard to declare my favorite pizza in the Youngstown area. It's like saying which one of your kids do you like best. Elmton Pizza on Fifth Street in Struthers stands as one of the best. Their huge, greasy slices are to die for, especially on Friday nights after a football game. It's a ritual for Wildcat Fans. Their meatball subs are spectacular, too. Wedgewood Pizza in Ausintown and Boardman probably serve more pizzas than the national chains in the area. Their deep-dish style is loaded with toppings and tons of mozzarella cheese that leaves a long string from your mouth to your plate. I usually pick one up on my way home from a visit. Wedgewood even ships their pizza anywhere in the country to those home-sick Youngstown folks that have a craving.

Petrillo Pizza that was on Powers Way in The Brownlee Woods Section of Youngstown, was famous for their "sheet" pizza. Four-inch squares of high-rise pizza that was plain on toppings, but loaded with flavor. Their sauce had a lot of garlic in it that stayed with you for hours. Our high school cafeteria offered Petrillo Pizza most Fridays and it always sold out. At twenty cents a slice, it was a cheap meal. I remember having a pizza eating contest with several other sixteen year old friends. I tied another guy for the win by eating fifteen pieces of pizza! Ah, the days when my metabolism could handle anything. Petrillo closed a few years ago. Wish I had known, I would have attended the Wake.

Another main-stay of Youngstown's foods was DiRusso's Italian Sausage. Starting out as a little Mom And Pop restaurant in Lowellville, many decades ago, it has evolved into a Major Brand. Be still my heart the first time I walked into a Sam's Club and found it available by the case in the Freezer Section! I've been a fan of DiRusso's since the sixties. They had opened a small restaurant in Canfield, but it has since closed. Until their national marketing in the last few years, the only place you could get an authentic sausage sandwich was at festivals or fairs where they had a trailer. Nothing beat a DiRusso's Sausage Sub made on a Hoagie loaded with grilled onions and peppers and topped with Marinara Sauce. Yum!

The Canfield Fair, the largest county fair in the country, is held every year for a week, ending on Labor Day. I've attended the fair most years since I've been a wee tot. Nothing temps your taste buds more than the area foods offered at The Canfield Fair. DiRusso's has several trailers there as well as Richardson's French Fries. Good "Fair fries" can't be matched. Long, golden-brown fries stuffed in a cardboard cup, covered with malt vinegar and salt with optional ketchup. Some wise entrepreneur bought the old malt machines from downtown Youngstown's Strouss's Department Store after it closed and had the original recipe for the frozen concoction. Any Baby Boomer from the area had to have one if they spotted their booth. I, of course, was one on them. Similar to a Wendy's Frosty, but ten times creamier and richer, Strouss's Malts were a must have if you were shopping downtown.

I would be remiss if I failed to mention Pirogi, available at many Catholic Churches in the area on Friday afternoons. The pronunciation varies as widely as the variety of filling they had available. Pa-row-gee was how I always said it. Close enough. They were thin dough squares folded over to about three inches square or in a half moon shape. Filled with potato, cheese, lectvar(prune), and/or onion. Boiled for several minutes and covered usually with a butter sauce. Once again, Yum!

One of the treats when I was on-duty at the North Side Fire Station in Struthers on Fridays was to drive the Fire Truck up to Holy Trinity Church. The sweet, old ladies making Perogi in the basement would fill my cooking pot to the rim at no charge. They loved their Firemen. We loved them back, especially on Fridays!

We Thought We Looked Cool or Was It Hot?

2010-01-26T06:51:00.000-08:00

Fads and fashions come and go. In the 60's and 70's in Ohio's Steel Mill Region, in and around Youngstown, kids tried to keep up with the national trends of what was "Hot" and what was "Cool". If there's a difference, I need somebody to explain it to me. Maybe I was being Hot, when I should have been Cool.

My earliest recollection of a "Must Have" item was the Nifty Notebook. It was a hard plastic notebook with a magnetic latch. The two spindles to load the paper on were at the top of the page, instead of the traditional three-ring binder. This appealed greatly to my left-handedness. No rings in the margin to get in my way. Sold! The marketers of this were geniuses. They also cornered the market on the special notebook paper required for the Nifty. Of course, it was about double the price of regular paper. After about three months of kids using these new notebooks, the teachers put a stop to it. Apparently, the odd size paper was too much for them to deal with when grading papers, so they boycotted it's use. If that was today, some left-handed kid would have sued them under the Americans With Disabilities Act.

The British Invasion of many Rock Bands, brought along many items intended to woo the masses. Many fashion apparel items were adopted by kids following the clothing designs of their favorite groups. The Beatles were copied by a lot of kids with their haircuts, Beatles Boots, Pea Coats, CPO Jackets, and Mandarin Shirts. The Rolling Stones Famous T-Shirt with the Tongue Sticking Out is still popular today. A couple of American groups that created a fashion craze was The Beach Boys with Bermuda Shorts and Paisley Shirts and The Monkees with their checkered black and white pants.

Around the time of the Woodstock Music Festival, anything with a Peace Sign on it was a big seller. I had Dog Tags with a Peace Sign on one and an American Flag on another. As a sixteen year old, I also had my head shaved for football. (We all did that in those days.) I walked into a restaurant bar looking for a friend. The Bar Tender insisted I sit down and have a free beer. He noticed my Dog Tags and my lack of hair and assumed I was home from Basic Training in the military. I didn't say a word, chugged down the beer and sat there looking straight ahead. He asked me who I was with. I figured he meant what high school I was playing football for. I said, "The Struthers Wildcats". "No, no," he said, "What branch of the service are you in?" I told him I was sixteen and still in high school. He grabbed my glass and told me to leave. Can you believe it? What Nerve! Hey, I wasn't going to pass up a free beer.

Some of the boys in my class started fashion trends on their own. One kid in my class had a black Beret he wore backwards. We asked where he got it at and Paris' Men's Shop sold out their supply in a week. Black Leather Jackets were popular in high school, especially if you were a hood. I never had one, that wasn't my style or in my parent's budget. Black sneakers with white trim were a hot commodity, only available at A&A Department Store in downtown Struthers at five bucks a pair. I think that's all I wore all through high school. White Levi's were popular locally, thanks to a popular radio commercial featuring a poor duck that lamented the fact that he couldn't wear White Levis and how lucky we were that we could.

My mom, always on the cutting-edge of the fashion world,(Tongue firmly planted in cheek), bought me a zippered sweater that was red on one side and black on the other. I felt like Ralphie in "A Christmas Story" that was forced to put on the Bunny Outfit the first time she made me wear it to school. The guys in my class all laughed at my sweater and asked if I was a Joker from a deck of cards. Needless to say, that was the last time I wore the sweater. I was no Fashion Setter, for sure.

I laugh when I think of some of the failed attempts of trendy fashions that were popular back in the day and how many I actually had. I actually wore Platform Shoes on my Wedding Day in 1976 and many men wore Leisure Suits to the reception. My Leisure Suit was Pea Green with a Nehru Collar. I must admit, it was much better than wearing a Tie. I wore a yellow crushed-velvet jacket to a Winter Formal in high School along with rented Patent- Leather Shoes. That went along with my Afro hair-style of my red hair. I looked a lot like Ronald McDonald, I was told. How Flattering! Thank God any pictures were burned a long time ago!

Adventures On And Under The Water

2010-01-21T02:41:00.000-08:00

My recent post had to do with foolish stunts I had done in my life. A loyal follower had related me to a cat with nine lives. That jogged my memory to think of other near death experiences I've had. I totally forgot about my adventures with water.

A favorite Winter past time for the gang I hung around with as a grade-schooler was to walk in Yellow Creek Park in Struthers, Ohio all the way out to Hamilton Lake. The creek itself was usually frozen and we would sometimes wear our Ice Skates and be able to skate most of the way to the lake. I had visions of Hans Christian Andersen and the story of The Silver Skates. Unfortunately, this was Ohio and not Holland. Winters weren't as cold or sustained and the freezing of the creek wasn't consistent. Run-off from salt-covered streets turned the ice into mush in some parts of Yellow Creek.

We had great fun in gliding over these weak spots and watching the ice crack beneath out feet. If you happened to break through the ice, it was usually very shallow and the worst that would happen was getting a wet foot. As luck would have it, I broke through the ice near a small dam and was in water over my head. I was close enough to the edge of the creek to reach it with a couple of dog paddles and grab some overhanging tree branches to pull myself out. I'm sure if a friend had attempted to help me, he would have encountered the same fate. I was of course, soaked to the bone and had to struggle to walk up a steep incline over a mile to get home. Thankfully no one was at home and I was able to slip into a hot shower and hide my wet clothes until they dried. I'm sure my days exploring the creek would have been over if my parents learned of my mishap.

In the Summer, my family often went to a relative's cottage in Sandusky, on Lake Erie. My cousin, a couple of years older than me, was my constant companion as we spent a good part of the day in the water. I was probably eight years old and could swim well enough in a pool, but I was no match for a rough Lake Erie. One lazy afternoon, we were on blow-up plastic rafts just sunning ourselves and riding the rolling waves. I was practically asleep when I slipped off the raft and found myself well beyond the pier that went about fifty yards out into the water. The raft had drifted too far away from me and I began to panic, knowing I couldn't swim that far to shore. I hollered to my cousin and he came to my aid and helped me towards shallow water. Clearly, he saved me from drowning. We never told anyone for fear of being banned from the water.

Rose Lake, a long-closed Swimming Hole off Kirk Road in Youngstown was the site of my next calamity. Another cousin and I with whom I spent weeks with every Summer, went to Rose Lake once or twice a week to swim. I marveled at the kids that could swim across the small lake and finally mustered up the courage to try it. Needless to say, I didn't make it. About three-fourths of the way, I became too tired to swim any further and became disoriented as I struggled with each stroke. A large metal pole that was used as a marker, vertically jutted out of the water in still deep water. I clung to the pole and began calling for help. The next thing I remembered was water pouring out of my mouth as a Life Guard did compressions on my back. Still groggy from my ordeal, the owner of the lake gave us a ride home and told my Aunt and Uncle what had happened. I can only remember them scolding my cousin for not keeping a better eye on me. The poor kid, I was the one who attempted the dumb stunt.

Several hours later, I was feeling better and was sitting on my cousin's front porch. A few of his friends came by and asked if I'd like to play a game called "Pass-Out". I asked how to play and they said stand up and they would show me. I was told to lean over and take ten very deep breathes, then stand up and hold that last breath as long as I could while another kid would Bear-Hug me from behind, making you pass out. I was gullible and went along with it, doing as I was instructed. I was squeezed and sure enough, I passed out cold. I can remember a sound while I was unconscious like a herd of Buffaloes running over the top of me. I slowly came to my senses to the sound of laughter from all the kids who witnessed the event. I later learned that this "Game" had deadly consequences. Apparently, several kids had died or suffered brain injuries from lack of oxygen or hitting their heads when they passed out. As if I didn't have enough To deal with that day.

I think God has spared me on all of these occasions so I could become the Poster Boy for all those things kids should never attempt. My ignorance got me in plenty of trouble. By sheer luck or the grace of God, I'm still here. My destiny is yet to be determined.

Tree Riding And Other Stupid Stuff

2010-01-19T09:38:00.000-08:00

The Grim Reaper eventually comes calling on all of us. Depending how you've led your life decides whether he turns left or right at the Crossroad. I've came very close to meeting him face-to-face on several occasions, knowingly and unknowingly, by sheer luck. When I look back at some of those moments, especially in my youth, I ask myself one basic question,"What the Hell was I thinking?"

I think most active boys, especially in the Blue-Collar Steel Town I came from dared each other to feats of athletic prowess as a rite of passage. Kind of a stepped up version of Follow The Leader. I recall several occasions in my pre-teen years of challenging somebody or they challenging me. One stunt involved jumping from the top of a culvert pipe to a creek bed below, a distance of about fifteen feet. I just so happen to be familiar with the area around the creek bed, having walked through the creek many times before. I jumped first landing very close to the wall of the culvert, but in about six inches of soft mud, knowing the mud would cushion my fall. I was a muck-covered mess. Everyone laughed, but I suffered no injuries. My friend wasn't so lucky. He jumped far out and landed on the rocky creek bottom, severely spraining his ankle. I clearly won that round.

The next episode was started by a buddy I think was part Monkey. He was always climbing trees and swinging from limb to limb. He invented a game of "Riding A Tree down". He would pick out a young tree about 25-30 feet tall and 6-8 inches in diameter in a woods we often hung out in. He would climb to the very top of the tree and begin swinging violently back and forth. This would continue for several minutes until the tree would eventually snap from the stress of the bending and he would "ride" it to the ground, totally uninjured. I thought it looked like fun and told him I could do it,too. We picked out a suitable tree and up I climbed. I began swinging and didn't realise my friend had also wrapped his legs around the trunk for added gripping power. After about a minute, my hands lost their grip and I fell down through the tree like a pinball, bouncing off of several branches before landing with a thud on thankfully soft ground. Besides having "My Bell Rung" and some bruised ribs, I was O.K. My friend definitely won that round!

Moving into my Teen Years, stupidity didn't take a holiday. Not long after getting my Driver's License, I was tooling around town with my buddies in my Clunker of a car. For some unknown reason, my friend that was riding Shotgun in the passenger seat hollered out that "You're in last place!" I think it was from a line in a movie, but in any event, I felt obliged to floor the accelerator. Problem was the gas pedal stuck to the floor! I panicked, being a young inexperienced driver. I just started steering like Richard Petty, yelling over and over, "What should I do?" My buddy reached over and simply turned off the ignition and said slowly pull off on to the side of the road. I sheepishly listened to him as we glided to a stop. We popped the gas pedal out that was buried in the carpeting and went on our way. I screamed at my friend to "Never tell me we're in last place again!"

My next act of stupidity was in my adult years. I've had a motorcycle since I've been eighteen. After pulling my bike out of storage from the Winter, I noticed I needed new license plates for it, so I rode it in to town on some winding country roads to avoid detection from police of my expired plates. Something had blown out of my pocket as I tooled down the road. I quickly turned around and retrieved the paper, hopped on the motorcycle and was on my way again.

About a mile down the road, it curved sharply to the left. I leaned the bike into the curve too late to realise I had left the kick stand down. The kick stand dug deeply into the asphalt and I was going to fast to stop in the middle of the curve. Unfortunately, I ran out of road and wound up in a deep ditch. I was vaulted over the windshield and landed in some high grass. I took stock of my situation and attempted to get up. That's when I noticed my right elbow was now where my bicep was. Apparently in shock, I felt no pain, but I couldn't get out of the ditch on my own. I wasn't visible from the road, so every car that passed, I whistled as loud as I could. Eventually someone stopped and found me. Two months later, I was as good as new. Ironically, the next year, all motorcycles were manufactured with a Kill Switch that wouldn't let the bike run with the kick stand down. Gee, I can't imagine why...

As a Fireman, during a benefit softball game we were having, we received a call for an apartment fire above a machine shop. I arrived at the scene and donned my fire gear which consisted of a helmet, coat, gloves, and thigh-high boots. Coming from the ball field, all I had on was shorts and a tee shirt. The upstairs was roaring with fire by now. Fire Hose in hand, I made my way up the steps, extiguishing the flames as I went. Unfortunately, the hot embers found their way into the top of my boots because I had shorts on and they weren't very tight around my thighs. I could only stand the burning sensation for so long, then immediately turned the Fire Hose on myself and squirted water down my boots. We got the fire out quickly and I retreated to the Fire House to tend to several quarter-size blisters on my legs. needless to say, I always made sure I had an extra pair of pants with my Fire Gear.

It's taken me many years to think of the consequences of my actions at the time I'm doing something. By obtaining a Doctorate from The School of Hard Knocks, I hope I can pass along more common sense to my children then I had at their age. As they say, at least at the end of this life, I can slide into home safely and say, 'What A Ride!"

My Version Of The Culture Club

2010-01-11T05:51:00.000-08:00

The culture my father had could be held in a thimble. It really wasn't his fault. His up bringing in the hard scrabble neighborhood off Hillman Street on Youngstown's South Side didn't lend itself to being a place remotely considered High Society.

My mother on the other hand, had "Champagne Taste on a Beer Budget", as my Dad used to say. Mom grew up in Struthers, far from a life of the privileged, the oldest of four other siblings. Her father labored in the Steel Mills and later was an electrician at an industrial plant. Her mother was raised in the hills of Kentucky in a conservative religious family.

Besides a short stint for about a year in New York City as a telephone Operator, all my mother really knew about the world she learned from the comforts of Suburbia Youngstown, Ohio. She appeared content, but you knew underneath, there was a George Bailey from "It's A Wonderful Life", wanting to explore the world.

Mom used our annual 2-3 week family vacations to teach us as much about the sites we were to see as possible. Thanks to her AAA Travel Books, atlases, and campground guides, she gave everyone a narrative when touring about the history of our current location. All of us kids and Dad would look at each other and roll our eyes, as if to say, "Here we go again." Mom would occasionally catch our bored glances and tell us how lucky we were to be able to see these sights. It would be thirty years before I realized how right she was.

Mom insisted on teaching us some things about the finer things in life and proper etiquette. Proper table manners were drilled into us on a regular basis and she enlisted my father's help in enforcing the rules. I can remember my elbow being knocked off the table or getting jabbed with a fork for reaching across the table. I believe Emily Post, the manners and etiquette author, had a firm grip on my Mom's physique. She frequently said that we would go further in life with good manners than a good education. In a lot of respects, I suppose her words rang true. Today, a good combination of both would serve us better.

Mom and Dad loved to dance, regardless of their strict Baptist upbringings, which prohibited it. As a teenager, my mother would sneak off to The Point, a dance hall on the outskirts of Youngstown, to dance the night away. It's alledged she even smoked a cigarette or two, back then. The audacity, can you imagine! I guess we all need to sow our Wild Oats.

In any event, after my folks married, they started a dance club with their friends. About once a month, several couple would converge on our Rec Room to "Cut a Rug", as they used to say. Couples with children were encouraged to bring them to learn to dance. Between our Basement Ballroom and the Masonic functions I got dragged to, I felt comfortable dancing at a young age. I must admit, I had an advantage on a lot of my peers at those awkward Junior High Dances. I wasn't afraid to ask a girl to dance.

Because my Dad usually worked the afternoon shift, I became Mom's escort for anything going on during the week. She had joined The Monday Musical Club at Stambaugh Auditorium which featured primarily Classical Music and Pre-Rock and Roll Artists. Despite my whining, I was expected to be showered with my suit and tie on by 6:30 P.M. to leave for my Monday Plunge into Culture. I actually enjoyed most of the performances and got to see a lot of top acts in the day. Needless to say, I never gave my mom the satisfaction of telling her that until well into my adult years. I had played that card for years that I was doing her a huge favor.

My mother's Glory Years are long behind her as she withers away in a Nursing Home with Alzheimer's Disease. For that matter, the prime of my youth is long behind me. I can never forget the dedication Mom put forth to her children to try and give them the best she could. She certainly expanded my horizons and raised the bar for her expectations of what I should become. I became a lot more than what I would have with her guidance and learned a lot more than I would have at the local pool hall. Also, as a bonus, you'll never see my three children with their elbow on the table.

I Got It All from Him

2010-01-07T08:14:00.000-08:00

Anyone who knows me and my family knows where my sense of humor came from. My father, Clarence, better known as C.B. was the ultimate joker and king of the one-liners. Dad always called 'em like he saw 'em and wasn't intimidated by anyone.

You had better have been prepared if you came to our house for any reason. My sisters as teenagers would frequently invite girls over and first they would have to pass the muster of my Pop's humor. For instance, a girl might be introduced to C.B. and he would take their hand and pull them into an embrace and ask, How ya doing, Baby Doll?", in his most sexy voice. The girl would do one of two things, cringe or howl in laughter. If she laughed, she passed Dad's test. Another one who could take a joke.

One time, my oldest sister had a date. The guy rang the doorbell and I answered the door and let him in the house. Around the corner of the living room came my father, donned in a shoulder-length blonde wig! Dad sashayed towards him and in his best lispy voice said,"Hi! How are YOU!" The poor kid could only stammer that he was fine. I thought my sister was going to climb under the coffee table. She apologized for my dad's antics and they quickly left. If looks could kill, Dad was a dead man!

No one came closer to the persona of Archie Bunker than my father. Very set in his ways and leary of anything having to do with change. He, like many of his generation, grew up in a pretty segregated neighborhood and didn't have much exposure to people from different religious or ethnic backgrounds. Some friends and family, including myself, used this knowledge of my dad to play a joke on him.

My father was the kind of guy who didn't believe in sharing his business or personal information with neighbors. That's all the information a friend of his and his family needed to get one over on C.B., but good. A couple of days after his June birthday, we heard all this racket coming from up the street, getting louder as it approached our house. Dad's Friends were hanging out of their car windows with patriotic music blaring, carrying huge banners proclaiming that "Tuesday Was Clarence's Birthday!". Several cars whipped in our driveway blowing their horns and wouldn't stop until Dad came out to greet them. They had given him several gag gifts including an old suitcase full of all kinds of junk, like used toothpaste tubes and old telephone directories. He received a Milk Weed plant in a milk bottle and promptly planted it near the bird bath where it flourished for years. I think he planted it as a reminder of how much his friends cared about him.

I finally had my chance to get even with Dad's sense of humor by preying on his prejudice of black people. I shared this information with a black friend of mine in high school. He just happened to be a Tackle on the Football team and was a very intimidating figure at about 6'4" and 250 pounds. This kid had a great sense of humor and conspired with me to teach this "Cracker" a lesson.

After school one day, I had my friend come to my house, knowing my dad would answer the door. We discussed a dialog and it went perfectly. My father's eyes were as big as saucers when he saw this huge black guy as he answered the door. My friend said," I understand you don't like us black people. Is that right?" My dad began stammering as he replied that my black friend must be mistaken.(I was conveniently out of sight.)"Well, than you won't mind if I go out with your daughter this weekend, will you?" My father told him he didn't think that would be a good idea, seeing that my sister had a lot of homework to do. My friend couldn't take it any more and just busted out laughing in front of him. I came out of hiding and joined him in a good belly laugh, complete with tears, right in front of dad. It was my turn for the "If looks could kill" stare from my dad. Until the day he died, I teased him about that one.

Poor Dad unfortunately had Prostate Cancer in the early 80's and had to have his testicles removed. Naturally, I felt very sorry for him and went to visit him shortly after surgery. The anesthetic was still wearing off as he motioned to me to come closer, since he could only talk at a whisper. In a voice reminiscent of Don Corleone from The Godfather, he said,"Tom, I want you to make a phone call for me." "Sure, Dad, anything you want me to do,"I said, sympathetically. I was on the verge of tears. "I want you to call Blackie for me",he said. Blackie was the unaffectionate name my father had given my dark-skinned Hungarian Ex-Brother-In-Law. "Sure Pop. Why do you want me to call him", I asked. "Tell him about the surgery I just had and tell him I STILL have more balls than he does!" That was my Dad, humor was NEVER out of place.

I believe humor got my father through many tough times in his life. Fatherless from the age of three, The Depression, combat in World War II, Trying to provide for his family during lay-offs and tough times in Youngstown, Ohio's economy, they all had to take their toll on him. I never knew my dad without compassion towards anyone who genuinely deserved it. He taught me that humor "breaks the ice", in uncomfortable situations and wins people over to being friendly and not afraid to talk to you if they're shy. "Good night, Mr. Rupe! Where ever you are!"

It's A Long Way To Tippy, Really

2010-01-03T03:58:00.000-08:00

Growing up in the late 60's and early 70's, I was always looking to make a buck to supplement my two dollar a week allowance my dad gave me every Saturday morning. I did plenty of the usual neighborhood jobs such as cutting grass, raking leaves, and shoveling snow. I kept the same regular customers season to season. The extra money kept me supplied in comic books, trading cards, and Sky Scraper Ice Cream Cones at Isaly's Dairy Store.

A new family moved into our neighborhood in the late 60's and I soon learned from their four boys how to make some REAL money by Caddying at Tippecanoe Country Club.

Golf was still pretty foreign to me, so I asked a bajillion questions about how to go about being a Caddy. I learned that The Club Professional actually conducted a class one morning a week on the Do's and Dont's of Caddying, how to rake a Sand Trap, determining yardage, etiquette, which club to use, etc. I decided I was in and told one of the boys I would go with him the next time they had a class.

The appointed day arrived and I anxiously knocked on my neighbor's door to start this new adventure. I was twelve at the time, the minimum age to Caddy. I asked how we were getting to the country club, which was nine miles away. He said we were going to "Thumb". "What?, I asked, What is that?" "Hitchhike, Ya Dummy, Ya know, put out your thumb and bum a ride from somebody!" Of course, I'd seen kids hitchhiking before, but had never actually done it myself. Too late to turn back now, I thought, so we headed up the street to the main road towards 'Tippy" as the country club was known to everyone.

It didn't take long for someone to stop and offer us a ride as we began "Thumbing". Fortunately, it was a very direct route with no turns until the last quarter mile on the road the country club was located on. Golfers were also on the look out for boys hitchhiking along the way, too, knowing they were probably headed to Tippy. The dangers and stigma associated with hitchhiking was nothing compared to today. Even my conservative parents had no problem with me hitching a ride.

We finally arrived at Tippecanoe Country Club and walked up the long driveway to this Grand Mansion and Golf Course nestled in the woods. My Middle-Class Mouth was wide open in awe at the magnificent sights before me. So, this is how that "Other half" lives, eh? I could get used to this lifestyle! Of course, being a lowly Caddy, I never got to see the inside of the club, in fact, we couldn't even use their restrooms. We had to walk into the woods and water a tree somewhere. If you had to do something else, plenty of leaves were available for your convenience.

I attended the Caddy School and immediately went to work. Most days were very busy and the pool of about fifty Caddies at any given time, usually had no problem in getting assigned to a golfer. The man assigning the caddies was called the Starter, staying on his good side was a good thing, I quickly learned. There was a pecking order in The Caddy Yard. More experienced or older Caddies were given the better golfers and the golfers that were considered good tippers. You could hear the audible groans when somebody would be assigned to a notorious Tight-Wad.

Minimum wage was $1.60 an hour then. Caddying paid $4.50 for nine holes and $9.00 for eighteen holes, plus tip for a single bag. If the course was very busy, you might get to carry two bags at the same time or "Doubles", as it was called. Double the work catering to two golfers, but double the money. a round of eighteen holes typically took four hours. If a boy carried Doubles twice in a day, he could make a cool forty bucks! That wasn't bad for a twelve year old, "still wet behind the ears", my dad used to say, whatever that meant.

Over that first Summer of Caddying, I made easily enough money to ironically, buy my first set of golf clubs. Taking up the game taught me that it's a lot harder than it looks. It did give me a better understanding of the game and to know the rules. I learned on a course near Struthers called Countryside. A perfect name for it in its early days. It was a glorified Cow Pasture, complete with Cow Patties sprinkled about the Fairways! I remember a silo on the ninth hole. None the less, A gang of about 8-10 neighborhood kids would golf there a couple of times a week.

After a long day of Caddying, I still had to face the nine mile trip home. On a hot Summer day with little shade and few rides while hitchhiking, it could be drudgery. I sometimes would spread out under some body's big tree in their front yard, taking a rest and often falling asleep in the cool grass. I'd awake from my short nap and continue the long walk towards home. Occasionally, I had to walk the entire way. Of course, I embellish the story when I tell the kids about it. You know, twenty miles both ways, all uphill, in a foot of snow. It just felt like it some days.

I caddied until I was sixteen, when I got a "Real" job. It was hard work, but also a lot of fun and I treasure the experiences. I was fortunate enough to Caddy for the eventual winner of The Ohio Amateur Tournament held at Tippecanoe. I got tipped fifty dollars and I felt like I was the one who won! Never did get to use that restroom in the Club House though...

The Great Tower Caper

2010-01-02T10:59:00.000-08:00

Struthers High school had the distinction of being the first secondary school in the nation to offer a vocational program in Radio. WKTL-FM went on the air in the late 60's and offered a wide array of programming to the general public. Classic Rock And Roll, Classical, Jazz, Big Band, and even Polka were featured regularly. The Polka Program was hosted by the Wood Shop Teacher.

A lot of Students started out "learning the ropes" at WKTL and went on to careers in Broadcasting. Football and basketball games were broadcast live with the students trying their best to remain neutral and professional while announcing the games. I can recall a couple of occasions while listening, that the kid would about swallow his microphone getting so excited over a particular play. I believe they called it "over-modulation". Listening you would encounter periods of dead silence. A flustered announcer would start spitting out statistics about the game that was a repeat of what he said two minutes ago, just to fill the time.

The kids in the radio program became known as "WKTLers" or "Radio Heads" to the general school population. Another clique to go with the Greasers, Preppies, or Jocks. I guess the majority of the students in radio could be classified as "Geeks" today. I think I remember a few wearing pocket protectors and having taped glasses.

The teacher that got Struthers High started in radio had a background with a major station in Youngstown. I'm not sure where all the money came from to construct the station. It was housed in some old second floor offices in the field house, conveniently located overlooking the Basketball Court. I'm sure some equipment was donated and a huge tower was erected, about 150 feet high, at the corner of the field house. You could see the tower from most places in town if trees weren't in your way.

As I've written before, I grew up in a house across a field from Struthers High School in Ohio. My bedroom was on the second floor of our Cape Cod Style house and from the back window, I had a great view of the school and the field house, which was a huge gymnasium. As a kid I always wondered if the radio tower fell, would it hit our house?

Early one June beautiful Summer day, I awoke and went to the window to catch a breath of the cool morning air. I looked towards the High school and noticed something hanging from the top of the radio tower. Trying my best to wipe the sleep out of my eyes and focus, I realised it was a bed sheet with writing on it. Finally a stiff enough breeze blew the sheet straight without flapping in the wind and I could read it. In big blue letters it simply proclaimed,"HOWDY BLOWS". Howdy happened to be the nickname of our high school Principal. Hmmm...I don't think it was a coincidence.

I immediately sprung into action and started calling every friend that I could think of to come and see this spectacle! I drove over to one of my buddie's house and literally dragged him out of bed to come with me to see a surprise. His mother and four siblings tagged along to witness it, too. I would say there was fifty people at the school by the time we arrived, along with the Fire and Police Departments.

A Beet Red Howdy was there, yelling at the top of his lungs for someone to climb up there and get that sheet down. A large, overweight Patrolman was laughing so hard, tears were running down his face. I also then understood what they meant about Santa's belly jiggling like a bowlful of jelly. This Cop had it shakin'! Howdy was getting madder and redder by the second and I think it dawned on him to try a kinder approach with Struthers' Safety Forces. Finally, a sympathetic Fireman climbed the tower and took the sheet down as the crowd loudly booed his efforts.

No one was ever caught for the "Great Tower Caper" as it became stuff of legend in our community. Not long after my graduation I learned who the culprits were in pulling off the best practical joke that Struthers ever witnessed. I'll never tell, these guys were my heroes!

Do We Really Need To Celebrate New Year's?

2009-12-29T04:35:00.000-08:00

With another year coming to a close, I've been sifting through my memory banks of past New Year's Eves and reminiscing on the good ones and the "What The Hell was I Thinking" ones from my past. I've decided the bad ones have won out in my recollections. I can use alcohol as an excuse, only in my adult years.

The earliest remembrances of New Year's Eve I have is of straining to stay up until Midnight with my older sisters and our baby sitting grandmother. Everyone would be watching Guy Lombardo and The Canadians usher in the new year on television. At the stroke of Midnight, we would run out on to the front porch and bang on a huge cooking pot with wooden spoons. What excitement, eh? Five minutes later, I was sound asleep. This apparently would become a trend of future celebration. Woo Hoo! Happy New Year! Ok, let's go to bed, I'm tired. I was not one of the original Party Animals.

New Year's Eves during my grade school years were pretty non-eventful. I recall a few sleep-overs at a friend's house. We would have pizza and play board games until the wee hours of the morning. This was before Mr. Microphone was invented, so I mean really, how much fun at a party could you have? We would make some obligatory crank phone calls to unsuspecting businesses or people. We even asked the classic question to a drug store," Do you have Prince Albert in a can? If you do, you better let him out before he suffocates!" Ba-Rump-Ba! Rim Shot please! We would just crack ourselves up! Thumbing through the phone book, I found the name of "some ethnic-type person" and called him. In my best "ethnic-type" voice I asked,"Is Louis there?" The man replied, "No. He went in The Service about six months ago!" I hung up and we rolled on the floor in laughter! I don't really know why we thought this was SO funny, but to this day, forty years later, when I see my friend who was my co-conspirator, I'll asked him if Louis is there. It STILL generates a laugh between us.

I think I was a freshman in high school when I went to a buddy's house for New Year's Eve with the parents gone for the night. There had to be a mix of twenty boys and girls. By Midnight, EVERYONE had "hooked up" with someone else, but me. Here's all these kids swabbing each other's tonsils and I'm sitting there pondering my obvious inadequacies. Did I have bad breath? Am I dressed funny? Is my teenage acne really that bad? I left the party extremely depressed and vowed to myself not to go to a party without a date again. It can scar a fifteen year old boy for life by seeing his friends score and he's left on the bench.

In my early 20's as a newly married adult, we went to a huge Buffet and Champagne Party at The Youngstown Country Club. This was open to the public and heavily advertised in the local paper. Riff-Raff from every walk of life attended this party. We had gone with several other couples and I was trying to keep up with the guys on consuming my fair share of the free booze. I've never been known as a heavy drinker. Hell, let's face it, I was a light-weight. Within an hour and a half, I was totally Snookered! I passed out with my head on our table before the food was even served. I'm sure the food would have helped me with the absorption of alcohol. I had drunk on an empty stomach. A deadly sin of being able to handle hard liquor. I was carted off by my friends to the back seat of the car to sleep it off. Everyone else partied the night away while I was heaving my guts out through the window of some body's Monte Carlo. Another of life's lesson learned the hard way.

I always have wanted to go to Times Square in New York City for the famous Ball Drop on New Year's Eve. The closest I've ever come to that is The Great Walleye Drop at Port Clinton, Ohio on Lake Erie. It's a tongue-in-cheek take-off of Times square with a five foot Paper Mache fish lowered down a flag pole as the final seconds of the year are counted down. A huge heated tent is set up downtown with a live band entertaining the crowd. Unfortunately, the year I went was a total disaster. My date and I got a late start for the one hour drive and had to park about a mile away from the event. The temperature with wind chill was MINUS 22 degrees and the wind was howling off the lake. By the time we reached the tent, it was completely full. People were shoved in there like cattle and no one could move. I'm not quite an Old Foogie yet, but I couldn't handle the Head-Banging Music the band was playing. We stood there for maybe five minutes, longing for some of the heat that we knew was inside that tent somewhere. A quick glance at each other confirmed our misery and we decided to leave. I think the only place we could find open was an Arby's fast food restaurant to get something to eat. Nothing but the best for my dates!

I celebrated the New Millennium at a party at the local Eagles Club. A nice dinner was served and each couple received a magnum of Champagne and commemorative glasses etched with "Happy New Year 2000" on them. Things were going pretty well until my girlfriend of a couple of years started to get a little tipsy. She began crying and telling me she wanted to go home. I asked what the problem was and she informed me she longed for her married internet lover in Texas! WHAT? I was clueless about this and thought things had ended between them before I was in the picture. Needless to say, I was deceived and honored her wishes and immediately took her home. For good.
What a great way to start the next one thousand years!

Given my track record for New Year's Eves, who can blame me for wanting to stay home. I can stay home and count my blessings for all that I do have and my family and friends that remain dear to me. I don't need to go out in public and make a spectacle of myself or others I am with. Given my unlucky past, it's bound to happen. Being the eternal optimist, NEXT year will be the best of my life!

A Friend In School Is A Friend For Life

2009-12-28T07:31:00.000-08:00

I recently had Dinner with a half dozen of my classmates from Struthers High School. Wow! What a flood of emotions and memories came back to me. Some of these folks I've known since Kindergarten, a mere six year old at the time. We're almost talking Ancient History here, given that I graduated one score and sixteen years ago.

Growing up in the hard-scrabble suburbs of Youngstown, Ohio, like it or not, we were in it together. Relationships evolved over the years. Those you became close to in elementary school or junior high, didn't necessarily remain in high school. On the other hand, I've had friendships with people that have been unbroken for almost fifty years, that I could never replace. I was reminded of that over Dinner.

Sure, physically we all changed and now look like our parents.(Gasp!) Inside, we're all pretty much that same kid you were in your formative years. Intelligent, humorous, mischievous, lethargic, or goal-oriented, I firmly believe you set your path before you ever realized you did. I'll bet at ten years old, you could have written down the names of five people in your class you thought would be successful. Pull that paper out fifty years later and chances are you would have most names right. Nobody is a better judge of character than your peers.

I've learned over the years that most of the people that attend class reunions are comfortable in their own skins. These were your classmates that loved to interact with others, enjoyed the company, and didn't harbor resentment towards someone for things that happened in their youth. I was fortunate that I mingled within all groups in school. I could relate to everyone equally well and never felt out of place. That was a tribute to the character of the kids I associated with. No one was aloof and acted like they were a cut above anyone else. It was impossible to "put on airs" in Struthers, anyhow. Chances are your Dad worked in one of the steel mills or supporting industries and we were all middle-class.

I certainly can recall a lot of triumphs and tragedies during my school years. Undefeated football teams and exciting wins in many sports events on the plus side of life, death of a classmate or their parent by injury, illness or accident, on the negative side. We endured these things in a simpler time. No one worried about staying politically correct. We genuinely cared about "our own" and it wasn't uncommon for a teacher to lead us in a prayer over some adversity.

Being from a small town had many advantages over bigger cities. Sure, everyone knew your business, but if you haven't done anything wrong, who cares? Parents kept an eye out on all the kids in a neighborhood and would actually talk on the phone to the mother of a kid who was misbehaving. I learned that lesson many times the hard way. I couldn't get away with anything! In reflecting back, it probably helped to point me in the right direction, knowing any wrong-doing would catch up with me, sooner or later.

Our teachers were great for correcting us. I had to write," I will practice acting more like a fourth-grader and not like a kindergartner.", five hundred times when I acted up in class. The teacher looked at my finished work, noticed I misspelled "Kindergartner", tore it up, and had me write the sentences all over again. In eighth grade, I led the class in number of swats with the paddle at twenty seven. I did eventually learn my lesson. Well, sort of...I had my moments.

What eventually has become very clear to me is the lasting memories of all the kids I went to school with, some for thirteen years. We shared so much together it like being of one mind on so many topics. We were like one big blended family sharing common values of our community. We developed pride for a cause we believed in, not realizing then that this would forge us into the adults we would become. Struthers...Thanks for the memories, I'm proud to call you home.

I Never Could Shake The Fat Guy With The Beard

2009-12-23T07:34:00.000-08:00

Back in the 60's, Santa Claus was everywhere! In Youngstown and most other vibrant suburbs at the time, Santa seemed to be on every corner and in the Mega Department Stores that dotted the landscape.

Of course, The Thanksgiving Parade marked the start of the Holiday Season. We all turned out to see the floats of local merchants, bands, scouting groups, and military organizations. The highlight was Santa always at the end, sitting on top of the Fire Truck. He would toss handfuls of candy to youngsters that were darting on and off the curb, risking life and limb for a Jolly Rancher. The Firemen would keep the siren wailing at full blast, creating a decibel-splitting shriek to cause everyone to cover their ears. No wonder a lot of Dalmatians are deaf!

On shopping trips to Downtown Youngstown with my mother and older sisters, I was allowed to roam anywhere I wanted to. Before the days of cell phones, we just had to check-in every half hour, usually just going to where we parked the car. I knew better than to miss the appointed hour or half-hour, mom was a firm believer of "Spare the Rod, Spoil the Child."

On many of our excursions, I would visit Santa Claus At Mc Kelvey's and Strouss' department stores. I was in First Grade and somebody in class broke it to me about the real deal of Santa Claus. I suspected it for some time, but figured if I kept believing, I'd get more presents. In any event, I went to see Santa and usually there wouldn't be much of a line. I'd spit out my usual banter of what I wanted and he would hand me a large candy cane and a coloring book when we were done. I then headed to the competing store and went through the same process. If the lines were busy I would go two or three times to each and collect a bagful of candy and coloring material. I had it down to a science.

Quite often in my hometown of Struthers, the local merchants would sponsor Santa to appear nights and weekends at The Fifth Street Plaza. Fat, old St. Nick sure sounded like the policeman I knew that my buddy had just yelled, "Come and get us, Fat Ass!" to a few weeks earlier when we were exploring sewers, not far away. I had visions of Santa slapping the cuffs on us. Needless to say, we avoided this particular Santa on our many trips to Isaly's and Ben Franklin's Five and Ten.

Funny how things go Full Circle in life...Fast Forward 25 years, I was now a Full-Time Fire Engineer on The Struthers Fire Department. Guess who has to drive the Fire Truck in The Holiday Parade? Yup, you guessed it! My instructions to Santa Claus were pretty simple: Throw the candy far on to the sidewalk,(I didn't want to run over a Rug Rat!), and if he touched the siren, he wouldn't need a wink and a nod to get down the chimney, I'd be helping him with a Firemen's Boot!

Wait Until Next Year!

2009-12-20T04:18:00.000-08:00

My earliest memories of The Cleveland Browns were of sitting "Indian-Style" with legs crossed with several other buddies on a concrete slab front porch, listening to the play-by-play on a small transistor radio. The volume on the radio wasn't loud enough for everyone to hear clearly, so the owner of the radio would hold it up to his ear and mimic the announcers.

I can remember all of us listening to the 1964 NFL Championship Game and hootin' and hollerin' as The Browns won their last title since I've been alive. Imagine, it has been almost 46 years since I've been able to claim MY team is the best in football. I have never wavered in my allegiance to the Browns, even though my heart has been broken several times by their last-second losses with legendary plays simply referred to by names like, The Drive, The Fumble, or Red-Right 88. Any Cleveland Fan knows what you're talking about when you mention these plays and The Browns remarkable record in futility.

Back in The Browns' Glory Days of the sixties, a lot of advertising promotions featured the team or one of their stars. Coca-Cola had a promo of collecting "Specially marked" bottle caps with a player's picture on the underside. I spent every day after school making the rounds to all the Coke machines I could find. Every gas station, grocery store, and pizza joint was fair game on my mission. I used a small magnet tied to a string to retrieve bottle caps from the built-in bottle opener bin on the front of the vending machines. Displays in grocery stores offered free Browns Posters showing all the players and the silhouette of the particular bottle cap you needed to collect.

Many prizes were available including autographed footballs, jerseys, and pendants. Despite my efforts, I wasn't able to get my hands on a few of the more elusive caps needed to complete the poster for a particular item. Jim Brown, Paul Wiggin, Frank Ryan, Gary Collins, Lou "The Toe" Grosa, which Bottle cap was it that I couldn't find? I was green with envy the day my friend came over and showed me the football he won in the contest. He had extra bottle caps of the ones I needed and graciously gave me the missing caps I needed. I begged my Dad to take me to the local Coke distributor to claim my prize. We were too late! The contest had ended! Once again, something involving The Browns had broken my heart. Too bad I didn't hold on to that poster and bottle caps. It would have been worth more than all the prizes today.

Being a Cleveland Browns Fan is not much different than a lot of other fans that root for a team that hasn't had much success in recent years. We've all had our highs and lows, mostly lows, but we still cheer on our team and are forever an optimist. We tell everyone, "Wait until next year!" and repeat that phrase each season for decades. We're not "Fair Weather Fans" that hop on The Band Wagon when the team does well. We're in it for the long haul, no matter what.

Growing up in The Youngstown, Ohio Area, we were exactly half way between Cleveland And Pittsburgh. Fans were divided pretty equally between The Browns and their bitter rivals, The Steelers. Many a friendship was affected by the rivalry between these teams. Many legendary games were played between the two and the outcome often determined which team advanced to the play-offs. My reasoning for being a Browns Fan was pretty simple. I lived in Ohio, The Browns were in Ohio, and I was always proud to be part of The Buckeye State. The attraction to Youngstown folks to The Steelers was their team name being tied to the steel industry, which Y- Town was a big part of until the 80's.

Art Modell, the owner of The Browns, moved the team to Baltimore in the mid-90's when he couldn't get a new stadium deal. He was and still is vilified for taking the beloved football team away from Cleveland. The NFL let Cleveland keep the name, team colors, and history and awarded them an expansion franchise in 1999. Yes, The Browns were back, but it hasn't been the same. A revolving door of coaches and players has kept The Browns out of the hunt for the play-offs in all but one year since they've been back.

I became President of The Ashland Browns Backers, where I live now, an hour's drive south of Cleveland. The Browns Backers Organization is the world's largest fan club with hundreds of chapters all over the globe. As you see, apparently I'm not the only one who still roots for The Browns and believes they'll once again have their Day In The Sun. After all, "Wait Until Next Year!"

It WAS Fun at The YMCA

2009-12-16T04:23:00.000-08:00

It is hard to believe in these modern times that as a ten year old, I was allowed to take the city bus by myself from Struthers to Downtown Youngstown, Ohio, about a half hour trip. I caught the Buckeye 16 Bus, as the route was called, a block away from my house and it dropped me off on Champion Street in Y-Town at The YMCA.

The YMCA had a cleaver campaign at our grade school offering memberships at a discounted price. I brought home the literature all excited about the possibilities of joining and attending The Gym and Swim Program on Saturdays. My parents immediately squashed any hopes I had of getting a membership by saying they couldn't afford it and they couldn't spend their Saturdays ferrying me back and forth to the Y. Even though I suggested taking the bus, I resigned myself to the fact that it wasn't going to happen.

Lo and behold, on Christmas Morning, I opened an envelope and stared at my powder blue membership card to The Youngstown Young Men's Christian Association! I guess my whining and moping around the house for weeks paid off. I couldn't wait to go! I asked Dad if he was going to take me on Saturday. He said no, that I'd be taking the bus. To me, that was like an additional little bonus. The bus? Cool! How do I do that?

That first Saturday, my father handed me two dollars for bus fare and lunch and gave me the a thirty second speech on safety and how to catch the right bus home. "Look for the sign of the front of the bus that says Buckeye 16, Stupid!" Ok, directions understood. I was on my way, Gym Bag in hand. At every stop along the way, the bus folding doors would swing open and I'd look to see what classmates might be joining me on this adventure. Nobody! Not one single kid from my school had gotten a membership! I can't remember if I felt privileged or lonely.

Arriving at The Y was a Ball of Confusion! Scores of vehicles dropping boys off and the running and screaming in the front lobby was unbelievable! Finally, a Staffer let loose a loud enough whistle to wake the dead and restored some semblance of order. Too much high sugar cereal for most of those boys, I guess. We were taken as a group on a brief tour of this huge five-story facility. I was in awe of what was there to use. I especially was enamored with the indoor track above the Basketball Court. Banked sides and 29 laps for a mile. I thought it was soooo cool to run as fast as you could around the banking and be almost parallel to the ground! We played the typical Gym Class games along with Dodge Ball and Basketball. The Olympic-size Swimming Pool was ours for two hours. I made new friends quickly and looked forward to seeing them each week.

The Cafeteria at The YMCA was my first exposure to a Buffet. Food was healthy, plentiful and cheap compared to any nearby fast food joints. By the time I finished with Gym and swim, I was famished. I recall filling my tray full of food and gobbling it down and going back for more. No parent to tell me to slow down or to say that's enough. If it wasn't too late in the day, I'd walk a few blocks to Strouss' Department Store and buy one of their famous Chocolate Malts at their basement Malt Counter. Ten cents for a small, a Quarter for a large one! It put a Wendy's Frosty to shame for it's creaminess.

I suppose my experiences of going to and attending The Y, taught me a lot of life's lessons. I found I could have fun with others, not necessarily my friends. This was my first experience of meeting people of a different Race. White Bread Struthers had no "Ethnic Diversity" on my side of town. I learned independence as well, I could come and go as I pleased without dragging a friend along. My life-long attraction to athletics started there and I managed to stay in pretty good shape well into my adult life. Maybe The Village People were right...Listen to the song.

Get Your Kicks on Route 66 Or In Struthers

2009-12-15T04:14:00.000-08:00

As previously mentioned, Struthers Field House was the largest covered structure in our county and was host to many events that attracted a large audience. In the Fall of 1960, the television series, "Route 66", filmed an episode there, which was a block away from my house.

Being 5 1/2 years old, I was pretty clueless about what was going on. I do know my older sisters were awfully excited about having the stars, George Zaharis and Martin Milner appear at their high school. The community was encouraged through the newspaper and television news to attend the filming, as a large crowd was needed for the prize fight scene that were staging there. "Attend and you just might appear on the episode" was the claim of the advertisements. Hundreds of Camera-Hungry Citizens showed up on a daily basis during the week of filming.

Between scenes, Zaharis and Milner were more than gracious with signing autographs in the lobby of the field house. They would usually perch on a railing at a ticket window and all the Teenie- Boppers in their Saddle Shoes and Pony Tails would encircle them. Marty Milner got very upset I remember at one point, because in all the flurry of activity, someone stole his shoe laces.

At my young age, the only reason I knew what an autograph was, was because of one of my sister getting an "Autograph Hound" for Christmas. A stuffed fabric Dash Hound that you had your friends sign their name. I began collected autographs from the two stars, being patient and polite and besides, who could resist a cute five year old!

Word traveled around the event that I was able to obtain autographs at anytime, from my now perceived buddies, George and Marty. People actually began to come up to me and offer me money if I would get the stars to sign something for them. Never passing up the opportunity to make a Buck, I obliged them. I must have got fifty autographs that week. The ultimate signature I requested was between takes in the Boxing Ring that was assembled three feet above the middle of the field house floor.

When they stopped filming a scene with George Zaharis dressed as a Boxer, I went to his corner where he was resting on a stool. I yelled up to him to get his attention. He looked down, smiled, but shouted he couldn't hear me because of the crowd noise. I held up a piece of paper and a pen and he reached down and lifted me by one arm up into the ring with him! Everyone was laughing as he remarked he couldn't sign anything with Boxing Gloves on. I told him to do the best he could. He cracked up, grabbing my pen and started signing my paper. "Your a persistent Little Bugger, aren't you?", George exclaimed. I got my autograph and off I went.

Unfortunately, the TV series was filmed long before the advent of video tape. I'm sure the Nielsen Television Ratings for "Route 66" were off the charts in our area, the night they showed that episode. I recall seeing several neighbors in the background. I was miffed George and Marty didn't include me in a scene! Recently, I received an E-mail with about a fifteen second snippet of the famous Corvette from the show tooling down Poland Avenue in Struthers with the long-closed Steel Mills billowing smoke in the background. George and Marty had the Convertible Top down that day. I hope that white interior didn't get too much soot on it.

Build It And They'll Destroy It

2009-12-13T04:02:00.000-08:00

I guess it starts with boys at pre-school age. The need to build a structure of some type. Call it a fort, tee pee, lean-to, cave, or a hut. We started with the couch cushions and blankets. Making our own special fortress to an imaginary place seemed like an inherent need in all boys growing up in our area.

By the time I was out of the primary grades, I had taken my fort building to a new level. Several of my friends and I had converted an old shed into a Club House, Complete with sheets for curtains. It was a place to hang out when the weather was lousy, which in Northern Ohio, is a constant six months of the year.

Fast Forward to 7th or 8th grade. Fifth Street Park became the location for the ultimate in Fort Building. The park was about six square city blocks, but seemed as big as Yellowstone to our little gang of Hellions. Away from the playground, the park emptied into a narrow valley covered with trees, Brier Bushes, and those damn bushes with the brown burrs on them that stuck to absolutely everything, including your hair.

We had graduated into Master Builders in our opinion. We developed different techniques depending on the materials we had at hand. Lumber, nails, and tools were often "borrowed" from some body's father's workshop. Our group was a democracy on deciding how to build a structure. Any conflict was settled by majority rules. Location was decided by drainage factors, often without too much thought into it.

The main design we used was a combination of half below ground and half above. We would start with everyone bringing a shovel and digging a pit all day. Usually, we quit at about four feet deep or when we hit a humongous rock that we couldn't remove. On top of the pit, we would build walls and a roof about three feet high. The large support beams were made of 2 x 12 scaffolding, "Courtesy" of a construction company up the street. We complimented the interior with carpet remnants and furniture that was put to the curb.

We had rules that helped hold us together for the common good: 1. You had to have helped in building or contributed material in order to enter the fort. 2. No girls were allowed inside. Not that we were "He-Man Woman Haters", we just knew that it would bring trouble if anyone knew we were letting girls hang out there. 3. No skipping school and staying in the fort. We didn't want the police or others looking for truant kids in our place.

Because we were building on public property, had no permit, of course, were using some material that was obtained without permission, our structures lasted until the city workers found them and destroyed them with a back hoe. Just like a Beaver who's dam is wrecked, we would build another one. Using past experiences, the new one would be an improvement on the previous one.

When most of us were about fifteen, we built what many considered the ultimate in Hang-Outs. This place was built completely underground. About twelve feet square and eight feet deep, we even "carved" chairs into the walls and had a 55 gallon drum with vent pipe for a stove in cold weather. The roof was covered with one-inch plywood that was covered with sod, so you couldn't even tell it was there. It seemed like every guy in my class was involved in that project.

As fate would have it, one of the boys broke our rules in a BIG way. Not only was he playing Hooky, he had a girl in the Fort. He was "caught in The Act" by the police. Our "Taj Mahal" of Hang Outs was torn apart the following day. Before the Back Hoe moved in for the Kill, a local TV station came to the scene and filmed the fort inside and out. The reporter actually focused on what a marvel of construction this place was, not The Den of Delinquency it had become. We were so proud!

The Christmas That Almost Didn't Happen

2009-11-30T05:59:00.000-08:00

Things had slowed down considerably around 1970 in the Youngstown Area. A recession was well under way. My mother lost her job at a car dealership when they went out of business and my father was laid off from the food warehouse he worked at.

Of course, as a fourteen year old, I didn't pay too much attention to things. All I knew was that food was always plentiful in the house and I was enjoying the fact that both of my older sisters had moved out of the house and the entire upstairs now belonged to me. I guess my folks shielded me from the fact that we were broke and tough times lay ahead for our household.

Mom found another job as a Switchboard Operator at Cafaro Hospital. Dad was called back to work on and off for the remainder of the year. Things were improving. Dad even reinstated my two dollar a week allowance. I could continue blowing most of my money at Ben Franklin's Five and Ten Store buying Comic Books or at Isaly's Dairy Store, buying Skyscraper Ice Cream Cones, White House Vanilla, of course.

Right around Thanksgiving time, I asked Dad when we were going to get our Christmas Tree. I relished the Annual Rite of going to the local vacant lot on Youngstown-Poland Road with Dad to watch him barter for the fattest tree he could find.(Yep, right out of the "A Christmas Story" movie.) He always got a tree a foot too tall for our Rec Room ceiling and would have to whack off the base with his Carpenter Saw. Dad said since I was the only kid left at home and financially things weren't good, we were not going to get a Christmas tree this year. Ya could have knocked me over with a feather! I was devastated! As much as I whined and pleaded, the answer was NO! In Fourteen year old rage, I said I would get a Christmas Tree by myself! I think my father's reply was, "Knock yourself out!".

Our house was Party Central for my Mom's extended family of about twenty people at Christmas time. I couldn't fathom everyone gathered in our basement, passing out presents that were stacked on our Bar or piano and not under the tree. I had to come up with a plan to acquire a tree and defy my father. My mom of course, wouldn't get in the middle of this "Christmas Tree Feud", so transportation in the Family Car was out of the question. Then, The Light Bulb went off in my tiny, little head! Eureka!

Beside our house was a large, abandoned plant and tree nursery that belong to a neighbor several door down. This nursery was bigger than a football field with huge craters in it from bushes or trees being dug out and the empty hole not being filled in. Weeds and sapling now dominated it's rows. Around the perimeter were Blue Spruce Pine Trees, 25-30 feet tall. A tree hadn't been sold in that nursery as long as I could remember, so I figured what could it hurt to "Trim" one of those Blue spruces about seven feet from the top.

Next problem was no ladder. Dad's old wooden extension ladder weighed more than I did, so that was out of the question. I climbed many a tree in my youth, so I figured I could shinny up one of these with a good pair of gloves. Dad's cowhide work gloves did the trick, so up I went with his hacksaw hanging from the crook of my elbow, as I climbed. It must have taken me twenty minutes to lop the top off of that tree, while balancing on a swaying branch. The top fell to the ground and I slid most of the way down with sap covering any body part and clothing that came into contact with the tree. I dragged the tree to our back door through about six inches of snow. I made my Dad's mistake and miscalculated the height I needed. I grabbed the saw again and cut off about a foot. I pulled the tree down the basement steps, put it in it's stand, and placed it in it's proper Place of Honor in our Rec Room.

I spent the rest of the afternoon decorating the tree. What a chore alone! I got poked numerous times, reaching around the tree to string the lights. Blue Spruce Needles are pretty unforgiving. I added the Silver Traditional Icicles and even put the train set around the base of the tree. I liked the fact that since I was decorating the tree myself, I could put my favorite ornaments on any branch I wanted to. I finished just before my parents got home from work and waited in the front window in anticipation.

My folks came in the house and said hello. I gave them a few minutes in their normal routines after work, then asked them into the Living Room. I must have had the look of The Cheshire Cat as my Dad asked that all-too-familiar question," OK, What happened?" I told them I needed them to follow me down the Basement. "Geez, what the heck did you do now?", Dad asked. With no reply, I made sure I went down the steps ahead of them, so I could see the looks on their faces. It was a look of Wide-Eyed Wonder is all I could say. My Mom gasped, "Oh, My Stars...!", something only my Grand Mother used to say. Dad just said," What The...!" He would never admit it, but he definitely had a tear in his eye. Christmas would go on as usual.

Chicken Dumplings And Sugar Cookies

2009-11-25T09:58:00.000-08:00

Some of my earliest childhood memories were in my Grandmother's kitchen. It seemed to be the center of my universe and place of security. Grandma was forever making her giant Sugar Cookies.

To this day, no one in my family can come close to duplicating her unwritten recipe. She rolled out a large batch of cookie dough that took up at least half of the kitchen table. Using a large upside-down coffee cup, she'd stamp out the cookies and put then on huge cookie sheets. My job was to grease the sheets with Crisco by using a wadded up piece of wax paper. About twenty minutes in the oven and Viola! Nothing was better than her steaming hot Sugar Cookies with an ice-cold glass of milk!

It was understood that any family member walking into my Grandparent's house was always welcomed to head right for the Cookie Jar and help themselves. Whoever took the last cookie was required to let Grandma know and she would immediately get to work on making a fresh batch. Since her house was Grand Central Station for her five children, spouses, and Grandchildren, she was baking cookies daily. All cookies were put in The Little Red Riding Hood Cookie Jar that my cousin still has and is probably the most cherished family heirloom.

My Grandparent's house was a large white stucco two-story on Omar Street in Struthers. Everyone was expected to go to their house after church Sunday for dinner. I never did graduate to the Big Table where the adults sat in the main dining room. I was relegated to the Kitchen table or a TV tray positioned at a chair in the living room. Before dinner, we would all sit outside in nice weather on their large front porch. Conversation was sometimes drowned out by the big Matlack Ashpalt Trucks droning up Poland Avenue, which was State Route 616, three doors away.

Dinner was quite often every one's favorite: Chicken and Dumplings. Again, one of those recipes that Grandma took with her. Her dumpling were thick and floury and about two inches square. I NEVER remember there being leftovers. A typical side dish was String Beans that I recall snapping with her out on the porch. She would snap the beans and drop them into her apron. She'd gather up the edges of the apron and walk into the house, dropping them into the sink to wash them. Cornbread was a mainstay of Grandma's Southern Cooking and upbringing. I think a dollop of sugar was her secret to the "To-Die For" Cornbread.

After dinner, many activities took place in the yard and in the house. Croquet was a main stay for the men. I thought it was a real treat when I was allowed to play with them, even as a teenager. Most of the women and girls gathered around the piano and sang all kinds of tunes throughout the afternoon. My sisters and cousin sang as a Trio at church on many occasions and my Grandmother just loved when they would sing her favorite hymns. "How Great Thou Art" is still ringing in my ears.

As all good things must come to an end, so did our family gathering on Sundays. My Grandparents decided after Grandpa retired,that The Ole White House was just too big for them and too much upkeep. They moved to a tiny one-bedroom home with a very small kitchen and living room. Besides, most of their children's kids were older and starting families of their own. My folks and other Aunts and Uncles tried to keep up the gatherings, but it just wasn't the same.

I truly feel sorry for you if you didn't get to experience large family gatherings in your younger days. I really learned the meaning and love of family. It never hurt one bit to know my place in the Pecking Order. Respect for your Elders is unheard of today. Most of our kids think it's a God-given rite to act like an obnoxious Brat and not offer consideration to any adults. I know I sound like my Father and it's scary. Guess the Old Man made sense after all...

There's One in Every Neighborhood

2009-11-18T08:13:00.000-08:00

The Law Of Averages says that if you grew up in an urban neighborhood, chances are that there was at LEAST one person or family that was different from everybody else.Some were Non-conformance Hippie Types, Deeply Religious Fanatics, Anti-Social Introverts, or just plain NUTS!

We had the latter. We called him Uncle Willy. My Dad thought he was one of those guys who came back from the war strangely delusional. Uncle Willy was about my Dad's age, big and kind of chunky. He ALWAYS had a pipe in his mouth and talked with it clenched in his teeth. He had a wife he drove to work every day at a local department store. She looked normal except for her lipstick. I think she circled the outline of the outside edge of her lips and then colored it in like you do in a Coloring Book. Her glasses were vintage 50's with white frames that came to a point in the corners.

Willy had two kids, both that looked like cartoon characters. a little girl that reminded me of what Orphan Annie would look like after electrocution and a boy that was a year older than me, but a foot taller. He was a String Bean with a Unibrow.

Our house was three houses up the street from Uncle Willy's and none of the kids walked on the sidewalk in front of his house. The fear was he snatch you up and God knows what horror might befall you! He never harmed anyone, but you know the stories kids can conjure up. My sisters swear he threatened a girl in the neighborhood who had an artificial leg, the result of club feet. Supposedly, Willy said if she walked across his sidewalk again, he would cut her other leg off! Hence, everyone avoided his house like the plaque.

Other stories emerged over the years about Uncle Willy. Again, none ever proven to be true or by the result of his handiwork. Allegedly, he was said to have cut up the garden house in one inch pieces of the 90 year old widow that lived next door to him and no evidence could be found that he poisoned her cat. We took the poor widow's cat to the Vet to be put down. Through her tears, she promised to, "Shoot that Son-Of- A- Bitch"if he ever came in her yard again. I wouldn't have doubted that spry old lady. She never got her chance, she died shortly after that incident.

My biggest run-in with Uncle willy was one I provoked. I was fourteen or fifteen at the time. My next-door-neighbor Stew that was the same age,had just got a Pellet Gun. We decided to put it to good use and waited until dusk. We climbed into Stew's attic that was two doors away from Willy's house. We opened his attic window and began lobbing shots onto the top of Willy's slate roof. The pellets would tinkle down the roof, go into his gutter, and clang down the downspout. What Fun! It made such a racket and we figured he would never know where the noise was coming from! Yeah! Take that Willy! We got bored after about fifteen minutes of this and went outside to Stew's back yard, laughing about our prank.

All of a sudden, out of nowhere, a rock the size of a bowling ball came hurtling through the air from the other side of Uncle Willy's hedge. It travel high into the air and smashed through the large rickety deck attached to the back of Stew's house. Ka-Boom! Wood splinters and dust flying everywhere! How the heck did he launch such a projectile? A cannon? A catapult? A giant slingshot? We didn't stick around to find out! It had to travel at least 100 feet. To this day, I don't know how he did it.

My Mom often ran around the house in her slip, in the evening, after a long day at work. She walked into her darkened bedroom one evening and looked out of the Venetian Blind she parted in her window. Under the street light at a guardrail about sixty feet from our house, stood Uncle Willy, smoking his pipe. He turned towards our house as my Mother peered at him. For some unknown reason, she waved at him. He cupped his hands as if looking through Binoculars and waved back! Mom got a severe case of "The Heebee Geebees" and had a shiver go up her spine! She never understood why she waved at him or how he ever saw her through that slit in the blinds.

Creepy things like that continued with Uncle Willy all my adolesencent life. Willy's wife eventually divorced him, took the kids, and moved to California. He died a lonely death, apparently of a heart attack. He was found by a Meter Reader after several days, lying on the floor of his house. Neighbors found a lot of their Garden Tools, Sprinkling Cans, Bird Houses, and other outside yard items in Willy's garage after his demise. My Dad found several Albino Rabbit Pelts tacked up on a wall. We raised rabbits when I was a little kid. Now we know what happened to many of them. I hope Willy enjoyed the eating, tastes like chicken, But Makes You Nuts!

Fun At The Field House

2009-11-16T07:49:00.000-08:00

Growing up 100 yards away from Struthers High School, I spent a lot of time there when school wasn't in session, but something was going on. The school had a huge auditorium, better known as a Field house, that held the largest seating capacity at time of any other place in the county.

Being on a first name basis with all of the Janitors at the school, ensured me of easy free access to any event that was going on. I just had to learn which door to go to on any given day. Occasionally, I was asked to hold "The Crowd Control Rope" at Basketball games. This was a long clothes line they strung around the perimeter of the court to keep people off the precious hardwood floor that was buffed to a mirror-like finish. The Principal, Howdy, was fanatical about keeping street shoes off of the hardwood. Detentions were given out for student violators!

Before Youngstown State University did their major expansion and built The Beegley Auditorium, they held all of their events at The Struthers Field House. I got to see a lot of concerts including: Kenny Rodgers and The First Addition, The Fifth Dimension, The Letterman, The Four Seasons, Blood, Sweat, and Tears, and Alice Cooper, to name a few. All YSU home Basketball games were there. That was in the days when they fielded some great teams under Coach Dom Roselli and were nationally ranked.

Every year for decades, brought The Aut-Mori Grotto Circus to SHS Field house, for four days in March. The students had to tolerate the stench of Tiger urine in the hallways and piles of manure from all of the circus animals on the practice fields behind the school. During my high school years, I was hired as one of the student workers to help with clean-up after each performance. It's amazing how much trash is generated at a circus! From Cotton Candy to Giant Suckers and basically anything that was sticky, had to be shoveled and swept from the Grandstands. Soft drinks were never permitted in Howdy's Field house except during the circus. I understood why, afterwards. It seemed everything was coated with a syrupy goo. Floor, bleachers, and Seats all had to be mopped and wiped down with hot, soapy water.

A tradition of sleeping at the school on Saturday night was popular amongst all of us Student Workers. We brought our sleeping bags and slept on the stage of the high school auditorium. We got permission because Saturday's show ended well after Midnight and the first show Sunday was at 10 A. M. The excuse was having to travel back and forth and not being able to get enough rest.(Right, remember, I lived across the street!) Of course, most of us didn't sleep a wink and partied with a lot of the Circus People. Some of THOSE stories can be left untold!

I started attending most practices of the football team when I was five or six. Most of the players knew me because of my older sisters and didn't mind me hanging around. I remember the the coach embarrassing some players that had a hard time catching a punted ball. The coach would have me stand fifty yards away and punt several balls to me. I seldom missed catching one. I guess I had a knack for it. The coach would say that if a six year old could catch a ball, he was sure his players could. Glad I could help! Now I know why I got some dirty looks.

I was pretty much a fixture at the school until I got out of the primary grades. Most of the kids knew me and I loved the attention I got from the older kids. The Cheerleaders and Majorettes would shower me with hugs and kisses. Not being the least bit shy, I enjoyed every minute of it. One of the Majorettes remembered me when I was in her eighth-grade History Class, years later. It didn't help. She wound up paddling me for acting up a couple of times. Believe me, she still had strong wrists from twirling that Baton all those years!

Veterans Of The Greatest Generation

2009-11-11T08:04:00.000-08:00

If it wasn't for my Father's love of coffee, I wouldn't be here today. Let me explain. The time was June 1943. My Dad was in The US Army during World War II. His Regiment was on a Troop Transport Ship docked at a port in Leyte in The South Pacific.

My Dad was up in the enclosed Bridge, playing Poker with six other Servicemen in his Troop. He decided he needed a break and went below Deck to get his frequent cup of coffee. No sooner had my Dad reached the Galley, when their ship was attacked by several Japanese Kamikaze Airplanes. The first plane registered a direct hit into the ship's Bridge. All personnel on the Bridge were killed instantly. Massive explosions and fire ravaged the ship, but my Father was able to escape with minor injuries and shrapnel wounds all over his body.

Like so many other GI's, Dad returned from the war to The Youngstown Area. He got married and started to raise a family in Struthers. I was the third child and baby of the family and only boy. As most Veterans of wars, Dad didn't talk about any specifics of The Hell of War, nor the hardships he endured during that time.

Growing up 100 yards from our high school, Every Veteran's Day, Dad and I would walk through the field adjacent to our house to the Veteran's Memorial in front of the school. Dad would stand at rapt attention as a short speech was delivered honoring our Veterans. The Honor Guard made up of Veterans from the local VFW fired their rifles in the customary Three Shot Salute. "Taps" was played by a lone trumpeter. At the conclusion, we would walk back to the house in silence. Dad, I'm sure, was reflecting on those that died for our freedom during that horrid war.

Over the years, I would glean stories and information from Dad about his days in the war. He served most of his time in Australia in The Motor Pool, repairing vehicles. During his off hours, my Dad tinkered in the Motor Pool Shop and made several items he eventually brought home. An ashtray made out of different size bullets, a mortar shell, and Australian coins, and a vase made out of a small mortar shell pounded into a unique shape. Other mementos were a Kangaroo hide and an authentic Aborigine Boomerang. I still proudly display those items I inherited.

I can recall several times, my Mom or one of my sisters performing minor surgery with a sterilized sewing needle on Dad when he would find a piece of shrapnel in his scalp, limb, or torso that would work itself up to his skin surface and cause him discomfort. We're talking some that had been in his body over forty years! My Father did receive The Purple Heart for his injuries. I never knew that until he died in 1993. Just like Dad not to mention it.

Patriotism and love of country didn't have to be taught to my generation. We were the Sons and Daughters of so many that we knew who sacrificed before us to give all Americans their freedom. Patriotic songs were a popular choice in music class in school. Hell, truth be told, I still well up when I hear,"God Bless The USA!"

We Didn't Start The Fire

2009-11-09T05:14:00.000-08:00

Like many people in The Mahoning Valley in Ohio, I too lost my job, when the Steel Mills closed in the late 70's. Many were affected in "Satellite" businesses that were dependent on the Steel Industry for their livelihood. I worked in a steel fabrication plant as a machinist and the company I worked for closed not long after the steel plants in Youngstown began closing.

I "Joined The Club", along with thousands of others unemployed at the time. A good resume and skills didn't matter. There were very few jobs available at the time. I was married with two young children and had very strong ties to the area at the time. Moving was a last resort.

Probably one of the most traumatic events in my life was having to apply for Welfare. I thought Welfare was for losers and people who just didn't want to work. If we wanted to feed our kids, we had no other choice. The WIC Program,(Women and Infant Children), provided us with a more than enough staple items to get us through those Lean Days.

I had taken The Civil Service Test in my Hometown of Struthers for the position of Fireman,I was fortunate to come in first on the test. I had also had been a Volunteer Fireman for several years before the test for a full-time paid position. I was appointed to a Fire Engineer position in 1980. Finally! I thought I had achieved a secure position, a good job, and security for my family.

Things went well the next few years. We added another boy to our growing family in 1982. I worked 24 hours on/ 48 hours off, the typical Fireman's Schedule. This allowed me to work a part-time job on my off days, that most Firemen did. For a while, I didn't know which job I was going to on any given day. Between both jobs, I was working about 100 hours a week. "Make Hay While The Sun Shines", my Dad used to say.

One of the great things for me being a Fireman was the flexibility I had on my off days to attend school and pre-school events for my children. Even if I was on-duty at the Fire Station, another Fireman would often come and cover my position for a few hours to I could be there for my kids. I'd just give the hours back to the same guy, at another time. I was one of the few Fathers on the class field trips. On the down side of that, I was the lucky guy that got to crawl on the muddy ground to cut down the Class Christmas Tree and haul all the pumpkins from the Farm Field Trip at Halloween.

Unbelievably, due to finances, I was laid off from the Fire Department for several months. Struthers' infrastructure was sliding downhill fast. The tax base they had depended on all those years when the Steel Mills were booming, had suddenly dried up. The largest employer in town was The Board of Education, compared to several thousand that worked in Struthers in the steel industry at one time. A levy was passed and I was brought back to the Fire Department.

I became uneasy with my employment position. I figured it was only a matter of time until the axe would once again fall. The Fire Department was all ready operating at minimum manning levels. Quite often, only one Fireman was manning each of our two Fire Stations. Because of a major railroad line dividing our town, two stations were necessary. We were dependent on Volunteers and off-duty Fireman to assist if we had a Fire Call. Other area Fire Departments could not believe we operated that way. Many had a policy that required four Firemen on a truck before they could respond to an emergency. Some how,we muddled through.

Every young boy has dreams of becoming a Policeman or a Fireman. The excitement, the reward of helping others, and the respect within the community, are unmatched in Public Service. Unfortunately, in the Rust Belt, so many services that were once taken for granted, are reduced to dangerous levels. I left Struthers for "Greener Pastures in 1986. I miss my days on the fire department and the camaraderie. I just wish someone could come up with a plan to fairly tax people and provide the basic services we all need to live The American Dream.

Blue Collar Beatlemania

2009-11-06T08:02:00.000-08:00

Like the rest of the country, The Youngstown Area got caught up in the British Invasion that was started by the Beatles in 1964. I was in third grade the first time I saw them on my Grand Parents big console TV with about 20 other family members. They appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show and of course, it was hyped for weeks.

I can remember it like yesterday, my older Sisters screaming when they appeared. All the adults were laughing at their hysteria. Of course, they ridiculed The Beatles' haircuts and outfits. Can you imagine, the Bowl Haircuts they had that covered their ears, causing such outrage? We didn't know it then, but things were about to change.

Within no time, all the retail stores in the area were stocking some type of Beatle merchandise. I can remember all of the kids begging their parents for anything they could get their hands on that was associated with The Fab Four. Beatle Buttons, notebooks, pencils, trading cards, and T-shirts were flying off the shelves. Not to mention the clothing like CPO Jackets and the Mop Top Haircuts a lot of the boys were sporting. I remember asking for Beatle Boots, OK, Begging. I got the famous," Not while you're living under this roof, young man.", from my Dad. I do recall collecting the Beatle Buttons from the Gumball Machines at Ben Franklin's 5 & 10. Everyone wanted Paul McCartney's button and you might as well throw away Ringo Starr's button.

It seemed like Most British bands were making a foothold with main-stream kids everywhere. Gray and White Plaid Pants were popular with boys emulating The Dave Clark Five. What self-respecting kid didn't want a Rolling Stones "Tongue" T-shirt?

This is one of those Forrest Gump Part of History Moments you will find hard to believe, but I swear, the following is TRUE!: I was in Philadelphia the Summer of 1964 with my parents, who were visiting some friends. We were out sight-seeing with our friends that evening in my Parent's car. As we approached Shea Stadium, we could here this unbelievably loud screaming coming from the Arena. My Mom's friend remarked that it was a Beatles Concert that was going to start shortly at the stadium. Three lanes of Traffic came to a halt and we noticed some people in the back of a White Florist Truck waving to us. We waved back, figuring it was just somebody being friendly in the "City of Brotherly Love". Traffic started to move and the Florist Van darted across the lanes and into an open stadium gate. My Dad cussed 'em out for almost causing an accident.

On the news the next day, The Beatles were being interviewed and asked how they managed to avoid the crowds and get into Shea Stadium. John said, "Some Genius put us in the back of a Florist Van. It worked like a charm!" To think, we were waving at each other! The closest I ever came to Rock and Roll Royalty.

Most people my age were influenced by The Beatles in some way. Everyone knew their music and can identify with certain songs that defined a period in their life. My daughter can still remember me singing "Rocky Raccoon" to her as a Lullaby. I can't help but smile whenever I see a young person discover their music for the first time. Their music will be as timeless to the next generation as it was to ours. To use one of our expressions from the 70's: ROCK ON!!!

Family Vacation, Like It Or Not

2009-11-05T07:35:00.000-08:00

Coming from a middle-class upbringing, I was very fortunate to go on a family vacation just about every year of my youth. Mom and Dad would take two or three weeks off and spend at least that much time getting everything ready.

You see, this wasn't a "Pack Your Suitcase and Hop In" type of vacation. This was "Let's Carefully Pack The Tent-Trailer, Coolers, Trunk, Luggage Rack, Wooden Boxes, Camping Equipment, and Kids" type of vacation. A place for everything and everything in its place! My Father was very laid back except when it came to packing. He became very Anal Retentive. "Don't even think of putting the lantern there!" or "We have to balance the weight over the axle!", were a couple of his common statements.

Even my place in the car was permanently assigned. Being the youngest child and only boy of three kids, I got stuck crammed in the middle of the back seat with my feet on the "Hump". If a foot ever slipped on to one of my sisters' sides, I'd often receive a punch in the thigh causing a Charlie Horse or a elbow in the ribs that took my breath away. My view was usually blocked by all these taller people around me and usually I couldn't wait to get to our next destination.

Yellowstone National Park sticks in my mind as a favorite vacation. For a kid that grew up in cramped city life of a smoky Steel Mill town, I was in total wonderment of The Great Outdoors and the wildlife I got to see. Previously, my only exposure to nature was Mom's National Geographics and I was disappointed I didn't see any naked tribal ladies. I remember being stuck in a long line of traffic within the park due to everyone gawking at several bears that were on the road. It was a hot Summer day with no air conditioning in the car. All of a sudden, my Dad started yelling for everyone to put up their windows. No sooner was this done, when a huge Black Bear raised up on his hind legs and put his front paws on my Sister's window looking for food, of course. My Sister immediately vaulted over me into my other sister's lap, fearing she was going to be attacked. I do think her seat was wet afterwards. The Bear's paw prints were still on our car window, well after we returned home.

Camping on vacation was always an adventure. Dad would usually drive much longer than Mom thought he should. Everyone was Dog-Tired by the time we found an open camp ground. Mom insisted it had showers and flush toilets. Her reams of atlases, maps, and AAA camp ground directories and trip-tics pointed us in the right direction usually. The directories had little legends in them to tell you what amenities each place had. Flush toilets and showers, yep! Pull in here!

I was the lucky one who got to crawl under the trailer each night and morning, placing or retrieving the large wooden blocks Dad used to level the trailer legs. Camping wasn't such a great deal for Mom. She still had to cook and do dishes, but she never complained. I recall a boy at one of our campsites showed me how to take Cat-O-Nine Tails form a nearby pond and dip them in Gasoline, light them, and they would burn for hours. Unfortunately, I didn't ask for help with this and proceeded to dunk the Cattails in the White Gasoline Can my Dad had for the Cook Stove and Lantern. He was muttering to himself upon discovering this and having to strain the gas with one of my Mom's Nylons. I think I got cuffed in the back of the head for that one!

Over the years, we traveled most of the Lower Forty-Eight. I had plenty of experiences for all of those dreaded oral and written reports we had to do in school describing our Summer Vacation. I found a lot of Pen Pals,(remember those?), to correspond with over the years from every corner of the country. One girl I befriended was Maxine Bond from New England somewhere. Yes, her Father Was James Bond. I had to ask, I was a big 007 Fan. We wrote each other all through school, but never met again.

My folks might have had to put some of the expenses on Plastic. They thought it was important to have a Family Vacation every year, regardless of current finances. We all needed the break and change of pace. We didn't realize it then, but it brought our family together and gave us experiences we'll always remember and talk about for years to come. I still love to take vacations. Except now, NOBODY is going to make me sit on the Hump!

I Want To Ride My Bicycle

2009-11-02T06:42:00.000-08:00

My love affair with bicycles began in the early 60's. The hilly streets of Struthers, Ohio were my main roadways and I wish I had a nickel for every mile I pedaled in my youth. A bike became independence for me. No longer did I have to stay in my neighborhood. I now had the freedom to travel miles away and explore my city and region that I didn't know existed.

I learned to ride at the age of six on my neighbor boy's hand-me-down girl's bike. Forget the training wheels, I mastered my balance by rolling down my friend's steep driveway out into the street. Several scraped knees and one dented parked car door later, I was riding on my own!

My first bicycle was a used blue 20-inch model with Butterfly handlebars. I bargained with a kid to sell it to me for nine bucks. I begged my Dad for the money with the promise of doing extra chores. It worked and I was the proud owner of my first bike. I was told I got ripped off. The kid who sold me the bike had payed seven dollars for the bike, a week earlier. Who knew the kid I bought the bike from would wind up selling cars? I saved my money and soon bought a Banana Seat at Tip Top Sales in Struthers. Wow! Now I was REALLY cool! I even added streamers to the ends of the handlebars. Baseball Cards held in the spokes with clothespins was a frequent optional accessory.

My folks surprised me with a Brand-New Columbia 26" Bicycle on Christmas Morning. This bike had lights and a horn and even a Vroom Motor. The Vroom Motor was a Mattel Toy Co. MUST HAVE for all boys that Christmas Season! A plastic motorcycle-looking engine that clamped on to the frame of your bike. "Twist the dial for that realistic motorcycle sound and watch everyone get out of your way!", so the commercial stated.

It was mild that Christmas Day with no snow and I couldn't wait to take my shiny Red Bike for a spin. A 26" bicycle was still a bit of a challenge for my inseam, so I had to start and come to a stop with one leg touching the ground. I cranked my Vroom Motor up to full volume and whisked my way up the street. I felt like I was flying! Everything was going fine on my Test Ride until I came to a Traffic Light Intersection at Wilson and Garfield Streets. I was stopped at a Red Light with my Vroom Motor blaring out it's loud Vroom Sound. A Police Car pulled up to the light to my immediate right as the light changed. I became flustered by the presence of the Cop, the noise of the motor, and my lack of experience of starting out on such a large bicycle. I promptly put my right foot right through The Vroom Motor as I attempted to start out! Oh, The Horror! I was devastated! The Policeman saw what happened and just shook his head with a smug look on his face. You don't know how bad, even as an eight year old, I wanted to flip him off or tell him to "Go Eat a Donut!"

The terrain in and around Struthers wasn't exactly ideal for a bike with no gears. At the time, very few kids had bikes even with 3-speeds that had a small lever mounted on the handlebars. I walked my bike up many a hill in town, especially Wetmore Drive by the Old Bird Bath Swimming Pool. I heard many tales of kids loosing their brakes or a chain while going down that treacherous hill with curves. I witnessed it first-hand once. A Teenager had "Road Rash"from head to toe from being unable to stop after his chain came off his bike. he finally stopped sliding in the Cinder Parking Lot at the bottom of the hill. Everyone from Struthers knew what Cinders were. An ash by-product of The Blast Furnaces that was used on parking lots and on streets on a snowy day.

In my later grade school years, my buddies and I would often venture to the neighboring towns of Poland, Lowellville, Boardman, Campbell, and Youngstown. Traffic was nothing like it is today. We would leave early in the morning and be gone all day. Most of our Parents had no idea where we were, I'm sure they wouldn't have approved. I think the farthest we ever traveled was the Boardman Plaza. A good twelve miles mostly on Route 224 when it was two lanes. ( Am I that old?) Putt-Putt was another popular destination, along with the Giant Slide, until they tore it all down for the Route 224 Widening Program.

Bicycling was eventually replaced by me getting my Driver's License. I did borrow a friend's 10-Speed for a spin, not long after they became popular and affordable. At sixteen, I could really crank up the speed on that bike, easily doing 30 M.P.H. Unfortunately, as I reached top speed on Fifth Street, a car hit me head-on that was turning. I was launched off the bike into the Car's windshield. From there, I bounced off into a huge Maple Tree 25 feet away, hitting the trunk about 10 feet off the ground. The worst injuries were a skull fracture and shattered left knee. The bike looked like an Accordion.

That was the last time I was on a bicycle until my daughter was born years later. I had a 10-Speed with a Carrier on the back. I took my pre-school Daughter on many leisurely rides. Often for Saturday Morning Breakfasts that was Our Time together. Hmmm...guess its time to start taking the Grand Kids for a ride....See Ya later, got to go shopping for a new bike!

The Legacy Of Cousin Rick

2009-10-26T08:20:00.000-07:00

I recently lost my Cousin Rick to a debilitating tumor that took away so much of who he was and what he was. Why my heartache is still fresh, I thought I'd reminisce about my times with him. Knowing this humble man was the pleasure of all who crossed paths with Rick. I don't think I was the only one who left his presence feeling special. He was always genuinely happy to see you.

Rick was six years older than me. He had two older brothers and one younger brother that was my age. They grew up in The Kirkmere Section of Youngstown, Ohio, about twenty minutes from our house in Struthers. Fortunately for me, our Dads were very close brothers and saw each other pretty frequently. usually at their house. That was sheer Heaven for me! Growing up with two older sisters was a drag compared to hanging out with four boys!

At least once every Summer, while growing up, I spent at least a month at my Cousins' house. My Cousin Ron and I were the same age and spent the Summer days getting into all kinds of mischief in the area. Because of the age difference, the older brothers weren't around much. When they were, some good-natured teasing ensued towards me with Rick usually being the ring leader. It actually made me feel special as a little guy, someone paying attention to me.

Rick would let me help him on his paper route and my reward would be a Popsicle at the corner grocery store. He bought a Lambretta Motor Scooter when he was sixteen and took me for rides around the block almost every time I asked. We all know how persistent a ten year old can be when they want something. Rick never told me to, "Take a Hike!" or "Get Lost!", as a teenager might be prone to do. He always had patience with me and he never had a mean streak towards anyone, even as a adolescent.

The late 60's found Rick in the Army in Viet Nam. God had more good things in store for him to do and brought home home safely. The only time I remember Rick being angry or upset was at a family gathering after his homecoming. Uncle Bob, Rick's Dad, told Rick he didn't fight in a REAL WAR like he did in World War II. That was enough to set Rick off in a tirade, rightly so, and telling his Father," Funny, they used REAL bullets!" I never forgot their argument and it spelled it out to me as a teenager how both side felt about the war. It was so unfair to the Vets.

Life and the years rolled by. All of us cousins moved on, had families, and many moved away from the Youngstown Area, including me. Cousin Rick stayed in Y-Town and found his true Calling as a teacher in the city schools. He became a very talented self-taught carpenter and used those skills in the Summer and weekends to supplement the family income. Many additions and decks in the area have his mark on them. He was the first to show up at my Father's house to build a first floor bathroom when my Dad became disabled.

Rick had married his beautiful blond high school Sweetheart. They raised three extremely attractive and talented children. Family members jokingly called them The Keatons, based on the 80's Sitcom, Family Ties, of an over-achieving funny family. Rick doted over his kids, as well he should have. He was the type of Father every man wishes he could have been.

I suppose I looked upon Cousin Rick as the big brother I never had. My experiences with older siblings and even some cousins for that matter, paled to how Rick always treated me and even stuck up for me, on occasion. I guess the best thing I can do to honor his memory is to be kinder and gentler to everyone I encounter.

Rick regularly read The Bible and practiced what it preached. He was never one to instill religious values upon anyone. However, he taught Bible Classes and counseled many young people on the difference between right and wrong. What a wonderful World we would have if we could all conduct our lives like Rick lead his life: Energetic, Loving, Honest, and Dedicated to Helping Others.

Card Games For Fun And Profit

2009-10-22T12:20:00.000-07:00

With all the craze these days towards Texas Hold 'Em Poker, myself included, It got me thinking about when and where I started playing cards for money. Besides the occasional game my Dad would have with my uncles of Penny-Ante Poker at the dining room table, I guess it started at Tippecanoe Country Club in The Youngstown Area.

Not that I was the Son of The Privileged, playing in a back room there against other Ne'er-do-wells, playing for the keys to Father's Jaguar. I was a Caddy playing Tong on a Picnic Table in the Caddy Yard. I often made more money playing cards than I did caddying on any given day.

Tong was a fairly simple game that had the objective of having the highest or lowest point total or both. Having both meant you needed a lot of Aces to beat everyone else. I started Caddying at the minimum age of twelve. Most boys had hours to kill while waiting to be selected to haul some one's bag. I began studying other boys playing Tong and learned strategies. No one seemed to mind if you looked over there shoulder. On a slow day, somebody started a game. I took a gulp and said,"I'm In!".

Over the weeks of that Summer and the Summers until I was Sixteen, Tong put as much money in my pocket as Caddying. My Folks never wondered I guess why I would come home with a pocketful of change. They must have figured the Golfers paid me in coins, the Cheap S.O.B.'s!

Poker started in my early teen years in the basements of a couple of buddies' houses. we either played on a rickety Card Table at one's or on a felt Pool Table at another's. Stakes were nickels, dimes, and quarters. The big winner on any given night might have won twenty bucks. Still, not bad for a teenager in the 70's. On the weekends, we had Poker Tournaments with maybe ten guys playing. We would sometimes raise the stakes to a Quarter and fifty cents. We thought we were Big Time! Playing all night wasn't uncommon and we'd go to The Truck Stop in North Lima for Breakfast.

My gang of high school buddies continued playing Poker after graduating, until one-by-one, we all got married. Nobody could afford to lose twenty bucks at Cards when we had house payments and a Wife to answer to when we got home. After most of us had kids, we began getting together again to play Tripoly or Shanghai Rummy. No money involved or Baby Sitters. Everyone brought their kids and they crashed on the Living Room floor until it was time to go home. Cheap entertainment for young families on a budget.

I'm From Y-Town, What About It?

2009-10-20T06:57:00.000-07:00

It seems like Ancient History to me now, having moved from the Youngstown area over twenty years ago. Aggression was as much a part of daily life as breathing for most red-blooded males growing up in the gritty Steel Mill Towns along the Mahoning River.

Maybe it was because Youngstown was such a melting pot of different ethnic persuasions. At the turn of the twentieth century, immigrants came by the droves to work in the Steel Mills. They usually settled in all ready established neighborhoods of the same culture. Youngstown still sports many clubs and organizations dedicated to a particular country. Contrary to Rodney King of the L.A. Riots fame, we CANNOT all get along!

I don't think a week went by all through my school years in the 60's and 70's that there wasn't a fight after school. In elementary grades, these fights usually consisted of nothing more than a wrestling match. Punches weren't usually exchanged. It sort of reminded me of young Lion Cubs fighting for their position of rank within the Pride. Somebody would holler, 'I give!", after being put in a painful hold and that would be the end of it. Not saying that the same participants would engage in another fight a week later.

My personal experience resulted in my share of fisticuffs. I know I fought the same kid in grade school at least five times! My Dad's Old School Philosophy was the classic," Don't ever start a fight, but don't ever walk away from one." I abided by that rule and still got into a lot of scrapes. I wonder if you would forever be branded a Coward if you walked away from a fight? I developed a reputation as a "Bad Ass" by my Junior High Years. This inspired a lot of guys to want to fight me. Kind of a King-Of-The-Hill mentality. No one ever got seriously hurt and usually the worst outcome was a bloody nose or a black eye.

I was fortunate not to ever lose a fight and really get my butt kicked. Maybe I should have endured a whippin', it would have taught me humility at a younger age. The only fight I remember not finishing was when two brothers "jumped into" a fight I was in and kicked me in the throat. They continued to kick me when I was down and the guy I was fighting stopped them, knowing it violated the unwritten rules of a "clean" fight. I never forgot that and all through my "Greaser Days" I looked for the opportunity to even the score. Thankfully, those days past and I learned how much better it was to forgive my enemies.

How far I've evolved in the last quarter of a century! I frequently tell people how different it is living in semi-rural Ohio verses Y-Town, as I call the area. My analogy is two guys walking down the street towards each other and make eye contact as they get close. Where I live now, they would exchange pleasantries and say,"How Ya Doing!". In Y-Town IF they made eye contact, one guy would say," Wadda YOU lookin' At?". The other guy would say, "Nothin' much, wanna do somethin' about it?" That pretty much describes the mentality I grew up in. It takes years of maturity to understand that not everything should be settled by the sword.

What I deemed harmless in my youth would now get you killed. Even the greasiest of the Greasers would not carry a weapon in my heyday. Today, kids shoot each other over trivial matters with no guilt or remorse. It scares me to death for my children's and grandchilren's sake. That Old School saying that was meant to defend your honor, needs to be replaced with,"Feet, Don't Fail Me Now!

Yellow Creek Park: A Hidden Gem

2009-10-19T05:45:00.000-07:00

Struthers, Ohio contains a Gem that most people outside of Struthers aren't even aware exists, unless they're History Buffs of Ohio and the region. It's Yellow Creek Park. Yellow Creek run from Hamilton Lake to The Mahoning River within the Struthers city limits. Total length is only about two miles and some parts are less than a city block wide.

The First Blast Furnace, West of The Allegheny Mountains, The Hopewell Furnace, was started along the banks of Yellow Creek. Enough of my history lesson. we'll leave that for the experts. I'm going to relate some of my experiences of Yellow Creek, growing up near there in the 60's and 70's. I spent many hours there and "communed with nature" on a regular basis with a lot of my buddies.

In the Winter, Ice Skating was a frequent activity, weather permitting. The creek was enlarged to about the size of a football field and had a small Spillway about four feet high. This was at the playground and pavilion area near downtown. Burn Barrels provided some heat once we became sufficiently frozen and I recall the steam rolling off my soaked pants if I got to close to the fire. We played Crack The whip and did our own version of Barrel Jumping, often using kids in place of barrels.

Steep hills led down to Yellow Creek Park which sat in a valley. We would take buckets of water and pour them out on a selected path that went down to the skating area. In a matter of hours, we would have a "Suicide Hill" that the crazier members of our group would attempt to skate down. I don't remember anyone making it all the way down, but I do recall several bump and bruises and broken arms. For more adventure, some of us would skate on the creek all the way out to Hamilton Lake. Occasionally, somebody would break through thin ice and plunge into the water. The water wasn't deep enough for you to drown in, but a cold dip sent you running for the comforts of a Burn Barrel to warm up and dry off. You didn't dare go home all wet, knowing that your folks would bar you from Ice Skating again.

After Winter released it's grip on Northern Ohio, exploring the rest of the park was in order. We caught Crayfish by the bucketful and often got a nasty pinch from them if we didn't avoid their surprisingly strong claws. a prank we pulled on each other was to sneak up behind someone and let the Crayfish grab them on the Butt or the Earlobe. Yikes! Of course, you'd let the Crayfish go and watch your Buddy scamper about trying to shake it off of him. Great Fun at their expense!

Africa Rock was another landmark in the park. Shaped like, you guessed it, Africa, this huge, flat rock was at the bottom of a cliff face on the Nebo side of the park. Nebo was the east side of Struthers. A few boys with far more guts than brains, jumped off of this cliff while holding an umbrella! I witnessed one of these idiots attempting this stunt and he made it to about ten feet from the ground before the umbrella collapsed! He escaped with a few bruises and "The Big Stones" Award from us!

Off of Wetmore Drive on The Upper Trail was a Waterfall. The water came out of the middle of a small rock formation about eight feet higher than the trail. The flow was about that of a garden hose, but on a hot Summer day, we welcomed a drink and the cold water bath we would splash on ourselves. We never did determined if the water came from a natural spring or was run-off from somewhere else. I guess we chose not to think about it.

The Ecology Class at the high school labeled all the Flora and Fauna in the park in the 70's. They marked a trail going all the way to where The Hopewell Furnace stood. nothing much remains there now, vandalism and the erosion of time taking their toll.

Eventually, Yellow Creek Park became part of The Mill Creek Park System of Mahoning County. Struthers could no longer afford to maintain the park and this was a good alternative to preserve what little nature there was locally. The closing of the Steel Mills had a direct impact on everything in The Youngstown area. So much we took for granted in our youth, we realize now was a privilege we had of a bustling economy at the time.

Scouting For Delinquents

2009-10-16T12:53:00.000-07:00

I was developing quite the reputation in grade school as a boy who needed direction, a Trouble Maker, a Hellion, a Delinquent, and other adjectives the teachers could think of calling me. My parents were becoming pretty exasperated with me, as well. My energy and stubborn nature usually exceeded their will and it was time for action to straighten out this Wild Child from The Sixties!

My Dad told me he was going to sign me up for The Boy Scouts. He said they had a fine program for developing boys into young men. He assured me it would provide structure and expose me to a huge array of Character-Building activities. Naw, he said NONE of that! He said," You'll go and it will straighten your ass out!" Like it or not, I was now a card-carrying member of Troop 86.

It took me about three months of weekly meetings to actually begin to like scouting. What my hardened Steel Town Mentality believed was it was for Dorks and Nerds. Ok, There were some of those, but you ignore them and they go away. I kind of looked at scouting like a version of The Little Rascal's "He-Man Woman Haters Club". I could play as rough as I wanted to and didn't have to worry about getting a lecture for upsetting Suzie.

Beside a few knots that I learned that I used on my headboard in my adult life, I did learn the basics in a lot of life skills. The highlight of the scouting year was going away to camp. There you really learned things,like SURVIVAL! You must know, outside of sleeping in a Tent Trailer on family vacations, this City Kid really had no exposure to true wilderness and animals that COULD EAT YOU!

On a Friday night, in the Dead of Winter, our troop headed out for Kane, Pennsylvania, in the western part of the state. We packed several pick-ups and trailers with enough gear and supplies to outfit a small army for a year. From The Youngstown Area, I guess it was about a three hour drive. To this twelve year old, I thought I was traveling back to the time of Daniel Boone. No electricity or running water, a Pot-Bellied Stove for heat, and the highest mountains I had ever seen. The Hunting Cabins we stayed in had snow blowing through the clapboard. Dehydrated Plastic Bags of Whatever, was our only food that we boiled in pots on the stove.

Several scouts were actually sleeping outside in Pup Tents to earn their "Polar Bear" Merit Badge, nude in their Sleeping Bags! No thanks! My testicles were all ready clanging together like Brass Bells and I was suffering from a severe case of "The Turtle Syndrome", That's where your Winky retreats backwards. think of it as a reverse erection. I have NEVER been that cold, before or since!

As we were packing up to leave late Sunday afternoon. I actually saw a White-Tailed Deer for the first time. It bounded up a hill in a clearing about 100 yards away. I thought it was so majestic! I can still recall that mental image of that Big Buck with a huge rack of antlers. Just like the silhouette on the Deer Crossing Sign! I told you I was a City Kid. Until that weekend, my extent of seeing wildlife was Squirrels, Rabbits, Raccoons, and an occasional possum.

Scouting in my area became a victim of Modern Times. Due to lack of interest, our troop had to disband. No adult leader could be found and our group of about 30 boys was down to six. I obtained the rank of Star Scout and was working towards the ultimate Eagle Scout Award when the troop folded. My Mom said she'd rather see me as an Eagle Scout than President of The United States. I was sorry to disappoint her. Any Boy Scout Troop out there want to adopt me and help me get my Eagle Award?

Hail Team! Hail Yes!

2009-10-15T05:33:00.000-07:00

Not only was I born and raised in "The Cradle of The Steel Industry", The Youngstown Area was known as a Hotbed for High School Football. I was fortunate enough to attend school in the late 60's and early 70's at Struthers High School. At that time, they were a State Powerhouse in Football. At one point, they had won 22 consectutive games in a row. It was Standing Room Only at their games.

I don't think I ever missed attending a game from first grade until I graduated. I guess it was in your blood. Most students did attend the games and cheer on our beloved Wildcats. Many Art Classes in grade schools were spent decorating windows and rooms with things made in the school colors of red and black. "Spirit Ribbons" were sold each week for girls to wear with a catchy slogan printed on them directed at our foe that week. Phrases like,"Ground The Eagles" or "Spear The Spartans" were proudly displayed.

Because an injury prohibited me from playing, I became an avid follower and unofficial leader of our cheering section at games and assemblies. I guess I inherited the job from another older classman, who also was a injured former football player. Maybe I got the job because I had the loudest mouth. In any event, we kept things lively at all events we attended.

During Struthers' Glory Days on the Gridiron, it wasn't unusual for several buses of students to travel to away games. The team's followers sometimes had more fans at an away game than the home team! Friday Night Fever at it's best! Struthers would often have huge Bonfire Rallies at the high school. The Stars of the team would speak over a Bullhorn and an effigy of the opposing Quarterback would be burned at the stake.

A famous cheer we often screamed at assemblies, went something like this: I would yell,"Hail Team!", the crowd would respond the same,"Hail Team!". I'd shout, "Hail Cats!", getting the reply,"Hail Cats!". I'd bellow,"Hail Falcons!", the students would hysterically shout,"HELL NO!". Our Principal, affectionately known as "Howdy" to everyone, would grab the microphone every time and admonish us with, "Ok, people, saying Hail is one thing, saying that other word in not! Understand?" Of course, we would totally ignore him and do it again the following week. You could just see the red move up his neck and the veins pop out!

Struthers and most public schools' athletic programs went downhill after the Steel Mills closed in the early 80's. Many folks pulled up stakes and literally moved to greener pastures. Along with the population, the tax base left with them. One of the first cuts to the education systems were their athletic programs. My kids attended Struthers schools and only have heard tales of what The Steel Valley was REALLY like. Football was The Heartbeat of all of it.

Sales and Stanley And The Three Stooges

2009-10-14T06:59:00.000-07:00

I certainly missed my Calling, Ive been told many times. From the age of a First Grader, I've had a knack for sales. I was the one who finally sold that refrigerator to the Eskimo. I guess I could always dazzle people with my brilliance, if I couldn't baffle them with my bullshit. I have a natural gift of Gab and enjoy talking to people. Maybe I would have been better suited to being a politician, come to think of it.

Most schools in The Youngstown Area had fund-raising events to help make ends meet in a depressed economy. Seeds were the first thing I remember selling. A nickel a pack for some, a dime for the rest. I know every flower bed and vegetable garden in my neighborhood were planted with seeds I had sold them. To heck with the homework, I had seeds to sell! I remember selling the most in my class, but forget what I got for a grand prize. It was probably more seeds or a garden trowel! I found packs of seeds years later in drawers all over my parent's house.

The dreaded Magazine Drive became an annual event in my elementary school. Again, I was first to hit every house on my street. A lot of kids were mad at their parents when they found out I had sold them subscriptions all ready before they even mentioned it. I pleaded with friends, family, and neighbors that I only need to sell three more magazines to get that Mother-Of-Pearl Pocket Knife I had my heart set on. I did indeed get that knife. In fact, several of them. I gave one to my Dad that he carried the rest of his life. Can you imagine that in schools today? Pocket Knives in these day of Zero Tolerance?

I won a beautiful German Cuckoo Clock for selling the most Rohrer's Chocolate in The Cub Scouts. My folks proudly displayed the clock in their living room and even into my adult years, told guests how I won it. I never became an Eagle Scout, but how I could sell candy! I even got a personalized tour of the Candy Factory, which was in Struthers. Woo Hoo! The entire "Factory" was about the size of a two-car garage.

The Pinnacle of my selling career was selling used comic books on the curb in front of my house. It ranked right up there with hawking Kool-aid or Lemonade to passer-bys. I think my total sales was about two bucks. My Mother sent a letter to WKBN-TV about my enterprise. I was selected as "The Junior News Reporter of The Week". I appeared for an live interview on "Stanley and The Three Stooges", a local kid's program with a guy in clown make-up, kind of a knock-off of The Legendary Barney Bean. Thanks to my Mom, every relative and person in Struthers saw that interview, my Fifteen Minutes of Fame. As a Guest on the show, I did get a six-pack of Seven-Up and a toy rocket that I almost put my eye out with, but that's another story.

The Hush Puppy That Ruled The World

2009-10-13T12:54:00.000-07:00

Maybe it was The Hush Puppies commercials or the fact my Dad's eyes and neck began to sag as he got longer in the tooth, as they say. In any event, Pop had a fixation with Basset Hounds. Any place we would go in the family car, you had to be prepared for a sudden stop if Dad spotted a Basset. He always had to ask the owner questions and pet the dog, regardless of how the dog felt about the idea.

The Christmas of 1966, Mom gave Dad a Basset Hound Bank that he adored. She told him to open it at the bottom, which he did. Inside was a note wrapped around a roll of money. The note told Dad where to pick up his Basset Puppy. The money was the exact cost of the Pup that Mom had Squirreled away through many months of saving. The tears flowed from my Father's eyes. You'd think she gave him a new Cadillac! I never saw tears of joy from my Dad. We had no idea what we were in for when he got his new Bundle of Joy!

Candy was the chosen name of Dad's Basset Hound Pup. A Red and White female who's AKC Name was Princess Candy Of Creed.(Creed being the street we lived on.) He was so proud when he got her Papers, he framed the certificate! Dad just doted over the dog! A special diet recommended by the breeder, Daily Vitamins, and a bath once a week. I started to become jealous of the dog, She spent more time with my Dad than I did. Nothing is cuter than a Basset Puppy, always tripping over their long ears, I was afraid Candy was slowly replacing me as the Apple of my Father's Eye.

Candy quickly became The Star of the Neighborhood. She made her rounds everyday to people's houses she knew that would give her a treat. She helped herself to snacks from garbage cans she happened to knock over, while walking by. Middle School Boys would hide their lunches in The Pine Lot near my house and come back later to eat and smoke in hiding. Too bad, Candy would sniff out their lunch bags and have a feast! By the time she was 3 years old, Candy weighed 80 pounds. She looked like a long-earred Pot Belly Pig! Dad couldn't understand why that Breeder's Diet wasn't working!

Dad took that dog everywhere he went. It was so damn funny to see Candy riding in the car! She would put her front paws on the armrest and sit up with her back against the seat like a human. On a hot day, she'd hang her head out the window and those long ears would flap in the breeze like a flag! The girls at the Bank Drive-In would always give her a sucker and Dad would promptly put it in her mouth. There they were, tooling down the road with Candy sitting back, sporting a sucker hanging out of her mouth. I think Dad lost a few friends because of the dog. He wouldn't visit some folks if Candy couldn't come, too. At least he was loyal to her.

Dad decided to breed his Basset and proceeded to cut up my Ping Pong Table to turn into a Whelping Box for the Pups. Thanks, Dad. Anything for Princess Candy, The Wonder Dog!

She did produce the most beautiful litter of eight puppies that Dad sold for a tidy profit. I remember him hand feeding her a raw steak after birthing the last pup. He must have had dollar signs in his eyes! All the pups were sold the week they were available.

Candy met her demise one Sunny Summer Morning. As was her usual practice, she would lay in the street on the cool concrete until the Sun rose high in the sky. All the neighbors knew to watch out for Candy, except the teenager flying up the street in his Muscle Car ...she never had a chance. She was killed instantly and my Father was heart-broken. Years after her death, Dad would get choked up talking about his pride and joy.

P.S. Guess what my wife got me for my 50th Birthday? Yep, You guessed it! A Red and White Female Basset Hound! Gracie is her name...The Legend continues!

The Little Rascals Made Us Do It !

2009-10-12T07:23:00.000-07:00

I guess we all got inspired by those episodes of "The Little Rascals" we often watched on "4:30 Showtime", a Youngstown Television Kid Show. Hmmm...or was it "Our Gang Comedies"? I could never keep the two straight. I do remember Spanky, Alfalfa, Darla, Froggie, Weezer,and others getting into all kinds of adventures.

The episode of The Gang exploring a cave for hidden treasure was a good basis for our Band of Pre-Teen Mischief Makers to explore the Storm Sewer System of Struthers. From Fifth St.Park,a 5 ft.drainage pipe emptied in a creek. This was our point of entry. Some of us had candles or flash lights, the latter usually swiped from the family car's glove compartment. We traveled about 100 yards and turned right into a huge concrete cavern that was maybe ten feet below the streets. Definitely no treasure chests here! An occasional rat or Raccoon scurrying by was enough to make us head the other direction until we were sure it was gone. The Sewer went all the way out to the Fifth Street Plaza and then narrowed into a 24 inch line.

We heard a couple of guys used Mechanic's Creepers taken from their Dad's garages to go through that smaller line all the way to Hamilton Lake. I doubt that was true, but ten year olds never confirmed their sources. Whatever another kid told you was considered Gospel. Every block or two, a vertical shaft went up to street level. Steel bar ladder rungs were cast in the concrete walls to enable you to climb in and out of the sewer. The trick was to NOT lift a Manhole cover up from the inside if you heard traffic coming! More than once, I remember a kid almost getting picked off by a car speeding by.

As it was stated in many Gangster Movies in the day, "The Jig was Up!" Some Do-Gooder,Busy body,Concerned Citizen would call the Police to say we were in the sewer. Of course, In Struthers, this was right there below a National Emergency. Two cruisers with sirens blaring, promptly showed up. One of the cops who was much too large to fit through a manhole, yelled down for us to,"Come up out of there!" We recognized his voice and knew who it was. Much to my horror, one of my co-conspirators replied, "Come and get us, Fat Ass!" I had visions of guns blazing and trying to escape a hail of bullets! Now what the heck do we do? Run like Hell! That's what you do!

David Jansen would have been proud of these Fugitives! We back-tracked through that sewer system as fast as our little legs would carry us! Rats, Raccoons, flashlights, candles, and ten year olds all came tumbling out of the outlet pipe and into about three feet of water in the creek. After we beat the snot out of The Big Mouth in our gang, we all headed to our respective homes for a hot bath with plenty of soap!

I Was A Teenage Motor Head

2009-10-08T07:28:00.000-07:00

In the Spring, a young man's fancy turns to...CARS!(You didn't think I was going to say Love, did you?) Not long after the last of the Winter salt was consumed by the Street Sweeper, every guy in town that could afford it, was looking to upgrade his "Ride". I was 18, had a good job, and was a few months short of Graduation in 1973. It was time to replace "Ol'Bessie", my 1962 Red Dodge Lancer that I bought off my uncle for $125.00 that got me all through high school.

As luck would have it, I went to Kent State University on a Field Trip with a bunch of Struthers DECA Students for a tour. Our Student Teacher conducted the tour and introduced us to two room mates who pulled up to us in the Most Beautiful Car I had ever seen. A 1971 Pontiac GT37, Royal Blue with Silver Racing Stripes down each side. This was a Limited-Edition GTO with a 350 Cu. In. Engine and 3-Speed Manual Transmission. I could hardly contain my saliva as I walked around this Masterpiece of Muscle Car Design! I asked the owner a million questions about the "Goat", as they were often called. He lamented that he was graduating and he was going to have to sell it.

Trying my best to control my emotions, I asked how much he wanted for the car. He said he needed $2000.00 for it. I stammered as I told him I'd take it off his hands if he could wait until I got home and worked out financing. He agreed and I remember nothing else of that day until I got home. Running into the house at 90 M.P.H., "Dad! Dad! Where is Dad?", I yelled in every room in the house. There he was, puttering around in his garden in the back yard. I slid to a stop in front of him, totally out of breath. Nothing rattled My Old Man. It was time for The Sales Pitch of My Life!

Explaining every possible detail to my Father and appealing to his sensible nature, I actually convinced him that this was a good deal. He co-signed my first loan at Mahoning National Bank. Little did I know that someday they would have the paper on everything but my First Born! The Boys from KSU dropped the car off and my Dad and Brother-In-Law brought the car to me at work. How nice of them! They asked for the keys to my old Jalopy and I asked for the keys to the GTO. After checking all their pockets, they realized they locked 'em in the car! A coat hanger, a removed back seat, and more swearing than a Sailor's Convention, the keys were found in the trunk.

I felt immediately, I had The Sharpest Ride in Struthers High School, if not the entire Youngstown Area! My buddies had their Cameros, Fire Birds, and Mopars. I had A "Goat", Baby! I went to work adding all the extras to really make it a Muscle Car. Mag Wheels,(Craiger S/S, of course), Air Shocks, L60 Wide Tires, and a Killer Sound System, complete with a Mini 8-Track Player.

My buddy's famlily owned a local body shop. After drinking a six-pack to steady his hand, he did the most beautiful Paint Job ever! He used 18% Metallic Paint which is very difficult to work without creating sags. We checked it over with a Fine- Toothed Comb, not a flaw anywhere! He got a lot of work by people seeing my car.

I blew the engine in the Pontiac. Pistons and Rods flying everywhere! A Good Ol' Boy I knew, put in a 455 Cu.In.,4 Barrel Carb., with a Hurst competion 4-Speed. and a 411 Rear End.(how's that for Motor Head Talk?)The GT37 was now so fast, it would literally come off the ground in first and Second Gear! I had the car for a couple of more years. Before I got carried away some night on Rt. 422 and wrapped it around a Telephone Pole, I traded it in on a Little Fiat X19. My Motor Head Days were over!

My Special Education

2009-10-07T12:09:00.000-07:00

Funny how kids get Pigeon-Holed into group classifications in high school. Just about everyone was a member of one Click or another. Let's see how many I can remember: The Jocks, Hoods, Motorheads, Preppies, The A/V Boys, Special Ed. Kids, and The Future Teachers. I guess I belonged to a few of the groups at different times, depending on the events in my life.

When my athletic endeavors ended after my Freshman year due to permanent injuries, I drifted between groups for a while. Never really comfortable with any group initially, I was used to The Locker Room Mentality. You know, loud and boisterous, snapping towels at each other and making fun of other boy's misgivings in The Shower Room. Swearing wasn't optional, it was mandatory to fit in.

Fortunately for me, I befriended The Special Education teacher, who happened to be my Freshman Track Coach. He asked me to help out in his class instead of going to any Study Halls. All I did in Study Hall was play Table Football with a triangle made out of notebook paper anyhow. Little did I know, the next three years would change my life. This teacher and those kids had a profound effect on me.

To say I was energetic in high school is like saying Speedy Gonzales jogs down the road. I was downright Hyper, OK? Always looking for something to do and always asking the Special ed. Teacher for my next task. He finally became exasperated with me and said," Look, I brought you in here because I trust you. You can do whatever you want, within reason, if it benefits these students or the welfare of this class. If you bend the rules sometimes to get things done, don't worry about it. I'll back you up." That was Music To My Ears! An Adult, let alone a Teacher, completely trusting me! I promised him I would never let him down.

One thing led to another and we discussed the idea of taking the kids to Disney World, since most had never left the confines of The Mahoning Valley. After months of planning and fund-raising, four cars pulling tent trailers, left Struthers for two weeks in Florida, including two days at The Magic Kingdom. What an amazing trip it was with the kids being on their best behavior and we all had a Blast!

In retrospect, I learned a lot more in Special Education Class than the students. For the first time in my life, I felt proud of myself. I gained the respect of others and truly felt the warmth of volunteering to help others. More than once, I jacked up a kid in school for making fun of a Special Ed. Kid, telling them those kids were my friends. Hmmm...guess I wasn't the Hardened Bad Ass I thought I was.

Teenage Boredom: Driver Beware!

2009-10-06T07:11:00.000-07:00

From about the age of 12 until I was 16, my circle of fellow Juvenile Delinquents would invent ways to harass motorists that happen past our neighboorhood. Needless to say, we thought this was totally harmless and that no one would get hurt by our antics. Of course, if our own children had tried these stunts, we'd have beat them senseless!

I suppose you could rate these acts from sublime to totally ridiculous! Let's start with an easy one. Several boys would stand on opposite sides of a street,facing each other in a straight line. When a car would approach within eye contact of us, we would pretend we were pulling on a rope from each side, like an imaginary Tug-Of-War. The driver would usually slam on their brakes thinking they were going to run into a rope. We'd bust out in laughter and cover our mouths with our hands and point at the duped driver. They would usually drive off, realizing they had just been made a fool of by some young Punks.

Next was our Dancing String Caper. We would tie a string across the street at about waist level, between a telephone pole and a sign or fire hydrant. All along the length of string, we would hang assorted items. Whatever we could find nearby: leaves, twigs, an old glove, a small potato chip bag, dog poop(don't ask!), etc. As the unsuspecting driver would approach, it would usually be too late to stop by the time they saw these things magically dancing in front of them on the road. Again, the sound of screeching tires usually ensued, often followed by a,"You Little Sons A Bitches!", yelled out a car window.

Winter in The Youngstown area was often brutal in the late 60's. Being on the edge of The Snow Belt and the famous Lake Effect Snow Storms, it wasn't uncommon to get a foot of the White Stuff at a time. Somehow, I seldom remember schools closing. You put on your boots and trudged up the street in the tire tracks of passing vehicles. The more adventurist members of our group would latch a hold of a rear bumper of a slow-moving car and get pulled up the street or more often, dragged untill he decided to let go. I know, I know! Stupid wasn't the name for that stunt!

The snow also created our favorite ammunition, Snowballs! Many a unsuspecting motorist was pelted by my fellow misguided youths from the confines of Fifth Street Park. The park was about the size of a football field and lead into a woods with many outlets on to different streets. A perfect place for The Old Hit-n-Run! Hit a car with a snowball and run like Hell through the woods if they stopped. The more inventive of our gang would wear Baseball Spikes. The better the traction when running on snow and ice.

If we REALLY wanted a challenge, we would move to a field near my house known as "The Pines", an abandoned nursery. Knowing that no one would catch us in our Baseball Cleats, all cars became Fair Game. even those full of older teenage boys. We knew we were "Dead Meat" if we got caught, adding to the thrill. Only this time, we would hide deep under the huge pine trees,instead of trying to out run the much older boys. We always did this at night, relying on the cover of darkness to conceal us. When we felt that our persuers were far enough away, we'd yell out insults making them even madder and more determined to try and find us. It was like a game of Chicken and we never did get caught. Too bad, somebody really needed to teach us a lesson.

Youth Football: Steel Valley Style

2009-10-05T06:40:00.000-07:00

Friday Night Lights got nothin' on The Youngstown Area for the excitement football brings to the masses. Any self-respecting burglar knows he can rob just about any house on Friday evening during football season. Even 80 year old widows find their way to the local field for the community event of Fall.

Any even semi-athletic boy get exposed to the Recruiting Wars that started in grade school at age 8. All boys interested in playing, were intstructed to report to an area practice field for try-outs. Everyone was selected on a team. Such inventive team names! The Bob Cats, The Tiger Cats, The Wild Cats, and The Bear Cats. Every Kid was outfitted head -to -toe with new equipment. I can't imagine the fund raising necessary to raise the needed money. I know the local Grid Iron Club contributed to the cause. Afterall, these were their future high school stars they would soon worship!

Practices were daily, often until dark. Scores of photocopied plays were handed out with every position expected to know their assignment. I know my team had several plays that came directly from the Cleveland Browns. Remember, these were 8-10 year old boys being trained for The Grid Iron Wars that would carry on for at least the next 10 years!

Games were usually on Sunday afternoons at the local high school field. It wasn't uncommon for a thousand people to show up to watch. These games seemed to have all the hype of The Super Bowl. Complete with Cheerleaders and Ushers passing around the Donation Buckets. Oh, and don't forget the tape recorded playing of The National Anthem! I remember playing a scrimmage game on a blacktop parking Lot because the field was too muddy! The Coaches and Parents even pointed their cars towards the field and turned on their headlights so we could finish the game in the dark! That's what I call Dedication!

Terms like, "Don't be a Cry Baby!", "Rub some dirt on it!", "Give me 110 percent!", and "Losing means you didn't practice hard enough!", I think all originated in Youth Football. I came home bloodied and bruised many a night and more than once, one of my parents had me undress on the back porch because I was too muddy to come in the house. Funny, I wouldn't have traded any of it. I DID learn a lot about team work and dedication and had life experiences that stick with me to this day.

I was fortunate enough to be selected as an All Star every year I played and was All Conference as a Freshman. I still have a Biography I wrote in Third Grade where my future plans included playing in the NFL. Fate dealt me a cruel blow when I was fifteen. I was critically injured in a 10-Speed Vs. Car Accident that left me with a skull fracture and a shattered left knee. My Playing Days were over. I gravitated to coaching. Hey, somebody's got to carry on the traditions!

Working On The Turnpike Blues

2009-10-02T07:50:00.000-07:00

When I was 17, I got a job at an Arco Gas Station, at The Mahoning Valley Service Plaza, on The Ohio Turnpike. I had a couple of buddies from high school that worked there and they seemed to like it. I figured it was better than bagging groceries. There also was a HoJo's restaurant next door, where I knew I could get hot coffee and a meal.

Looking back on it now, I miss those days. Work was never again that easy. Back in the early 70's, the gas station was full service. Checking the tire pressure, the oil level, fan belts, radiator hoses, air filters,etc. was part of the job. We were extremely busy during the Summer months, the height of the Vacation Season.

The beauty of checking all the stuff on a car was anything that you found that was in need of repair or replacement, you received a commission on. 10 cents on a quart of oil, 50 cents on belts and hoses, 5 bucks for a tire, and 10% of the price of any other item. I had commission checks over $500 a month! Not bad for a high schooler in the 70's! I became the station's best "Salesman" my first Summer there. This entitled me to a "Prime Hours Shift", Noon until Eight P.M., perfect for a kid to have a Night Life!

You meet people from every walk of life on The Turnpike. Oh, the stories I could tell! It's amazing how oblivious people are to where they are and what they are doing! A young guy pulled up to the pumps and I went to his car window to greet him. As I bent down to talk to him, I noticed a young lady with her head on his lap. Dare I say, she wasn't taking a nap, if you know what I mean! Wink, wink. She paid no attention to me and carried on with her "Busy Work".

I met celebrities, athletes, and Movers and Shakers from all over the world. I waited on a Cowboy one time in a White Cadillac Convertible, complete with Steer Horns mounted on the hood. I mentioned several things to him in need of attention. In his Classic Texas Drawl, he bellowed,"Boy, anything you find wrong, go ahead and fix it. I'll be at HoJo's catchin' a bite to eat." When finished, he pull out a roll of Bills big enough to choke a horse. He peeled out $1800 to cover the bill and a $20 tip for me! He never batted an eye. Geez, I needed more customers like him!

Everyone knows you don't buy anything on The Turnpike,unless you have no choice. Prices are usually twice of what you normally pay retail. I usually "Brown Bagged It" for my lunch. However, when HoJo's had their Salisbury Steak Sandwiches, I couldn't resist. An EXTREMELY heavy-set and unattractive waitress knew of my hankerin' for those sandwiches. She always brought two or three of them over to me at the service station at no charge. I guess she thought she could win this boy over through his stomach. She came close. Yazir! Dem was good eatin'!

My college schedule eventually interfered with my work schedule and I had to quit. It was probably just as well. within a couple of years, Arco was gone and the new gas station was self serve, only needing one cashier. Times were changing. We all had to get used to the idea of paying much more for gasoline and if you want your windshield washed...DO IT YOURSELF!!!

Group Dates and The Supernatural

2009-10-01T06:35:00.000-07:00

As part of a Gaggle of about 8-10 high school boys, one of our favorite activities was to cruise The Struthers Burger Chef and see how many carfulls of Kids we could entice to go see some Spooky Attraction in the area. The Youngstown Area by itself was pretty spooky in the early 70's just by driving through certain neighborhoods.

What I'm talking about are those places often passed down through generations that brought down-right Terror to some SCF (Stone Cold Fox). A girl would be so petrified, she'd cling to you the rest on the night like a piece of Velcro. The problem in my GTO was that damn "Four-On-The-Floor, the gearshift always got in the way. Many of the places were very benign. Our commentary is what made these trips so suspenseful. Shall we say we exaggerated the details a wee bit?

For instance, we would pull into a country cemetery with our lights off. The grave of Elizabeth was a frequent spot to plot our scary scenario. In this cemetery somewhere off Rt. 422 near the Pa. Line, Elizabeth was known to roam, looking to avenge her murder many years ago. Unknown to any of our innocent victims, we'd send a car ahead for some guys to hide and jump out and scare the Beejebbers out of the group as they approached the grave. On one occasion. a girl fainted when we did this and all the boys said they weren't going to do that any more. That pledge lasted about two weeks.

Not far from Elizabeth's Grave on Skyline Drive, near Lowellville was The Eternal Flame. After driving miles along a very desolate, often muddy road, we would stop our cars in a densely wooded area at the bottom of a valley. About 200 yards away in the distance, you could see a very large flame burning in the woods. We would conjure up stories about what the flame was doing burning in the Middle of Nowhere. One guy would say it was the torch of a Headless Horseman searching for his head. Another said it was The Grim Reaper lighting the way for Lost Souls and we would ask if our victim would like to walk back there to check it out. Of course, we never had anyone take us up on it. In reality, The Eternal Flame was surplus natural gas from a pipeline being burned off so the fumes wouldn't collect and explode.

In a cemetery in New Middletown was "The Eyes" that followed you where ever you walked. These large red eyes were nothing more than a ring of big Rhine Stones on a granite ball, on top of a monument. The tales we weaved were similar to the ones about Elizabeth, but nobody caught on. Light reflection passed from one Rhine Stone to another as you walked and it truly did look like red eyes were following you at night. Another great moment for that SCF to snuggle up to you. I always wanted to say in my best Dudley Do Right voice," Don't worry, Nell. I'll save you!"

My favorite Scary Place was The Zombies in near Hillsville, Pa.. Supposedly a colony of people lived in this row of houses along the Mahoning River, that had Water On The Brain. They were called Zombies, Freaks, Light Bulb Heads, Etc. and after years of harassment, they would allegedly come after anyone who bothered their neighborhood. We never saw any of them, even though we'd hang out the car windows and holler insults hoping to get a response. Occasionally, a car would come up behind us and our tales would weave about seeing shotguns or baseball bats sticking out the windows of the car and we had better take off quick. The driver would fly down the road for a few miles finally assuring our victims he has lost them. On a dare one time, a carload of us actually walked up to a house and knocked on the door. A little old lady that, I swear, looked exactly like Grand Ma Ma on the Adams Family opened the door. Complete with black dress, long white bushy hair, and a far away look in her eyes, she shrieked,"Yes, What do YOU want?" Poof! We were gone in a flash, not stopping until we hit The Struthers City Limits! P.S. I checked my shorts when I got home...everything was fine!

What's A Boy To Do?

2009-09-30T05:26:00.000-07:00

To this day, my family teases me about my incredible memory of my early years growing up in The Rust Belt Suburbia of Youngstown. Don't ask me what I had for dinner last night, but I remember a rat running across Shady Run Rd. when I was 4 years old. My family uses this example to explain how incredibly weird I am when it comes to recollection.

I grew up in Struthers, a block from the high school, 3 blocks from the elementary school, and 6 blocks from two great city parks, Fifth St.and Yellow Creek. These areas were pretty much my boundaries as a pre-schooler. Can you imagine a little kid traveling that far today, let alone out of a parent's sight?

Both my parents worked. Mom, all day until 5 P.M. and Dad was gone from 7 P.M. until 4 A.M., often not waking until Noon. My two older sisters were either at school or with friends elsewhere. I was usually on my own most of the day. that's where boredom often over took me. As a pre-schooler, 1 or 2 years difference is quite a deal. Younger kids' moms didn't want a corrupt 5 year old playing with Precious and older kids didn't want a Brat hangin' with them.

As a 5 year old, I went into The Bank one day with my Dad. Must have been pay day at the Steel Mills, the lines snaked to the door. Pop grabbed me by the shoulder and stood me in front of a support pillar saying his famous line,"Move and you're Dead." I dutifully stood at rapt attention, looking straight ahead. After a few minutes, a man walked by, stopped in front of me and said," You Poor Boy, how sad that you're Blind at such a young age." He then pressed a dime into my hand and left. Apparently, he mistook my staring off into space day dreaming as someone who was blind and not focusing on anything! Eureka! I think I was on to something! Money!

I couldn't wait to get home! I immediately ran next door to 4 year old Mary's house. I about dragged her down the street telling her what happened at the bank and how we can make a lot of money. All she had to do was act as my guide person and we would go door-to-door asking for money for me, since I was Blind. Brillant, eh? Of course, I promised Mary a 50/50 split.(yeah, right.)

We put our plan into action a few blocks away. Even a 5 year old knows you don't pull off a scam in your own neighborhood! We went to the first two or three houses and pulled it off without a hitch! Woo hoo! Money for penny candy and Freeze Pops at Papalia's Corner Grocery! Then the Jig was up. At about our fifth house, a lady said she was sorry she didn't have any money, but she would ask her Son for some change. As luck would have it, her Son was a classmate of my Sister. "I know him, Mom. He's not Blind!", he said upon coming to the door. That's all I needed to hear. I was yanking on Mary's arm as we High- Tailed it down the street to the safety of our neighborhood. My Crime Spree was over and I prayed I'd never do something like that again if my parents didn't find out. They never knew and I lead my life 'On the Straight and Narrow".

Uncle Roy and The Steel Mills

2009-09-29T07:10:00.000-07:00

My Great-Uncle Roy came to live with us in Struthers, Ohio, not long after his wife died in the early 70's. He was a kind, jovial old guy with a beer gut apparently earned over the years in one of the many steel mill bars. He retired from a supervision position after 40 years in the steel mill. I was fasinated as a teenager listening to his many stories about how steel mills worked and the crazy things he had to do from time to time to keep things rolling.

I would sometimes complain about the air quality, which sometimes was like a black fog rolling through the city or the fine black granules that were a by-product of the mill furnaces that would cover my beloved GTO sitting in the driveway. 'Don't know what your going on about, Son," Roy would say," That grit and stink put food on most people's tables around here. You sound like those government do-gooders that want to shut the mills down." I knew better than to argue with him, even if I did wear Earth Shoes and put Earth Day Stickers on our front door. Afterall, who else would lend me 20 bucks until payday.

Uncle Roy loved to tell stories about life in the mills. He said a Blast Furnace was the closest thing to being just like a human body. Product in, product out. Tempermental at times. Every now and than, it would need an enema.(an Oxygen Lance to loosen up the slag.) In the Winter, he said he'd have his crews unhook the railcars full of Coke(A Cooked Coal product), and let them roll down a hill and bang into each other to unstick the lumps of Coke that had frozen together. The crew on the next shift tried it and derailed several cars. That's the first time I heard the expression, "I'd rather be lucky, than good!"

Uncle Roy and I shared the two upstairs bedrooms, separated by a partition. Every night I heard him talk to Annie, his dear departed wife. He'd tell her how much he missed her and that he would be seeing her soon. I never said anything about it. I figured after 50+ years of wedded bliss, he was entitled to share his day with her.

Roy was great at telling jokes, often with a selected dialect. He could have been the host of The Dean Martin Roasts. I'll leave you with one of Roy's favorites: A very religious couple was consumating their marriage at a motel on their wedding night. The groom was so happy to have married such a pure woman, assured he had found a Virgin. Off go the lights, they undress, and proceed to do what newly-married couples do. Seconds later, the lights go on and the groom is getting dressed. "Why, Sugar, where are you going?", the bride asks. The groom says," Uhn Uhh, I'm a leavin' you! That Up and Down is OK, but that side-to-side is education!"

Starting At The End To Create A New Beginning

2009-09-28T13:45:00.000-07:00

"Well, I guess I made it." Those were the first words out of my mouth eight months ago, when I woke up in Intensive Care after a Massive Heart Attack. Little did I know how much life would change for me in the following months and how friggin' bored I would become while chained to the house.

After many doctor visits, specialists, tests, procedures, 2nd opinions, cardio rehab, and medications out the Wazoo,(by the way, anybody know exactly where the wazoo is?), it's been determined I'm not going to get much better than where I'm at right now. I'm considered disabled, due to a weak heart and COPD. So, time to get on with life! No sense in feeling sorry for myself. Humor has gotten me through many a crisis. We all know what to do with those people that can't take a joke!

I've began reading Blogs from people all over the country. Some are hilarious! Some are downright sick! We all have our opinions, I thought I'd share my experiences growing up in The Great Melting Pot of Youngstown, Ohio. I used to be embarassed to tell anyone I was from there. Now, it's like a Badge Of Honor! OMG, you survived? Wasn't that Called Murder Town USA? Does The Mob still run the area? Were you the last one to leave and did you turn out the lights? ...I've heard'em all!

I'd love to hear your opinions and comments. I hope this will be good therapy for me and entertaining reading for you. Until we meet again.