Author: mikeljohnston1 (Page 42 of 267)

I picked my grandson, Gavyn, up from school yesterday afternoon. It’s less than two weeks before his 16th birthday. Most teens live for this birthday because they can start driving, but this is not the case with him. I guess he expects all of us to chauffeur him around town until all cars learn to drive themselves. Getting my driver’s license was a big deal, and I’d already gotten my learner’s permit before my sweet sixteenth. It was a proud badge of independence, but it also led to me first accident when I spun out in my dad’s 1965 Mustang on a rain-slickened road and took out a mailbox. I realized quickly what a huge responsibility it was to share the road. Fortunately, I’ve had few accidents since and none of them have been serious. 

I’m sure it was a big worry for my parents when I took off by myself during those high school years. Gavyn just might be saving my son Adam from that stressful aspect of child raising. At the very least, he won’t follow in my footsteps and take the car to California or loan it to a friend for an impromptu daytrip to Toledo. Adam was never this reckless behind the wheel, that I know of, when he got his license. However, he never had a sports car to drive like I did as a teen. 

Gavyn and I talked about pizza on our long drive back to North Port together. He was surprised that I like to think of myself as a pizza connoisseur, and so I shared some of my experiences with him. My favorite is from Greg’s Volcano Pizza in my hometown of Elkhart, Indiana. Most people naturally gravitate back to their familiar eating places when comparing. My wife relished Nubiano’s or Bruno’s Pizza that she grew up eating. One explanation for this homey appeal, that I believe to be true, is that we get hooked on the local water that’s used to drink and cook. I also had my share of frozen pizzas growing up since delivery was rare in those days. Our neighbor and a high school friend owned the Elkhart Noble Roman’s franchise, and I wanted to help support their business. It was entertaining to watch them throw the dough to stretch it into a round shape. Big John’s tavern once served a memorable pizza bread. Recently, we made a stop in Johnsonville, Tennessee at the sister Greg’s Volcano restaurant, proving that I will definitely go out of my way for this pizza.

The other hometown favorite was Shakey’s Pizza Parlor known for their all-you-can-eat buffet. They also had these mojo potatoes that I craved. When we moved to Ft. Wayne, Indiana, Jimmy’s Pizza had a similar offering. Pizza Hut also served an unlimited spread. On Fridays, the gang from work would get together to gorge ourselves at one place or the other. Chuck E Cheese was a client of ours, and their mascot cheered for our WMEE basketball team. The animated entertainment was the main appeal, not necessarily the food. 

When we’d travel into Chicago, deep dish pizza was the craze. Pizzeria Uno and Giordano’s were popular back then and still around to this day. In New York City, Ray’s Pizza is on practically every corner. It was usually our go-to dinner before a Broadway Show. On one occasion we went to Amore for a quick slice after watching Bombay Dreams. There was also an Amore Pizzeria in Indy and seems to be a common name in the business. “Like a Big Pizza Pie…that’s Amore.” The next time in the Big Apple, we ate at Angelo’s Pizza between showings of The Color Purple and Putnam County Spelling Bee. In D.C., it was Pizzeria Paradiso for lunch or Matchbox, two of our daughters’ favs when they were studying at American and George Washington, then lived in our Nation’s Capital. 

Indianapolis was our next career stop, and Bazbeaux Pizza was a steady favorite. We also began to take advantage of the delivery services for Pizza Hut, Dominos, Papa John’s, and Little Ceasars, among others. Papa Murphy’s was available to take-out and be heated in your home oven. Later, it was on grocery store shelves. Before we were married, my wife lived in the Broad Ripple area, so Some Guys was usually her #1 pick. Pucino’s and Donato’s were also Indy pizza destinations. 

Decatur had Monical’s Pizza, Del Carmen’s, and Jupiter when we craved a slice. We went into St. Louis on several occasions, including the Jersey Boys performance and ate at Pizzeria Due with friends. My wife and I ate in the finer restaurants in Vegas, where we were married and had numerous business events, so the only pizza stop I could find was at Bonanno’s for lunch near the Tropicana. Dinner was at Joe’s Stone Crab. 

I once bought a book about the 100 top pizza places in America and started a quest to visit them all. The book somehow got lost on a trip to Hilton Head and I didn’t give it much credit because Volcano wasn’t mentioned. Guisseppi’s was credited in the book, so we had stopped there for a bite. The #1 pick at that time was New York City’s Una Pizza Napoletana and it has become legendary. I still remember the long-lasting flavor in my mouth from the Margherita-style, wood-fired, flatbread that I wanted to savor forever, to the point that I actually passed-up my traditional NYC treat, a black-and-white-cookie. I kept the resource book nearby whenever we traveled and tried to visit as many as possible, crossing them off the list, before it mysteriously disappeared. The pictures in the book looked good enough to eat, so maybe someone did!

In Austin, it was more BBQ than pizza. The original Home Style Pizza on Congress Street was an institution that has since expanded to other locations in Texas. We also tried Yaghi’s, Pizza Nizza, Hog Island Deli, Rounders, Frank & Angie’s, Hotlips, East Side Pies, Villa, Double Dave’s, Tony’s Coal Fired, Buffalina, Pieous, Salvation, and Farmhouse during our years in the city. Sadly, most of the homeless in Austin seemed to be talented guitarists that played on the streets, hoping for a break. The local joke was knowing the difference between a pizza and a musician. The answer is that a pizza can feed a family of eight. I never tried a BBQ pizza pie, my preference was always sausage, and once again there was none better than Elkhart’s Volcano. I got one every time I returned home to northern Indiana. 

The career path then took us to Portland, Oregon. The city was known for its food trucks to an even greater degree than Austin. Apizza Scholls, Lovely Fifty-Fifty, Ken’s Artisan Pizza, Sizzle Pie, and Oven & Shaker were some of our regular haunts. We also tried Pizzacato, Jerry’s, Lucky House, Brick Oven, and Firehouse, according to my diary notes. During the pandemic, we frequently got take-out pies from Seratto, next door to our apartment building, or walked down the block to Escape from New York for less pricy carry-out. Tally was not allowed to go inside but the pizza-makers would occasionally offer her a taste through an open window. We also lived next door to a sausage plant, so both of us would enjoy the neighborhood smells. 

Round the world travels took us to Venice, Italy and genuine Italian pizza at Girani Cage, then to Rome at da Luigi after visiting the Vatican, Sorrento’s Pizzeria Aurora, and finally by ferry to Positano for an Il Fornino pie. While in Paris, we had pizza and wine at Mornay. In British Columbia, we shared our pizza dinner at Megabite with stroller-bound Tinker and Tally after the ferry delivered us to Butchart Gardens. Before our recent Alaska/Hawaii cruise, we enjoyed Pacifico pizza in Vancouver. On various trips to California, we enjoyed Ghiradelli pizza in San Francisco, as much as their chocolate, and devoured Arthur Mac’s when visiting my stepdaughter’s home in Oakland. Early in her career she lived in Oklahoma City and took us to Hideaway for a pizza treat.

Finally, we officially retired in Venice, Florida, and have yet to try all the local fare. The closest pizza place is Bocca Lupo while Big Mike’s is our favorite with LI Guys close behind. It’s been many years since we’ve had pizza delivered, so I’ve lost touch with that outlet for my favorite dish. In a gated community, it’s easier to just go pick it up. Gavyn probably joined us for pizza at Mamma Lilla’s, Pioneer’s, Marco’s, and Fratelli’s near his hometown of North Port. He was not with us, nor was Adam, when Eliza, Maddux, and Nora shared a pie with us at Bobarino’s in nearby Englewood. Probably, our most memorable pizza moment was in South Beach, Miami where my wife tried to improvise and bake a frozen pizza slice in the toaster. Fire alarms went off! In her defense, when in a real kitchen, she makes the best pizza we’ve had down here in Florida. 

I remember as a kid the forts I would build in the house, draping blankets and towels over chairs and tables. I don’t remember printing signs that said, “Keep Out,” but I valued my privacy in these often-dark places. I built them near a television in the basement of our Carolyn Avenue home, so I could watch Captain Kangaroo or Romper Room without interruption. Sometimes, I would share this space with my sister Judy. It was the indoor camping that I have always preferred over being in the wild. 

One might think that I would have loved being in a tent outdoors or even a small camper, but that never appealed to me for some reason. I will say that I am still intrigued with tiny homes. I made such a mess of my room as even a young adult, so the smaller the space, the less the clutter. For this reason, when we moved to 1565 North Bay Drive, I chose the smaller bedroom with a single window, and let my sister have the bigger, corner, bedroom with two windows. My parents had the other corner bedroom, finally a private space of their own after having sacrificed for years by sleeping on a fold-out couch in the living room. This way, Judy and I had our own rooms, as required by the adoption agreements. 

The new house had much more space. It was a split-level with the bedrooms on the top floor, a short flight of stairs down led to the living room, kitchen, and front entry. A second stairway down took you into the family, laundry, and utility rooms, while a sliding glass door opened to an outdoor patio. A third stairway down led to the basement where I spent most of my time. I liked to think of it as my private fort, with a pool table that doubled as ping pong and the radio that played my favorite tunes. The walls were decorated with jig-saw puzzles that my mom had covered with the same clear shellac that she used for her hobby of decoupage. Any important document, newspaper article, or picture was permanently enshrined on a piece of wood under numerous coats of shellac. They were our family trophies, proudly displayed throughout the house. The puzzles were relegated to the basement.

I really thought that the basement was all mine, but apparently Judy spent a lot of time down there, especially when I went off to college. Years later, after our parents passed on, she somehow claimed the upright radio that I always thought would be mine. I wonder if she ever knew about my secret hiding spot that was the ultimate fort? The plumbers had cut an opening in the ceiling to access some pipes behind the laundry room. I found that I could squeeze through that hole and hide between the walls. It was about 3-feet wide and 10 feet long, a secret, dark cavity where I had that same feeling of privacy that I found under the blankets of the forts that I built in the basement of our first house. 

Skiing was always another father-son bonding tradition. Unfortunately, it hasn’t happened for some time. I do have my 70+ Ski Club patch but haven’t been on the slopes since Portland and year-69. It was only an hour drive from our home to Mount Hood, so a few times each year I would make the drive with friends. We never got Adam’s family of five to visit us there, the 3,000-mile distance too far to navigate, but before he was married, we did ski together at Mount Bachelor in Bend, Oregon. My good Elkhart and I.U. friends, who lived in Portland, joined us on the mountain that year. It might have been the last time that father and son skied together. 

Adam learned to ski at the same time I did, but at an age when he had no fear. I worked at a radio station in Fort Wayne, Indiana (WMEE), and Timber Ridge Ski Resort near Kalamazoo, Michigan was a client. They convinced me to try the sport when I was nearing the ripe old age of thirty. I really struggled the first few times but stuck with it for several more visits. We enjoyed it as a family and bought equipment instead of renting. I then arranged for a week-long trip to Monarch Resort in Colorado, a big step up in degree of difficulty. A few weeks before we planned to leave, we did one last tune-up at Timber Ridge. Adam ended up in the Emergency Room after twisting his knee, so we nearly canceled the Colorado trip after watching him limp around the house for a week. A few days later, he seemed back to normal, so we proceeded with our vacation plans. 

We flew into Denver and rented a car. As we neared Breckenridge on our way to Monarch and saw the mountain peaks filled with skiers, I got the urge to buy some afternoon passes so that Adam and I could enjoy the sun and blue skies. We got on the lift and his eyes got big as he noted the massive size of these runs when compared to Michigan where he learned. As we got off the lift, he began to awkwardly gimp, hesitant to ski. I stopped and pointed out that he was limping on the opposite leg from what he injured. He was obviously faking, and I didn’t fall for it. He had much less trouble getting down the slopes than I did, and enjoyed the rest of the afternoon, along with the week of skiing at Monarch that followed. We were all hooked by the time we left Colorado, ready for future adventures. 

We tried other resorts over the next few years, like Cannonsburg, Crystal Mountain with the White’s, and less-challenging Swiss Valley that was closer to home. Next, we made the long drive into Northern Michigan to ski Boyne Mountain. We also joined the Clark family on a trip to Steamboat Colorado, where Adam took daily lessons with ski instructors as part of their Polar Bears program.

When we moved to Indianapolis, too far for regular excursions into Michigan, I went on to ski with friends in Utah, Montana, and Vancouver without him. We did venture down to Paoli Peaks before the two of us made the journey to Mount Bachelor. We also went back to Steamboat, but the last few times that I’ve been there in recent years, my wife and I stayed with friends that we met in Decatur. Her brother also owned a home at Breckenridge, so I skied with him, returning to the slopes that were so intimidating to Adam the first time he saw them.  

The song, “Another one bites the dust,” by Queen came on the radio this morning and it made me think of several stories involving my son Adam as he was growing up. He once insisted that it was “another one bites the duster,” hearing the little grunt that Freddy Mercury added for effect after “dust.” I remember the argument we had over this like it was yesterday, as he stubbornly fought to be correct. It wasn’t the last time we butted heads over silly things, as we always tried to prove each other wrong. He also firmly believed that Michael Jackson was not black and pointed to the album cover to prove it. I’ve always seen this as a turning point in racial relations, where the younger generation did not see the difference between black and white. A good thing but also another point of contention between us. 

One of the funnier confrontations we had was when he pulled out a cassette tape (that should tell you how long ago this was) from my glove compartment and pronounced the group name on the label as “Line-Rad-Skein-Rad.” I had to convince him that it was actually Leonard Skynard. I’ve given him a hard time about this for years now. These are fond memories of being a father.

I took him to his first concert, The Beach Boys, when he was probably 10-years old. I was working for WMEE Radio in Fort Wayne, Indiana at the time and had access to great seats. Adam stood on his chair the whole show. His favorite group was always KISS, so a few years later they performed at the Allen County War Memorial, at that time known as the Fort Wayne Coliseum.  We got to go backstage and meet Gene Simmons, Paul Stanley, Ace Frehley, and Peter Criss, all remarkably alive today, although only Gene and Paul still remain with the band. I think that Adam still has the autographs we collected, and I remember a conversation we had that night with Gene Simmons about him once being a teacher. I can’t recall how many KISS concerts we attended together, but each was a bonding experience. I do know that he has seen the band numerous times without me. 

Another memorable father-son concert was ZZ Topp at Market Square Arena in Indianapolis. Once again, I secured the tickets through the radio station that I worked for, WIBC. I was a bit embarrassed at the time of the buzz cut that Adam was proudly sporting. It might even have been a mohawk, as part of being on the swim team. However, I think it earned him a role as team barber for the basketball team, as well. I referred to this in a previous Storyworth chapter where our bathroom at home was the scene of this crime, left hairy and bloody.

The coolest thing about the ZZ Topp concert was that the band performed on a walking sidewalk that whisked them effortlessly from one end of the stage to the other. In this manner, they could compete with acts like the Rolling Stones and Mick Jagger, who ruled the stage with his energetic strutting. The long-bearded boys were never in that kind of tip-top shape. My wife and I had dinner next to them on the rooftop at Fleetwood’s on Front Street on Maui a few years ago. Bassist Dusty Hill died just last year. 

Denise got us tickets to the Daytona 500 in 2017 through the FOX affiliate she worked for in Portland. However, she had to work, so I made the trip to Florida and took Adam, Eliza, Gavyn, and Maddux to the race and surrounding activities. They made me a memory box that includes a ticket autographed by Clint Bowyer. Part of the festivities included a concert by Lady Antebellum, while Jordin Sparks sang the anthem. It was the kids’ first live stage show, as I pass down the tradition of father-son-grandchildren musical performances from one generation to the next. My parents never took me to a show, but then again, they didn’t work in the media and have access to tickets!

I have a neighborhood friend who is into cars, something that never appealed to me. However, despite my aversion to machines themselves, I’ve managed to find a marketing interest in auto racing. It started when I was working for WTRC Radio in Elkhart, Indiana, one of many network affiliates for the broadcast of the Indianapolis 500. I sold advertising in the race, but more importantly got my first tickets to the event from the General Manager of the station. I drove with my son and his mother, along with some good friends to Indianapolis, a three-hour drive. The race started at 11a.m., so we must have been on the road very, very early. 

We had four tickets in the main grandstand and bought two inexpensive infield admission tickets, thinking we would switch seats several times during the course of the race. None of us had any idea how big the place was that housed the world’s largest sporting event. It rained all the way down but miraculously cleared just as we arrived, so we somehow found a parking spot in a muddy field, across from the track, owned by the Coca-Cola Bottling Company. The six of us aimlessly wandered into the infield and spread a picnic blanket. After the fried chicken was gone, the wives then took the two kids up to the safer, reserved seats, while my buddy and I roamed through the ruckus crowd on the inside of the track. 

I mention all is because my son went into the massive Speedway through one gate, through a tunnel into the infield, and out to the seats through another. We had insisted that he hold on to our hands. I have no sense of direction, so it was easy for me to get lost, let alone a little kid. Plus, the adults rotated seats four times during the race since you’d be lucky to see any track action from the infield seats – just drunken debauchery! 

We managed to get everyone back together under the main grandstand after the race was over, but my son got mad and ran off by himself. We spent well over an hour trying to find him in that packed crowd and reluctantly headed back to the car desperately empty-handed. I thought for sure my young son had been abducted or injured trying to find us. All kinds of horrible scenarios naturally raced through my mind. I notified the police and security officials, as I frantically circled the two-and-a-half-mile oval, but he was nowhere to be found. 

When we got back to the car, there he was, thankfully! He was under the protection of an inebriated fan wearing a cape, claiming to be “Mud Man.” Regardless, he was a superhero to me in reuniting us with our son. Then, he went back to sliding in the mud puddles with his friends. Fortunately, my son did not inherit my directionally- challenged gene, and easily found the car and some “capable” help. At that point, I was more gratefully relieved than angry at his foolish antics. 

This was my very first encounter with the Indy 500, with many more to write about. See Post #1333. Within the past year, my auto-crazed neighbor drove us to the St. Petersburg Indycar race last year, along with a road rally at a nearby airport course. He drives a Mazda Miata and is taking me to Sebring this weekend, home of the 12-hour endurance race won in 1990 and 1991 by my friend Derek Daly. He was the driver expert we hired at WISH-TV, another chapter in my unlikely but rewarding involvement with auto racing throughout the years. 

I love word games, dating back to childhood and playing Scrabble with my grandmother or working crossword puzzles with my dad. I enjoy Seven Little Words everyday thanks to my New York friend, Carole, and Wordle because of Eliza. Today, I completed my 300th game but apparently missed the first 271 days since the New York Times owned game originated. They allow you to play just once a day, but there’s also Quordle and Octordle that are good for practice. I have a 98% solve rate and a maximum streak of 76. On two odd occasions, I somehow forgot to play at all and lost the streak I had painstakingly earned. 

You start with a grid of five across and six down, 30 total squares. I typically enter the same three 5-letter words to begin the game…CANOE, WRIST, and PLUMB. This eliminates 15 of the 26 letters of the alphabet, including all the vowels but Y. If a letter is in the correct position, it turns green. Gray means that it’s not part of the solution and yellow indicates that the letter is simply in the wrong position. In the 2% of games that I’ve lost, I’ve usually gotten four of the five letters but the last one has multiple options, so I simply run out of chances. 

I’ve never solved the puzzle on the first guess, but people brag about it on Facebook like they are some great level of genius. It’s really a very simple game of following clues that has little to do with being smart. Three times out of 300 tries, I’ve gotten the answer on the second line, but on 145 occasions, it has come down to the fourth line. Twenty-eight times I’ve pulled out the answer on the sixth and final attempt. Whew!

I’m not very good with tools or fix-it projects. I’ve tried through the years to paint, plumb, stain, rebuild, landscape, tile, carpet, oil, and maintain, hoping to find something I was competent at doing. My dad was the same way, and his lack of skill around the house far outweighed any genetic abilities I may have had inherited from my apparently talented birth father. One of the first projects we did was carving a block of wood for the Indian Guides totem pole. I, of course, ended up with stitches.  Similarly, the derby car we built together for the Jamboree was the slowest on race day. 

As a side note, he chose the Indian name Big Turtle while I stubbornly refused to be Little Turtle and instead became Straight arrow, when all of the other fathers and sons had matching names. It’s a good example of how the two of us just didn’t see eye-to-eye. I apparently passed this lack of cooperation on to my son, Adam, but at least he knows how to work with tools. He quickly learned to stay away from me when I was at my tool bench after catching the claw of a hammer just below his nose watching me try to extract a nail from a two-by-four. These days, I usually rely on him to do my projects, and he insists that I don’t help.

Mom controlled the toolbox when I was growing up. Her hobby and eventual retirement business was picture frames for doll houses. She would personalize these tiny homes, utilizing actual family photos set in miniature frames. The picture frames were often antique jewelry settings or made of wood that she would craft herself. Her father and my grandfather, Ross Hancher, was handy around the house, building furniture and custom cabinetry. He also taught my mom photography and dark room skills that she used in her business. She would travel around the Midwest, selling her products at craft shows. Too bad, I never developed the patience for detail that she and my grandfather perfected. 

I’ve given away many tools and things with motors through the years, hoping that I would never have to deal with them again. The snow blower and snowmobile were good moves since I no longer am punished by cold weather. However, the power washer could have come in handy many times, including yesterday’s DIY project to seal our driveway pavers. I ended up borrowing one from a neighbor, and all went surprisingly smooth for once. We found it necessary to save a few bucks after the surprise expense of replacing the entire brake system on our car, something I would never even think of doing myself. As far as my tools passed along, I’m too often stuck having to stupidly rebuy and replace these items after our multiple moves.  Since we no longer have two cars to worry about, will the golf cart we just bought come back to haunt me?

For many years, I escaped the hassles of home ownership by living in condos or apartments where I could rely on someone else to do the dirty work. Now, I have to do things like replace bulbs, change filters, plant things, paint, clean out dryer vents, drain the water heater, suction out the air conditioning line, and seal pavers. At least, I still don’t have to own a lawn mower. I have so much time on my hands, I’m dangerously tempted to do these things myself even though I’m more of a break-it-yourself stooge than a DIY guy.