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!
For the first time since our Alaska and Hawaii travels, I got back in the pool today for a short swim. I had turned the heater temperature down to save a few bucks back in late November and just cranked it up a few days ago. I could begin to tell the difference in my arms from not following up on my run each morning with a few laps of the breaststroke. At my age, muscle mass begins to deteriorate, and the underarms become flabbier. 88 pushups every morning are not enough anymore to keep my upper body firm. I was inspired at an early age to do push-ups every day, a lesson taught by an elderly gentleman, who was probably younger than me at the time and a friend of my grandfather’s. He lived in the same Englewood, Florida mobile home park as my grandparents, Ross and Grace Hancher. I’ve done this exercise nearly every day since I can remember, following Mr. Kaufman’s wise advice.
My routine every morning includes a quick dog outing, stretching, sit-ups, pushups, and a 3.1-mile run, followed by the swim that I’ve added since buying our Florida home nearly two-years ago. I somehow settled on 88-pushups as my daily goal, but I’m not sure why I stopped short of 100. It would not be difficult to do 12 more, but like any day-after-day task, you simply get into a routine. I used to be able to do hundreds at a time and once drove my Sigma Chi fraternity brothers nuts by relishing what they thought was pledge punishment. “Thank you, sir, may I do another?” I would smile and effortlessly meet their challenge to the point where it would no longer be satisfying to administer.
Every morning I now do the Mr. Kaufman challenge, long after he has been gone from this earth. I ran across his obituary years ago but failed to find it again at the time of this writing. He lived in what I always thought was the “nicest trailer in the park,” with a view of Lemon Bay. Most importantly, he was the kindest man who treated my sister and I like his grandkids when we visited. He took us fishing, on boat rides, and to the park.
I like to write silly poetry, and although the following is not in any way a reflection of Mr. Kaufman or the Bay Palms Trailer Park where he and my grandparents lived in the winter months, it was inspired by how many people too often stereotype mobile home living. Although it no longer exists today, the beautiful property where these folks once inhabited is now a public park. Their homes were immaculately kept, and they were the nicest people you could ever meet, not the crude portrayal that I present:
The Nicest Trailer in the Park
I own the nicest trailer,
In the whole damn Park.
Though it looks better,
After it gets dark.
Cause then you can’t see,
All the rust and dents.
But a newer model,
Just makes no sense.
There’s an elderly couple,
That lives down the way.
They own the lot,
That sits on the Bay.
Nice landscaping,
A new doublewide.
But unlike mine,
No bar inside.
A big satellite dish,
Doesn’t sit in their yard.
And they don’t have,
A junk yard dog.
No car on blocks,
No stray cat.
No bird droppings,
On the welcome mat.
These are the things,
That make it mine.
Home Sweet Home,
As it says on the sign.
It keeps the rain out,
Though the roof may sag,
The frig keeps the beer cold,
And the carpet’s shag.
The floor’s not level,
Cause one tire’s flat.
And underneath,
Lives a big old rat.
The lock is broken,
And my neighbor is a jerk.
Gray tape fixed one,
And the other doesn’t work.
The bugs can’t get out,
I’ve patched the screens.
As you can see,
I live over my means.
It’s a prime lot,
With the best view.
She’s a sight to see,
But a mother of two.
Indoor plumbing.
Is one of my goals.
Right after I repair,
Those bullet holes.
The maid hasn’t been here,
Since I can remember.
The lights are still up,
But it’s not December.
It’s paid for you know,
Though the propane is low.
And when I want to move,
I’ll just get a tow.
There are curtains to hang.
And bed bugs to kill.
For the lucky person,
Who’s in my will.
So, bill collectors,
Don’t come a knockin’.
Especially when,
My trailer’s rockin’
Copyright 2011 johnstonwrites.com
In the style of a Griswold Family Vacation, I remember traveling with my parents and sister on three occasions. Of course, we were only 100 miles from Chicago, so we would occasionally take day trips to go to the museums or ballparks. I can’t recall ever staying overnight. We visited other nearby attractions like the Brookfield Zoo, Deer Forest, and the Warren Dunes as a family. We also often drove to Elwood, Indiana or Corey Lake in Michigan to visit my Grandparents Hancher. They had a mobile home at the lake and another in Englewood, Florida on Lemon Bay, with their “permanent” home in Elwood on North E Street that they jokingly referred to as a “pit stop on the way back and forth from Michigan in the summer to Florida in the winter.”
I refer to the Griswold’s because the Johnston’s were similarly a family of four with a station wagon, a Ford Country Squire sporting “wood” paneled sides. I distinctly remember driving that car to Florida and out West to South Dakota but can’t recall the car we took on the very first true vacation, as we looped Lake Michigan up through the Wisconsin Locks and across the Mackinac Bridge. The exact route we took is a blur, but I do have memories of staying in a tiny cottage underneath the bridge. My wife and I crossed it together this past year when we stayed at the posh Grand Hotel on the island, and I thought of the vast contrast in lodging accommodations between $1000/night and what was probably about $10 sixty years ago. My dad was very conservative in his spending.
The biggest family vacation of all was to Mount Rushmore. We all piled in the station wagon, and I vividly recall a stop in Rapid City, Iowa at a tourist trap called Reptile Gardens, that may still exist today. My sister and I got to hold a giant snake, the highlight of the trip. We then started to see mileage signs wherever we looked for a place called Wall Drugs in Wall, S.D. “You’re just 878 miles to World Famous Wall Drugs.” Similar postings were everywhere, including billboards, barn sides, gas stations, fence posts, rooftops – handmade and professionally made. It became our desired destination, just outside of the Black Hills and Mount Rushmore. I had saved just about every dime I made that summer, determined to buy a TV for my room, so I had yet to spend a cent on souvenirs or snacks. However, I did break down and buy a 10-cent postcard at the infamous store that seemingly went on and on.
We stayed at a Holiday Inn, once again much like the Griswold’s, and my sister rebroke her previously damaged front teeth in the pool, ruining the entire trip. It brought back memories of when I was blamed for cracking them on the living room tile floor while we were wrestling a few years before. My dad was no longer in a good mood, worried again about dental bills, even after seeing the carved Presidents, spending the night in Yellowstone Park, watching Old Faithful erupt, and taking a side-trip into Montana. It was my idea to go slightly out of the way so I could claim another state, a 50-state quest that is nowadays officially down to only one.
From that point on, our family vacations were limited to Florida. On the first of those drives, my dad failed to make a motel reservation and I remember being stuck in the mountains with nothing but “No Vacancy” signs. He had insisted to my mom that there would be plenty of rooms, and once again his bad temper got the best of the trip. We stopped at a roadside dive-restaurant, the only thing open for miles, and I apparently wanted lobster for dinner. The waitress quickly admitted, “Honey, you don’t want the lobster here.” Sometime in the middle of the night we found a room that had a painting of Lover’s Leap over the bed. I feared my mom just might take the leap that night. Learning a lesson, I believe we flew on an airplane for the first time on the next few visits, relieving some of the stress on my dad.
Regardless of how we traveled, our family spent the week crammed like sardines in my grandparent’s mobile home. My sister and I slept on cots wedged between the fold-out couch and the bedroom. My grandfather claimed that I had to get out of bed just to turn over. We also took side trips to Busch Gardens, The Shell Factory, and the Edison/Ford Estate, places you need to visit every fifty years or so. It was also our first experience at Disney World, still a favorite Johnston family vacation in modern times just as the fictional Wally World was to the Griswold’s.
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.
When you’re a kid, there’s never a thought about sore muscles or joints. You play and run endlessly and effortlessly without any threat of stiffness or pain. Then, one day, you fall and scrape your knee and suddenly know the nasty, burning feeling that surrounds the bloody wound. It’s a warning to exercise caution the next time or the injuries could be worse. Some kids heed this lesson while others throw caution to the wind. A broken bone is the next message. We first experience these growing pains and then there’s growing old!
The only fracture that I ever suffered was while skiing. Actually, I didn’t even get on the slope, slipping on the stairs leading out of our condo and cracking some ribs. It has actually come back to haunt me on several occasions. Skiing is one of the few “dangerous” sports I learned to enjoy despite the risk. It was frustrating and painful to fall time after time but somehow, I endured into my late sixties. I’ve joined the 70+ Ski Club but have yet to buckle in.
I stayed away from most contact sports growing up. Pain avoidance was my mission. With this in mind, I shunned motorcycles after a neighbor lost a leg, steered clear of cars, and cowered when on any ladder, feared heights in general. Still, I’ve been spanked, paddled, sucker punched, kicked in the nuts, hit in the head with a golf club, taken a rock between the eyes, survived a sharp stick to the pupil and was surprised by a falling limb that knocked me out cold. Kidney stones were by far the most excruciating affliction that I experienced, if you don’t count the softball liner between the legs. I’ve also had my share of cuts, scrapes, stitches, and strains. Fortunately, I don’t remember the series of rabies shots they gave me in the hospital as a young child after being bit by a dog. Apparently, it’s more than agonizing. I’ve also never had major surgery or been tortured to divulge government secrets.
I lived most of my youth without seat belts, crossed busy streets without a crossing guard, walked through winter blizzards, survived the unsafe playground equipment in grade school, withstood the kick-back of a shotgun that knocked me on my butt, took hallucinogenic drugs, got drunk, experimented with explosives, dodged falling arrows shot stupidly straight up in the air, and tobogganed behind a station wagon on icy roads. Please, kids, don’t try any of these unresponsible things that could easily lead to a painful outcome.
Growing old may be the most painful thing of all. You begin to feel it in your forties. Aches or pains from arthritis, lack of flexibility, past injuries, and stiff muscles plague every waking hour of the day. Getting out of bed is often a strain, while muscular degeneration and lack of balance begins to take its toll on your body. I’m lucky to still be running in my seventies, but it’s harder and harder to get going and stay motivated as my turtle-like pace continues to slow. Both ankles swell, feet get sore, and bones creak. We went to dinner last night and I watched car after car pull up with elders needing assistance to even get out, let alone navigate the stairs with a death-grip on to the railing. My mom frequently stole a quote from her peers, “Growing old ain’t for Sissies!”
Also see “Feelin’ My Age” Post #923.
It’s soon to be the year of the Rabbit, but already looking like it’s not the year of the Dog, or us, her humans. The Chinese calendar rotates between eleven animals, so Tally will have to wait until 2030 for her time to celebrate. Can she make it until she’s 20 years old and I’m nearing eighty?
My wife has a Lunar New Year’s Party planned at our house for the official holiday on January 22nd. One of the neighbors we invited referred to it a “Looney Tunes Party.” “What’s Up Doc?” The beauty of retirement is that you can have Sunday night parties without having to face a Monday morning work date. Most of our neighbors don’t care what day it is anymore. We’re free to party and be looney whenever we please!
Tally’s New Year is off to a rough start between two New Year’s parties, little girls, party horns, beeps, and fire alarms. She has noise sensitive ears and is still trying to get used to being around my grandkids, especially when the youngest has gotten ahold of a party-favor horn and can’t stop blowing it. All three of my son’s children were over for dinner the other night when smoke from the outdoor kitchen set off the alarms. Tally searched the house for a quiet spot while her legs quivered from fright.
She has always been wary of small children after an incident years ago when a little girl scared her. She usually growls at my youngest granddaughter whenever she comes over but is excited to see the older ones. For once, she didn’t react when all three and their dad came in the front door the other night, but the horn and fire alarm put her over the edge. She finally found peace in the comfort of her bed, away from the crowd. It’s the same place she hides when we have our parties, unless she can coerce a bite of food from one of the guests.
I think our Tally likes the new golf cart, but the neighbor who delivered it honked the horn and she once again cowered from the noise, while showing some initial reluctance to take a seat. Fortunately, he had disconnected the backup alarm, so we didn’t have to deal with more beeping. Once we got her into a harness and the wind began to blow through her fur, she comfortably settled in. This morning, she took her first trip to the dog park to show off this new toy to her puppy pals. She’s now the queen of the parade when we drive around the neighborhood.
We removed the past owner’s monogram from the front panel of the cart yesterday to officially make it ours. Friends have a caricature of their schnauzer, Sophie, to identify their cart. I’m afraid Tally will want the same royal treatment. The main color of our “old fart cart” is champagne that nicely coordinates with my wife’s Lexus convertible. The two vehicles sat side-by in the garage for a few minutes until my wife drove her car to tap class, noticing that the brake light was aglow. She found herself at the dealership facing a $2,800 repair. The cost is more than we got from selling the Solara to make room for the cart. It looks like our New Year luck isn’t much better than Tally’s!
As I continue with Storyworth, I’ve apparently ignored their suggestions on what to write about, as I recall lifelong memories for my family. One of those topics was apparently of interest to my son. “What was it like growing up with your mother?” was their question of the day. I’ve never followed a structured approach to writing, so this will be a different challenge.
Let me start with a little background on my parents. My mother, his grandmother, was a petite lady and a former beauty queen, sorority sister, and college grad. She was a recreation major at Indiana University, so trained to keep people actively engaged. Before she married my dad, she also worked for Red Gold canning tomatoes. It was their top priority to start family, but allegedly due to my father’s ice hockey accident, they were unable to have children of their own. The alternative was adoption, a highly regulated and controversial process that involved raising someone else’s mistake. There were apparently extensive background checks, lengthy interviews, and rules to follow. They went to the Suemma Coleman Agency (a home for unwed mothers) in Indianapolis for guidance.
I don’t know how long they waited or how costly the exercise was? All I know is that I was two months old when they took me into their Elkhart home around Halloween. It was a two-bedroom home, and it was required that I have my own room. When they added my adopted sister four-years later, our living room doubled as their bedroom with a fold-out couch, so Judy could have a required room of her own. This is a strong indication of how selfless they were in adding us to their family.
They did parenting right, whether it was demanded in the adoption contracts or not. They took me to church every Sunday, taught me right from wrong, curbed my language, and made me mow the lawn to earn an allowance. I was given everything but a sense of direction.
Mom was a busy lady as a stay-at-home parent. She was involved in a bridge club, ladies club, collected stamps, and owned a small business called the Calico Cottage. She organized several big birthday parties for me growing up. If I ever needed to borrow a tool, she was a much better resource than my dad who was usually working at Miles Laboratories as Assistant Treasurer. He frequently traveled to Europe, but my mom was never into flying, so family trips were usually by car. Mom was never a good cook, relying mostly on the microwave, clearly evident when the pressure cooker once exploded while she was trying to make applesauce. She was, however, highly organized with a freezer full of neatly stacked soups and vegetables, frozen in the shapes of the very bowls they would be nuked and served in.
Her mother, Grace, was a competent cook, canner, and pie-maker, but seemingly only passed along a jovial nature, love of games, and strong will to her only daughter. I was mom’s treasured son long after the initial adoption agency monitoring was lifted to assure that I was never mistreated. It’s a wonder that I was ever allowed out of the house without constant supervision, but she was rarely over-protective. I remember being gone most of the day while allowed to roam the neighborhood, play in the park behind our house, and even go to the nearby stores. I don’t recall her having to escort me to grade school every day that was about a mile away. I mostly got everything I wanted, but there was a time when she wouldn’t let me go see House on Haunted Hill at the movie theater because it was too scary.
I was a terrible teen, giving her every opportunity to regret ever adopting me. I was ungrateful, lazy, foul tempered, and disrespectful. She was the opposite of all this ugliness and somehow tolerated my hormone-raged moods. I slept late, lived like a slob, and never really liked myself. However, my two best qualities were saving money and getting good grades, important disciplines that they taught me. The only time I struggled in school they drilled me with flash cards to the point where Math was my best subject.
I couldn’t have asked for better parents, but they were sadly never rich enough to satisfy me, whatever that means. We were Country Club members, lived in a nice neighborhood, paid for my college, bought me nice clothes, but somehow it was never enough. We didn’t live on the river, own a boat, take elaborate vacations, or own the first color TV. I’m ashamed of this now in realizing how spoiled I really was growing up. I only hope that she can forgive me. Thanks Mom, for all the love.
I was born on August 27,1951 and was officially adopted in late October. I have some basketball genes in my DNA thanks to a birthfather who apparently played high school ball for North Vernon. However, it was the man that I called “dad” who introduced me to the game as a fan. He must have taken me to several high school games when I was a kid, but one was particularly memorable when he embarrassed me by yelling loudly, “You Hamburger” after a referee’s questionable call.
I made the Rice Elementary grade school basketball team in fourth grade but was a better dribbler than shooter. I would practice in our basement in the winter months, maneuvering around chairs. The low ceilings would only accommodate a round Quaker Oats container with the bottom removed to serve as a basket, mounted on a cardboard backstop. The “ball” was a wad of tin foil formed in a round shape that would fit in my hand. This is how I would reenact the annual Indiana High School basketball tournament, alternating between dribbling the real ball and shooting with the fake one. Remember, there were no video games to keep me entertained back then. At the same time, I would listen to the game broadcasts on WTRC, the local radio station where I would eventually work. By the time spring came along, I could dribble with the best of them, but “couldn’t hit the side of a barn.”
My mom and dad did send me to a skills camp every year, but they also moved me to Beardsley School in the sixth grade, where the kids on the team were much taller. It was the end of my basketball career, although I still loved to watch. “Junior Basketball Camp at Taylor University, the biggest, bestest, camp of all, with plenty of versatility. Bounce the ball down the floor, in the hoop for a score,” were the words of the camp song to the best of my recollection. All my Rice Krispie teammates were there, along with the bigger Beardsley Bomber bullies. In fact, every kid in Indiana that had dreams of winning a high school state championship was a fellow camper. However, four years was apparently not enough for me to ever start a game.
March was a special time in Indiana growing up, but there was always still the threat of snow. The tourney usually started in late February, and I would make a bracket to hang on the wall, filling in the teams around the state that would win their respective Sectional. As time went on, the Peter Eckrich Company would print special posters of the bracket in limited quantities, and I would scheme to get one. The unique thing about this elimination tournament was that all schools were part of a single-class system of competition regardless of size. The Elkhart High School Sectional was played in my North Side Junior High gym, one of the largest in the state seating 7,373. It opened in 1954, the year that the movie Hoosiers took place and tiny Milan High won the big prize. Adding to my love of the game, when the tourney took place at our school, the classrooms were closed. It was even better than a “Snow Day.”
I’ve always wondered how my love of this game evolved. I can only guess that it started with my parents, who as Indiana University grads, cheered on the 1953 Hoosiers who won the NCAA Championship, now known as the “Big Dance.” It was the second time that they won all the marbles and I’m seen in baby pictures wearing an Indiana t-shirt. Maybe this is where it all started. I also have the same temperament as my dad when it comes to watching the game as a fan but have never called a referee a “Hamburger.”
Despite not living in Indiana for nearly three decades, I still follow the tourney every year and continue to dream of making that last second shot to win it all. My high school has never won this state championship, even after it’s now been divided into classes by size of the school. However, it’s still the David vs. Goliath matches of the past that command all the attention. With an enrollment of only 161, the 1954 Milan Indians beat the giant, Muncie Central, to claim the coveted trophy. In their drive to the title that year, Milan nearly lost in the “Sweet Sixteen” to a school with only 14 students, seven boys and seven girls, from Montezuma High, who didn’t even have a gym. The Aztecs practiced in a basement with a low ceiling just like I did as a kid, but I doubt they used foil. Milan proved to be impossible to beat when they went into their famous cat-and-mouse stall game, long before the shot-clock became a factor.
I love this kind of history when it comes to Indiana High School Basketball and tried to pass that on to my son. He was scared of the Blue Blazer that was my high school mascot and instead rooted for our opponent’s furry Tiger. His claim to fame with the sport was two runners-up team trophies in the local Gus Macker Basketball competition. He was also the unofficial barber for his future high school’s state championship team, the Lawrence North Wildcats of 1989. My eighth-grade son volunteered our bathroom for the head shaving ceremonial ritual and left a mess of hair and blood for us to clean up. It’s Tourney Time!
Back in the working days or even back to school, the first Monday of a New Year was a chance to catch up on what everyone did over the Holidays. In many cases, co-workers or classmates were off that entire week, but I always felt that it was a good time to be in the office because there was often little going on. It was also usually a short week with days off or half-days, so it was a good time to get organized for the months to come. Besides, holiday travel was always a guaranteed hassle with flight delays due to overbooking and foul weather. Plus, pet sitting could get expensive.
People would return to the office or school with stories of family gatherings, special gifts, or elaborate New Year’s plans. A new outfit, watch, or other piece of jewelry was waiting for compliments. Pictures of new babies and pets were compared. There were always lots of leftover treats to share if you weren’t starting the traditional diet. Those that were wanted to get temptation out of the house. I was never much of a dieter because I maintained a regular exercise routine, but I did tend to cut back on alcohol consumption or pretend to maintain a dry January.
Back in the days of going to the gym or fitness center, I quickly learned that the first couple weeks of a New Year were by far the busiest, as well-intended resolutions began to kick-in. The locker rooms were crowded, there was a line to use the weight equipment, and classrooms were crammed. You could tell from the number of cars in the parking lot that there were a lot of new members. By the third week of January, all was back to normal. I think that all this activity eventually discouraged me from going, when I could enjoy the quiet solitude of running outdoors. There are no membership fees, people in your way, hours of operation, or malfunctioning machines. All it takes to run is a good pair of shoes.
In the last six years of retirement, I’ve found that Mondays are just like every other day, even as good as weekends used to be. There is no alarm to set, but still a routine to follow. In our case, Mondays are a good day to see a movie, avoid eating meat, and get rid of all last week’s trash. Just like always, it’s the beginning of a fresh new start.
Our schnauzer, Tally, is not a fan of “Meatless Monday,” missing those delicious smells coming from the kitchen and a chance that she’ll get a bite. She’s always in favor of me leaving the house so she has exclusive access to the office chair that we constantly fight over. She refuses to share. The only problem with a dog’s life is you’re never sure if your human will be gone for an hour or a month. As I’ve said many times, I wouldn’t mind reincarnation as a pup, as long as my wife is my keeper.
