Category: Storyworth (Page 1 of 7)

There is a tarnished gold trophy that stands about 8 inches high on my office shelf that was a prized possession of my grandfather Hancher. It was once proudly displayed in a glass case in his Elwood, Indiana home that now stands in my son’s living room. The trophy is fairly heavy in weight, unlike today’s awards. It was manufactured by Dodge, Inc. with offices in L.A., Chicago, Newark and Miami as inscribed on the inside of the base. There is one exactly like it on E-Bay for $30. This one was awarded by the Elwood Camera Club in Dec. 1956 for Best of Show Monochrome to Ross A. Hancher.

When I recently mentioned this item to my sister, she immediately asked if she could have it? I might trade her for one of my Grandma’s Emmett Kelly paintings. (See Post #1778). After all, this artwork belongs here in Florida, near where my grandparents had their mobile home in Englewood and near the area where this famous clown once performed. I had my eye on this trophy since I was a kid as an unwilling victim of my grandfather’s beloved hobby. I would spend hours in their Indiana basement where he had a studio set- up. I wore costumes, popped out of a laundry basket like a Jack-in-the-Box, and tried my best to sit still. My only reward is a series of baseball cards prints showing me in a Yankees cap poised with a bat. The rest of the photos he took, I’m not sure what to do with, some flat out embarrassing. 

Back in those days, photography required a great deal of patience handling cumbersome equipment and dangerous chemicals. It needed a willing subject, a steady hand, and hours spent in a dark development room. His basement was actually kind of scary with an old wringer washer, tiny windows, bright lights on stanchions, and a massive furnace that looked haunted. I couldn’t wait to get out of there, but there was always one more photo to take. My grandfather was a man of few words and endless patience, leading to hours of boring silence, much like going fishing with him. 

I would like to think that I was the subject of this award-winning photo. I’m sure I have it in my album collection, but I’m not quite sure which one it is. I’m surprised that my mom did not leave a note as to its whereabouts. She also caught the photo fever to further torment me, transitioning into video. I was apparently very photogenic at least in their eyes, while I became photophobic. She was seemingly never without a camera, recording everything from sunsets and food buffets. It eventually became a retirement business, The Calico Cottage, miniaturizing and framing personal photos for doll houses. Between father and daughter, I never wanted to see another camera my entire life. Then, came the I-Phone.

I have so many family photos in numerous formats, many of which are duplicates. They are in albums, on hard drives, on VHS tapes, CDs, and photo sticks. Now, they are also on my phone, as I have become more photo friendly. No more setup, processing, or storage problems – just point and click. Instant gratification instead of waiting for weeks to see if you got a good shot. In today’s world, we’re all expert photographers. 

It’s hard to believe that someday my grandchildren could be my age or that I was once their age. I can barely remember being five but there are memories of a coat room in my kindergarten class where we would go collect our blankets for naptime. At thirteen, I was at Northside Junior High trying out for the track team as a hurdler because it was the shortest distance you could run. I hated running and they had eliminated the 60-yard dash that I excelled at in grade school. I had a quick, speedy start, so short distances were ideal, but I could not finish strong in the 100-yard dash. I also wasn’t flexible enough to be a hurdler and as a result didn’t make the track team. 

Probably the most monumental occasion of growing up came in high school, I had just gotten my learner’s permit at 16 and began to drive.  Later that year I would earn my license, completing the transition from trike, to bike, to car. It was the beginning of independence in that slow transition to manhood. Grades were my sole responsibility as I began to think about college and dating. At the same time, I couldn’t imagine any girl that might want to marry me – the kid with big ears, skinny legs, and glasses. 

Do I miss these moments of my childhood? I certainly wouldn’t want to go through it again. These were awkward times for me, troubled with insecurity, lack of confidence, immaturity, and low self-esteem. In my mind, I was always just slightly above average in all the things that mattered back then – popularity, sports, and looks, wanting to be smarter, more athletic, stronger, and irresistibly handsome. I envied those who excelled around me, while enduring some bullying, name-calling, and cruelty. As I look back, I actually was in the top 10% of my class, well-liked, and somewhat good-looking, but didn’t know it at the time. It was just never good enough and maybe still isn’t!

Has my life been different than imagined? There were three unstated expectations that my parents had for me. First, was to go to college (graduated from IUSB in 1973). Second, to get married (1973 and 2001). Third, to have and hold a career (too many to mention).  My folks were all about loyalty – one college, one marriage, and one workplace, a straight path to retirement. However, times had changed, and I never anticipated changing schools, wives, or jobs. Three schools, a child, two wives, and numerous jobs was much different from what I expected. I don’t regret that I strayed from the path of my parent’s initial guidance. With each fork in the road, I found a new side of me. I could have gone on and got more degrees, found a different career, and never married. Would I be happier? – probably not. It’s just that none of you would have existed to read my stories. 

I can’t remember the last time I actually rode a bike, probably on a trip to Martha’s Vineyard, over 20-years ago, where we rented them for the day. I can also recall a time, more than 25-years ago, when our travel group to France used bikes to explore the Burgundy wine district. We would navigate from steeple to steeple, stopping to sample wines along the way. Back, even longer ago, when living in Ft. Wayne, there were bike bar rallies for charity that I would join on a Saturday afternoon, weaving our way through town after a few too many.  

My wife bought a bike years ago that we moved from place to place, this being the most use it ever got. Portland was too hilly for safe use and here in Florida it (and its rider) became the victim of a minor crash. I hopped on it once and rode it a block to the neighbor’s house to borrow a wrench to adjust the seat. This was just after we had it repaired for Ben and Miranda’s last trip to Portland to see us. As an avid biker, he had used it on their previous visit but found one of the petals to be stripped. It now sits in our garage waiting for my wife’s confidence to be restored.

I rode a bike in college as part of training for the Little 500 but never enjoyed it or the accompanying hemorrhoids. I think it was loaned to me by the Fraternity house team, so I would have to go back to my teenage years for a time when I actually owned a bike. It was a blue Schwinn 3-speed that got little use, except for a few long weekend jaunts and races that a friend of mine, Dave Geiger, organized. They were usually 50 to 100 miles in length on the Indiana backroads, and we were not allowed to use the gear mechanism. I don’t have fond memories of the backbreaking effort of pedaling, so what inspired me to compete in the even more grueling Little 500 is a mystery. It probably had to do with a free trip to Florida for training workouts. 

As a child, I found my very first Schwinn bicycle under the Christmas tree. I was so excited that I insisted on sleeping next to it that first night. I rode it everywhere, ringing the bell and enjoying that first sense of freedom. My mom once sent me to the store for a loaf of bread that I unthinkingly stuffed under the seat to secure it from falling off my bike. It was probably the last time she trusted me for an errand, after thoroughly smashing the Wonder out of the bread. I decorated the bike for parades, and “motorized” it by pinning baseball cards to the spokes. In the process, I ruined several now priceless Mickey Mantles, among other stars of the 50s and 60s.  Unlike other kids, I never rode my bike to school, probably since there was a busy street to cross, and my parents were overly cautious in protecting me. There were no helmets or knee pads back then, that are standard precautions these days. 

That first shiny, new bike was a big step-up from the previous 3-wheeled trike that I rode, plus it naturally had training wheels. I can barely remember my mom and other neighbors helping me eventually balance it on my own. Learning to ride a two-wheeler without help was that first great sense of accomplishment, although I don’t remember at what age that happened. I never was very daring and had no interest in a truly motorized bike, especially after my neighbor, Jim Kreider, lost a leg riding his motorcycle. My tom-boy sister, of course, moved quickly from bicycle to motorcycle. She was much braver than I ever was and fortunately never had a serious accident.

I did spend a lot of money on bicycles and titanium parts when my son took an interest in BMX racing. Many hours were spent at the local dirt track cheering him on. As a father, it was probably one of the few times that I took an active interest in his participation, outside of little league baseball. I could at least relate to bicycle racing, unlike swimming, soccer, and rugby that I never took part in as a child. I still enjoy watching the Tour de France every year, but that’s as close I get to a bicycle anymore. 

Although I’m not a religious man, I was brought up believing in the Ten Commandments, more specifically the last six. References to “Gods,” “Idols,” “Lord,” “Holy,” and “Sabbath” have very little meaning to me. I’m not sure that there is a God or more than one God that really cares about what day is holy or if they are selfish enough to worry about idols or the misuse of their name. Although, that particular commandment of name misuse kept me from swearing for many years, unfortunately it hasn’t stuck. 

The Ten Commandments:

1. You shall have no other gods.
2. You shall not make idols.
3. You shall not misuse the name of the Lord.
4. Remember the Sabbath, keep it holy.
5. Honor your father and mother.
6. You shall not murder.
7. You shall not commit adultery.
8. You shall not steal.
9. You shall not lie.
10. You shall not covet.

Perhaps, all of us have made mistakes in honoring each of these ten rules of life. I certainly have and getting forgiveness, as many believe, will not change what I’ve done. I have to live with these misjudgments, most of them insignificant. However, these last six commandments are all about being selfish and thoughtless at the expense of our fellow humans. I’ve tried to lead a life where I put others first and certainly wouldn’t do anything that I wouldn’t want done to myself. This includes lying, cheating, coveting, taking a life, or dishonoring anyone, especially those that gave me life and raised me. To me, getting along with others is simple, but sadly we live in a world where it’s not. 

After a great deal of thought on how I was raised and taught, my life’s MOTTO would really be a simple abbreviation (M.O.T.T.O.):

Make

Ourselves

Thoughtful

Towards

Others

It’s worth trying. 

Prior to high school I was part of the Presbyterian Church choir, while the esteemed leader, Mr. Gowdy, was also head of my high school choir, so he encouraged me to join his class. It was a group where I forged my friendships, some of which still exist after 55-years, like Roger Miller and Alan Harper. My prom date for my senior year was a choir member, Leslie Sackett, a relationship that continued into our first year of college and started at Choir Camp. 

I was not much of a musician, although I did take both piano and voice lessons, but could never read music and was more of a follower than leader. While others made the exclusive Double Ten touring group, I never tried out because a solo was required, and I was too shy to perform in front of the class. In fact, Mr. Gowdy was very accommodating when I nervously went through the qualifying steps to be in the Concert Choir. I did like to sing, but mostly in the privacy of the shower or car. My voice was also in the process of changing, along with my hormones, from a tenor to baritone, but I was caught awkwardly somewhere between the two ranges. Convinced that I did have a good voice with a bit of a bravado, the group did eventually convince me to reluctantly participate in the state vocal competition, where I was able to earn a couple of silver metals singing an Italian operettic tune called Caro Mio Ben, popularized by Luciano Pavarotti. I was hardly worthy of his rendition but will never forget the effort to emulate his performances. I did not make the Albion College choir, despite continuing with vocal lessons.

I have only done karaoke on a couple of occasions, mostly after a few drinks and considerable coaxing. I could also never remember the words to songs, a skill where my wife continues to amaze everyone. Even with a teleprompter, I was never comfortable with my voice, especially after the problems with my vocal cords in later life. I now sound gravely and weak when I try to join her in song. My favorite sing-alongs in college were “Leaving on a Jet Plane,” by Peter, Paul, and Mary and “Brandy” by Looking Glass. If I had to pick an all-time-favorite, it would have to be the Bill Withers’ rendition of “Ain’t No Sunshine.” I love Grace Slick’s voice, “The Best of Bread,” and live performances by the group Humble Pie with Peter Frampton and Steve Marriott; “Thirty Days in the Hole” has become my theme song. I’ve also become a country music fan, especially the humorous lyrics. 

I like to laugh, and have great memories of the song, “Who’s Zoomin’ Who” by Aretha Franklin with good friends Mike Emerson and Doug Clark after a night at the Four Aces Tavern. My wife and I are partial to the song, “Happy Together” by the Turtles after seeing them at the Indiana Roof. A family gift of these lyrics is proudly displayed on not just one but two wall hangings in our house. I also like hearing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” that I never hesitate singing along with at a game, especially the Harry Carey version. I’m sure there are lots of other songs that can easily make my day, but these are a few of my favorites.

John Cougar Mellencamp is a fellow Hoosier, from Seymour, Indiana, where my 90-year-old birth mother just passed. I never met her but talked with him at an I.U. basketball game. He wrote these lyrics that always reminds me of our pink Coverdale Lake home (See Post # 2399):

“Aw, but ain’t that America for you and me
Ain’t that America somethin’ to see, baby
Ain’t that America home of the free, yeah
Little pink houses for you and me
Oh yeah, for you and me.”

My parents bought it for themselves, but it ended up in my hands, then my sister’s, before we sold it. One of the first goals was to repaint it and eliminate the pink tiles in the master bathroom. For that matter, it could have been Barbie’s house! I bought gallons of gray paint and rented both a pressure washer and sprayer. The rest of our family taped-off windows, doors, around fixtures, and grabbed paint brushes. We were ready to start the de-pinking process. 

I set up the sprayer just outside the garage and filled it with paint before starting it up. A gasket apparently failed and the machine began to spew paint all over the garage, cars, pavement, and me. It was a total disaster before I finally was able to shut it down. I then quickly grabbed the power washer to rinse-off all the areas covered in the gray paint that was supposed to do away with the pink. Ultimately, it took hours of time and gallons of pressurized water to clean up the mess, while the rest of the family began to paint by hand. Fortunately, nothing was ruined except for my ego, that had devised this quick-fix plan.  By the time I had cleaned-up the mess, returned the faulty sprayer, and took the time to buy more paint, it was no longer an economical or efficient idea. They were nearly done by the time I got back. Painting has never been one of my strengths.

Other improvements that we made to the house, included a wood-burning stove in the basement. A friend built the concrete block flute, and a window opening was adapted to serve as a pass-through for wood. I spent most of my time working on the limestone retaining walls that framed the stairways down to the lake. I would no sooner get one re-built before it once again crumbled from erosion. Friends would come over on weekends, but I was always busy fixing these troublesome walls, enviously watching them play in the water. They would also drink all my beer until I stopped buying brand names and switched to generic BEER. They eventually got the hint and began to bring their own. Lake life was never as I dreamed!

We had several big parties at the house. One was a Halloween party where I built a cardboard chute down the basement stairs as an entrance to the haunted house below. The other was a softball series between the two Federated Media radio stations where I worked. The Ft. Wayne stations, WMEE & WQHK, against my original employer WTRC in Elkhart. Players arrived in motorhomes filled with kegs of beer and camped at the end of our dead-end drive after an afternoon of competitive softball. We roasted a pig and borrowed a pontoon boat that nearly sunk; then got stuck in the narrow, muddy, channel between the lakes. It was a wild scene out of the Jungle Queen!

I worked at a Styrofoam factory, FORMEX, for many years, so I had a fleet of sailboat and catamaran seconds, along with paddleboards, floating lounge chairs, and kick boards. I also had a pinball machine in the basement, plus ping pong and pool tables, so it was the ideal party palace, certainly not what my parents envisioned when they originally bought it. Multiple balconies looked out over the lake and the pier was ideal for sunbathing. No wonder it was a popular weekend retreat for my friends once it was no longer pink.