A Happy Baby

As a one-year-old, I was as plump as a Christmas goose, but that wasn’t my fault. Being the first child born, my mom and various female relatives probably fed me at least eight times a day! I can hear it now, “A chubby baby is a happy baby!” Fifty years ago, I decided to start exercising like a crazy man. I’ve never stopped. I’m proud to say that most of my baby fat is long gone.

 A few years later, I was living the good life. Brothers and sisters hadn’t yet shown up. My mother read and sang to me. I can even remember sitting on the stool next to the kitchen sink. My mom had given me a plate of fried shrimp, and we began to sing, "Shrimp boats are a-coming!" It was a song that was quite popular at the time. It seemed like great fun while we held the tails of these delicious, crispy critters and danced them around on our plates. I didn't have a clue that this could be considered slightly quirky behavior by most people back then.

Uncle Howard and His Gift of Music

I remember seeing an old photo of Uncle Howard, Aunt Ada, and me in my grandparents' backyard. Along the bottom, someone wrote June 1949. I was only a toddler then. Uncle Howard looked tall and handsome, while Aunt Ada was short but still taller than me.

I remember my Grandmother Lacombe showing me Uncle Howard’s old bedroom. She’d told me how she, Aunt Shirley, and my mom sometimes found Uncle Howard fast asleep in his bed. The unusual part of this story is that he’d be humming and looking like he was dreaming about being a symphony conductor. My Uncle’s face appeared euphoric, and his hands gracefully punctuated the air. He exuded such a pleasant feeling that his sisters and mother didn’t have the heart to wake him.

I asked Uncle Howard recently about this memory, but he had no recollection of it. Isn’t that often the way it goes? You spend the night with the Boston Philharmonic in a stellar performance, to a sold-out crowd with standing room only to a breathless audience, when suddenly you wake up. With a small jolt of shock, you remember that today, you have to get on a ship to fight the second half of WWII.

Uncle Howard, my father, and two of his brothers were Navy men, and so was I. I like to imagine that our adventurous nautical lineage goes back to Ferdinand Magellan, Ponce de Leon, or Christopher Columbus. However, having no Italian or Spanish heritage in our family tree shoots that idea down pretty quickly.

Seriously, though, I’ve got to thank Uncle Howard for sharing his “old music” with me. I regularly played that era of music to nursing home residents, some of whom were as old as I remember him being in his later years.

Oh yes, I also want to thank him for the Piper Cub plane ride he took me on in 1960 when I was 12 years old. The sunset made the waters of Black River Bay shine brightly, and being 2000’ in the air made the cars below look like ants. I’ve never forgotten that ride. Thanks, Uncle Howard!

The Hop-Along Kid

I have a picture of me when I was four years old. My mom bought me my dream outfit for my birthday,  a full cowboy getup. My hat, vest, shirt, and pants were all black. I even had a pair of six-shooters. My favorite cowboy heroes would have been proud of me. I was standing on a dirt road, with a hill behind me, overgrown with brush and an old abandoned dog kennel. This was as close to the Old West as I was going to get.

When I looked at this picture, I don't think anyone would have guessed this place was within the city limits.

I don't remember when exactly, but I must have lost my pistols somewhere. The '50s were lean years for the Townes’, so no new pistols were coming soon. I found myself in our cellar, looking for anything that might work as pistols. I looked for a while and finally found a couple of casters, the kind that you pushed into the legs of dressers so that it could be rolled. They had the basic shape, so I put them in my holsters. You couldn't see them, but that was okay. I had something in those holsters since then.

It wasn't long before I got invited to spend the morning at my Grandpa Lacombe's barber shop. 

That was always a fun time. His first shop was on the second floor of a downtown building, next to the First Baptist Church's clock tower. 

When the Circus came to town, they'd parade around the Public Square, even the elephants. I was in my glory, sitting on the window sill with someone holding me, taking it all in. I never got to go to the circus, but I don't think I even cared. Looking down on it all was enough.

My father dropped me off early that Saturday morning dressed in my cowboy outfit. I climbed the stairs behind the Pittsburgh Paint Shop and walked in on my grandfather and four other men. They were watching another man getting a shave, and they stopped talking and turned their heads to see who had come in. My grandfather smiled at me and motioned for me to sit down.  One man said, "Who's this here, cowpoke?" I didn't speak, so Grandpa said, "This is my grandson, Chris," they all said, "Howdy, partner." I was a little embarrassed. Fortunately, they turned back to watching the guy getting a shave. 

They were all freshly shaven and wore white shirts, gaberdine pants held up by suspenders, and almost identical shoes. To me, these well-fed middle-aged guys looked exactly alike.  If they were in a lineup, I wouldn't have been able to pick out any one of them except Grandpa. 

One of the men turned to me and said, "Hey cowboy, where are your six shooters?" I was a little startled, but everyone looked at me expectantly. My face must have turned red. They were smiling now, and Grandpa must have stopped shaving his customer.  The only thing I could do was slowly reach into my holsters and draw out those casters. When those old guys saw the casters, it all broke loose. The guffaws, the laughter!

All I could hear inside my head was, "Why did I come here in my cowboy clothes?! One guy was so amused he actually slapped my grandfather on the back. Grandpa was smiling and chuckling. I slid my temporary pistols back to their hiding place. I was okay. I somehow realized that a funny thing had just happened. These men weren't trying to be mean. They just knew a good laugh when they saw one. 

Grandpa LaCombe was a hardworking logger in the early 20th century. After a year or two of that, I probably would have become a barber myself.

The Summer of 1953

I was a very shy, quiet kid. The first time I ventured around the corner from our house on Columbia Street, I saw a boy my age with red hair who was taller than me walking across his lawn directly toward me. Over his head, he was swinging a croquet mallet. I didn't quite understand what was happening, but I knew what to do. I ran all the way home. 

When I started Kindergarten that September, Rick, the tall, red-haired boy, and I walked the three blocks to school. He brought weapons for his first day of school; the knife, tomahawk, and small saber were made of rubber. He must have thought I had forgotten mine at home, so he offered me one. I assumed he thought it might be a good idea to have some protection at this school, just in case. By the end of the school year, we had become close friends.

Fast forward 50 years, my mother mailed me my kindergarten report card. Kindergarten, for me, has faded into a vague blur in my memory. She probably thought that I'd find it nostalgic. I did, thanks, Mom. It was a bit of a shock when I read Mrs. Fox's comments. "Chris gets along and shares with all the children, but Chris never speaks or smiles. But I feel he will do fine in first grade." I read those comments, and I just shook my head. 

I often wonder what that shy, quiet boy from long ago would think if he could see how much I’ve changed!

I wish I could return to the simple innocence of the early 1950s. The world, as well as myself, has changed a lot. My life has been, and still is, as different as I could have imagined. 

Returning to the 1950s, Mrs. Fox was right. I felt confident enough to start talking to my classmates sometime between first and second grade. Then, when I discovered books, reading became my escape to the world of Robinson Crusoe, and Tarzan. They were the heroes I most wanted to be like. 

My early years were fairly typical, except I still wouldn't talk much. That didn't seem to be a problem for my parents, though. These days, my parents might have taken me to a doctor for an examination. Maybe a doctor would pronounce me ADHD in reverse.

For some reason, I was intrigued by geography. As I got older, I noticed that to the west of our hill were Wyoming Avenue, Colorado Avenue, California Avenue, etc. No offense to South America; I just thought that these streets reminded me more of cowboy places and stirred my imagination.

Mowing the Lawn

(August 1954)

 I remember looking through one of Mom’s old photo albums and seeing a picture of my brothers and me trying to push a lawn mower in our front yard.  Much like sled dogs in the Arctic, We pioneered a team concept to harness some serious kid power to push that mower. My mom sometimes called us, "Hey kids, you better get outside quick; dad's got the mower out." I can't remember if this was presented to us as "fun," you know, like a team sport. 

Larry, Bill, and I, along with an innocent neighbor (Craig Augustus), were in the picture. We had manned our positions. As the oldest, I got one side of the coveted handle, Craig on the other, straining with all his might. Bill had deserted his position and was now sniffing a dandelion.

Larry was bent over; he should be commended for pushing so hard that it seemed he sprained a muscle. I would say Larry always took first place regarding "iron will" determination. Bill often went more for the “I've got to sit and rest for a minute.” Nancy, if she had been a boy, would have said, "Wait, wait, I can't help you guys. I think my pants are falling down". (What a surprise! I think that had she been a boy, she might have avoided the draft with that well-used excuse).

Secret Toast

Something woke me early on a cold, dark winter morning in 1959. Usually, I slept in till 8 a.m. on Saturdays. I stepped carefully down the stairs so they wouldn't creak and wake my parents. The living room was dark and quiet; walking through the dining room, I heard a scraping sound from the cellar. It must have been my Dad shoveling coal into the furnace. I tiptoed across the kitchen to the cereal cupboard. I heard my Dad's footsteps coming up the stairs, causing me to cross the kitchen and open the cellar door. I felt kinda strange. Why did I feel as though I should open the cellar door?

Dad had a look of surprise on his face as he looked up at me. He held a fork in each hand that impaled a charcoal gray piece of bread. I opened my mouth, but Dad said, "Shhhh! Secret Toast!" This is not a dream, I thought. He said, "Secret Toast". He took the coal-fired toast to the kitchen counter. Sitting on the counter was an old coffee can; I looked in it. Wondering what that greasy stuff was?! After spreading some of it on a slice of gray toast, Dad said, "Here, try it." The smell was of bacon. The taste was something else. My father was eating his secret toast and looking at me expectantly. "It's, uh, good," I said while taking small bites. It was bad, but something told me to say "good" to Dad, and he nodded as we stood in the half-light.

My Red-Haired Aunt Saves the Day

I just recalled a somewhat shocking memory from my youth. I think it occurred the same year as the infamous Secret Toast. In the late 1950s, all the neighborhood kids were being harassed by three mean Bullies on our block. It seemed like there were no kids among us who could stand up to them. Year after year, we’d get roughed up and worse. Our parents called the police. They would talk with their parents, but nothing changed till one fateful day.

My father’s sister, Aunt Mary, had come for a visit one warm summer day. My Mom asked if we would go to the store for some groceries. As we walked down N. Pearl Avenue, I spotted the notorious bullies. They seemed to have found a new pastime. They were trying to whip each other with a broken fan belt. Immediately, I sensed trouble. 

The mean pack stopped what they were doing and stared at us. My Aunt Mary and I crossed the street to the opposite side. Maybe they weren’t going to harass us because my 18-year-old Aunt was an adult.  Good, I thought, very good. We continued to the store and bought the groceries. There was a large bag for each of us to carry back.

On the way home, we spotted the bullies from the corner, snapping the whip. Every so often, the whip would connect with the youngest brother. We could hear him yelp from almost a block away. 

The youngest boy was younger than me. He was no threat without his oldest brother and sister; he was more like a mascot. He would cheer his siblings on in their mean-spirited endeavors.

Aunt Mary and I stayed on our side of the street. As we walked by, their eyes were locked on us. This time, though, their eyes told a different story; they looked ornery. This was not a good moment to pass by them. Once we were well past them, we crossed the street. I looked back, and they were following us. We walked faster. Mike, DeDe, and Pat started to run. Just before we reached the corner, they caught us. One more minute of fast walking and we would have been home free. 

Suddenly, it happened. DeDe cracked her whip, and Aunt Mary’s bag of food split open. Food went everywhere. Picking up the food would be total humiliation. The threesome was definitely enjoying themselves. For them, it might have been more fun than Disney World.

Wait just a minute! Everything seems to go in slow motion;  My Aunt Mary launches herself like Wonder Woman. Her target was the ring leader, the girl who whipped her. DeDe had never had anyone stand up to her; before she knew it, she was on the ground under my Aunt. They always say red-haired people have a short temper. She proved it that day.  If I hadn’t been in shock, I would have been jumping up and down with pure joy! I never thought anybody would ever take them on.

Before my Aunt let her up, she had a few choice words for DeDe.  All three turned and ran home with their tail between their legs. I can’t believe it! They’ve never been scared of anything. 

My diminutive but wiry Aunt Mary was transformed in my eyes. She was no longer just a nice, easygoing relative. She had become Ellie Mae Clampett, sweet on the outside but more like a wild cat when riled up. Aunt Mary was my first real-life hero. 

I believe that if she were alive and I were to call her up and declare that some bullies were picking on me, she’d come to my rescue. It was clear between her red hair and her spunk she was one not to cross. She and Grandma Towne were both small but scrappy.

The Old Razor Strap

Dad was a part-time barber at Camp Drum. He could buzz the hair off of us Towne boys so fast even the girls wouldn’t walk in the room for fear of getting scalped. 

Dad shaved with a straight-edge razor when men like Ward Cleaver had gone electric. He would sharpen his razor on the leather strap that hung in our bathroom. Sometimes, we would get the strap if we got caught doing something wrong. Usually, we would get two or three whacks on our hands. Believe it or not, there were times when I deserved some corporal punishment. This might be considered politically incorrect parenting in this day and age when one is preserving one’s self-esteem at all costs.

My Mom, now there was a whole different ballgame. She was a strong-armed woman with a three-pound hairbrush. If she pinned you down under the bed, you were in trouble. Whenever I thought I was about to be in trouble, I tried to place myself physically closer to Dad than to Mom. Hopefully, Dad would grab me and pull me into the bathroom for a session with the razor strap. What a relief! Thank God!

I was a pretty good actor. I’d act anxious, like I was about to cry. One day, I tried something new with Dad. Dad gave me the first whack. “Ow!!” I yelled, dropping my hands slightly at the same time. It was repeated two more times, and that was it. It worked! Good acting, good timing, and less pain. I wanted to tell my brothers about my new technique, but I didn’t, thinking that it might backfire if I did.

I remember hanging by my bent legs from our swing set one day. My father came out the back door and stood there for a few seconds, watching me. “I can hang by my toes,” he said. I looked up, grabbed the bar, unhooked my legs, and swung down. “Really?!” I responded. “Sure I can”, he said. My father was about six feet tall at the time. I was small for my age. Life has a way of evening things up, though. 

Now, I’m almost tall by comparison, and my father is shorter than me. By the time he is in his 80’s, he should be chest-high to me unless, of course, I also begin to shrink.

Anyway, my Dad is on the swing set bar, pulling his legs up and hooking them over the top. Carefully letting go, he lowers his body so his head and hands are close to the ground. I watched him for a minute with a mischievous voice I said. “Hey, Dad, you’re not hanging by your toes! You’re hanging by your legs!” Wrong! Very wrong!

My father dropped to the ground like an orangutan stung by bees. I saw the blur of him coming after me. He was ready to teach me a lesson about back talk. 

In an instant, I was almost as mad as Dad. I began to run, and my father began to chase me. “Get back here right now!” he yelled.

Dad had a natural chase instinct. He’d have done well as a big carnivore. Now, I was pouring it on. I was in the road, running down the hill. It must have been adrenaline from a combination of anger and fear. He couldn’t quite catch me, and I had never run so fast. It was almost exciting! I couldn’t let him catch me after such a chase. That would be humiliating.

The woods where I played Tarzan were coming up fast. I took a chance and dived into the brush. I just missed a thorny gooseberry tree. As I scrambled to find a trail, I heard my father say a bad word; I looked back and saw he had run into a low-hanging branch. I got moving. Finding our tree house and climbing the tree didn’t take long. Quietly waiting, I listened. I didn’t hear much, just birds chirping.

I waited till after supper to sneak up to the back door. Listening to the quiet conversation in the kitchen, I somehow sensed that it would be okay to go in. My mother asked me if I wanted some supper. I nodded. Dad didn’t say much. 

I realized that if you go back right away, you are going to get the strap. Staying away to let things cool off can be a smart move. If you're lucky, the event never gets brought up again. Thank God for small favors!

Cod Liver Oil

My Dad had some different ideas when we were kids. Some of them made sense, like when he started a petition to add fluoride to Watertown’s water supply. The petition actually passed. Dad was becoming an activist.

He began lining us kids up every morning for a spoonful of cod liver oil. Now, horrible taste aside, I’m sure this oily stuff was good for you. Think about it. Almost everything that tastes good is probably bad for you, so the reverse must also make sense. I have to wonder who the first two guys were who caught some cod and decided to pull the liver out of one. Maybe one guy named Thor, either a Norwegian or a Swede, said, “Hey Sven, hand me that cup at your end of the boat.” Thor then squeezes all of the oil from the cod’s liver into the cup. Thor drinks some. “Mmmm, good!” he says. “You try, Sven.” Sven drinks and almost gags but catches himself. Not wanting to be a wimp, he says, “Hey, Thor, pour me another drop of this tasty stuff.” And so was born cod liver oil.

What Happens When a Finger 

Meets a Steamroller

The late 1950s were an innocent but wild time on Columbia Street Hill. It was like growing up with the Little Rascals.

My mother was called outside one day by my brother Bill. She went out to the front lawn to see what the problem was. Bill explained that some men were doing road work one block away on N. Pearl Avenue. Both Bill and Phil had gone down to watch them. Even at a young age, Phil was interested in anything mechanical. As a steamroller went by him, Phil decided to measure the pressure it would produce. According to Bill, he ran forward and placed his finger in front of the moving roller. That’s when Bill took off running for home. I’d have done the same thing!

My mother ran to the accident scene in a state of near hysteria. A crowd of men gathered around Phil, and some neighbors with their dogs were also present. At last, something noteworthy had happened on N. Pearl Avenue. The details of the rest of this story are somewhat fuzzy. According to Bill, Mom knelt and threw her arms around Phil. “What happened, what happened?!” she cried. Appearing pale but calm, Phil quietly said, “The steamroller ran over my finger.” 

She looked at his finger, which had tiny bits of asphalt clinging to it, but it had not been flattened.

Bill shouted, “It’s a miracle!” The crowd let out a gasp! The road workers wiped sweat from their faces and shook their heads in wonder. I’ve heard of a small child falling from a 10-story building and bouncing off an awning into the arms of a doorman. Well, as far as my brother’s flattened finger popping back into its normal shape, it was just as good as I was concerned.

The grim fear and trepidation felt by everyone present had now been replaced by the atmosphere of a neighborhood get-together. Some snacks appeared. Phil was patted on the head. He held up his index finger as a testimony to his ridiculous courage. By the time Mom got home, three hours had gone by. In our world, accidents and calamities happen often. When it did, we were ready. 

Near tragedy could quickly turn into a funny memory. My brother Bill frequently brought this story up. He thought it was so insane and goofy that he wished it had happened to him. One possible scientific explanation has recently been called in. The asphalt, not being fully compacted, allowed Phil’s five-year-old finger to sink into the soft asphalt as the roller passed over it. Obtaining hard factual data to support this story was like searching for the Dead Sea Scrolls. 

My sister Barb insists the story is true. Larry thought it was a family myth. Phil thinks that he might have just forgotten it. Forgotten it?!! How do you forget a steamroller rolling over your finger?! We may have to do some DNA testing to clear this mystery up.

Centrifugal Forces and 

The Lasagna Great Smooth Over

My mother, Elaine, was always ready for action. If the cuff of your pants needed hemming, it could be done in less than five minutes. However, some dilemmas were not so easy to resolve.

It was a warm day in the early 60’s. Our eight family members were careening down Guffins Bay Road and headed to the shore for a picnic. Dad was driving the big maroon Oldsmobile Station wagon. Each youngster had their own seat. Those in the backseat were always susceptible to my mother’s crumpled Kleenex. If she looked back to straighten us up, she might also thrust a Kleenex in our less-than-clean faces. We dodged and weaved, trying to avoid Mom, but she always got her man. Anyone growing up during that era can relate.

Sitting in the far back of the station wagon, my brothers had it made. Mom could never reach them. The guys had to stretch out diagonally in the back with a big pan of lasagna at their feet. My father was now approaching the turn for our friends’ cottage. This would be the infamous turn that, in about five years, I would miss by a mile. Now, Dad might have been distracted by one of the kids yelling they had to go to the bathroom and took that turn on two wheels. The centrifugal forces sent everyone, including Mom’s lasagna, flying.

One minute, we were a typical American family with intentions of spending a day feasting and swimming. A split second later, our world as we knew it was upside down. It was like a trip to the county fair. When you get on the Scrambler, everybody slides across the seat, and the kid on the outside gets squashed by his siblings. 

As Dad braked to a dusty stop, he called out, “Alright, calm down! Everyone, just calm down!” My brother Bill began to laugh and yelled, “Hey, Mom, Phil’s feet are in the lasagna!” Oh brother, of all things to happen, did it have to be that?!

My mother was out her door in a flash with a huge handful of Kleenex. The Exxon Valdez would have nothing on this cleanup! I took a peek in the back. Billy was scrambling as far from Phil and the lasagna as possible. From the back seat, my mother was moving towards him. Barb blurted, “Oh, gross!!” Mom grabbed the pan, and Philip kept saying, “It’s not my fault! The pan flew at my feet fast. I couldn’t get out of the way!” 

Mom paid him no attention. She smoothed the lasagna like a professional chef, then put the aluminum foil back over the pan. With Kleenex, elbow grease, and some mystery moisture, she tried cleaning Philip’s high-mileage sneakers. I don’t want to say that Philip’s sneakers were really funky, but they could still stand a good hosing off.

Everyone resumed their places, and we continued down the road. We were warned to say nothing about my brother’s sneakers and their proximity to Mom’s lasagna. Sometime during the picnic, someone blurted something about what had happened. I didn’t hear what was said, but there was a tense silence. A dog was noticed licking the bottom of a certain kid’s shoes. All in all, it was a good day. We got to swim and eat and meet some new kids. We had a good emergency practice drill, and it had come off beautifully. For some families, this could have been a near disaster. In those days, we ate disasters for dinners.

Recreating the Beatles

On February 9, 1964, most parents and some teenagers were shocked when the Beatles made their debut on The Ed Sullivan Show. Most of us over the age of 50 remember that fateful night. When they hit the airwaves, there was no stopping their music or their fans.

Within days, makeshift Beatles bands had sprung up everywhere. The Towne house was no exception. I’d sneak my father’s drum kit out when he was at work and practice to Beatle records. Dad, if you’re reading this, I figure I owe you $4.85 for wear and tear on your drumsticks and set. Sorry!

I knew some guys in my neighborhood who played guitars, and I talked them into forming a band. A boy who was younger than me, Rob Foster, would be the drawing card. He was a good-looking 13-year-old who could sing and play; he only didn’t like girls at the time. A few years later, he discovered they weren’t so bad. Joe Shimkonis was a year or two older than me. He was a good guitar player and easygoing. We all liked him. For a short time, we also had a bass player named John Davis. He was pretty old at 18.

We would practice in Joe’s basement, which had to be one of the nicest on Columbia Street. 

It had real tile flooring, and there were even lamps down there, unlike our basement, which had two hanging light bulbs, a potato bin, and a coal pile. Life was beginning to open up for me now. We practiced, and we got pretty good. Kids came down to watch us. Girls even! Joe’s parents came down to watch us, too. Their names were Zoley and Alice. Alice was a pleasant artist who was supportive. Zoley was a factory worker who was a little like Zorba the Greek. He worked at being gruff, but he had a good heart, especially if he decided you were a good kid. 

One day, we got a call to play at our first gig. It would be a dance in the basement of Hope Presbyterian Church on the north side. For a young Catholic boy, this was almost like a trip to a foreign country. We’d heard that this was where the bad kids lived. My mother made us powder blue collarless Beatle jackets. We weren’t too sure about the powder blue, but we wore them anyway. My Mom had worked hard on them.

The night came, and we were nervous. We got rides to the Presbyterian Church. When we brought our equipment, including my brand-new drums, into the basement, we were surprised. There was a stage at one end, and lots of kids! Hurriedly, we set up, glancing nervously at each other. Everything was ready, and the adult chaperones wanted us to start playing. There seemed to be some pent-up energy in the room. 

Joe kicked it off with a four-count. I don’t know what we played, but the reaction was immediate. The kids surged against the stage. Wow! This was happening on our first time out!

I could feel the energy, and I started driving the beat a bit more. Joe, who didn’t smile too much, was actually smiling now. Rob, on vocals, had the eyes of every girl in the place on him. He liked the attention but wouldn’t look down at the girl's faces. Isn’t that just like life? I would have traded my drums for Rob’s voice and that Paul McCartney look. Oh well, I’m still loving this playing-out thing. Will it always be like this? After that night, it would never be as good. This was a fluke. We didn’t know it at the time.

Toward the end of our first set, I looked to the right to see a girl standing by the stage, staring at me. For almost 50 minutes, I had been taking in the girls who were mesmerized by Rob. However, one girl out of the 100 had eyes locked on me. I could only see her silhouette because someone had opened the door behind her. Maybe she’s cute, I thought. She definitely was taller than me, though.

Suddenly, it was break time. I couldn’t just sit there. Rob was surrounded by pretty girls, his worst nightmare! I slowly walked to the side of the stage and went down the stairs. 

I headed for the door, but the mystery girl cut me off. I looked up. I was speechless. We were almost at the doorway, and the light lit up her face. Now, before I write this next part, I want to say I’m not really handsome. This girl, however, was like realizing that Hoss Cartwright’s little sister had eyes for you. She was a head taller than me and looked like she could whip me in arm wrestling. I choked out, “Hi”. She said, “I like the way you play the drums.” I swallowed hard. She followed me out the backdoor. A group of north side toughs were sitting there smoking. I was in shock. They said, “Hey Carol, didja get yourself a drummer boy?!” “Shut up, jerks!” she snapped. They shut up.

Immediately, Carol turned to me. I was backed up against the wall. Her face was close to mine. She was snapping and popping her gum. If only one of the guys would start making some noises on their guitar. We stood there in silence for a few minutes. Finally, she said, “Do you have a lot of girlfriends? Have you ever been to first base?” “First base? Girlfriends? I have no girlfriends, and I’ve never even been out of the dugout!” I said. I tried to stall for time. “Hey,” Carol said, “Do you like me or what?! Or are you one of those guys that strings girls along and then drops them like a hot potato?”

The tough guys were standing now and looking at me. Oh God, I thought, in two minutes, I’ve gone from Beatles status to potential bodily harm. Wait a minute! 

I hear Joe’s guitar and Rob’s, too. “I’ve got to get going. The band is starting up!” I blurted. Carol and the punks did not look happy. “What about your phone number?” she said. Reluctantly, I gave her my number. What could I do?! End up at the bottom of the Black River?!

I got a few phone calls over the next few months from Carol. We didn’t talk much. I told her I had to quit the band and all my spare time was spent mowing lawns and doing homework. 

Finally, my mother got on the phone with her. Quickly, I left the room. I didn’t want to hear any of it. Carol never called me back. Though she had been smitten by a teenage Beatle-wannabe, my mother must have said something very calm but frightening to Hoss Cartwrights’ little sister. Thanks, Mom! I owe ya.

The Wonder Years

In the early 1960’s, the Ouellette’s bought a cottage on Guffins Bay. Uncle Larry, Aunt Shirley, cousins Sherry, Alan, Doree, Lauren, David, Linda, and Marty were there. One year later, we Towne’s had also invaded Guffins Bay, buying a cottage two down from our cousins.

As far as helping to increase the population, the Ouellette’s had seven kids, and the Towne’s had six. In water fights, we were always outnumbered. But it didn’t matter on hot summer days, for almost everyone was looking to get wet one way or the other. I talked to my cousin, Doree, tonight. She gave my memory a good jog about the many ways we managed to get each other wet.

Doree went on to say that the fun escalated when my brother Larry grabbed a hose and directed a stream of water through a window screen into Ouellette’s cottage. What precipitated this bold move was hardly believable. You see, Aunt Shirley had tried to throw a pan of water on Larry. The interesting part of the story is that she was on the roof of their cottage at the time. This was an ingenious water fight move! It would also explain my brother’s revenge with the garden hose. 

We were moving to a whole new level of fun. When I called Aunt Shirley for more details, she described how I and the other boys had grabbed her wrists and ankles and proceeded to drag her kicking and screaming, into the bay.

This must have been the last straw for my Aunt. The next victim would be my father. Dad was a hardworking guy. After a long day away from us, he would drive to the cottage and catch a nap on one of the overstuffed chairs. My Aunt Shirley must have had some radar working that day. With a glass of water, she ran from their cottage to ours. “Open the door, and keep it open!” she said as she ran past me. So I did. Always obey your elders. She crossed the room in about two seconds. She threw that water on my Dad’s sleeping face, and then she spun around like a hockey player and was out the door in a flash.

Dad opened his eyes and blinked, so I quickly stepped backward and closed the screen door. Strangely enough, Dad never got up to come to the door to find his attacker, which made me curious.

I decided to call my father in Florida. Having talked to him previously about events from my childhood that seemed significant to me, I wasn’t very optimistic about gaining any more information about this day. 

When he answered the phone, I decided not to beat around the bush. “Hey, Dad,” I said, “Do you remember waking up at the cottage in 1964 with your face soaking wet?” There were about four seconds of silence.

 “Uh, no, not really,” he said. There was his standard answer for the unexplained weird things that happened before 1966. I venture a guess that after blinking his eyes, Dad looked down at his wet shirt, wiped his face, shook his head, and resumed sleeping. That day, I learned my Dad’s penchant for an afternoon nap.

Bicycle Races and Crashes

Growing up in the 1950s and 1960s, life was relatively predictable. However, that all changed on one summer day in 1961, when the excitement meter peaked and crashed in two days. My brothers and I somehow got some old used bikes. They were heavy, but we didn't care. We sanded, painted, and repaired them as best we could. We could now go places beyond our walking limits.

One day, I thought of a way to have more fun with our bikes. I imagined building a racetrack on the field next to our house. That afternoon, I stood on the broad hill, thinking this might work. The field was mostly dry grass and weeds. 

Leading some neighborhood kids and my brothers with rakes and shovels, we started working. It would be a good-sized oval track, something that you could cut loose on. We worked all day and after supper. The next day, with more borrowed tools, we went at it again. It still amazes me that my father didn't come up and shut down our construction project. The land belonged to someone, but we didn’t worry about that.

Finally, we decided it was ready. Everyone dropped their tools and ran for their bikes. Our heavy bikes were lifted up and over the stone-walled embankment and passed to waiting hands. That hand-built stone wall might have a story, but it can wait for now.

Kids started riding on the track right away. I pictured some kind of a mass start. Oh, well. I plunged into the action by jumping on my bike, which was too big for me (I hardly ever rode on the seat). There must have been 15 or more kids out there. It was our Field of Dreams. "If you build it, they will come.”

It was every man for himself. Smiling and laughing, we pedaled faster, just from the excitement of it all. We were passing each other, cutting each other off at the inside turns. Sometimes there was a breakdown. Some kid's front wheel would fly off; that was sort of funny. Usually, it was a chain off the sprocket. We had borrowed a few tools, so we'd get the racers back on the track pretty quickly. Other kids, including girls, appeared on the hill. We had an audience. The guys really poured it on now. Wow! This was even better than I'd imagined!

I was just holding my own, pedaling as fast as I could on this semi-loose dirt track. Everyone was skidding on every turn, some flying off the track. The kids were cheering. Something happened on a turn; somebody went down. I was back a little ways. Uh oh! One after another, kids and bikes began to pile up. I steered off the course and crashed. After getting up, I ran to the tangle. It wasn't pretty. Boys were stuck with their legs pinned under theirs or someone else's bike. Pant legs were caught in bicycle chains. Some kid was crying and dragging home his banana seat bike with a flat tire and bent rim. One guy was lying in the dirt with a bent leg, holding his knee and wincing. The girls just stood there with their mouths open.

I learned that summer day how things often don't go as expected. What looks good can sometimes mysteriously turn into something bad. And, of course, the reverse sometimes happens. After supper, I knew the racetrack was done up on the hill. My parents might get a call or two from a parent whose son had a wrecked bike or had gotten scraped up. On the whole, it hadn't been a bad couple of days. We built a race track and had great fun for a few hours. For a 13-year-old boy, that was pretty good, and I didn't even get in trouble or grounded.

The Authentic Spear

Last night, my sister Barb and I were talking when she said, “You boys were rough and wild when you were young!” She went on venting for a while. Even though I can’t remember her exact words, I can read between the lines. Apparently, she felt that when we could get away with it, my brothers and I were ruffians and pranksters. Her memories cut me to the quick, but after a liter of
 A & W Diet Root Beer, I was okay with Barb’s remembrances. We were just average, active boys who were sometimes a little reckless and crazy.

The following event is an example. Barb reminded me of one incident. Our parents had gone out on a Saturday evening and left us with a babysitter. Bill, Larry, and I were out in the field next door playing cowboys and Indians. Though I don’t remember the next part, Barb insists what happened next is the truth. Somehow, I had made a spear with a sharp-edged tip. 

During the course of our Little Big Horn reenactment, 

someone (maybe me?) launched the spear. Bill probably never saw it coming. The spear hit him in the head. Larry and I must have run to our brother in great alarm. We were rough and tough, but this was beyond our ability to cope with. Bill stood still for a moment. 

After a minute, he recovered somewhat but was bleeding pretty good. Ewww! We were grossed out!

He began to walk towards home. We followed him, amazed at his composure. He didn’t cry at all. Bill, I now believe, probably had a concussion. Maybe this was like Indians who go on a vision quest, a period of trials and endurance. 

My brother, who was usually a wild and crazy guy, had, in a moment, become a major stoic. He was focused on one thing only: getting home. Bill seemed impervious to pain or loss of bodily fluids. We followed him in confusion and awe.

When we arrived home, things went from not too bad to about as bad as they could get. While we administered first aid to Bill, who was strangely calm and distant, the babysitter called my mother on the phone. Barb says that when our Mom got home, things got really bad. Suffice it to say that neither Larry nor I could sit down or leave our house for at least a month.

William Douglas Towne, on the other hand, walked around Watertown with a slight swagger. Children would ask to see his scar. He never failed to give them time to admire the best Indian scar a kid could ever get. P.S. For years, Bill would bring up this incident. I was always skeptical. Now I find out that I was right in the middle of it. How selective is what’s left of my memory…

By the Light of a Foreboding Moon

On a long-ago summer night at the cottage, Al Ouellette, Larry, and Billy skulked across my Aunt and Uncle's lawn, tripping over several croquet hoops in the process. Their attempt to sneak away from their cottages for a night of fun, as only teenage boys can have, was slowed down by the load of supplies they carried. With sleeping bags slung over their shoulders, a bag of food, and a six-pack or two of cheap beer, the guys were excited about their future adventures.

Once they reached a wooded area in a farmer's field, their destination for a night of revelry and camping out, Al, Lar, and Bill threw their sleeping bags on the ground, along with several cans of Chef Boyardee Beef Ravioli and a few beers.

Soon, a fire was lit in anticipation of a great dinner. The guys heated unopened cans of food until they exploded. Then, they might have fallen on their backs and tried to spot a shooting star or the Big Dipper.

According to Al, the grand finale was about to start. Larry's eyes would become quite droopy. Gas would erupt from one of the guys from time to time. Billy and Al would give each other the secret wink. As Larry drifted off, the cousins would sneak out of camp to gather rocks, probably the "softest" ones they could find. Suddenly, rocks would start flying in Larry's direction, where he lay sprawled. Larry would wake up startled and a little foggy. Raised as a good Catholic schoolboy, my brother Larry may have been at a loss for words until a small rock hit him. I'm sure Al and Billy heard some colorful language from our more serious brother. To retaliate, Larry would hide the other guy's sleeping bags. 

Eventually, Al and Bill snuck back into camp. Awake and waiting for them, Larry smoothly said, "I don't suppose you'll need your sleeping bags, will you? It's pretty warm tonight." Larry quickly threw some rocks at the guys as they jumped, howled, and danced over the rough ground. "Revenge was sweet," he thought as Al and Billy ran for cover. It was the end of another memorable summer night.

Into the Limestone

In my early years, my friends Rick and Dale Carpenter got me to do things that I would never have tried on my own. Cave exploring was a whole new level of adventure and fun. I was nervous the first time I was introduced to the underground world. I had experienced claustrophobia before, and it wasn't good.

We made our torches that summer day. Dale and I tore up tall dead grass, and Rick broke up some rusty barbed wire he had found. Binding the dry grass tightly with the barbed wire, we had a couple of torches each. We approached the entrance to the cave, which was overgrown with brush. Rick went first, pushing the brush aside. I went next, and it was almost straight down into a cleft in the limestone bedrock. There was still some light from the entrance to the cave. The walls were about three feet apart. The bottom was filled with water. I had no idea how deep that was. You had to spread your legs and place your feet in these grooves worn into the walls. This must have been where the water level was in the Spring. If not for that, there would be no way in. We each lit a torch and could see pretty well.

The cave was gently curving. The rock was off-white and smooth. I liked this. Suddenly, the seat of my pants got hot. I almost yelled as I whipped around. Dale jerked his torch back, smiled, and pointed ahead to his brother. I got it. Shuffling quickly to catch Rick, I held my torch a few feet below him. A couple of seconds later, Dale and I burst out laughing when Rick reacted with a surprised yell. This sounded pretty loud, with his voice bouncing around the walls. He'd make us pay for that later. Rick was bigger and stronger than either Dale or me.

Everything was going well till we got to a place where the cave led to a hole. That hole, just big enough to get through, then dropped eight feet or so into a small room. The brothers hardly hesitated. Down they dropped. They called to me, "Come on, there's plenty of room down here!" I took a deep breath and jumped. Dale steadied me after I hit the floor. The room wasn't too big. I could feel the beginnings of nervousness. I looked up at the hole in the ceiling. How do we get back up there?!

Rick was already starting down a four-foot-high channel leading out of the room. Leaving the kitchen-sized room down this channel seemed the only option. Wherever these guys went, I would go. I couldn't wimp out. I had a lot of confidence and trust in them. We started duck-walking through a foot of water. Our heads brushed against the rough ceiling. This channel was like a snake winding back and forth. 

I think that at some point, we'd had enough. Our thighs were burning, and we were on our last torch. 

Thank God, someone other than me said, "Ah, let's turn around. Nothin' much down this way". A strange feeling came over me. It wasn't really a relief that we had turned around. The claustrophobia was gone. I just felt pretty good. I needed to figure out how to get through that hole at the top of the room.

Feeling like the three of us were explorers and that somehow we did it was enough. My legs were still burning when we got back to the room. We figured out a way to boost each other up. We also teamed up to reach down, grab the last one, and pull him up. It was almost dark now; our torches used up. But that was okay. We could feel our way out from here, feet sliding along the grooved walls.

Years later, we would attempt bigger caves along the Black River. They were much bigger and longer, with many slabs that had been dynamited from the ceiling. It wasn't the same as those early years. I felt too big for the small passages between the rooms. I miss being a naive kid who looked at each adventure with a kind of reckless caution.

Shallow Diving can be Quite Stunning.

One warm summer afternoon in 1967, my Uncle Don’s family came to visit us at our cottage on Guffins Bay. I recall the beautiful weather. We were all enjoying a picnic. After a while, some of my cousins decided to go swimming. I already had my swimsuit on, but I decided to stand on the dock and watch. Our neighbor, Bob Williams, was out rowing with a couple of kids in his boat.

Everything was going well until I heard my Aunt Millie scream. Her son, Lenny, had swum out into deeper water and was in trouble. He went under two or three times and was clearly struggling. Everyone was yelling to get Bob's attention. Uncle Don was wading in but couldn’t swim. Snapping out of my shock, I hit the water like a bullet. But I should have dived a lot shallower. Forgetting the water was low, I slammed into the rock-hard bottom and stopped dead. I was stunned, and a few things hurt, like my stomach, chest, knees, and chin. After a quick assessment, I remembered Lenny. I came to the surface swimming. With pain and a feeling of panic, adrenaline will often come to your assistance. Bob and I reached Lenny at about the same time. Grabbing Lenny, we hoisted him into the boat. He’d swallowed some water, but he was okay. I didn’t feel so good, however. I felt like I had hit the limestone pretty hard.

Well, that’s my smaller-than-life hero story. My heroic attempts seem more like the antics of Inspector Clouseau than Tarzan. Oh well, it’s the thought that counts, I guess. Occasionally, when I recall that day, I think of how it might have been if only I’d had a rehearsal for the rescue. I’d have done a great shallow dive, which would have gotten me to Lenny sooner. When I returned to the waiting family on shore, I thought there might have been some spontaneous applause. Instead, the family seemed to avert their eyes and looked at Lenny leaning back in the boat.

 I couldn’t blame them when I realized that I was staggering on the slimy, smooth rock. It was a sight to see. Some of that green algae coated the front of my swimming trunks. My knees were pretty scraped up, and my head hurt. Other than that…I was fine.

I loved the movies of Tarzan when I was a kid. He would wrestle a crocodile or even a lion to save his woman. When he returned to Jane after a fight, he looked exhilarated. Audie Murphy would fight half a tribe of Indians with great effort, and his hat never fell off. I’ve done a lot of foolhardy things, but I’ve never had a shining heroic finish. That’s okay. I’ve slowly learned over time that being able to help people is rewarding enough. No applause is needed.

Shipwreck

Nan told me that she got very queasy when she typed this story and the stories about cod liver oil. This one is for you!

My sister Barb tried to stay out of trouble as a young girl. But on any given day, trouble could be lurking where you’d least expect it. Barb impulsively decided to take a bath on a Saturday afternoon. We were supposed to take one bath a week on Saturday night. That was the rule.

Well, Barb decided to break the rules and take her bath once early in the day. She stepped into our claw foot bathtub filled with 4” of hot water; she claimed it was only 2”. Barb had just settled into the water when along came my father. He knocked on the bathroom door. “Hey, who’s in there? What are you doing?” Dad loudly asked. “I’m taking a bath!!” said Barb. “Taking a bath?! You can’t take a bath now! It’s only the afternoon. Get out of there!” he told her.

Barb emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel. My father had said something about having to play in his band that night. He went to shave with a straight razor, apply his Old Spice, and bathe—oh, and maybe add some Vitalis to his hair. So, Barb was already off to a rocky start that day.

Mom is busy throwing together some pans of her special homemade lasagna. The aroma of tomato sauce and Italian sausage quickly filled the house. My mom’s lasagna was almost to die for! The anticipation was building. My mother began to clean the house, but it wasn’t like normal cleaning. She was mopping and waxing the kitchen floor. We knew something was up.

Mom told Barb the Ha Ha Club would meet at our house that night. Excuse me; they are an actual club formed by my mother and her high school friends. They meet once a month at each other’s homes, where they eat and laugh all night, much to the chagrin of their families.

Mom smiled when she told  Barb they would make a special dish called Shipwreck for us kids. Barb had never heard of it and wondered if she was doctoring up some leftovers as she often did.  

I’ve always been leery of any food with the word “wreck” in it. Be it a shipwreck or train wreck, I tend to steer clear. 

My sister watched our mother begin combining the ingredients for this peculiar surprise. Mom began layering ingredients like navy beans, lima beans, and some unidentifiable “mystery” meat. Next, she layered sliced onions and potatoes with a sprinkling of cornstarch and paprika. My mother assured Barb that it would taste good. 

She smiled proudly as she removed the casserole from the oven. My mother quickly served up plates of steaming shipwreck. “Come on, down the hatch!” said Mom. Get it? Ships, down the hatch… We all dug in like it was our last meal.  Barb looked at her plate. With grim determination, she began to eat. Her face is now a mask of consternation as she eats spoonfuls of shipwreck. But her nose can still smell the fragrant lasagna. Barb finally manages to finish the food on her plate.

It was time to prepare for the HaHa club dinner. Mom asked the girls to get the good plates, usually used only on holidays and special occasions. Barb stands on a chair and hands down the plates to our younger sister, Nancy. But something in Barb’s stomach begins to churn. She feels like she is on a raft on the high seas. Oh no, there’s a sudden shipwreck eruption. Look out, Nancy! My sister, Barb, loses her supper and barely misses Nancy. But the eruption of shipwreck hits the newly waxed floor.

My mother runs into the kitchen. Near pandemonium ensues! The ladies are about to arrive. Somehow, Elaine Towne does what needs to be done. She always did. Mom could bounce back with the best of them.

The Tomato Soup Salad of Life.

Every five years or so, my siblings will be conversing at a family gathering, and a certain subject will come up regarding my mother’s cooking. In the early years, I can remember Dad going on strike at the Air Brake. Mom would then get surplus food from the Army Reserve, such as Peanut Butter, Powered Eggs and Milk, and some mystery meat. Mom got pretty creative with the limited food we had, which was, at times, a little shocking.

Watching my Mom work with peanut butter in various foods was mesmerizing. Mom frequently made peanut butter cookies, peanut butter fudge, and peanut butter frosting. I think she even snuck peanut butter into a cake once. 

She tried to get my Dad to put it on his Secret Toast once, but that’s where he drew the line. What happened next wasn’t pretty. Dad grabbed his can of bacon grease, took his coal-fired toast, and stomped back down the cellar stairs. Don’t mess with a man's toast.

We got used to wacky cakes made with mayonnaise and tomato soup cakes.  But the most mysterious and somewhat controversial dish Mom introduced to us in the early ’60s was tomato soup salad. It sounds a little different but fairly tame. This special dish would appear on holidays like Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Halloween. Well, maybe not Halloween. The first encounter I had with it was a little scary to me. I can’t remember if I used a spoon or a fork to eat it, but my first mouthful was…weird. It was a little slimy, and just as soon as I got used to this texture, something crunched in my teeth. It turned out to be a walnut. Okay, what else will I find?! Suddenly, there was a new taste and texture; this was cream cheese. I must have made a face because Mom looked over and said, “Try another bite. You never know what you’re going to find.” I really dislike cream cheese to this day.

Being the young, naïve kid that I was, I dug in for more. This time, as I chewed through the slimy tomato stuff, I felt another crunch. It was more of a stringy crunch. Then my mother asked, “Did you find some celery?” Oh yeah, that’s what it was. “Keep going”, she said. “You might find something good.” I plunged in for another mouthful. 

Surely, Mom wouldn’t tell me something good was in this if there wasn’t. Wait a minute. What was this? My Mom was watching with eyebrows raised and a big smile. I frowned, and Mom said, “Did you find some shrimp?” That’s it. I loved shrimp! I ate it up and thought about having some more. But wait a minute. What else was in this tomato soup salad? What am I going to bite into before I get another shrimp? 

This is risky. What if there are chunks of liver? Okay, I’m backing off. One helping was enough.

My mother was looking at my siblings. I think one of them was gagging. They were struggling a little, some pretending to eat. My mother didn’t seem to notice. In fact, for years afterward, she would recall how at least one of us loved her special tomato soup salad. We would point at each other and cover up our plates as she tried to spoon up a big glob for each of us. 

I still love shrimp, but I’m not able to eat any of the other ingredients together or separately. My psychologist says that I don’t seem to be permanently scarred. I’m not sure about the rest of the family. I’ve heard rumors that my brother Larry used to call Mom every Thanksgiving to request another copy of her recipe for this holiday dish. His wife Jane could never recall what happened to last year's recipe. Her plan never worked, though. Mom always came through with another copy of the recipe.

Our Mysterious Attic becomes a Trap for my Youngest Brother.

In the late 1960s, Bill, Phil, and I decided to explore our attic. We opened the door, climbed the stairs, and pushed the large trap door open. We decided to do something up there, but right now, I can't remember what. But I'm sure we were up to some mischief.

As we went from one gabled window to another, we felt we were looking down on the whole neighborhood. Our house was tall and on a hill, so we had a good view from the attic. That day, I remember Bill seemed to be sneezing more than usual. He had hay fever, and if he squinted his eyes and looked at anything bright, like the sun, he could sneeze for at least 20 minutes--more than any kid we knew!

After wandering around for a while, we all decided to go downstairs. Just as Bill and I made it to the hallway, Bill quickly turned and slammed the door shut on Phil, who was right behind us. I was a little surprised, but I didn't react to this turn of events. Phil began yelling as he turned the doorknob back and forth, to no avail. Suddenly, he threw his tall, gangly body against the door. Bill and I pushed back from our side. Phil might have blown his top when he heard us laughing. We heard Phil yell in what sounded like a foreign language as he repeatedly slammed his shoulder against the door.

Don't ask me what happened, but the door casing had shifted radically and pushed in a couple of inches. Suddenly, Bill and I realized we didn't have to push back anymore. Just as we started jumping up and down and laughing like fools, my Dad came bounding up the stairs. From the sound of our laughter, he knew something was up. Bill and I froze. 

We hadn’t been paying attention to the time (Time flies when you're having fun!), or we wouldn’t have been caught at the scene of the “mishap.” "Alright, alright, what's going on up here?!" Dad shouted.

This question definitely caught Bill and me off guard. But, of course, Bill was quick to answer. "Dad, Dad! Phil is stuck in the attic!" he blurted as he pulled on the doorknob very hard. Bill was really good at this type of quick thinking, and I learned quite a bit from his antics.

Phil was still hitting the attic door with his shoulder when Dad yelled, "Stop that, Philip, stop!" There was a pause where no one spoke. I almost said out loud, "Dad, Dad, we've got to get him out of there!" but I realized that wasn't necessary. His jaw was set. 

He mumbled something about needing tools and spun around, heading down the stairs. Dad was a "man on a mission." A few minutes later, we heard him stomping up the stairs.

Dad had brought up a pry bar, a hammer, a chisel, and other tools he felt might be necessary to win this battle. 

Dad had that look of grim determination with his clenched teeth and a penetrating stare. 

The three of us boys became very quiet. Dad was like a man in a coal mine extracting coal. He worked steadily without looking at anything but the door and his tools. We heard him mutter "Judas Priest!" more than once as he attacked the doorjamb. This was as close to swearing as the old man ever came. He pried, levered, pounded, and pulled. The door casing was jammed every which way. Bill and I glanced at each other, doing our best to suppress our impish temptation to grin or laugh.

Finally, the door broke free, and Phil's ordeal was over. He emerged sweaty and tried to explain to Dad that he couldn’t have pushed the door because he was on the inside. Dad said if you hadn’t been in the attic in the first place, it would never have happened. Billy and I immediately started backing down the stairs as quickly and quietly as possible before Dad asked us how the door got pushed in.

As to any consequences Bill and I might have suffered from this minor mishap, my mind is blank at this point. Perhaps that's just as well. I owe a word of apology to my youngest brother. Sorry, Phil, Dad, you did a really good job of extricating Phil. Remember that day, Dad? If not, that's okay. As you often remind me, "It's all part of growing up.”

Bill’s Short Stint in the Army

In the early ‘70s, Bill was drafted into the Army. Let's say he didn’t go without kicking and screaming. He tried every excuse he could think of, but the Army was determined that they wouldn’t win the war without him. 

They sent him off to Boot Camp. After a few weeks of Bill complaining of so many medical conditions, some of which they had never even heard of, they were hard-pressed to find anything they could assign him to do. I guess they decided that one less soldier wouldn’t make a difference on the war front. The Army made him sign a waiver promising them that he would NEVER attempt to reenlist in the military, especially the Army, and he never did!

The Pink Retro Equine Wrap

My sister Barb is a city girl gone a little bit country. With cowboy boots and the country-girl look, she has established herself on the cutting edge of fashion and country line dancing, a force to be reckoned with. 

Barb occasionally falls down, and we don’t know why. She just does. Recovering from an injury to one leg,  she fell again just before Christmas, and now her good knee was swollen and hurt to walk on. Her doctor told her that her meniscus might be knocked out of alignment. 

But Barb is a real trooper; nothing can keep her down very long. Even with two bad legs, she managed to get around. With grim determination, she wrapped her legs with Ace bandages to make them feel better. However, she could barely pull her jeans on over the bandages. When she tried to walk, her gait was not quite normal.

One New Year’s Eve, she wrestled with her dilemma. How could she dress up for the big night with ugly-looking wrap on her legs?! She tried wearing a cute little pink skirt, a 70’s style bright pink top with her high fancy boots that didn’t quite cover the Ace bandages. Only one thing was missing, and my sister knew what it was. 

She limped to her car and drove straight to the local farm center. This is the store for all your equestrian needs, and Barb will tell you that you don’t have to prove that you have a horse to shop there, either.

Right away, she was drawn to a selection of designer horse wraps. There was a bright pink wrap that would look great on a woman or beast. She bought a few yards of this fancy leg wrap and limped out to her car, heading home to get ready for the big night. The clock was ticking away, and New Year’s Eve was upon her. Could she pull off this pink 70’s/80’s look with the bright pink horse accessory? How would people react? What would her line dancing look like? Her mind whirled like a top. Throwing the retro outfit together, she snapped the pink wrap over the Ace bandages and headed to her favorite club. Barb was going to meet with friends, listen to the band, and hobble around the dance floor. She’s like a younger version of our late Mom and loved to dance.

People stared open-mouthed and finally asked Barb about her new look. With a mischievous look, she said, “It’s a retro look with a coordinating designer leg wrap.” Eyes were upon her as she attempted to dance—or rather hop around on one leg in that bright pink ensemble, which gave her a look resembling a pink flamingo.

I predicted a future trend. Women would soon trot to a fancy equine boutique. There might be some tension as determined city cowgirls wrestle for the extra-fancy designer equine wrap. I hope that horses in the North Country don’t have to suffer from unwrapped legs, knees, and ankles, which are possibly caused by the shortage of wraps meant for horses but grabbed by fashion-crazed line-dancing women.

Sleeping in a Snow Cave.

This story begins on a frigid Saturday morning in January of 1982.  My brother Phil and I planned to spend the night camping on top of a mountain in the Adirondack high peaks. Sometimes, you have to do things that defy common sense. This is a perfect example of us knowing the risks ahead of time but doing it anyway. 

I had first climbed Big Slide Mountain the previous Fall, and I liked the views of the great range. We intended to climb an adjoining rock ridge called The Brothers. Phil and I would sleep in a tent or make a snow cave on the ridge. Then, on Sunday morning, we would hike the remaining climb to the summit of Big Slide.

Starting our climb at the Keene Valley trailhead, we pushed hard and gradually warmed up. I wondered how the weather would be on the exposed ridge. Phil and I were breathing hard when we started ascending toward the ridge. We thought we were dressed for cold weather, but soon, we faced a serious challenge. There was fresh snow to break, and as we climbed higher, it got colder.

Once we reached the exposed ridge,  we felt the wind's full force as it cut through our clothing. The wind chill factor made the temperature feel well below zero. 

Our large backpacks meant the wind buffeted us, making it hard to stand still. Phil and I looked at each other as if to ask what we were getting ourselves into. I hadn’t counted on these strong winds, and they began to concern me. Our climb pace slowed to a crawl. The bitter, westerly wind made us lean into them to make any progress. We had to ensure we didn’t lose footing between the wind and the icy path.

We paused to catch our breath and take a drink. I asked Phil how his face, feet, and hands were feeling, and he said he was okay as long as we kept moving. His hat covered his face, exposing only a little skin. My hands had been frost-nipped on another snow outing, and now they were more inclined to get cold quickly. They were starting to tingle, so I warmed them up in my armpits. 

We decided to climb for a few more minutes before turning back. We trudged on, neither wanting to quit when we were so close. I turned towards my brother to say it was time to head back down, and I spotted the cleft. “There it is!” I yelled. Veering right, we quickly scrambled down a short, steep rock outcrop. It was caused by a retreating glacier!

Walking into the large cleft in this granite rock face, we felt an immediate absence of the bitter wind. Even better, it was half full of wind-packed snow. Looking at each other's ice-frosted beards, we smiled. Life was good. 

Not everyone standing on the rock face would say that, but we knew the comfort potential that the snowdrift contained.

I followed all the advice in the Eskimo books I had read. We put our shovels to work. Within 15 minutes, we had tunneled into the snow drift, and our temporary home was ready. A small tunnel led up to a higher room with plenty of spacious headroom no claustrophobia here. 

We punched a small ventilation shaft in the roof, and I lit some candles to warm up our temporary home. Next, we laid down our sleeping pads and then our bags. We continued to unpack. Phil blocked the doorway with his pack; after a little while, we realized the frost on our beards was melting. This was great. I felt warm and cozy. Let it blow 20mph outside. Phil and I would sleep warm in our snow cave.

We stretched out on our sleeping bags, easing tired muscles and enjoying not having a 30-pound pack on our backs. We were both thirsty and famished. Phil set up his one-burner stove, and we melted snow for drinking water. We made soup from Ramen noodles, melted snow, and any leftovers we brought from home. I added my secret mixture of spices to liven it up. Within 20 minutes, we were chowing down on dinner only two hungry men or a pack of wolves would eat. 

It didn’t take us long to gobble it down, and then it was time for some hot lemonade and chocolate bars. 

Using so much energy climbing in these extreme conditions makes it possible to eat anything and not gain an ounce.

We stretched out and agreed that this was total comfort. Let it freeze and blow all night outside. After talking for quite a while about our day, we decided to turn in and get an early start in the morning. I hung a chemical stick for light in case we needed to find anything in the night. Snuggling down into my bag, it wasn’t long before I was asleep. 

Phil’s feet were tight against his backpack, our makeshift door. Between a cold draft and sweat-soaked socks, his feet had started to go numb. He knew he could get frostbite if he didn’t warm them up soon, so he removed the wet socks, put his feet in his wool mittens, and wrapped an emergency space blanket around them. Finally, he got them warmed up.

As soon as we woke up, we got the stove and made coffee; this was almost like waking up at home. Phil told me how he ended up with mittens on his feet. That’s something I hadn’t read in my Eskimo books.  We cooked a hot breakfast and talked about today’s climb. Would we climb to the top of Big Slide? The weather would be the deciding factor. We wouldn’t know till we climbed out of our cozy haven.

Packing our gear was easier inside, where it was balmy 40 degrees. Phil moved his pack from the entrance and put it on his back. We crawled out to a bright, sunny morning. Overnight, the temperature had dropped to 30 below. Breathing was almost painful. Damp from the snow cave, our clothing froze solid like a popsicle.  As we walked stiff-legged, our frozen pants popped and crackled loudly. Watching each other trying to walk, we laughed until the ice-cold air hit our lungs. 

“Let’s get out of here!” I yelled to Phil. I didn’t have to say it twice. He began to scramble over the outcrop. I was fast on his heels.

 

Once we made it back up on the exposed ridge,  We had to hold onto each other when a big gust of wind hit us. Then we bent low and began walking crab-like down to the tree line. Moving fast, trying to create some warmth, we received little shelter from the trees. Only when we neared the trailhead, did we feel any change in the severity of the weather. On the ride back, I waited until we warmed up to ask Phil what do you want to climb next?

In talking with Phil, once his memory of that weekend had unfroze, he agreed that this hike was like being locked in a freezer with a giant fan blowing in your face.

The Christmas Tree Nightmare

I used to go to a tree farm every year with my wife and children to cut our Christmas tree. 1984 would be the last year we would do this. Since then, my wife Pat has purchased an artificial tree that appears to be made of recycled Astroturf. That’s fine with me. I used to insist on a real tree every year. However, that Saturday in December changed my perspective completely.

My wife and daughter accompanied me to a local tree farm on that fateful day. When we arrived, we were told that there weren’t any trees left. Well, there were some trees, but they were all about 35’ high. The owner said if we wanted, we could cut off the top of a tree. I looked up at a few trees, and they looked fairly symmetrical, so I decided to climb one and cut the top off.

We looked around as it started to snow and blow. Quickly agreeing on a tree, I grabbed my saw, and climbed a lofty spruce. Luckily, the climbing wasn’t too bad. There were plenty of branches to climb. Just as I found the right place to start cutting, I heard my daughter Debi’s voice. “Hey, Dad, come over here! There’s a better one over here!” she said. Oh, boy, here we go, I thought. I could see Pat and Debi, and they were pointing to another tree. As I climbed down, I realized the weather was getting worse. 

It seemed like a storm was coming up. Walking over to where they were, I looked up. The top of the spruce looked like the one I had just climbed down. Okay, whatever! I began climbing fast. I wasn’t fast enough, though. They were yelling at me again. I can’t believe it! What now?! Once again, they’re calling to me to climb down. Of course, there’s another even better tree over there. I’m starting to warm up in more ways than one.

Stomping over to where my girls are smiling and pointing, I bark out, “This is it! This is the last tree I’m climbing!” I stated as I charged up the tree. The adrenaline was kicking in. When I had climbed over 20’, I stopped. After I began sawing the spruce, I thought about the wind. It was at my back, so I felt I would be okay. And the tree top would fall away from me. I kept sawing until I was almost through. 

Just as I was readjusting my stance on the limbs, I heard a crack. The top was gone in the blink of an eye, and my gloves and saw disappeared in the whirling snow. Trying to grab something as I lost my balance, I came up empty. The ladies watched in wonder as good old Dad cascaded through the spruce boughs like Santa descending a chimney.

At the bottom, there was just a muffled whoomph as I slammed into the ground. My back hit first, so it wasn’t a totally bad landing. Debi and Pat had a front-row seat. They bent over to more clearly observe my unusually pale face. My lungs seemed to have no available air left in them. They began to laugh in a very holiday spirit sort of way. They lifted me up and then laughed some more when a big whoosh of air filled my lungs again. I wanted to burst out with a very unholiday-like comment, but I didn’t, as I might need their help to the car.

We walked around the spruce, and there was our Christmas tree. I found the saw in the snow and looked for my gloves. They were still gripped in a frozen state onto the two bottom branches, one on either side. This time, we all laughed. I was a younger man then, and almost every fall and blunder seemed worth it. Well, funny in some ways. Now, I’m a little too old to hit the ground and be able to laugh afterward.

The Night of the Ravenous Pigs

I can’t remember the exact year for this story,  but I’m guessing the mid-2000s. I was able to take my wife on an adventure. According to Pat, adventure is the wrong word. Judge for yourself. In my mind, adventure and entertainment are where you find them. On a warm summer evening, we drove to Plessis, a short drive from Theresa.

Leonard, a man that I worked with, raised pigs. A couple of them had been butchered and packaged for sale. I was interested in buying some pork. We found Leonard’s new mobile home. After giving us a brief tour of his home, we walked out back to Adventure Land. Now let me explain. I call this seemingly ordinary pig farm Adventure Land for a reason. There was a barbed-wire enclosure with a small, rocky, brush-covered hill in the middle. Also, there were a couple of low plywood sheds, but there were no pigs. Glancing at our feet, I noticed cardboard cases of …something. Finally, I looked over at Leonard, who seemed to be enjoying something about the moment. For Pat, this wasn’t quite like going to the mall.

Okay, where are the pigs?! It was time for some action. Leonard grabbed a carton and threw it over the barbed-wire fence into the enclosure. A pig stampede began about two seconds after the carton hit the ground. Coming in from all directions around the hill, these porkers were focused and fast. Big pigs, small pigs, and those in between zeroed in on that carton. The cardboard began to tear and fly. My arm was resting on Pat’s shoulder. I felt her flinch.

Leonard was a picture of joy. The carton was gone, and now there were about a dozen large containers filled with something we couldn’t see. Dozens of frenzied pigs calmed down a little. 

The only sound was their loud smacking and slurping. Suddenly, it was over. More than 30 pairs of eyes were fixed on us in anticipation, hoping another carton would be sacrificed, I’m sure.

The best part of this frozen moment was the sight of their snouts. Every snout, big and small, was covered with pink yogurt. The wild pigs stared back at us. My wife grimaced while Leonard beamed. Something came to me. I turned to Pat and said, “Now, don’t ever say I don’t take you anywhere!” Leonard snorted, and Pat produced a huge eye roll. The pigs looked like a warped Norman Rockwell painting.

It was almost time to leave, but the excitement wasn’t over yet. A goat managed to nip me on the backside. It didn’t hurt; it just surprised me. Leonard led the way to his shed, where he wanted me to see about 20 little pigs and their big mama pig. The goat that nipped me was still following close behind, bending over again to see some little porkers seemed more like offering the goat another target. I declined Leonard’s generous offer to visit the piglets.

We drove home with our pork chops. Pat and I rarely talk about that night. Leonard passed on a few years ago, and there would never be another night like that warm summer evening. “Thank God!” my wife would say. I later made it up to her by taking her to Glacier National Park in Montana. Oh yeah, Pat used to love pink yogurt, but she hasn’t eaten it since that night of the porcine frenzy.

When a Christmas Gift Went Wrong

A week before Christmas, we arrived home to find a package on our front porch. After scaring away some squirrels, we brought it inside. Pat opened the package; it was filled with assorted loaves of bread from my sister Nancy and her husband Steve, who lived in Florida. She put the box into the freezer for us to enjoy later.

Within a day, I had forgotten about the bread. That’s the way I was when I was 57. If it’s out of sight, I tend to forget about it. Nancy had also sent me a small stuffed Santa that sang, “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas.” Other siblings also received stuffed characters from the Christmas special Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

The singing Santa gift I can’t forget. It’s perched on my bed stand. Every morning, when I wake up, I reach over and squeeze Santa’s hand. Hearing Burl Ives sing that Holly Jolly song helps me get up on the right side of the bed. I’m just kidding. I impulsively made that last part up. Sorry…

That’s enough about me. This story is really about my brother Larry. If you’ve read stories that I’ve written about him, you probably figured out that he’s a great guy. He’s the salt of the earth. Why cruel and unusual things happen to him, I’ll never know.

Larry also received a gift of assorted breads from Nancy and Steve. Unfortunately, a cruel twist of climate fluctuation was about to take some of the magic out of Christmas for my brother. Virginia had a warm spell, and the box had been left on his front porch. They rarely used their front door, so it sat outside in the heat for at least a few days before it was discovered.

When the box was opened, Larry and Jane were taken aback. The usual breads were inside, but a grayish powdery fungus had taken up residence. Jane began to extract a small loaf, but Larry stopped her. With a look of disgust, he slowly shook his head. “Mold!” he spat out. “A box of Christmas mold.” 

Otherwise, Larry and Jane might also be enjoying some fine imported confections. Let the holiday begin! My brother might have laughed a quick, high-pitched laugh that hinted at dark thoughts lurking on the fringe of what, I’m not sure.

The Sequel to The Christmas Gift

A strange thing happened the week after Christmas. We received an FTD delivery: a large basket of gourmet chocolates. Attached was an unsigned cryptic card, which was some kind of apology. The note went on to say that they hoped these chocolates would make up for our disappointment. 

What?! What was this all about? We puzzled over it for a while but finally gave up. A little while later, as I walked through the kitchen, I passed by the basket. Looking through the clear wrap, I spotted a big bar of imported Swedish chocolate. I hesitated for about two seconds. Tearing that plastic wrap open, I paused and listened for Pat’s footsteps upstairs. The coast was clear.

Even though this unexpected gift might be a mistake, hey, we’re kind of babysitting. A couple of bites from one bar shouldn’t be a big deal. Things went bad fast. By the time Pat came downstairs, I was sampling three different kinds of chocolate. “It’s not my fault!” I said defensively. “You shouldn’t have left me alone with this stuff!” Instead of chiding me, though, she began to look through the goodies herself. She found something she liked. We were out of control! Our sweet tooth took over, and it took a while to reign ourselves in. We finally staggered to the living room and slumped on the couch in a cocoa haze. We were delirious, on our sugar high, but happy. 

Later that day, Nancy called to ask how we liked our loaves of bread. Pat told Nancy we enjoyed them and asked if she also send us a basket of chocolates. Nancy said the chocolates were supposed to be sent to Larry as reparation for his moldy holiday bread. 

Somehow, there was a mix-up, and the fancy chocolates came to us. Nancy began to laugh when I told her of our good fortune. I told her, “I’m eating some of the imported chocolate right now!”

She continued to laugh even harder. Her dark chocolate addiction was coming out. We had foolishly thought the chocolate therapy had brought her to full remission.

Before we hung up, Nancy said, “You’ve got to call Larry and tell him about the chocolates!” What? Is she kidding? She wants me to break the bad news?! Oh, I get it. She’s afraid Larry will go off the deep end.

Instead of calling Larry, I should have said to my sister, “Nancy, maybe you should call your brother. Just tell him the truth. How upset can he get, really?” 

Well, you can probably guess what happened next. That’s right; I called him the next night. Hi Larry, guess what I’m eating right now?  Some gourmet chocolates. They were supposed to be delivered to you to make up for the moldy bread but were sent to us by mistake.

Sorry, Larry! Yeah, that’s right! Somehow, I got them instead; our assorted British breads were terrific, too! Yeah, that’s right. No mold, not a speck!” he talked and sputtered; I sensed that Larry was pacing his kitchen floor, thinking the chocolates would have been melted anyway.

I predict my sister Nancy will receive a special birthday surprise on March 17th. Perhaps a man with a rabid raccoon and a box of moldy bread will come knocking.

Another Chocolate Story

My sister Nancy knows about the repercussions of a lust for chocolate gone wild. Imagine waking up in the home of a relative with an uncontrollable craving. You stagger sleepily to their refrigerator and grab a squeezable bottle of Magic Shell chocolate syrup. Tipping the bottle upside down, you gulp down that wonderful elixir. Life doesn’t get any better than this, you think. Everyone but you is sound asleep, so you drink your fill of liquid chocolate until the bottle is nearly empty. Then, you return silently to your bed.

After a night of chocolate revelry, my sister woke up groggy. Nancy felt funny; something wasn’t right. Steve looked at her and asked what was on her face. It appeared to be …blood! She felt around her mouth and chin; something was crusted there.

Oh no! It was a chocolate syrup spillover, evidence of the midnight binge! Nancy’s chocolate-smeared lips had damaged her sister-in-law's pillowcases on the bed in the guest room they were staying in. Oops! It's time to apply some stain treatment to the laundry.

Our family recommended chocolate therapy, which I believe was the answer for Nancy. I saw her recently, and she seemed like a new woman—someone who could resist the temptation of a Magic Shell bottle.

Surfing Knife’s Edge
Somewhere Back in the 1990s

There is a serious diagonal shelf in the Black River that kayakers and rafters know it as “Knife’s Edge.” It’s a well-known hazard, and boaters hug the left bank to skirt around it. The river-wide ledge is undercut, so it is not a good place to take a swim.

My daughter, Debi, and her husband, Chris, had been married only a short time when Debi purchased a new mattress. You’re probably wondering what the first paragraph has to do with the second. It’s coming. Chris drove to Sears with a friend, and he purchased a very good Sealy mattress and loaded it into the back of a friend’s (Mark) pickup. For some reason, Chris thought it fit snuggly in the back of the truck and decided not to tie it down. He said that it was Mark’s idea that it didn’t need to be tied down even though it was somewhat windy that day.

As I’ve driven down Rt. 81 and passed over the Black River; I’ve noticed at times what a funneling effect the river can have. The wind seems to pick up speed at this crossing. They felt a sudden gust of wind as Chris and Mark rode along at this same spot. They should have known what the strange sound in the truck bed was. The mattress was instantly airborne. It barely missed a passing tractor-trailer, and they quickly pulled over.

Running to the bridge rail, Chris and Mark looked down to the river below. First, they scanned the flat rock bordering the river. There were no signs of the mattress. One of them finally looked downriver, and there it was. They watched in wonder. For Chris, it was probably more of a sick sense of wonder. The mattress sealed in plastic was surfing at Knife’s Edge. I picture it holding its own on the shelf. But suddenly, the inevitable happened. 

The mattress shot to the center of the river right along that hazardous edge and ended up on the limestone bank. I wish I had been there. It had to be quite a sight, both the mattress and the faces of Mark and Chris.

And here’s the ending. Well, there was good news and bad news for Debi. When Chris finally got home, I believe that he had begun to try to convey the story to her. But she stopped him and said, “All I want is a mattress on our bed, and it better not smell like the Black River!” No one could understand how she knew or suspected; she just did. Chris insisted this whole mishap was Mark’s fault. But the full story came out. Chris and Mark somehow got the mattress out of the water at the Glen Park dam. Chris took it to Service Master, and they cleaned it two or three times.

Debi and Chris don’t talk about that day. I guess I can understand, but it’s still a funny picture in my mind.

Some of my Favorite Family Quotes

Grandpa Lacombe and my mother used to tell us this while we were eating if we tried to drink our milk before our food was thoroughly chewed and swallowed – “Don’t wash down your food!” They always said this. We never knew why. Food had to be chewed with no added liquid before moving into the esophagus. I guess that was it.

 

Mom also had this thing about the TV lamp while watching TV. She’d say, “Turn the TV lamp on, or you’ll ruin your eyes!” Our eyes are pretty good, probably because of our Mom’s foresight. Get it?! 

Comforting me with false pity, Mom would say, “Oh, pobre cito!” It means “poor baby,” I think. I really miss hearing that, no sarcasm intended. Nancy also remembers this irksome bit of Spanish comfort. We both wished that we had some snappy comeback, say in French or another language.

My Uncle Paul and Grandpa Lacombe were often inclined in my early years to do that thumb between their fingers thing and say, “Got your nose!” Sorry, Grandpa and Uncle Paul. It was funny the first time, but after a couple of years, I no longer checked to see if my nose was gone. 

Speaking of sarcasm, my Dad’s favorite all-purpose comeback was, “Don’t be so sarcastic!” I believe Dad knew that sarcasm was the word. He needed a word quick to show he was upset with us, and sarcasm was the one that showed his frustration with us came to mind instantly.

 

My great Aunt Irene would often say, “You’ve got to eat a peck of dirt before you die.” This sweet munchkin-sized lady was a wonderful woman. I never heard her say anything disagreeable. Another common phrase Aunt Irene said was, “Oh my, that’s so lovely. Those flowers are so lovely and precious”. What event in her life could have turned our sweet Aunt into a “Ma Kettle, you’ve got to eat a peck of dirt before you die, kinda gal?!” I sometimes wonder. 

Who could forget that often interrupting plaintive cry from my sister, Nancy, “Wait a minute, I’ve gotta pull up my pants!” How many frantic efforts to go somewhere had to be put on hold while my youngest sibling pulled up her proverbial pants?! It may have been that many of her pants had been stretched out by her five older siblings.

 

Bill was known to imitate a traffic cop whistle, and he was very good at it. He was the only one I knew who could do that. Sometimes, he whistled all day, and I had to squeeze his head to get him to stop.

 

These sayings were passed on to me by Grandpa Lacombe, and I now use them as my own. “You’re something for the birds!” I’m not sure if this refers to being scatterbrained or something else. And also, “I’ll fix your wagon.” At the time, I didn’t have a wagon.

This quote from my granddaughter, Natalie, “Hello, my sweetie pie!” This is the worst syrupy, sappy phrase Natalie has ever said to me. Sometimes, if I don’t react, she continues saying, “Sweetie, sweetie, sweetie, sweetie, sweetie!!” followed by copious kissing noises. 

Yes, it’s kind of irritating, but I have to give in to her before she will stop.

 

And finally, this one is from yours truly. “Life is weird.” I first used this phrase in 1979. People who were philosophers or former hippies seemed to embrace this all-purpose explanation and wisdom. This simple truth continues to hold up as the decades go by.