By the time the end of the school year rolled around I was focused on the out of doors and my farming enterprises. One afternoon probably in late April, I was plowing in the field right across the road from our house. One of my “townie” friends showed up in his stick shift, ’55 Chevy 210, V-8. He had a couple of people in the car with him (was obviously showing off) and he challenged me to a drag race in the field. It would be his Chevy vs. my John Deere. I thought he was crazy (and he was), but we lined up and off we went. He, of course, quickly got ahead of me, but just as if scripted in a morality play, he drove into a wet spot and got stuck. We laughed, but he started to panic (as in get scared that I was going to leave him there,) so I hooked the log chain on him and jerked him out. He tried to speed out of the field, but got stuck again. This time I dragged him clear to the road. He tore up the road speed shifting trying to get away; I think he was that embarrassed. It would have served him right if he would have dropped his transmission, but that didn’t happen.
That night, when I drove Dad home from his office I had to explain what the car tracks were doing in the plowed field. He just laughed. I worked hard with the harrow to get the tell-tale car “prints” out of my field.
My early recollections of my dad are mixed. He went off to The War when I was nine months old and came back shortly after my fourth birthday. The earliest memories were his sternness and the fact that he took my spot in my mother’s bed. There are memories of discipline and love mixed together. There was a point that I did not know how I felt about him not because of my relationship with him, but because of the stories and what I overheard.
He took me on a fishing trip to Spring Creek not far from Penn State during the summer of 1953. It was his attempt to connect with me and I think it had its desired effect. However, by 1956, whatever ambiguity was in my mind quickly departed. Dad became my firmest supporter and was tolerant beyond belief of my teenage antics.
The year Cindi was born (1957) mother went to Fort Knox to be with Chickie and Bruce. During her absence he thought he would teach me how to smoke, so he bought two cigars from “the Greek” at the candy and tobacco store located in the Penn Theater…one of his favorite haunts. He broke out the two ‘gars, lit them and he proceeded to get sick. He thought he would make me get sick, but he either did not know or only vaguely realized I had been smoking cigarettes periodically for the past two years and I knew enough not to inhale cigar smoke. He puffed away and turned green. So much for that lesson, which he later laughed about.
In the summer we would often go out back of the garage to relieve ourselves. We had no neighbors within sight and on dark or even starlit summer evenings it was a treat to walk out the TV room door…through the porch and around the corner and chat while nature called. We would chat about the show we were watching, or some worldly event…the time was not lost. I will share another tid bit in another year. I am not sure if the other boys “crossed piss” with the “old man” but I did on many occasions.
He did hunt with me sometimes, but that was when I was just starting out and Jim and Dave would be along. He was a sportsman. He took Jim, Dave and me to “Turkey Shoots” where you would fire our shotguns at paper targets and the target with the most shot (BBs) in the bull’s-eye would win a turkey. We all had shotguns, but as I recall, he rarely shot. He just bought the targets. By 1958 I hunted alone or with Russell George. On the first day of small game season the neighbors to the north, Sam and Paul Tieche would hunt with me. They furnished the beagle (Timmy) and we would hunt on our property and sometimes on Russ’s grandpa’s place. We frequently got the limit of rabbits for our efforts. Dad loved to listen to the stories, but he did not put forth the effort to hunt during those years.
I had it better than any of my male siblings. Sister Phyllis, of course, was his pride and joy. So when we get together to kibitz about life in family my story is different than the rest. But as far as Joe, Dave or Jim were concerned, I grew up with a different father. He had mellowed during the 15 years that separated us. And I think he was tiring out. He had been civicly active (church, scouts, American Legion, Masons) while the older boys were young, but after returning from the Army, he just worked; virtually, never played.
I liked being around him (now we call it hanging out) and so my reward was a laisse-faire upbringing. Mother knew this, too. My experiences with both Mom and Dad were much different than the rest of the clan. They never questioned me about smoking (which I did) or who I was dating (other than general things.) The governor on my life during high school was my conscience. While I could be arrogant at times, I never did anything to besmirch the family name. I attribute much of that to the great role models I had…my big brothers.
(There are more stories, but they come later.)
