Thankfulness and Bowling

Forest around Lake Zurich. Good place for hunting.

During his youth Thanksgiving marked the opening of rabbit-hunting season for my father. With his small rifle, he didn’t bother going after larger game (assuming there was any left in the area other than the deer that lived on the farms). So, early fall was squirrel season, late fall-early winter was rabbit season, and anytime he had the car to chase them around the fields qualified as pheasant season.

It is doubtful that any of his kills ever ended up on the Thanksgiving table, although he doesn’t recall the exact nature of that festal spread. When he was small, the family shared their holiday meal with Anton and Raisie, eating whatever delightful dishes Raisie could concoct. Instead of apple pie, the meal would be topped off with piping hot apple strudel. Mmmmm. Sounds good, doesn’t it?

In Lake Zurich, it was up to Grandma Lou to do the cooking. During the war, food was rationed, so even the holiday meals were planned around what was available. After the war, it still took a few years for the economy to rebound. By the time he was old enough to appreciate a groaning table laden with goodies, he was old enough to want to be out and doing on a day off from school.

And, let’s be honest. My grandmother was no chef. She could burn water. One Friday when he was a wee lad, dad was handed a plate of scrambled eggs and corn—just as appetizing as it sounds, folks—for his dinner, and instead of eating it, he threw it at the ceiling in disgusted protest. He didn’t get anything to eat that night. Frankly, I’m surprised that he didn’t get a whipping, and then have to eat what fell off the ceiling.

Once he was married, he and mom came back to the homestead for Thanksgiving for several years, right up until they moved away for work. Then it was my mother’s turn to try to please several finicky appetites. One of my sisters-in-law has fond memories of helping her mother prepare their Thanksgiving dinner. But there were so many little bodies invading mom’s kitchen—and not to help prepare—that mother, in frustration, asked Dad to take them out of the house. He decided it was the perfect day to go bowling.

Learning to bowl is required in our family.

And that, my friends, is our family’s Thanksgiving tradition: we go bowling. Oh, there was a year or two where Mom joined us, but only if the meal was already under control, and the turkey was a’roasting, or much later, with only a child or two left at home, when we tried to go to a restaurant for our feast.  Usually, she shooed us out the door, and enjoyed some peace and quiet while she attacked one of her least favorite chores, cooking.

Dad, as it turns out, was a league bowler, both before and after his Navy stint. He took Mom bowling a time or two when they were dating. He had a purple-and-gold bowling outfit (yes, outfit. His mother managed to find purple pants to go with the lovely purple team shirt. So what if they were too big? Just tack that waist, and enjoy the oh-so-flattering paper-bag effect!), but Mom managed to “lose” it during a move.

Both he and Mom bowled on the company bowling team when they lived in Pennsylvania. Legend has it, the two best female bowlers on the team were both 9 months pregnant (yes, Mom was one of them) during the league championships. The betting pool was fierce. Both ladies went into labor the same day, but there were many different bets booked. Who would deliver first? (The other mom) Which baby would be bigger? (Ours) And who would win the wheelchair race to the cars after being discharged from the hospital? (Dad and Mom, by a hair).

Old school bowling alley

Tony came by this bowling craze quite naturally. There was, after all, an 8-lane bowling alley in Lake Zurich. The perfect place for a young, not-quite-hoodlum to gather after work with his buddies. 

By his late teens, Lake Zurich had the alley, a drive-inn restaurant, a gas station-restaurant-malt shop complex, and two—yes, two!—police officers. There was the night-time guy who doubled as the street-sweeper during the day, and a new-to-them daytime officer with actual experience in law enforcement, and his own pistol.

Now the police officers knew my father. They knew to watch him. When Dad got in his car, the police officer would follow him around, and then report his doings to his parents, hopefully before too much trouble happened. Once, when Dad was at the bowling alley, he came outside to find the day officer in the parking lot.

At one end of the lot was a large pile of dirt that had been excavated from a building site.  Now, remember, the officers knew Dad, and Tony, by then, was well acquainted with them. And Dad has always been good at shooting the breeze. This Saturday, he was full of hot air, discussing guns and aiming and the practice of policing.

Dad asked the officer how well his aim was. Could he, for instance, hit a small target at a medium distance? I’ll bet, said Tony, that you couldn’t hit my watch if I put it on that dirt pile 80 feet away.

Well, the officer was willing to take that bet, and hoped Tony wasn’t too fond of his watch. Dad marched over and put his watch—actually, his father’s watch that he had borrowed from him, but why quibble over unimportant details?—on that mound of mud. The officer took slow and careful aim with his pistol, leaning against a break wall, steadying himself before…Boom! And off went a round.

The dirt flew up from the mound in a fountain of brown spray. There was certainly no doubt he could hit a large target, but what about the watch? Now Tony spared a moment to consider what his father might have to say about a watch with a bullet hole, and he approached the pile with some trepidation.

Not to worry. The officer had missed the watch by about an inch, covering it with dirt and muck, but leaving it otherwise untouched. Tony just brushed it off, and tucked it away. The watch would live another day. And so would he. Maybe that was an early Thanksgiving Day for Tony.

Maybe that’s why we go bowling on Thanksgiving: not to get us out of Mom’s hair, but to remind Dad that possessions are fleeting, but family is forever. To remind him of the lesson he learned that day by the bowling alley.

But don’t bet on it.

Happy Thanksgiving! 

The Investigative Child Discovers Incendiary Malodorants

Growing up in a small town means that everybody knows everybody else. By sight, by reputation, by first, last, and middle name. And if you messed around at school, the principal phoned your home, and your parents knew all the details before you even finished your school day. When you walked in the house, mom and dad were prepared for you.

Not that my dad, innocent angel that he is, ever messed around at school. Or got in trouble, ever. His dad was on the school board, so he couldn’t possibly go astray. Right? Well, it kept the school’s punishments from getting too severe, at any rate.

After the one-room schoolhouse closed, Dad and his siblings moved to the two-story, red brick Lake Zurich Grade School. There were maybe 100 kids there, in four classrooms: two on the bottom floor, two on the top, with two grades per room. The younger students were on the bottom floor, the older and supposedly more responsible up top. The top floor was, of course, required to have an emergency exit, and this one was a covered slide.

Only once, in a fire drill, was that slide ever used. A squad of the biggest kids had to be down at the bottom, to catch the other children as they emerged. It was such a steep slide that the wind of their passage blew the girls’ skirts up over their heads. They never got to use the slide again.  

Did you know that celluloid makes one heckuva stink bomb if you set it on fire? The Investigative Child did. “Scientific curiosity” strikes again—how hot does it get? How long will it burn? How would one describe that odor?

Celluloid, in case you didn’t know, was highly flammable. Old film negatives, laid on a piece of notebook paper, and rolled up like a jelly roll, then tied at the ends, would catch easily, and burn steadily. Once a nice little fire was going, you stepped on your jelly roll, to tamp things down. The celluloid in the negatives would keep smoldering, pouring out smoke by the gallons. And putrid! You never smelled such a rotten reek. The stench would carve its way into your nasal cavities and make itself at home, so that you thought it was still following you days later.

One fine day, when Sonny had experienced enough learning for an afternoon, he and a wingman snuck off to the upstairs bathroom just before the end of the lunch period, celluloid jelly roll in hand.  One person to light the fire, one person to keep a lookout. Once he had things going, he put the smoldering mess in a stall, shut the bathroom door, and trusted in his handiwork to fumigate his classroom, bringing an early end to the day’s education. He trotted into class, halo firmly in position.

Unfortunately, it didn’t just stink, it smoked. Like crazy.  Unbeknownst to our resident prankster, there was a return air duct in the bathroom; it sucked in the bombs’ effects, and sent it throughout the school. The odor seeped through your consciousness first, and then the grimy smoke. There was so much smoke that all four of the classrooms cleared out. Ah, if only the slide was available to them to use! This being more virulently stinky than dangerously smoky, however, down the inside staircase the older scholars went, trying not to breathe in that life-altering pong.

Don’t try this at home (or school), kiddies. Seriously.

A quick inspection of the school grounds followed, revealing the bomb still pouring out smudgy stench in the boys’ bathroom. As the kids were all outside by then in neat rows by class, the adults might never have known who had perpetrated the crime, except that his partner in crime was weak-willed, and broke immediately upon seeing the proof in a teacher’s hand. “Tony did it!” was his cry.

You will be surprised, I’m sure, to discover that this was hardly Sonny’s first schoolroom misdeed. As a matter of fact, he had declared open war on this particular teacher. He delighted in showing Mr. H up, and proving him wrong. That stink-smoke bomb was only the latest method of lighting his teacher on fire.

Had Sonny gone to school when I did, he would’ve had permanent after-school detention. But in a small farming town, with only one bus to take the kids to and fro, there was no being kept after class. Still, this particular escapade, on top of everything else, should have resulted in suspension, if not expulsion. Would have, if not for his dad having a seat on the School Board.

Anton Jr. laughed at the idea of expulsion, and managed to get suspension off the table as well. But don’t you worry, Sonny did not escape all punishment. There were lines to write, and heavier homework assignments than usual; at home there was an upset mother, and a disappointed father to deal with, one with recourse to punishments this modern age would choke on—choose-your-own switch, anyone? Not that it held Sonny down for long. He was back to his Investigative ways in no time at all. To this day, he regrets never taking a Chemistry class—just think of the stink bombs he could have made!

The Stirring Stick

Even though he’d been working since he was 13, boot camp was the first time Dad was truly out on his own, with no family to fall back on. And once he got to McGuire, he had to figure out a lot of new things. In many ways, he was still very young. Or maybe, he was just being a guy. You tell me.

In the single-enlisted-men’s barracks, the beds are separated by lockers, one per sailor. In the locker you kept all of your worldly—and naval—possessions. Your uniforms, items for personal hygiene, any books you may have the odd desire to pick up and read (assuming you read), etc.  Unlike at boot camp, where random inspections could happen at any given moment, the locker was yours to keep organized, or not.

Dad and his buddies tended to be more towards the “not” end of that spectrum. As in not very organized, not overly fastidious, etc. You only had so many uniforms, and it was your responsibility to clean them. If they weren’t very dirty, then why spend the quarter on laundry? Just throw ‘em back in the locker. Once a week, you took the stirring stick—any handy pole, broomstick, back-scratcher or tool would do, really—shut your eyes, poked the pile of clothes, stirred it up, and grabbed whatever came out on top.

Hey, I’m just telling you what he told me.

Navy life was like that stirring stick in many ways, actually. Men (and women, although they were kept quite separate at that time) from all types of life, all traditions and backgrounds and ethnicities, were thrown together onto a base, divided into squadrons, and expected to work together. The officers came along with their chosen form of stirring stick, be it work rosters, team tasks, special assignments, or what have you, and gave that jumble of humanity a big ole stir, to see what would rise to the top.

Often, military life was the first opportunity any of these men had to see how other people came at life. There was the guy who ate his fried chicken with a knife and fork, because his grandmother would rap his knuckles if he ever ate with his fingers. That threw Dad for a loop, but only long enough to finish his own finger food. Then there was the young man from Georgia, who was called Cotton. Apparently, when he was fresh from the shower, he just looked like a big ole fluff of cotton—either that, or that was all that was between his ears.

Throw them together, these young men from all walks and stir them up, and what you found was a great sense of team identity, of belonging to something greater than all of them, of loyalty, and the sure knowledge of Naval superiority over other military branch members. This was put to the test often, as the area also was home to an Army base and an Air Force base.

 As work ended on the Navy transport planes, and those planes were sent off on missions, the ground support crews would enjoy some down time at the local pizza joint, defending the honor of the Navy against the Army or Air Force—but only if all the planes were good to go. Once, another crew lost a plane that had touched down in Africa to pick up supplies, but one of the locals had run into the fuselage with the forklift of supplies. Until the plane was repaired, the rest of the squadron had to pick up the slack. It ran them ragged, but it also pulled them together.

There was also a mighty sense of superiority over the weekend warriors—the reservists. One Saturday, the Newark Air Reserve squadron was training. One reserve pilot, running down his flight checklist in preparation for a quick flight to maintain his required hours, managed to fire off his wing rockets while he was still in parking position. At the other end of the 5000-foot runway was a large storage building, seldom entered on a weekend. Those two rockets blew that poor building to kingdom come.

That day, they took all the missiles off of the Air Reserve planes.

Across from the runways and hangars of Dad’s squadron was the hulking mass of the headquarters of the New York Air Defense Sector. Concrete, thirty or forty feet—but only two stories—and bristling with antennae. Their pilots and crew slept in a long, low, steel bunker, and when the claxon sounded, they would come boiling out of it at a run, fastening the last bits of gear as they bolted for their planes.

Now, Dad knew that on the West Coast, the Air Defense wings were dropping 50-gallon drums of water on enemy subs that were in U.S. waters, to let them know we knew they were there, and rattle them. He and his crew buddies imagined similar missions for the eastern group, although they were never privy to the reasons for the claxon sound. But they all knew this group defended the northeastern air space from any and all incursions. T

he clanging claxons meant serious business.

If you climbed on the wing of the transport plane, you could see the pilots scramble, and the crew prepping the planes, and the lead and his wing man fire up the engine and roll as soon as the chocks are removed. The mech would give the signal, and jump out of the way. You could hear the engines roar, a deep throaty rumble that would go right through you. You could see the flames of the engines. And watch as the pilots lifted off in a steep climb over the trees at the end and the runway.

Standing there on the wing, the booming rush of sound would hit you just as the jets disappeared. And you would feel just so good. Because they were our boys. Defending our air, our lands, our country. And even though you are just a small part, even though they were Air Force, and you were Navy, even if they were in jets, and you just had transport planes to work on. You were a part of something bigger, something noble and strong and right. Something all stirred together, yet rising to the top. And it felt good.  

How to (Kinda, Sorta) Get a College Degree, Without Ever Enrolling in College

Step 1: Join the Navy

When he made the spur of the moment decision to enlist, Dad’s initial exam in the Navy recruiter’s office was promising enough (he says he only missed one logic question) that they took him in a heartbeat. Not that they were extremely picky back then. If you were reasonably fit and in possession of a high school degree, you were golden. Once in boot camp, they tested everyone for a specialty using the Navy Basic Test Battery; Tony passed everything but the sonar test.

One day about midway through boot camp, just before they started their service week—full of service assignments for the recruits like cleaning up the barracks, doing KP, or maintaining the base grounds—he was brought into the office for a chat. Turns out his scores qualified him for pilot training, but for one problem: he had no college degree.

Less of a problem than he might think, however, because the Navy was prepared to send him for College Equivalency testing. A four-part exam, administered over four days, which if passed would be the equivalent to a college degree.

Sure, Tony said, why not.  Meanwhile he was thinking: Naval Air Cadet…oh, yeah!

Naturally, when asked when Dad would like to take the test, he immediately thought of service week. Let’s see…test versus manual labor. The officer signed him up (he didn’t know it was service week!), and gave him instructions for obtaining a gate pass and a bus pass for the nearby exam provider.

Step 2: Take a Test

It wasn’t quite as easy as the officer made it sound. The Great Lakes Naval Station has over 50 miles of road on over 1000 acres of land. Tony had to go from the boot camp sector to another, rather far-away, part of the base, inhabited by regular Navy. He made it through the gate and onto the bus just fine, but was lost when he got off. Too many buildings with strange acronyms, and not nearly enough You-Are-Here maps.

A senior non-com saw recruit Tony looking around in utter confusion, and brought him into the mess hall for a quick meal and a chat. Dad was amazed at the treatment: eat off of real plates, not a divided metal tray? Choose your own food instead of taking whatever the kitchen rates slop onto your tray? Decent coffee? Hey! The Navy must not be all boot-camp-bad! Heck, it’s better than home-cooked!

Overwhelmed by the sheer number of choices, Tony said, “I’ll have what he’s having,” which was eggs, potatoes, sausage, toast, and bacon—to start. After this nourishing (and mind-numbing, I should think) meal, the non-com showed him where to report to for the test. The first “day” of testing only took two or three hours, so instead of heading back to boot camp, where he surely would’ve been assigned a “service”, he went bowling. Never one to pass up a good thing, my father.

The second day was much the same. Eat what passed for breakfast at boot camp at 6 am, then a flash of the gate pass, a short hop on the bus, and a second, much happier, breakfast. There followed three hours of testing, followed by a lunch and then a movie at the base cinema. On the third day he did some shopping, and on the fourth, made a virtuous stop at the base library (maybe. Apparently, day 4 is a *little fuzzy).

Great Lakes Naval Training Station

Step 3: Get the results posted to your Service Record

Three weeks later, he was called back into the office with the news that he had passed all the exams. This put a College GED on his Service Training record. I've seen it. It's really there. Of course, it also states he is blond and brown-eyed. 

All my life, I've heard him tell me that he has a college GED. Now I know that he truly does. If only it had carried across into civilian life! 

   

Step 4: Explore the options

The test results also qualified him for Naval Air Training.

“Wow!” he thought, “me…a PILOT!”

“Let me tell you how this works,” said the officer. “We ship you out at the end of boot camp, and you stay in a holding area while you wait for your training class to fill up—oh, three to six months. Once the squadron is full, you’ll start school. Pre-flight training will begin, and the first 18 months are critical.” If you made it through that, he went on, there would still be another 2-3 years before you were really up and running flying.  

Weeeeell, yes, but you’d be a PILOT!

Now came the kicker for Dad: If you don’t make it through those first 18 months, back you’ll go to your original squadron and assignments. And make it or wash out, the training time (up to 5 years!) wouldn’t count towards your original period of enlistment, or time-in-rate for advancement. Hmmm.

It was at this point that Tony started recalling all the reasons he wouldn’t make it through those 18 months, things that would not have shown up on an entrance exam or basic physical. His ears couldn’t handle the pressure changes. He was essentially night-blind, with zero depth perception. And five years was a long time for a 21 year-old to invest, especially this one, who enlisted to take control of his military duty, and never intended to make it a career.

He turned them down before they could wash him out. Any regrets lasted only long enough to graduate from boot camp, and get through electrical training. After visiting his family, Tony drove out to his new assignment at McGuire AFB as part of the Military Air Transport System; instead of flying the planes, he would make sure they were fit to be flown. There was simply too much to see and do and experience in the Navy to stay down for long. And besides, he had that college GED!

“Get Underway, Navy”*

When my dad was in the Navy, he spent most of his time with his feet on solid ground, making sure the planes were serviced properly between flights. His squadron, VR-6, was not carrier-based, but land-based. As a matter of fact, he was able to drive his car from Chicago to New Jersey, and that made him a lot of friends when it came time for R&R.

He got off the ground once. They were breaking in a newly assigned pilot, who had just come off a carrier squadron. Often, these reassignments came once the jet pilot could no longer qualify on carrier landings, but was still a capable pilot, with no problem landing on stationary objects (like, you know, the ground, a runway, etc.). Think JAG, but without the law degree to distract them.

One of the transport planes types. Quite a bit different than a fighter jet!

On this particular flight, Tony, who had been itching to get onto a flight—mainly to qualify for the extra pay—went along as support crew. Standing behind the flight mechanic/navigator as they headed out over the landscape and toward the Atlantic Ocean, he was fascinated by the smooth operation of this mighty plane. He could’ve stayed right there, relishing the sensation of flight, accompanied by the beauty of the view, getting paid to do nothing but enjoy himself.

They were flying maybe 3500 feet up over a gorgeous blue bay. The pilot was calm, shifting smoothly among the controls, manipulating the foot pedals, keeping a steady hand on the yoke while maintaining a watchful eye on the instruments. The picture of competence, inspiring confidence.

And then old-hand squadron pilot looked over at the new pilot, and with a mere, “You ready?” took his hands off the yoke, and handed over control of the plane.

Dad lost ten years of his life in that moment. All he saw ahead of the plane now, instead of clear sky and fluffy white clouds, was deep blue sea. Coming closer. And closer. The entire vast cockpit window seemed to be filled with it as they lost altitude—what felt like half the distance to the water. There was no escape, and nothing to cling to expect the back of a chair, and his Catholic upbringing. There must’ve been many a prayer said that day.

Finally, the pilot was able to ease up on what surely felt like an unyielding yoke, so different than the responsive jet plane stick he was used to. As they leveled off and continued their run, the old pilot, who had never turned a hair, put his feet up on the dash, for all the world as if it were just a Sunday drive in the country.

Dad never went on another training flight. They couldn’t pay him enough for that, he said. And this from the child who thought nothing about standing up on the seat of a used bike and cruising down a long gravel road. Maybe he’d finally attained some wisdom, or a sense of his own mortality? If so, the lesson didn’t linger. But he does have a healthy respect for pilots of all stripes, and the work and maintenance required to keep those planes in the air.

*Did you know these were some of the original lyrics to “Anchors Aweigh”? No, I didn’t either. 

What Do YOU Want to Do When You Grow Up?

Tony's Senior Portrait

In the middle of Sonny’s senior year of high school, his father asked him if he’d like to go to college. This threw my dad. He’d honestly never considered college. School was something to be endured. The law said he had to be there, so there he was. I mean, he liked his math classes, and hanging out with his buddies, but thoughts of his future were left to the future.

To be fair, in the 1950s, less than 10 percent of Americans had completed a four-year college degree, as opposed to nearly one in four by 2000. A sneak peek at dad’s ten-year reunion program shows that to be an applicable statistic: no more than a handful had jobs that would have required higher education. Of the group of four guys that dad hung out with, two were headed to college, which no doubt was part of the reason Anton Jr. asked the question.

But Paul and Bob had taken the prep classes required by the state college, and dad hadn’t. They had worked hard for their grades, and Sonny enjoyed doing just enough. Nor did the family have the money for a private college, but a way would have been found if he’d expressed the desire. But the only thing he expressed was a mild confusion in the form of a shrug.

Ela High School

He had no great childhood heroes—the one police officer in town was also the sanitation officer by day. They had a volunteer fire department—and dad has never worked for free. Dreams of helping, healing, or courtroom hearings were not a part of his day. So Anton Jr. told Tony they would soon be making an apprentice out of him.

Not long after graduation, down to the union hall they marched, and Tony became a pipe fitter’s apprentice. His father knew the Investigative Child would need something solid and physical to start with. Tony would be a productive member of society during the day, even if he goofed off at night.

He spent three years learning the building trade. Then, one fateful day, a rather “pie-eyed” buddy stopped by and asked for a ride to the Naval Recruiting Office. This friend was already in the Reserves, and had decided to go active duty after a big blow-up with his girlfriend. Dad had nothing else to do that Saturday, so off they went. He helped his buddy across the threshold, and explained the errand.

His buddy was whisked off behind the front office, to start on in-processing right away. And the recruiter turned to dad. Now, Tony had a friend approach him a week or so earlier, with a stunned look and a staggering walk. He’s been drafted into the Army. The Army did not sound like the type of work he wanted. On the other hand, Tony had heard (positive) Navy stories from his brother-in-law, who spent time on battleships during his stint. So when the recruiter started in, dad’s survival reflex kicked it—he figured it was far better to choose to join, than to be assigned willy-nilly.

And so he joined. A quick AFQT, some paperwork, and he was property of the U.S. Navy. He finished up his work project, and told the union he’d be back. Two weeks later, he reported for boot camp. After boot camp was completed, he was assigned to McGuire AFB in New Jersey, as an Aviation Electrician’s Mate in the ground support crew for transport planes, squadron VR-6. And McGuire is where he met my Air Force Flight Traffic Specialist mom.

But that, of course, is another tale, for another time.

The Investigative Child

As far back as any of us can remember, my father has experienced the world in a very physical fashion. Oh, he likes to tell you that he does a lot of thinking about things before he acts, but the truth is that he is very much an act-first, apologize-later, think-about-it-someday-if-ever sort of a guy. This drove his poor mother crazy (it has the same effect on his wife!), but he would be off to the next adventure while she was still steaming.

When he was a little boy in Chicago, he received a tricycle. The trike had large, balloon tires, as opposed to those hard, solid-rubber ones. Behind their house was a row of detached garages. Little Tony would hop on his trike, ride up and down the alley, and once he was at speed, ride directly at a closed garage door.

The balloon tires would bounce him back, and he would laugh delightedly at the sensation. So, it was back into the alley, and zoom into another door. He could spend what felt like hours crashing into doors, bouncing back, and laughing. All in the name of science, you understand—physics, and anatomy and kinesiology.

His probably wasn't green. Or this clean. 

When he tired of that, he would head down to the corner bar, and place found objects under car tires, to watch them bust as the drivers wheeled away from the curb. Once, he placed a nail by a tire, to see what would happen. Again, all in the name of science. Luckily, for both the driver and little Tony’s continued existence, he placed the nail at the back of a tire, and the driver pulled out forward.

A block or so away was the ‘L’. He loved to put rocks on the tracks, largish ones, not pea gravel, but as big as his four year-old hands could carry. He was hoping that if there were enough, or big enough, rocks, he would derail a train. That would be exciting to see! Four year-olds have no concept of loss, let alone pain, demolition, injury, and permanent damage to people, homes, livelihoods, or lives. It was mere scientific curiosity.

He tried putting pennies on the tracks, waiting and wanting to see what they would look like once the train had rushed over them. Oddly enough, he never could a single sacrificed penny.

That same “scientific” bent led him to experiment with snowball projection once they had moved to rural Lake Zurich. Outside of the one-room schoolhouse was a swing set, which rarely saw much use in the winter. Technically, the school for grades first through eighth was a four-room wonder: one schoolroom, one cloakroom, two indoor-outhouses (just like it sounds: a pit toilet, with a door, no plumbing, which includes no sinks to wash hands at. One for the boys, one for the girls, located behind the teacher’s desk).

One winter day during recess, a slightly older, but not yet wiser, little Tony rolled himself up a fair size snowball. It was head-of-a-snowman size. And having rolled it on the playground, it contained several little pea gravel pellets. Dad placed the snowball in front of the swing set, and then hopped on a handy swing. Back and forth he rocked, his legs kicking him ever higher. Once he reached the highest any child could go, he reached a foot down, and gave that snowball a might kick as he swung by.

Off, off it soared, describing a beautiful whitish arc through the grey, overcast skies. On, on it rushed—and straight through the schoolhouse window. Needless to say, no one was very delighted with his latest proof of the principles of flight and gravity. And the cloakroom was empty that day, for all the students bundled up they best they could, while school trustees tried desperately to find a replacement for the window.

There have been many other experiments and investigation over the years. The harmless ones were as simple as pulling carrots straight out of the garden and knocking some dirt off before chomping down. Just to see how they were growing, of course.

More reckless ones include taking a test ride, of a new (hand-me-down) Schwinn. Tony coasted down a long hill in Lake Zurich, standing on the seat, arms out wide in a “King of the World” position. He and the bike survived that experiment. A co-worker’s motorcycle, decades later, was not so lucky.

Ah, the joys of the Investigative Child. 

City Dweller

Have you ever been to Chicago? Forget what you know, or remembered, or saw (unless you are a history buff). My father was born in Chicago in 1935 and they lived there until my father was 6 or 7. According to him, at that point that were still some areas with outhouses. I keep trying to picture how that might have worked, but my brain keeps throwing modern high-rises into the picture, so it’s not going so well.

My father is the oldest of four children. When his parents were first married they lived on the second-floor of a red-brick house, above Anton and Raisie, in the house his grandfather had built. This was a working-class residential neighborhood; dad recalls it as “very nice” but the haze of memory can be rosy.

Next door, in a shingled, wood-frame house were the Penningtons; my father would play with their son, Connie. Their little blonde daughter was dad’s first schoolboy crush. On the other side was a family home housing multiple generations—the depression had not been kind to most in that house, and they had to band together to survive. On the corner was a pub.

During the week, the horse-drawn ice wagon would make its way down the street. The ice man would put a block of ice on his shoulder, or his back, depending on how big of a block he needed for that dwelling, and head into the houses, cutting off chunks and placing them directly into your ice box. While he was inside, the horse would move the wagon to the next house. During the summer, the neighborhood children would follow the wagon and the man, hoping to pick up ice chips to soothe their hot little mouths.

The green grocer, the butcher, and the dry goods stores were all a short walk away. Raisie went shopping every day, buying only what they needed for the day’s meals, and a few tidbits to tide you over. The milk man made his delivery to both floors, like clockwork. If you didn’t want to bake your own, the bread man delivered, as well.

A block away in one direction was KilbournPark. Across the alley were the detached garages—the streets weren’t wide enough to park on—behind which was another row or houses, and then the elevated train.  A friend lived next to the 'L'; he could see it right out the back window, at eye level. When a train went by, you just stopped your conversation, and then picked it up again when the noise stopped.

Walk to the park, turn, and head under the 'L'. Walk a block or so further, and you reach Scammon Elementary. At the time, it was a long, low, one-story red-brick school, accommodating the local children from kindergarten through eighth grade. Dad remembers the gymnasium, and the play area, and not much else. But then, he was a boy’s boy. I don’t think he could tell me what he studied, or who his teachers were, if he thought about it all day.

As my dad would come home from a hard day’s work in kindergarten, he would cut down the alley, and start to trudge head for the back stairs. Marvelous aromas would great dad as he neared the building. Upstairs, his mother, Lucille, would be thinking of lunch. Downstairs, his grandmother had treats.

Raisie with a great-granchild, wanting to fill him with strudel.

Raisie was a woman who spoke several European languages (Anton spoke at least 6 languages) but dad says she murdered English. She didn’t need very much to get through to dad. “My Sonny,” she would croon to her oldest grandson. “My Sonny,” she would say, as she reached out to stroke his small cheek. “Come! Come my Sonny!”

And my father would follow the enticing aromas and the feel of his grandmother’s arm right on into her kitchen. Warm with baking, dripping with the scents of cinnamon, sugar, flour and love. And with his bottomless little boy hunger, he would dive into plates of warm, home-baked deliciousness, and devour the wonders Raisie placed in front of him.

Cakes. Cookies. Cookies galore. And apple strudel, with a crust, says Dad, as thin as newspaper, and wafer-thin apple slices covered in brown sugar and spices. Three to a baking sheet, the extras straight into her icebox. But, for her Sonny, fresh and piping hot.

When he slowed down, Grandma Raisie would let him hike up those stairs, to his mother and his lunch. His lunch that he no longer had an appetite for. My guess is he would eat it eventually (see: bottomless little boy hunger), but oh, how his mother would complain. “Ah! Your grandmother gave you cookies again!” And down the stairs Lucille would trot for another heated discussion the proper order for feeding little bodies.

When the depression and a growing family forced a move to a rural area, Dad adapted, but never forgot his city experience. The memories are gilded by childish perspective and family love. But he has always had a yearning to live downtown somewhere. In the middle of the action. Noise, bustle, people everywhere, endless possibilities for activities to pursue. Personally, I don’t think he’d like it as much as he thinks he would. There would be no cookies every day, hot from the oven. No strudel. No Raisie. “Come, my Sonny. Come.”

The Man and His Dog

We have a dog. A Black Lab-Pit Bull mix. Zoe is 100 lbs. of pure investigative power. Take her for a walk, and she takes you for a walk. A sniff here, a jump there, a leaping run after a cat, and down you go.  We have to put her outside when people come over. She barks barks barks, then sniffs vigorously at whatever she can reach, and since she stands hip-high to the average adult, you already know what her target is. To my knowledge, there’s only one person she actively hates—she bit him once, and we’ve never let her near him again—but she is big, and strong, and scary if you don’t know what to expect.

This is our second Black Lab. Dad loves Zoe, but he knows she’s no Heidi. Sometimes, he forgets and calls her Heidi—well, sometimes, I do the same. I mean, they’re both Black Labs, right? But sometimes, you can tell he’s thinking not of Zoe, but of Heidi, and missing his dog.

We got Heidi, if I can remember this correctly, when I was in high school, or maybe just after I graduated. It wasn’t my choice to get her. I think that between the concerted marketing efforts of my younger siblings, and the nostalgia of my father, my mother finally just caved. She knew perfectly well who would be dealing with the feeding, walking, poop-pick-up, vet visits, and hair removal, but even that couldn’t overcome the hunger for a dog that infected the family.

We got her from a rescue lady; Heidi had been abused. But for us, she was loving, and eventually trusting. This wasn’t our first family dog, but the previous one, Lady, had been the companion of the oldest set of kids. This one would be for the youngest group. And for my dad.

Heidi was his buddy. They would take long walks together—well, we all liked to walk her. She was well-trained, and rarely pulled at the leash, and the sight of this 90 pound bundle of muscle meant even a lone woman was safe walking her at night. But Dad never used the leash.

In the morning, he would walk with her down to the corner convenience store for his hot-chocolate-and- donuts run.  She would sit outside the store and watch him through the window as he collected his goodies. As he moved through the store to the check-out, she would scooch along the window to keep him in sight.

While no doubt the sight of her was a little scary to some of the customers, the regulars got used to it. The only time she whined or even stood up was the one time he headed to an out-of-sight aisle. The owners watched her get up and search each aisle, through the window, then settle down when he reappeared. Then, morning sustenance in hand, back to the house they would stroll.

Heidi and my brother in Utah. 

Heidi was with us from California, to Utah (the only time she grew a winter coat), and Arizona. She greeted every family member with a happy wag, and a hopeful grin. The only time we ever heard her bark was at a utility worker that came to the door—she wasn’t fond of uniforms. She was even gentle with small children who tugged on her ears. And each sibling—and Dad—thought of her as their own personal doggy.

Dad liked to take her to the open field behind the house, where she could hunt rabbits to her hearts content. She never caught them, but she sure got a charge out of the chase. Once, when Dad had her out, he suffered a serious dizzy spell (he has Meniere’s disease), and barely made it to a cement pillar to sit on. Heidi was there by his side, almost before he finished sitting down. She stayed next to him until he was able to stand, and seemed to guide him home.

Another time, on their way back from the field, Animal Control pulled up next to him. They had received a call about a dog roaming free through the field, and the leash laws were very strict (not that Dad ever thought laws applied to him—or his dog). He told Heidi to sit, and he walked around the truck to talk to the driver.

“We got a call about a large black dog running around without a leash. That wouldn’t be yours, would it?”

“My dog?” asked Mr. Innocent.

“Yes,” said the officer. “Maybe it was that dog right there?” And he pointed to Heidi, who had walked around the truck to sit trustingly next to my father.

“Oh! Well, yes.”

At this Heidi, just cocked her head, and grinned her tongue-lolling grin at the officer as if to say, “I’ve only been chasing rabbits. I am completely virtuous and wondrous.”  

“Sir, we live one block away. As a matter of fact, you can see my back porch from here.”

“Weeeell,” said the officer, “I can see she’s very well trained. I’ve got a leash in the back of my truck. Would you just put it on her, as the law requires, and I will just let you off with a warning? I wish more dogs behaved that well.”

And with that, the leash went on, the officer pulled away, and Dad and Heidi were home, with another tale to tell, in moments.

Heidi died when Dad was on a business trip. In her old age she had taken to sleeping by his kitchen chair, on the cool tile floor. Two nights after he left, my brother stopped by for a midnight snack. She raised her head, thumped her tail, and went still; she went out with love in her heart. Dad had to leave his meeting when he found out. It was not a good day for him, stuck in Dallas, away from his buddy. It would take another 15 years, and a new set of boys, for Dad to say yes to another pet. He still misses his Heidi dog.

The Boy and His Dog (and Cat)

When my dad was young, he had a cat. And he had a dog--but not both at the same time. They were living in Lake Zurich, in the house that his dad built. Dad’s room was built over the utility room—you know, the room with the furnace and the washing machine and tubs. Tony had two windows that looked out over the yard, and a trellis climbed up the side of the house, close to his room.

Nonnie Agnes, with Tony and Donna, 1946.

It was this trellis that Patrick the Cat would scale when he wanted to curl up next to Tony to sleep. Patrick was a cat’s cat: aloof, independent, scornful of (most) affection, a mighty hunter, a great lover, and a ferocious fighter. He loved his boy, and not many others.

Patrick certainly wanted nothing to do with Grandma, and Grandma wanted nothing to do with such a disreputable creature. On those summer mornings, after Patrick had crept up the trellis late at night, across the short roof, and squeezed through the slightly open window, to purr his boy to sleep, Grandma would come in to wake Tony, find Patrick, and start screaming. “Get that filthy creature out of here! Outdoor cats don’t belong in indoor beds!”

Patrick lived a full life, roaming wherever he would, seeking out female companionship, fending off rivals, and supplementing his table-scraps diet with whatever he could pounce on. Thus is was that he met his end. No, not due to prey that fought back, but human encroachment upon his hunting grounds. He stepped on a trap, and was caught fast. Days later, the human hunter came upon him and released him, but by then he was too far gone to be saved, and a neighbor put him out of his misery, leaving it to Grandpa to break the news to his son.

There were no more cats for Tony, indoor or outdoor.

He did, however, have a dog. An overgrown puppy named Boy, as a matter of fact. Boy was a mixture of Husky and Collie. Standing shoulder-high to young Tony, he was a happy-go-lucky ball of fluffy white fur, always up for some fun with his boy. (Having trouble picturing Boy? Try this page.)

Boy was so powerful, and my dad so undersized, that Tony would hitch Boy to his scooter, and let Boy tow him on his scooter up and down the gravel roads. During the day, Boy would be tied to a tree in the yard, with about 20 feet of play in the rope, and play he would, snapping at leaves and Grandma as she hung the wash. Whenever his boy was home, they were off the leash together.

About a year after Boy came home with Tony, tragedy struck. Grandpa took my dad into town in the car, to pick out some Christmas presents. Off they went, down the drive, down the road, never realizing that Boy was following, trying to get to his boy. Grandpa turned onto the four-lane highway and sped on into town. Boy never made it across the lanes. A neighbor found him, and brought him home. That was the end of pets for the boy. His heart just wasn’t in it.

Through the years, there were other family pets, but it would be 50 years before he would let another dog into his heart.

Of course that, my friends, is another tale, for another time.

Bath Time and Long Underwear

Note: Dad says I got the facts wrong. Check out his correction at the bottom.

Bath time for these couldn't have been that bad, right?

My mother told about a time when they had five children, the youngest a small infant, and they went to visit my aunt and uncle for a week. After they returned home, the water company came to my aunt’s house to see if the water meter had broken, or if there was a leaky pipe. Nope, it was just the effect of seven extra people--baby diapers to be washed (my aunt’s three kids were long past this), five more kids to bathe, etc.

Since this blog is not about my mother, I won’t tell you about her mother’s “cleanliness is next to godliness” attitude, or the warfare against germs that went on in their house. I won’t tell you about her growing up in California in relative comfort, either. For my dad, things were a little different.

When my father and his sister were small, baths were not communal, but the first kid in got the hot, clean water. Each succeeding child got colder, dirtier water, until it was finally tossed after the last one bathed--pure old country tradition. But also, rural community reality.

When you consider that his father built their home by hand, room by room, this bathing ritual shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise. The bathroom (really just a water closet) had a curtain for a door, and you had to warn approaching footsteps that it was already occupied. A rain water cistern was dug in the yard, used for cooking, bathing, and flushing the toilet.  This meant they wouldn’t have to trudge to the communal well with its water pump any more, and combined with the new indoor toilet, must have come as a serious relief in the Illinois winters.

Sharing the tub happens sometimes.

Needless to say, my aunt was shocked when my mom ran bath water for her first child, and then drained the tub once he was clean. "Aren't the others getting a bath as well?" Confused, Mom just looked at her as she replaced the plug, and started to fill the tub again. Five kids. Five tubs of water. No wonder the water company was concerned at the sudden spike in usage.

When I expressed my, um, appreciation of the different lifestyles Mom and Dad had experienced as children (telling Dad he had married up), he started to tell me an anecdote of P.K., a child he knew from school.

P.K. had a mother who each fall would sew him into a union suit.  There was no chance to take it off, let alone bathe, until the spring, when she would literally cut him loose. In their small Illinois farming town, some neighbors would share a twin outhouse located on the property lines between the houses. Not a fun place to be in the cold or dark, but you did what you needed to do.

One day in the fall, not long after P.K. was sewn into his warm undies, he and a friend were in one of the outhouses, cleaning a rifle. They choose the pit toilets as a safer place to test-fire than the house, since no one wanted a hole in the roof over the winter. It must have been hot in that enclosed space, or at least warm enough that P.K. took off his outer layers, one by one, as he worked on the gun.

Finally, P.K. and the gun were stripped to their last layer. P.K. finished his cleaning, and put the rifle back together. As he was looking down the barrel, checking the sights, the rifle went off unexpectedly. Fortunately, the gun was pointed down, not at his buddy or the side of the outhouse, which would have made for some seriously drafty business. Unfortunately, it was pointing straight into the pit, and the bullet went right into a fresh “deposit”. Poor P.K. and his six-month undies were splattered.

Remember, his union suit was probably the only one he had, and the question of whether they could have afforded a new one is probably moot. After all, there was nothing wrong with it structurally. And why ruin good stitching? His thrifty (and probably annoyed) Old Country mother made him wear them all winter. Poor P.K. And poor anyone else in his vicinity. He must have been truly ripe by spring.

According to Dad, P.K. wasn't the one cleaning the rifle. His buddy was. This being a shared outhouse, it was a two-hole number. P.K. was leaving a deposit while the buddy pointed the gun into the other hole. Blam went the gun, splat went the poop. All over P.K. I leave it to you to decide which version you prefer. Me, I prefer not to think about poop all that much, anyway.