The Worst Book I Never Read

Most of my childhood memories are of good times.  There are a few bad ones, though, that have stuck with me throughout the years. When I was a kid, we had hundreds of books in our house.  I read a lot of them, but there is one that I never dared to read.  Despite having never read it, it probably left a more lasting impression on me than any other book I’ve ever seen.

I mean, come on!  For obvious reasons, I hated this book.  But you know who did love it?  Anyone who wanted to make fun of a brother or classmate named David.  I speak from experience.  In my brothers' defense, though, I'm sure it was nice for them to have an alternative to calling me "Baby Davey".  For all I know, the book was a true work of art, but I just couldn’t get past the dumb stupid title.

The book’s description even hints that there is a feel-good ending, that maybe David isn’t so dumb and stupid after all.  I don’t know – I refused to read it to find out.

I’ve done a little research on the author Dorothy Aldis.  She was born on March 13, 1896.  She began writing children’s fiction books in 1929.  She was one of four children, and eventually had four children of her own.  The blurb in the back of “Dumb Stupid David” says that her books “demonstrate that she knows the ways of children”.  I find that pretty hard to believe.  Had she really known the ways of children, I think she would have recognized the fodder that she was providing to generations of children just itching for a way to torment a sibling or classmate named David.

I would even go so far as to say she chose the name David in an effort to inflict the most damage possible.  When the book was published in 1965 (my birth year!), the name David was the third most popular boy’s name in the U.S.  The name, in fact, ranked in the Top 5 every year from 1950 to 1987.  That’s a heckuva run.  If Dorothy Aldis had really known the ways of children, she might’ve titled her book “Dumb Stupid Nelson” or “Dumb Stupid Leon” after names much further down the popularity list.

Mrs. Aldis died on July 4, 1966.  Boy, I’m sure glad she was able to get this book published just before she crossed the finish line.

When I made the decision, about a month ago, to purchase this book, I was shocked to find out that it was some sort of rarity.  Even the worst condition copies were selling on Amazon for around $100.  I kept looking, though, and eventually found a nice copy that used to sit on a library shelf somewhere.  I paid much less than $100, probably because the dumb stupid seller didn’t know what a treasure they had.  My copy has the 1965 copyright date, but it says “Third Impression”.  I'm too dumb and stupid to know the difference between “impression” and “edition” so I don’t know it’s monetary value.  It doesn’t matter to me.  The real value in me owning this book is that it means there is one less copy floating around for future little boys named David to read.

I do plan on reading the book – probably this weekend.  It is sitting next to my recliner, just begging to be picked up.  When I do finally read it, I will be thinking about Dumb Stupid Dorothy Aldis and the impact her book made on someone who waited 50+ years to read it.

If You Grew Up in Philo, You Might Remember These.....

No story here; just a random list of 20 things you might remember if you grew up in Philo in the 1970s.

1. Climbing the rock pile.
2. The annual tomato war.  Not for the faint of heart.
3. Putting pennies on the railroad tracks.
4. The igloo house.
5. Climbing up, and sliding back down, the school's fire escape.
6. The kissing tree.
7. The merry-go-round and the swinging gate.
8. Walking barefoot in the road oil, seeing how many bubbles you could pop.  It was fun to do, but you paid the price later by having to scrub your feet with gasoline.
9. The noon siren.  Like clockwork, the fire department siren went off every day at noon (except Sundays).
10. The short-lived downtown pinball arcade.  A gathering spot for ne'er-do-wells and hooligans.
11. The Dog 'n Suds, later known as "The Root Beer Stand", and even later known as "Miles to Go."
12. Riding bikes out to Lovers Lane to pick up pop bottles.  And then cashing them in for candy money at the IGA.
13. The tadpole hole.
14. The Philo Celebration.  Held every summer, until culminating with the Philo Centennial Celebration in 1975.
15. Trees in the outfield.  Literally, there were huge trees in deep right field at the big diamond.  Luckily, the ball was rarely hit that far.
16. Patches the dog, lying in the middle of the street, refusing to move for any honking car or school bus.
17. The lighted Christmas tree right in the middle of the 4-way stop.
18. Ms Melohn inviting the St. Thomas kids down to the public school to watch reel-to-reel movies in the gym.  I vividly remember watching "That Darn Cat", "The Shaggy DA" and "The Strongest Man in the World."
19. The old jail by the railroad tracks.  By then it was used only to store junk.  But it still had bars on the windows, so it was cool to think of it as a real jail.
20. Population 900

The Curious Incident of the Shower in the Basement

Part 2

At the time that I was growing up, having 1.5 bathrooms in a household of 8 people did not seem that strange.  To be honest, it was not unusual in our house to see 2 or 3 boys crowded around the toilet going #1 all at the same time.  And it was just as common for several of the youngest ones to use the same tub of water for our Saturday night baths, each one adding some Mr. Bubble and some fresh hot water before taking their turn.

Mr. Bubble

The half bath at the end of the hallway was reserved for my mom, my sister, and the occasional emergency when you just couldn't hold it until the big bathroom was available.  To this day, I've used "Mom's bathroom" less than a dozen times in my life.  The logjam on bath night was undoubtedly helped out by the shower in the basement.  It was located in a particularly dark corner of the basement, sandwiched between Dad's workshop and the sump pump hole.  Everything about that part of the basement screamed "No Little Kids Allowed."

The shower in the basement.

So, until I was a big kid, I was stuck using the little bathtub in the "big" bathroom.  Every Saturday night before going to church.  Or maybe mid-week if I had a particularly dusty baseball game, or if I walked barefoot on the oil roads on my way downtown to buy candy at the Eisner.

I'm not sure what is stranger about this picture. The fact that my mom would take a

random picture of me sitting in the bathtub, or the fact that I was wearing my glasses.

I continued using the bath tub without incident, until one day, without any fanfare, Mom sent me downstairs to use the shower instead. And she did so with only two directives:  Don't use all the hot water, and don't waste the shampoo.

Part 3

The basement at our house was basically divided into four distinct areas.

1. The bedroom of my two oldest brothers

2. The laundry room

3. Dad's workshop (including the shower stall)

4. The rest of  the basement, which was basically one big play area

The "one big play area" was a kid's dream.  It was loaded with things to keep kids busy for hours.  Puzzles, games, a TV and, for many years, an awesome bumper pool table.

Me getting serious about pool, while my little brother looks to distract me by doing the chicken dance.

My dad, getting ready to school Danny and Donnie on the finer points of bumper pool.

It wasn't unusual for us to spend hours at a time in the basement, staying out of Mom's hair, coming upstairs only to eat or use the bathroom.  One particular day, back when only the oldest boys used the shower, my brother Donnie was taking his turn at not using all the hot water or wasting the shampoo.  While he did this, I played with Hot Wheels just outside of the workshop.  At some point, I rolled a car toward the shower stall, sending it under the wood paneling wall, and into the shower.  My brother, likely not amused, kicked it back out the same way it came in.  We repeated this a couple of times, until he lost interest and didn't send it back.  A couple of minutes later, we heard a large crash from the workshop, followed by my brother screaming in pain.  I don't remember who went into the workshop to check on him, but what they found was him bloodied and laying on the workshop floor.  To me, it was obvious what had happened:  He had stepped on the Hot Wheels car that I pushed in there, causing him to fall and somehow slice both of his ankles.  How he had managed to slice both of his ankles was not quite as clear to me at that time.  I didn't stick around to find out.  The thought of seeing any blood and the guilt of causing the tragedy sent me upstairs to hide in a closet.

As it turns out, he didn't slip on a Hot Wheels car.  In fact, he hadn't slipped at all.  You see, years before, Dad had installed a mirror in the shower stall, fixing it to the wall with a glue that apparently dissolves when subjected to a steamy shower.  The glue gave way and sent the mirror crashing to the ground.  When it shattered, pieces embedded themselves in Donnie's ankles.

Years later, when I got to be old enough to use the shower, I did so with the constant thought of the bloody incident that had occurred that day.  You would think that was the scariest thing that would ever happen in that shower.  

It wasn't.

Part 5

When my oldest brother Danny moved out of the house, freeing up a spot in the downstairs bedroom, I lobbied hard to take his place and join my brother Donnie down there.  I'm not sure how the decision was made, or if there was even any competition for the spot, but one Saturday evening, after getting home from church, I unceremoniously packed up my belongings and made the big move to the land of workshops, bumper pool tables and, by that time, Pong.

I didn't have much stuff to move downstairs.  I worried less about my clothes, and more about my baseball cards, my cassette player and my fish tank.  At that point in time, my fish tank was really nothing more than a small glass bowl with a guppy or two inside.  I always had dreams of having a bigger tank, with a bigger variety of fish, and I quickly realized that the move downstairs might just help make that happen.

One fishbowl turned into two. Two guppies turned into a few swordfish and a sucker fish.  Before long I had a couple of large aquariums and a huge variety of fish.  The home for all of this was a hollowed out old console TV.  The design allowed for bowls on the top and aquariums and supplies down below.

I quickly became bored with the "run of the mill" fish species and started adding newts, eels and crabs. In addition to the "store bought" stuff, I also stocked my aquariums with tadpoles and frogs that I would catch in the tadpole hole down by Miceli's house, past the baseball diamond.  To top it all off, I added a few baby crawdads that I pulled out of the Black Slough drainage ditch west of town.

The Tadpole Hole

The whole setup turned into an ecological survival of the fittest.  Newts would rest in the floating grasses and eat the guppies as they swam by.  Eels and sucker fish would clean up the rotting carcasses along the bottom of the tanks.  Tadpoles never lasted too long.  Instead, they acted more as a replenishable source of food for the crabs and crawdads.  It all become self-sustaining after a while. There was no reason for me to feed the guppies and minnows, because they wouldn't last long anyway. My only job became corralling the things that escaped with their lives by squeezing past the lid that covered the aquatic version of Thunderdome.

Thunderdome

The only downside to all of this was the smell.  I suppose no teenage boy's bedroom smells great, but this took it to a whole 'nother level.  I became used to it, but it couldn't help but be noticed by Mom every time that she came downstairs to do laundry.  Finally, at her urging, I decided to end my career as a marine biologist and get rid of all of it.  By that time, nature had taken its course and there wasn't much left:  a couple of newts and 4 crawdads that had grown pretty big feeding on all of the carnage.  Or was it 5?  I could've sworn there had been 5 of them at some point. 

Time marches on.  Donnie moved out.  The bumper pool table and the Pong were gone, replaced by a VIC-20 computer and cable television.  My weekly showers became more frequent as I started to actually care about how I smelled.  One night, many months later, I was taking a shower in the basement, probably using too much hot water, and too much shampoo.  At some point, I looked down and saw an over-sized crawdad, only slightly smaller than a lobster, claws raised, looking up at me.  Screams not heard since the dreaded Hot Wheels accident rang through the basement.

I can't imagine how that crawdad had spent the last 5-6 months of his life.  He likely drank water from the shower or the sump pump and, based on his size, fed on mice and late night snacks that might have been left alongside my bed.  I quickly dried off, got dressed and corralled the monster, turning him loose in the garden to fend for himself.  He had done a great job of that already so I'm sure he had no trouble there.

My zoo nowadays is limited to an overweight annoying cat.  Someday, the last of her 9 lives will be used up and I might consider getting a fish tank.  It will probably start with a few guppies but, before long, I'm sure I'll be riding my bike out to the Black Slough to see if I can find anything interesting to join them.

Hello Darkness My Old Friend

I stopped by Mom and Dad's house today, to pick up some fresh tomatoes, a couple of cucumbers, and to look for my old childhood baseball glove.  I knew exactly where to find it.  Since retiring from organized baseball 38 years ago, my glove has sat on the same shelf in the garage, alongside a few baseballs, a wiffle ball, and a US Army recruitment frisbee.

I know that it belonged to my brother Danny before it was handed down to me, but I don't remember a time when it wasn't mine.  I slept with this glove.  It spent entire summers on my hand, or hanging from my bicycle handle bars.  It was used to kill bugs, to carry pop cans, and as a hotbox base.  It looks weathered but, in hindsight, I'm surprised that it is in as good a shape as it is.

I was always proud of how the leather was tanned from catching so many fastballs. Truth be told, it was like that long before it was handed down to me by my brother Danny. I guess he is the one that caught a lot of fastballs.  The leather was beaten so thin that you'd pay the price if you didn't catch the ball in the webbing.  Catch the ball in the sweet spot and you could make any pitch sound like a 90 mile an hour fastball.

When I first got the glove, I didn’t know who Ron Santo was or that he was a Chicago Cub. Because of this glove, I was always a fan of his, even though I wished for the Cubs to lose every game. I met him once and showed him my autographed glove. I’m sure he was impressed.

I remember nervously chewing on this piece of leather as I stood in the field, hoping for the ball to be hit to me. Or sometimes hoping for the ball not to be hit to me.  I guess that depended on how close the game was or how big of a kid the batter was.  I chewed on it today, just for old times’s sake. Still tastes the same.

Trying to be artsy, for this picture, I laid my glove on a bed of 1970 Topps baseball cards.  I'm pretty sure these cards used to belong to Danny too.

11-year old, skinny, shaggy haired, Little League me.  Choking up, wearing blue jeans and a MoorMan's hat.  Busted up bike rack and a '75 Buick Century in the background.  This picture sums up my childhood.  

I truly wasn't worthy of a baseball glove as cool as mine.  I'm still not, but I'm trying.

I lost an old friend last week.

Frank Reed died in a swimming accident while on vacation in Portugal.  Frank was literally my first friend ever.

Frank in 2nd Grade

I remember playing with Frank before we ever even started kindergarten.  Frank was always bigger, stronger and faster than me.  He was also more obnoxious, disrespectful and fearless.  When we went to the park, Frank wouldn't play on the swings or teeter-totter like a normal kid.  Instead he would stand on the top of the monkey bars, or climb the park sign.  If I told him, "I don't think we are supposed to be doing that", he'd answer by simply saying "Why not?"

My nephew doing his best Frank impersonation on the same sign that Frank had hung from 45 years earlier.

That was pretty much his response to everything growing up.  Why not?  If he was told to wear dark pants and dark shoes to our First Communion, he would wear just the opposite.  Why not?

Frank, in the back row, looking saintly in his white shoes.

He learned early to question authority, and it drove authority crazy.  The week before our First Communion, we had a dress rehearsal, complete with us receiving unblessed hosts on our tongue.  Each of us solemnly paraded up to the front of the church, as instructed by Sister Dolorita, received our hosts, and returned quietly to our seats. Except for Frank, of course.  After eating the host, before he even got to his seat, Frank exclaimed "Ugh!  Needs salt."  That earned Frank the first of many trips to Sr. Mary Esther's office.

Frank was the kid who taught cuss words to the other boys.  He was the one who told me that babies didn't come out of their mommy's belly button.  When he got bored, he would turn his eyelids inside out.  And he was most likely the one who put a turd in the urinal in the boy's bathroom, but I've never been able to confirm that.  "Why would anyone in their right mind do something like that?", Sister asked the boys she had gathered in the bathroom.  Inside, I imagine Frank was saying "Why not?"

To say that he was full of energy was an understatement.  In one way or another, he was a part of some of my fondest (and most painful) childhood memories.

As the grade school years went by, Frank wore more and more on the teachers and principals.  At least once, the 7th and 8th grade girls were forced to give up their recess.  Instead, they gathered in the church with Sister Ann Vincent, to pray that the devil would release his hold on Frank.  At some point, something broke.  I don't know if it was Frank's choice, or the principal's choice, but he left St. Thomas to finish his grade school years at the public school.  In a strange way, I missed Frank, but I'm sure he was enjoying himself with a new group of teachers to annoy.

Frank and his old classmates were reunited when we got to high school.  He hadn't changed much.  He still had little patience for anyone who couldn't keep up with him.  He started to soften a bit though.  One moment he might be making fun of someone, but the next moment he might be sticking up for someone who was being made fun of.

I didn't see Frank much after high school.  Our interactions were limited to class reunions and sporadic e-mail exchanges.  I knew he had gotten into body building, and I knew that he had become a firefighter.  He once sent me an e-mail apologizing for being a jerk all those years ago.  He added "I never had kids but if I had I would have instilled in them the importance of appreciating the talents of those who didn't necessarily run in the same circle."

Frank channeling that energy.

It is fitting that Frank's calling ended up being helping those in need.  From what I read, he was an amazing fire fighter and had touched many lives.  I can't help but wonder why he ended up choosing that career.  If I had asked him, I'm sure he would have said, "Why Not?"

Captain Frank Reed 1965-2017

The song “Convoy” holds a special place in my childhood memory.

You remember the song, of course.  It came out in 1975, during the CB radio craze, and centered around two truck drivers:  Rubber Duck and Pig Pen.  I’m not sure how Rubber Duck got his name, but Pig Pen was named so because he was hauling a load of hogs.  There were numerous references to the hogs, and their smell, during the song.  That’s why it is surprising that 9-year old me was so convinced that C.W. McCall was singing “Big Ben” and not “Pig Pen.”  It was like I never even listened to the lyrics.

One day, my brother and I started arguing about whether it was “Pig Pen” or “Big Ben”.  Kids nowadays have it so easy.  Any 9-year old can just google the lyrics to any song.  To settle our argument, instead, my mom suggested that I call the local radio host, specifically Larry Stewart on WDWS’ Penny for Your Thoughts.  I took up the challenge, cowering on the phone behind the recliner in the front room, while my mom and brother listened in the kitchen.  The host knew the song but, surprisingly, couldn’t definitively say what the lyric was.  It was disappointing because, up until then, I thought Larry Stewart was the smartest man in the world.

It didn’t take long, though, for the calls to come flooding in.  One after another, Central Illinois listeners settled the argument for good.  “Pig Pen” the first said, followed by another, and another.  It seemed like the rest of the show was dedicated to the dumb kid in Philo.  There were even a few sarcastic comments mixed in, like “Why in the world would he think it was Big Ben?  Like in London? That makes no sense.”

42 years later, I just wanna say “Screw you WDWS listeners.  I was 9 years old. Give me a break.”  Back then, my only dealings with 18 wheelers was standing in the front yard, pumping my arm up and down, trying to get the drivers to honk as they drove by.

Some People Have Bridges or Roads Named After Them

Maybe someday I will get a sidewalk named after me.

I have some very vivid memories from my two years in Sister Dolorita's 1st/2nd grade classroom at St. Thomas. I will tell you about the most vivid memory, but first, here are a few that are near the top of my list:

5. Learning to use an abacus. This was before calculators, of course. When kids today ask me why they need to learn a certain math skill that they are convinced they will never use in real life, I like reminding them that I once learned to add and subtract on an abacus. Check-mate.

4. Watching intently as Sister Dolorita lit 3 matches and carefully merged them into a single flame to help explain how the Holy Trinity is one God, but 3 individual parts, just like the one big flame was made up of 3 individual flames. Anything burning tends to leave a lasting impression. That was the closest I would get to being allowed to play with fire until I became an altar boy.

3. Sitting in the corner of the classroom listening to Sister read Flat Stanley and another story about making a wish when you blow away a fallen eyelash. During a recent visit, I noted that the corner of this particular classroom is still reserved for reading time.

2. Being asked to stay after school to help Chrissy Cain clean up her messy desk. Apparently, I kept a very neat desk and served as a nice example for the other kids. That's ironic, considering that I probably have the messiest desk in the whole office now.

To finish ahead of those memories, you might suspect that #1 would have to involve some bloody traumatic event. You would be correct.

The fastest kid in 2nd grade was Andy Serio. Heck, I would put him up against any 3rd or 4th grader too. He was that fast. In a town full of Germans and Irish, Andy was unique because he was Italian - except he wasn't Italian. He was quick to point out that, in fact, he wasn't Italian, he was Sicilian. Throughout grade school, if you wanted to make Andy mad, just tell him "Italian? Sicilian? What's the difference?."

One day at recess, Andy was running down the sidewalk that paralleled the 1st/2nd grade classroom. When I say "paralleled", what I really mean is that it ran right up alongside the building. Today's ADA requirements would never allow such poor design. So, Andy is streaming down the sidewalk, either racing someone or chasing some kid who just called him Italian........just as I opened the door to join recess. Andy slammed into the door, cutting open his head. He sat on the sidewalk, blood streaming down his face, while the other kids pointed out to him who had opened the door.

Andy recovered from his injuries. He remained the fastest kid in the class for as long as I can remember, and we remained friends....sort of. Just like every year, all the kids in the class exchanged photos after picture day. I still have the one that Andy gave, with his personalized message on the back.

Not too many years later, they removed that hazardous sidewalk and replaced it with one that was three feet further west, clear of any opening doors. I would like to think that somehow I played a part in making St. Thomas a safer place by causing the events that led up to that sidewalk being rebuilt. Here is a picture of it from last summer. If you look closely you can see a sign commemorating my time there. When I die, I am going to leave enough money to the school that they can erect a real sign, one deserving of the blood that was shed by Andy Serio.

My Life of Crime

My life of crime both began, and ended, when I was in the 3rd grade.  Just like today, back in the 1970s, Saturday morning cartoons were filled with commercials for cereals and toys.  Honeycomb, Frankenberry, Lucky Charms - my breakfast eating habits were shaped largely by television.  The number of cereal commercials was exceeded only by the number of toy commercials.  G.I. Joe with the Kung-Fu Grip was a favorite of mine.  But I remember none better than the ones for TV Magic Cards.

Even now, watching that video, I am amazed at how Marshall Brodien - Professional Magician was able to do those tricks.  I was mesmerized, and I would have given anything for those magical mysterious cards.

One day in 3rd grade, as luck would have it, Frank showed up to school with an authentic deck of TV Magic Cards.  During recess, he did his best Marshall Brodien impression and wowed us with a couple of tricks.  I spent the rest of the day trying to figure out how I would get my hands on those cards.  It turns out that wasn't such an impossible task.  Leaving the classroom that day, I noticed that Frank had left the deck of cards in plain sight, just inside his desk.

I stuck the cards inside my H.R. Pufnstuf lunchbox and scurried on home.  As soon as I got home, I ran downstairs to uncover the secret of the TV Magic Cards.  I was a little disappointed when I learned the cards held no real magic at all.  They were just cards that had mismatched faces and partial markings so that if you held them a certain way, you could fool someone into thinking they a certain card.  Hold a card one way and it looks like the ace of spades.  Hold it another way and it looks like a 9 of diamonds.  With the secret revealed to me, I was well on my way to becoming Marshall Brodien, except I was missing the instructions that explained how to do all of the tricks.  Without those, I wasn't going to fool anyone.

My disappointment quickly changed to fear when Mom came downstairs and saw me playing with the cards.  The card magic did not help me disguise my guilt.  When she asked me where I had gotten them, I told her that Frank brought them to school, but that he was letting me borrow them for the night.  I don't know why it seemed so far-fetched that a kid that I had known my whole life would share something with me, but she didn't seem to be buying my lie.  She didn't push it though, and when she left the room, I packed the cards neatly back into their box.  The next day, I slipped the cards back inside Frank's desk and don't remember ever seeing them again.

The peak of my athletic career came in 1979, when I was in the 8th grade.

As much as I have always loved baseball, basketball was my first love. I couldn't get enough of the sport. It's too bad, though, that my physical abilities never caught up with my enthusiasm. On game nights at St. Thomas, I was always one of the first to arrive, helping my mom set up the concession area, and one of the last to leave, picking up trash and dust mopping the floor. On nights when I didn't have a game, I would often help my dad with the scoreboard or with keeping the scorebook. Enthusiasm and helpfulness are nice, but those things just don't translate into victories.

My 8th grade team won 1 game and lost 16. If you had asked me a week ago what our record was that year, I would've guessed we had won half our games. It wasn't until I dug out Coach Schumacher's old scorebooks that I found out the sad truth. Yep, the old scorebooks are still stored under the St. Thomas trophy case, and they don't lie: we won only one game, a 48-41 thriller versus Holy Cross on November 24, 1978. Maybe we played so well because we were excited about hosting our annual St. Thomas Thanksgiving Tournament, or maybe it was because one of the 7th graders who was allowed to play up that night scored 20 points for us. Whatever it was, the magic didn't carry over. We lost the championship game the next night, losing to St. Matthew's 73-29. For the record, I was held scoreless both nights. Typical.

Actually, the scorebook can back me up - it was typical. I scored in six games that year (totaling 19 points), and that even includes a game that I played with a bunch of 7th graders. The teams for that particular game were divided up by height and weight instead of by grade. That night (January 4, 1979), playing as a member of the "lightweight" team, I ended up with the highest scoring game of my career. I scored 6 points, including 4 of 6 on free throws. We lost 30-28 to ABL. Looking back, I can only wonder how different things might have been if I had hit those 2 missed free throws.

That fact that I scored 19 points that year is a miracle in itself. My primary job on the team was to inbound the ball to Mike and then stay out of the way. I don't know how I ever scored baskets or why I was ever fouled.

After the season was over, we had our annual St. Thomas basketball banquet. The night we got the cool letters for our letterman jackets. The night we got to sit at the front of the gym, closest to the food line. The night we got to meet a real Illini basketball player who was invited to be our guest speaker. Except that year, we didn't get an Illini basketball player. We got Lee Cabutti, famed Champaign high school basketball coach. I was disappointed. I was hoping for Levi Cobb or Eddie Johnson, maybe someone who I'd at least heard of before. I still had a reason to be excited, though. I was the odds-on favorite for winning the Sportsmanship Award, and the trophy that went along with it. You didn't have to be the most talented player to win that award, just someone who worked hard, didn't get mad, and maybe dust mopped the gym once in a while.

Sadly, I didn't win the Sportsmanship Award. In what has to be one of the all-time St. Thomas basketball banquet shockers, I was passed over, and the award instead went to Andy Hughes. Even Andy seemed stunned when his name was announced. Me? I was dumbfounded, and, at the time, wasn't feeling very sportsmanlike at all. My disappointment was short-lived. The highlight of my athletic career came next, as I was announced the winner of the free throw trophy. As it turns out, I had the best FT percentage on the entire team, and I now had a trophy to prove it. "Dave Happ 1978-79 Free Throw Champion - 60%".

For years I wondered if there must have been some kind of mistake. I was afraid to ask Coach what my actual numbers were for fear that he'd find a tabulating error and I'd be forced to give up my trophy. But now, with the actual scorebooks in hand, I could check the numbers once and for all.  And here is what I found out: I did, in fact, have the highest FT percentage on the team. Apparently no one else hit over 50%, and the next closest was at 45%. That might help explain our dismal record.  But, as it turns out, I did not shoot 9 out of 15 (60%) that year. I only made 9 out of 16 (just over 56%). Looking closely at the November 30th game versus St. Joe, you can clearly see that I went 0-1 on free throws that night, but that the missed free throw in the third quarter did not make the player tabulation column.

Thankfully my margin of victory means that I won't have to give up my trophy. That's fortunate because somewhere between 1988 and 1997, I lost my coveted trophy. I moved 7 times over those years. Maybe the trophy got left behind somewhere, or maybe it was stolen by a jealous moving company employee who scratched out my name and now proclaims himself as the 1978-79 Free Throw Champion. Little does he know it should read 56.25% instead of 60%.

This is Kinda Like Being a Writer.....

From my earliest days, I can remember wanting to be a writer.  Don't get me wrong - I had other dreams too.  At different stages in my life, I wanted to be a carpenter, or a botanist, or an architect, or Grizzly Adams.  I really really wanted to be Grizzly Adams.

 

When I was older, though, I realized that I couldn't ever be Grizzly Adams.  So instead, I decided that I wanted to be that guy from "That's Incredible!" who jumped over a car as it was speeding toward him at 90 miles per hour.  I actually practiced that move in my backyard, figuring all I had to do was get enough height and the car would just pass right under me.  That dream came to an end when my grandma showed me an article that she had cut out of The National Enquirer.  The article graphically described how the guy was nearly killed when he tried to push his luck, jumping two cars at once.  I saved the article, as a warning to myself that I might want to consider a safer vocation.

 



So I wrote, and I wrote.  I wrote short stories on scraps of paper and proudly read them to my family.  At the end of each story, I would include one or two questions about the story, just to see if everyone was listening.  Based on the results of the quiz, I quickly learned that they weren't.  But I kept writing anyway.  When I couldn't think of stories to write, I copied entries out of the World Book Encyclopedia.  I was about 10 pages into an entry about the African Rhinoceros before my brother explained to me what plagiarism was.  Undeterred, I kept writing.

 

The lesson on plagiarism didn't completely sink in.  In the sixth grade, I was 43 pages into a detailed story about a boy who goes back in time and meets up with dinosaurs, aliens and an ape-boy.  I put the story on indefinite hold when one of my classmates pointed out that the story sounded an awful lot like Land of the Lost.

 

But I kept writing.  I wrote short stories.  I wrote letters.  I wrote poems.  I wrote fake newspaper stories for my fake newspaper.  I got a typewriter for Christmas one year and decided that was about the coolest thing ever.  I was more convinced than ever that I wanted to be a writer.  My passion did not go unrecognized.

Then, one day, I stopped writing.  I'm not sure why.  It might be because I discovered girls, or video games, or math.  Maybe it's because I simply ran out of things to write about.  Recently I've discovered that I still like writing.  That's cool, but for sure it's not as cool as jumping over a car.

Rack-O!....................James Dean

It makes me sound really old, but when I was in the 3rd grade, our favorite recess games were still "Cowboys and Indians" and "Cops and Robbers".  Basically, we just chased each other around the schoolyard shooting fake guns, or arrows, at each other, yelling "You missed me!"  On days that we were stuck inside, though, our choice of games was limited.  A favorite game of ours that year ended up causing me nightmares and was eventually banned from the classroom.

Rack-O was a simple enough game.  From what I remember, players drew numbered cards from a pile, putting them in a rack from smallest to largest.  When you had a complete rack of 10 cards, and all your cards were in numerical order, you won.  But not without first yelling "RACK-O!!!!!" at the top of your lungs.  3rd grade boys are creative.  Somewhere along the line, somebody added an important rule to our game.  When you won the game, you won the right to yell "RACK-O!!!!", of course.  But in our version, you also won the right to slam your fist into the crotch of one of your adversaries also playing the game.  So, basically, each game ended with one boy rushing to rack someone in the balls before they had a chance to protect themselves.  Sounds fun, right?  Or as it says on the game box, "keen competition."

I started dreading rainy days for fear of being stuck inside playing Rack-O and getting slammed in my undersized junk.  To make matters worse, about that same time, there was a song on the radio called "Rock On" by David Essex.  Except I never heard Mr. Essex saying "Rock On". What I heard him saying was "Rack-O."  Listen to that song and you'll see why it is second on my list of creepiest songs of all-time, just behind "The Night Chicago Died."  The weird bass guitar and the violins combined to make it the scariest song I had ever heard.  Add in the "Jimmy Dean.....James Dean" part and I was this close to cowering in my closet, crying and  holding my hands over my crotch. To this day, I instinctively reach down whenever that song comes on the classic rock station.

I don't remember going to my mom and telling her the whole story about our Rack-O games at school.  I'm pretty sure I did though.  Mom had a talk with the teacher and before you could say "James Dean", the game had been pulled from the classroom shelves, never to be seen again.  Word got out that it was my mom that ended our "fun".  I took some heat from the other boys, but looking back, I'm pretty sure they were as thankful as I was.

Click here to listen to the 2nd creepiest song of all time.

It’s Too Bad There Aren’t Chances for Extra Credit as an Adult

When I was in 8^th Grade, my Literature teacher was Mrs. Hood.  She taught us public speaking, composition and about some of the great works of literature, but that wasn’t enough.  Her real calling was making sure we left St. Thomas as the most well-mannered, etiquette-following group of kids possible.  She wanted people to see us and think “Wow, they sure do put out some well-mannered kids at St. Thomas.”  You would think that after 8 years of Catholic school education we would be in pretty good shape, but apparently not.  They had to bring in Mrs. Hood as “The Closer”, to put on the finishing touches, I guess.

Her approach was simple: If she spotted you doing something good, you got extra credit.  That got my attention.  Extra credit is like crack for a kid obsessed with getting straight A’s.  The only thing better than getting a 100 on a test, was getting a 101 because Mrs. Hood saw you holding the door for some old ladies at church one morning.

That’s right, if she spotted you holding the door for someone, that was worth one point.  Overhearing a “please” or “thank-you” – one point.  Reading the communion antiphon at Mass – 3 points.  Saying hello to her outside of the school – 2 points.  And the list went on and on.  But there wasn’t really a formal list, it was just some mysterious tabulation that only she knew the details of.  It didn’t matter to me.  It was extra credit and I was all over it.

Late that school year, Mrs. Hood came up with an assignment that combined composition with her quest to make us better citizens.  She had us write random letters to residents at the County Convalescent Center.  We told them about ourselves and our school. And, most importantly, we told them we were praying for them during their time of convalescence.  I should note that I had never heard the work “convalescence” before, and I haven’t heard it since.  I imagine it has been replaced by a word from the 20^th century.

So we wrote our letters.  Some of us were lucky enough to receive replies; spawning pen pal relationships that consisted of a series of letters that basically said the same thing every time:  “School is going good.  My teachers are nice.  I’m praying for you during your time of convalescence.”  My pen pal was some guy named Carl Coffin, who, other than the fact that he had bad handwriting and a real cool name, I can remember nothing about him.

Toward the end of the school year, Mrs. Hood announced a mega-extra credit opportunity.  It wasn’t required, but anyone was welcome to pile in her van after school the next day and go with her up to the Convalescent Center to talk to the residents, sing songs, pray, and if we were lucky, meet our penpals.  Are you kidding?  It was an opportunity I would not be passing up.

For all its hype, I can’t remember too much about our actual visit.  I know that Carl Coffin was no longer a resident there and Mrs. Hood quickly changed the subject when I asked her why.  We went from room to room, singing a collection of songs that was apparently chosen from the Greatest Songs of the 19^th Century Songbook.  The fan favorites included:  “What Shall We Do with a Drunken Sailor?” and “Beat the Drum Slowly”.  We finished with a medley of American Negro Spirituals including “Swing Low Sweet Chariot”.  Nothing says “We’re praying for you during your time of convalescence” like a bunch of 13 year old white kids singing “I looked o’er Jordan and what did I see, coming forth to carry me home?”  I’m sure if Carl Coffin had been there, he would have been either applauding or crying.

A couple of years ago, I read that Mrs. Hood had passed away.  As much as I joke about it, she really did play a big role in me leaving grade school as a well-mannered, kind person. I’d like to think some of that carried on to my adult life.  I don’t think she had any formal ceremony after her death.  That’s unfortunate, because I’m sure attending her funeral would have been good for at least 30 extra credit points in life.

I am the worst "award winning" cook of all times.

Actually, I don't really know if I'm a terrible cook or not - I just don't ever try. The only things that I routinely cook anymore are instant rice, spaghetti and egg sandwiches. But those few things, I can really nail.

I started working at Hardee's when I was 16. I did the usual stuff like taking orders, cooking fries and cleaning the floors. At that age, work was more about hanging out with my friends than learning new skills. But, after a couple of years, I got the chance of a lifetime. The guy who came in each morning to cook biscuits had called in hung over one too many times, so they thought they'd better train someone to be his backup. I jumped at the chance.

This new job was perfect for me. I got to come in early before the other employees arrived, and I got to hang out in the back away from the customers. My public appearances were limited to several times a day when I was forced to carry trays of cooked biscuits out to the holding oven on the back line.

I have the skills to be a good cook. I follow directions and I pay attention to details. These skills helped me to cook good biscuits. Really good biscuits. I got a reputation for making the best Hardee's biscuits in town, so when it was announced that there was going to be a nationwide contest for the best Hardee's biscuit cook, I was excited. I didn't know who Cale Yarborough was, but included in the first prize, was a chance to meet him, and ride in his Hardee's Nascar racer.


First we had a competition between all the cooks that worked at the 4 Hardee's restaurants in Champaign/Urbana. I don't remember much about that competition, but I did win and earned the right to move on to the area competition in Belleville.

There isn't much to cooking Hardee's biscuits. The only ingredients were a bag of flour, 2 containers of buttermilk, 2 cubes of shortening, and a secret packet that I can only assume contained yeast, baking powder, salt and other stuff. Throw them all in a mixer, turn it on, and you're pretty much done. I, though, had made some tweaks to the procedure that I'm sure led to my awesome biscuits. First, I always shorted the mix about a half cup of buttermilk. Second, instead of throwing the entire cubes of shortening into the mixer, I took the time to pinch off quarter-sized pieces from the cubes. It took more time to do this, but I was convinced it helped. Lastly, before I removed the dough from the mixer to plop onto the rolling table, I always let it set for a few minutes, giving it time to rise. I tried to keep these procedures a secret, fearing that I might get fired for varying from the official biscuit making handbook.

It was the day of the big bake-off in Belleville. I didn't get many instructions on how it was going to work except that I had to bring my own ingredients from the local restaurant. No problem there. My mom went with me that day, partly for moral support, but mostly because I was afraid to drive on the interstate. We arrived in plenty of time for the competition and my confidence was at an all-time high. That didn't last long though. When I went to get the ingredients out of the hatchback of dad's Citation, I realized that I had made a costly mistake. I had stored the ingredients in the direct sunlight and the shortening was half melted. When I informed the judges of this, they were not sympathetic, ensuring what ended up being my last place finish.

For my troubles, I got a $50 bill and a Hardee's Racing Team Cale Yarborough jacket. It was pretty sweet. I never wore it though. It only brought back painful memories.

This past Christmas, when I was down in my parents' basement, I looked for that old jacket. I thought it was time to face my fears and put it on. I looked on the racks where mom used to keep the old clothes, but I never found it. Then, a couple of weeks later, I was out in my dad's garage where he runs his eBay operations. There, hanging on a rack, was the old jacket, still unworn, and still looking pretty sweet. No, I didn't try it on. It was obvious that it wasn't going to fit, and I was worried that I'd rip out a seam or something trying to put it on. I did check the pockets, though, for a receipt, a Hardee's napkin, or a $50 bill that might have been stashed away 30 years ago. Nothing.

It turns out that dad sold my coat on eBay for $31. A fitting end to a time long ago when my cooking skills were at their apex.