Pinball Wizard

When I was a little kid, my brothers worked across the highway at the Dog n Suds.  After they enclosed the patio, the Dog n Suds had seating for only about 10 people, but they did have room for a pinball machine, and it was the only one in Philo.  Every few weeks, the pinball repairman would come by to either do maintenance or fix the machine.  And when he showed up, my brothers would yell across the highway to me “The Pinball Man is here!!”

That was my cue to come over, bum a root beer, and hang out there until the pinball guy left.  Because, before he left, he always pushed some secret button in the back of the machine that added a bunch of free games.  I would sit there like I wasn’t about ready to pee my pants in anticipation, just waiting to hear how many games he added.  For each one, I’d hear a loud CLAP like two pieces of wood being slapped together.  Usually, he’d leave about 2 or 3, but one time he left something like 13.  I think that day I played that Paul Bunyan pinball machine from 10 in the morning until suppertime.  I didn’t dare leave the machine and give some other kid (or my younger brother) the chance to use MY free games.  Yeah, I know, I was selfish.

I played a lot of pinball back then.  A few years later, we got a Pong at our house, and I’ve probably only played a pinball machine a dozen times since. L

Back when I was in the 2nd grade, I hated music class.

Our music class consisted of one of two things. Either we sat around and sang church hymns while Mrs. Brennan lead us on an old piano that was wheeled into our classroom by some lucky older boys, or we marched down to the public school to be taught by a real music teacher. That year, in preparation for a fancy recital, we walked the 3 or 4 blocks down to the public school for about 8 weeks in a row. Sister Dolorita led us along the route, with strict instructions not to talk, play with dogs or pick up anything along the way.

Our music class was in a tiny room above the gym. Until that year, I had never been in the room, but I knew it existed because we often climbed up the fire escape chute that led from the room. When we were older, on those wonderful days when we didn’t have school but the public school kids did, we sometimes climbed up the chute and banged on the little door to the room, thinking it would be funny to disrupt some music class. It turns out that the room was only used by either the Catholic kids from down the street or basketball referees.

Our class had been assigned two numbers for that famed recital, and I’d never heard of either of them. The first was “Hello Dolly” and the other was “Whistle a Happy Tune”. I should be clear that I hated music class, and there was no way I was going to sing in front of a gym full of parents and grandparents. We learned the songs quickly. The music teacher was especially proud of the part where we all whistled along. Of course I couldn’t whistle, so she told me to just pucker my lips and no one would ever know.

I don’t remember much of the performance itself. Too traumatic, I guess. I never opened my lips to sing, and never puckered up to fake whistling. I just stood there, alternating between staring at the floor and staring at the basketball hoop that had somehow been raised to the ceiling. My mom was furious. On the way home, she told me that she was never going to another school recital again if all I was gonna do was “stand there like a retard”.

When I got home, I hid in my closet and cried, while humming the words to “Hello Dolly”.

Back when I was in the 4th grade, I wanted to be a botanist when I grew up....

I don't think I knew the word "botanist" but I knew that I liked to grow things in my little corner of mom and dad's big garden. Part of my fascination with gardening came from my parents, but a big part of it came from my 4th grade teacher, Mrs. Komarek. I was fascinated by her, and we shared a love of gardening.

At the beginning of the school year, she had on her desk, a weird seed that I had never seen before.

She explained that it was an avocado seed and that, over time, it would grow into a big tree. I immediately knew that I had to have one, so I begged mom to pick one up at the store. Of course, they didn't have avocados at the Philo Eisner so I had to wait until mom had a reason to go uptown to Champaign. Mom couldn't see buying something just for the seed, so she made me try the avocado itself. 35 years later, I still won't eat them.

On my first attempt, the seed got all moldy before it ever cracked open. But I tried again, and it finally worked. Avocado growing definitely takes a lot of patience.

I grew my avocado for months, but I don't think it ever got big enough to transplant to soil. During the summer after 4th grade, without Mrs. Komarek's encouragement, I let the plant die. I'm not sure if Mrs. Komarek came back the next school year or not, but I never remember talking to her after that. I was probably too embarrassed to tell her that my plant had died. My last contact with her was this letter that I received that summer.

I just decided that I'm going to buy an avocado soon. And I'm going to grow it into a tree in honor of Mrs. Komarek.

When I was in the 7th grade, I was on my school's track team

The school obviously had a tiny budget for track and field equipment. My dad made the hurdles out of used 2 x 4s. The high jump and pole vault standards were made of metal poles cast into concrete-filled truck tires. The coolest thing though was the landing mat for the high jump and pole vault. It was made of what appeared to be an old sewn together fishing net filled with brick sized pieces of foam; like the kind that you use when washing your car.

This picture was taken a few years later.  Different kids - same old mat.

The mat was sort of a makeshift gathering place for hanging out after track practice. We would sit out there, smoke cigarettes and swap stories about school. Okay, we never smoked cigarettes, but one time somebody did bring some pop rocks and wax lips, both of which were strictly prohibited on school property. I was always uncomfortable hanging out with the cool kids, but because it was a carryover from track practice, I was tolerated.

One day, 6 or so of us were sitting out there on the mat, including Lindsey, a girl I had a huge crush on. Right in the middle of a serious conversation about how Mork tried to kidnap Fonzie last night on TV, all the guys jumped off the mat in unison, leaving just me and Lindsey. Before I could react, they folded the mat over on top of us, rolling us up inside. I was fear-stricken. I don’t remember ever being claustrophobic before or since, but at that moment, I was convinced that I was about to die. I was probably pressed up against the cutest girl that I had ever seen, but all I could do was scream like a little girl that I was suffocating.

Despite my pleading, the guys sat on top of mat for what seemed like an eternity. I didn’t even acknowledge Lindsey. I just kept screaming. Eventually, they unfolded it and let us out. I didn’t make eye contact with any of them, including Lindsey. I just ran across the playground as fast as I could, got on my bike and pedaled home. I never, in my whole life, said a single word to Lindsey ever again.

Christmas Gift Exchange

When I was 16, I started working at Hardee’s.  My first year there, someone suggested that it would be fun to do a Christmas gift exchange with all of the employees.  We had a little get together at the restaurant a few days before Christmas.  One of the supervisors, Sandy, thought it would be funny if her gift was one of those R-rated decks of playing cards where there was a semi-naked (or naked) lady on each card.  If she was hoping to embarrass someone, she hit the jackpot when I picked her gift.

I was the most socially awkward nerdy person there, and everyone got a big kick out of it when I opened up the present.  To make matters worse, sitting across from me in the booth was the girl I had a huge crush on, along with her cigarette smoking, baseball playing, cool car driving, Tony Danza lookalike boyfriend, Vernon.  They were all having a big laugh at my expense.  (For the record, I did get the last laugh on Vernon.  6 years later, his ex-girlfriend and I got married.)

When I got home that night, I hid the cards under the seat of my dad’s station wagon that I was driving.  When mom asked, I made up some reason for not getting a present in the exchange.  I didn’t feel like recounting, and adding to, the embarrassment of the evening.  Later that night, after mom went to work, I brought the cards in to look at them.  I took the time to put all of the cards in order, ranking them from the one that I would least like to have as a girlfriend (Starr) to the one that I would most like to have as a girlfriend (Heather).  Then I put them back in the box and hid them in my closet.
Years later, when visiting my folks, I went down to my old room in the basement and found the cards, still tucked away in the closet, along with three SI swimsuit issues and a Penthouse that I had pulled from a burn barrel behind the gas station.  The girls were still in the same order, and my tastes hadn't changed a bit.

In honor of “Back to School” time, here is a list of

The most traditional forms of hazing back when I was in high school:

The Bear Crawl

Senior hall was the long (relatively speaking) hall that ran right in front of the school offices.  This is where seniors hung out before school and during lunch.  God help the underclassman whose locker was located there.  Most mornings, the seniors in senior hall were entertained by watching freshman bear crawl races.  This was humiliating, but little pain was involved, and it was over in about 60 seconds.  The summer before my freshman year, my best friend’s older (step)brother promised to look out for me in HS.  Of course, it was him who handpicked me to run my first bear crawl race within 2 weeks of school starting.  If you decided to protest your induction into a race, you faced a stiffer penalty……

The Pink Belly

This was both violent and painful.  It was normally conducted only during P.E. when the teacher was away, but could be inflicted anytime.  Basically, 4 or 5 guys hold someone down, pull their shirt up, and slap their belly until it is flaming red.  It seems like it was always the same 3 or 4 guys who were selected for this punishment.

Sit on the Fountain

Before I started high school, I would hear people talk about someone getting set on the fountain.  I had this vision in my head of some sort of decorative fountain located in an elaborate courtyard.  As it turns out, it just meant any of the ordinary drinking fountains located throughout the school.  Some kid could be walking down the hall and, suddenly, get plucked up by 2 or 3 seniors and set right on the drinking fountain.  A quick twist of the wrist, and your pants were drenched.  Little pain associated with this one, but it was humiliating and, unlike a pink belly, hard to hide.

Thrown in the Girls Bathroom

I think there were only 2 girls’ bathrooms in my high school.  An observant freshman was always aware when senior boys were stationed near one of the doors.  One guy would knock your books out of your hand to disorient you, and the others would force you into the girls’ bathroom and hold the door shut while you tried to get out.  There were no fringe benefits either, because these guys were gentlemen, and usually waited until no girls were in the bathroom.  My brother once endured a rare combo when he was forced into the girls’ bathroom, sat on the sink until soaked, and then held in there.  By the way, good luck finding your books when you were finally released from captivity.

Dying Cockroach

The most infamous form of hazing was the Dying Cockroach.  It could happen anytime and anyplace.  There was no force involved – just the threat of future punishment if you didn’t voluntarily comply.  If you were unlucky enough to be selected, and scared enough to not resist, you would lie on your back, arms and legs extended and waving, while shouting “I’M A DYING COCKROACH!!!!”  Some people actually volunteered to perform this, disrupting classes and assemblies, and thereby gaining favor with the seniors.

Most of these were harmless and overlooked by the teachers.  The fact that most of the administrators were either current or past football coaches raised the tolerance level.  I did witness one incident, though, where the teacher flipped out because the hazing had gone too far.  The seniors stuffed a boy into a football equipment bag, and hung it from the chin-up bar in the gym.  Then, they proceeded to pelt the hanging bag with bombardment balls until the P.E. teacher walked in.  Brutal.

Duck Hunter

About a block away from where I grew up, there was a vacant lot that backed up to a cornfield. Every time we got any decent rains, the lot would flood.  It was always wet and water would stand there for weeks at a time.  We would spend hours over there catching tadpoles and toads.

One summer, a duck showed up on the pond.  It wasn’t like nowadays where you see a duck or stupid geese at every subdivision and shopping mall in the county.  Back then, seeing a duck in Philo was a once-in-a-lifetime event.  I was fascinated by it, and I wanted to catch it.

I set up a trap that was basically just a 5-gallon bucket with a slice of bread tied to the handle so that when the duck pulled on the bread, it bucket would tip and trap the duck underneath.  Looking back, I can’t believe how excited I was, and how confident I was, that I would catch that duck.

I checked the trap every hour but it never was triggered.  I was convinced, though, that it was just a matter of time.  That night, I wanted to go check it one last time before I went to bed, but mom wouldn’t let me since I had already taken my bath.  I begged and whined, but she wouldn’t give in.  Finally, I asked dad if he would go check it for me, and he said he would.  Awhile later, he came to my room and told me that there was no duck in the trap. :(

One day, when the timing is right, I’m gonna ask dad if he really walked all the way over there and checked my duck trap, or if he just said he went over there so that I’d stop bugging mom and go to sleep.

Older mean kids

Back when I was in 3^rd grade, it was a regular occurrence for the 8^th graders to come to our classroom and help us with our reading skills.  I was kinda scared of the older boys and was usually lucky enough to get paired up with a nice girl who looked like Marcia Brady.  One time, though, I got stuck with a mean kid named Tom.

It was pretty obvious that Tom was not gonna even try to help me with my reading.  Instead, he spent the whole time asking me which girls I liked.  That was bad enough, but it got worse when he asked me if I knew what a dick was.  I told him I knew what it was, but I wasn’t allowed to call it that.  He asked what I called it instead, and I told him that my mom said to call it my “cow”.  I don’t know why, but he thought that was pretty funny.  I wanted him to change the conversation, but then he asked me what my cow looked like.  The first thing I could think to tell him was that it looked like a hot dog.

When he asked me what a girl’s thing looked like, I blurted out the first thing to come to mind, hoping to end the conversation.  “A hamburger”, I said.  Tom busted out laughing, told his mean friends, and got them laughing too.  Mercifully, the class ended and they were all sent back to the 7^th/8^th grade classroom.  I was hoping this was all over, but I couldn’t get that lucky.

A few days later, I was riding bikes with one of my older brothers, down by the railroad tracks.  Sure enough, Tom and his mean friends pulled up on their bikes.  Tom yelled “Hey Dave, tell us about hotdogs and hamburgers!”  I acted like I didn’t know what he was talking about.  He said “Wasn’t that you that was telling me about hotdogs and hamburgers the other day at school?”  I said no and then started crying.  I told my brother that I wanted to go home, so we raced down the hill from the railroad tracks and went home.

When we got home, I asked my brother to please not tell mom about what happened.  He just kinda shrugged and said “Let’s go see if Gilligan is on.”

When I was little, this is what our swimming pool looked like:

It was just an old horse tank that my dad picked up somewhere. It was nasty and had a bunch of welds on it where dad had patched rusty holes. It would get filled up once a year and we were stuck with the same nasty water, unless there was a reunion or something, and then mom would change it. She did, though, add about a gallon of Clorox once a week. Everytime I swam, my knees and feet would get all scraped up from rubbing on the bottom.

Our pool toys consisted of an old innertube

quarters, and empty bottles of dishwashing soap that we used as squirt guns.

Final Out of the Game

My final year of Little League was when I was 12 years old. Most of the other 12 year olds had moved up to the Traveling Team, but there were 4 of us holdouts.  I was in no hurry to move up and take a chance at getting beaned by some older kid when I could stay back and play against 9 year olds.  I guess the coaches of the 4 Little League teams in town had a meeting where they divided up all the players.  The first thing they did was split up the four 12 year olds so that we were all on different teams (me, Wes, Tony and Rusty).  I may have been 12, but I was built, and played, like a 10 year old.  I feel sorry for the poor coach who got stuck with me instead of Tony or Wes.
 
So, best buddy Wes and I were on separate teams.  This story is about the worst day of his season.  His team was behind by one in the last inning.  2 on and 2 out, and Wes came to bat.  First base was open so the other team decided to intentionally walk him.  A smart move because there was about a 99% chance that he would have won the game.  After the first two balls, Wes's coach called him over to talk.  He told Wes that on the next pitch he should go ahead and lunge across the plate at the ball and try to make contact.  Sounded like a great plan to Wes.  He did it, and sure enough, he lined a shot past the 1st baseman to win the game.  Well, except that the ump called him out for stepping on the plate.  The coach argued, the other team celebrated, and Wes cried. He told me that the next day his coach came out to his house to apologize for making him look dumb.  If/when I ever see Wes again, I'm gonna remind him of that story.

I got slapped right across the face at my 8th grade dance.

First of all, in hindsight, I don't even know why I went to my stupid 8th grade dance.  I was probably the least likely person in my class of 11 to go.  I certainly didn't plan on asking anyone to dance, that's for sure.  After standing around all night staring at the disco ball, I was finally asked by a girl to dance.  It was obviously a pity move.  I slow danced like a dork through the long version of "You Light Up My Life" without embarrassing myself too much. 

Then, as it ended, one of the other guys said something like "Dave!  I can't believe you just did that!"  The girl I was dancing with stopped and said "What did he do?"  He told her that I had cupped my hand under her ass like I was gonna grab it.  Then she slapped me right across the face and pushed me away.  Everybody got a huge kick out of it.  The weird part of it is that she had to know that he was lying and that I didn't do it.  I wonder now if she was part of the setup.

The Infamous Vic Dodge

When I was a kid, the bully in Philo was named Vic Dodge.  I don't know if he was a bully for all of Philo, or just for the part north of the tracks where we lived.  And he was probably more than a bully.  I think he was a real criminal.  I was too young to have a good idea of how old he was, but I did know that he had long hair and that even my oldest brothers had strict instructions to steer clear of him.  He had 2 younger brothers (one of them was named David) and, as a group, they were just called "The Dodge Boys".  Mom always warned us "If you see the Dodge Boys coming, you turn your bike around and come home."

Or, if worse came to worse, and we had to get away from him fast, we could go to one of the houses in town that had a blue star taped to their front window.  I don't know what those stars meant, but I guess they were some kind of code for "This Is A Vic Dodge Free Zone" or something.

Anyway, back in 1981, Vic Dodge was found dead in Scott Park in Champaign.  I heard that his penis was cut off and stuck in his mouth too.  He probably deserved it.

When I was a kid, I had a pet mouse.

In fact, between my sister and brothers and I, we literally had hundreds of mice. Instead of a cages, we used old bookshelves with wire mesh across the front, and holes drilled in the shelves with ladders so that the mice could move from shelf to shelf. If was almost like a mouse village, with certain groups of mice ruling certain shelves. It looked kind of like this:

Because there were so many mice, they didn't all get a ton of attention, and, for that reason, some of them were really mean. Mean to us, and really mean to each other. I did have one favorite one though that was a mix of black and white. He was easy to pick out so I played with him a lot and he got to be very tame. I even taught him how to walk a tightrope. Kind of like this guy:

Sometimes when people would visit us, mom would say "get your mouse and show how he can walk the tightrope." Needless to say, I was very proud. One day, we were out practicing in the yard, and my mouse was taking a break walking around in the grass. I didn't keep an eye on him, and when I turned to look for him, I knelt right on top of him. When I picked him up, he was convulsing. And he actually died right in my hand.

I was so sad, but my sister and brothers thought it was funny. I hated them for weeks after that. To this day, they still tease me about killing my tightrope-walking mouse.

Little Dogs and Big Regrets

For most of my childhood, I had a paper route. If there was a contest for best paperboy in Philo, I probably would have won because I could stuff, fold and rubberband papers really fast. Then, I’d cram them into my bike with the dual baskets on the back and take off. I was pretty quick. The only thing that could slow me down was dogs. I was afraid of dogs as a kid, and it seemed like Philo had a lot of dogs running loose back in the 70s.  I would ride blocks out of my way to avoid a house that had a dog running loose.

To help with this fear, my mom bought me some stuff called “Mailman’s Best Friend."  If a dog ever got too close, I could just spray a little of this stuff in his general direction and he’d leave me alone. Everything would be fine; at least that’s what mom told me. The thing is, after she bought it for me, I never had to use it. Maybe just the sight of that red can bouncing around in my front bike basket kept the dogs away. Or maybe I was just really good at avoiding dogs.

I couldn’t leave well enough alone though. One early Saturday morning, I was delivering a paper to Old Mrs. Brazelton’s house when her dog decided to go nuts. The good news was that the dog was inside a fence that I didn’t even have to go inside of.  I just had to put the paper in a box along the top of the fence and move on. But the dog was barking like crazy and probably waking everybody up, so I gave him a quick squirt right in the face with “Mailman’s Best Friend”. The dog started crying and rolling around in the grass.  I went on my way, finished my route and went home. 

This is the actual mailbox that I was supposed to put the paper into.  It still stands today.

A couple hours later, mom got a phone call from Mrs. Brazelton. Apparently, she had seen the whole thing through her window and was none too happy about it. She was back from the vet, where she’d had to have the dog’s eyes washed out. She informed mom that she would be expecting me to reimburse her for the vet bill, which was just short of $100. That’s where my memory ends. I don’t remember having to go down and apologize for being so stupid, and I don’t remember ever having to pay the bill.  To this day, I think about how stupid I was everytime I walk down the street Mrs. Brazelton lived on.  By the way, I'm still scared of dogs.

Update [December 16, 2020]:

Mrs. Brazelton's 97 year old daughter still lives next door to where Mrs. Brazelton's house once stood.  97 years old, and sharp as a tack.  I happened to see her a couple of times this fall.  She knew who I was from when I was a kid and mentioned both times that I used to be her paperboy.  Uh-oh.......

A couple of days ago, I stopped by her house to ask her to sign a petition for me.  As always, she was super nice and was very encouraging when I told her that I was hoping to join the Philo Village Board.  We talked about Philo's 150th birthday (in 5 years) and how she hoped to be around for it.  We talked about Philo's 100th birthday back when I was 9 years old.  We had a great conversation going, and then she had to ruin it by saying "I remember when you were my paperboy."  

I couldn't stand it any longer.  I had to know if she remembered.  I said "You mentioning that I was your paperboy reminds me of a story."  She gave me a knowing nod and smile, and I asked "Do you know what I'm going to say?"  She said "I know what you are going to say, but I would have never brought it up unless you did. I wasn't even sure if you remembered."

Oh, I remember the story alright.  Apparently a little better than her because her recollection was that I shot her mom's dog.  While still bad, I don't think a little spray of ammonia to the face is quite as bad as a gunshot.  I'm glad I was able to clear my name of that charge.  I'm also glad that, 43 years later, I finally found a way to apologize for my dumb adolescent actions.  In fact, I probably apologized 2 or 3 times.  I'm not quite sure if she ever really accepted my apology.  She did, though, say that she would vote for me when the election rolls around.

Hmmmm.....now I'm trying to come up with other dumb stuff that I did as a kid that I can apologize for. 

When I was a kid, we raised rabbits.

You know, the cute fluffy white ones. Dad used to butcher them and sell the meat. We all helped take care of them, but only my 2 oldest brothers took part in the butchering. I steered clear on those days because I was usually too attached to the little things to think about what happened to them, although it never stopped me from eating the rabbit meat.

Every once in a while, a neighborhood dog would visit and think about getting him some rabbit. Mom kept a gun (it only shot blanks, I think) in the kitchen and would shoot toward any dogs that got too close. One time though, a dog got to the rabbits and ended up killing something like 10 or 15 of them. Mom must have somehow caught the dog, and called the owners. I have a vague memory of some 10-12 year old boy coming over to our house to get his dog. He was crying a bunch, but I’m not sure why. I don’t know if it was because mom was calling the dogcatcher or what. But he was crying as if he was never gonna see the dog again, so I don’t know if they took it away for good or what. When that kid grew up, he turned out to be pretty mean and picked on me a bunch. Thanks mom.

I think I’m gonna call mom right now and ask her if she remembers that happening. Then I’m gonna ask her what they did to the dog. Ugh, what if she tells me they shot it?