Siren Song

I’ve been asked to share more paper-route stories so I will set about sharing one of the most famous paper-route stories in the history of our family, perhaps, in the history of newspaper-passing.

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Late one clear, cloudless night the entire town of Brooklyn was roused by the shrieking of a tornado siren. The siren was perched high above the town on the Brooklyn water tower and from that great height it could be heard for miles around.

It wasn’t tornado season and when we checked the radio, there was nothing about bad weather or tornados, still the siren continued to wail. For some reason, the siren had malfunctioned and was now stuck on. The town engineer had to be summoned and, in the middle of the night, he scaled the tower and silenced the siren.

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We called it “collecting.” In the old days, we had to knock on the door of each of our customers and ask for payment. In return, we would tear a tiny little square from a collection ticket and give it to the subscriber as a receipt. We would then turn around and pay the “Bill.” The bill came from the newspaper publisher and it was an invoice for the wholesale cost of the papers. Anything left over, after paying the bill, was “profit.” So if a customer didn’t pay, it came right out of our spending money. We were motivated to see that every subscriber was paid-up.

But there were always those subscribers who felt compelled to stiff the paperboy. The excuses were legion. “My wife has all the money and she’s not home” or “My husband has all the money and he’s not home.” “I get paid on Friday, come back then.” Sometimes they would simply ignore the knock on the door; all this over a bill that could be paid with the loose change under the sofa cushions. It probably had more to do with power and control than it did with money. How many other bill collectors could you simply tell to “go away?” The last thing you had to worry about was the lowly paperboy, right?

That was before Douglas entered the picture.

Douglas was constantly in motion. He was drawn to mischief like a moth to the flame. Mom said that when he was two years old, he bolted out of the house, scaled the fence, and took off down the street, buck-naked! As a teenager, he actually blew-up the neighbors brick incinerator with chemicals he cobbed (Indiana slang for stole) from chemistry class. Then there was the incident with the moped and the Town Marshal…suffice it to say that Doug’s unique combination of technical genius and fearlessness created plenty of excitement.

So it was natural for Douglas to take matters into his own hands when subscribers refused to pay up, and as it happened, the Town Engineer was one of the worst offenders. Legend has it, that when the Engineer scaled the water tower, that star-lit night, not only did he find that the siren's switch had been purposely shorted; he found a tiny little coupon that read “Indianapolis Star: PAID.”

Run, Forest Run!

The church ladies were coming over and Mom was in a panic. These were not the ladies from our church; we were Catholics, and our church was miles away in Martinsville. These ladies were from the neighborhood church, probably coming by to do their missionary work, trying to keep the Witmer’s from being put in the “Straight To Hell” chute when they died. Whatever the reason for their stopping by, the result was we were told to “go outside,” so as not to be an annoyance during this rare visit from neighbors.

Now we had to find something to do. The boys meandered in the general direction of the Dyer Twin’s house and the little girls drifted across the street to play with Maxine Hubbard. I noticed that Big Bob Dyer’s white Ford Fairlane station wagon was parked on the street. He was known as “Big Bob” so as not to be confused with Bob Junior, the oldest of the Dyer boys who was approximately the same age as Marilyn. Big Bob also fit his name because he was of exceptional girth.

With nothing better to do, I walked closer to the station wagon to look it over. Then I noticed it, It was fascinating! Two little air valves protruded from behind the back bumper, just under each taillight. Now the Witmer boys were all very mechanical, we had to be. If our bikes were broken, we had to walk our paper routes, carrying our load in canvas bags, slung over our shoulders. Learning to fix our bikes was a matter of survival. We knew all about tires and tubes. The Streets of Brooklyn were loaded with broken glass, nails, old car parts and other sharp objects so we got really good at patching tires. When I notice these two air valves sticking out of a bumper, not even close to a tire, curiosity possessed me. I immediately set about forming and testing hypothesizes:

If these valves are somehow attached to a tire, then if I use a small stone to press down on the valve, I will hear a hissing sound.

I tried it. No noise. When I pressed the valve it was silent. I went to the second valve. Same result. Now my mind was racing:

Perhaps Ford Fairlane air valves are unlike the valves on bicycle tires. Perhaps these air valves are activated in some other way.

To rule this out I would have to test one of the car's tire valves. If the valve failed to emit a hiss, then I would know that I was dealing with an, as yet, unknown technology.

I knelt beside the tire with the little stone I was using as an improvised tool and I press on the stem. The tire let out a HISSSSSS.

Very interesting…

My thoughts were interrupted by my brother Joe’s voice, “I saw that! You’re letting the air out of that tire! I’m TELLIN!” Joe bolted in the direction of our house.

Is he insane! How could he confuse this scientific research with vandalism! He must be stopped!

Joe had about a 10-yard head start as he dashed home to tell on me. I took off after him and began gaining on him. This was not hard to do because of his shoes, his big, black, clunky shoes. They were “corrective” shoes and they probably weighed ten pounds apiece.

I must digress and explain that my brother Joe loved to tinker, even at an early age. He scrounged an ancient TV set off of some junk pile and then fiddled with, changing out tubes and such, until he got it to work. Then he put in the bedroom, the one he and I shared with Dennis. When the rest of us were sleeping, Joe would turn on the set, with the volume low, and watch TV until the wee hours of the morning. The result was Joe was always tired. He often complained of vague ailments, such as headaches, in his efforts to convince Mom to let him stay home from school and sleep.

Mom became convinced that Joe had some mysterious illness and hauled him off to a doctor in Martinsville who was happy to find all kinds of things wrong with him. The Doctor had boat payments to make and Joe’s mysterious “illness” was a gold mine. The corrective shoes where one of many 'cures" prescribed by Dr. Martinsville. Dr. M. explained: Because Joe was slightly pigeon toed and flat-footed, he had poor posture which stressed the muscles in the back and neck causing headaches; therefore, corrective shoes could cure Joe’s headaches. My parents paid dearly for the black-leather-headache fixers and so Joe had to wear them; all the time. He was lucky Mom and Dad didn’t make him sleep with those shoes on.

So that day, when I was racing Joe back to the house, it was easy to catch up to him. In fact, by the time we got to our yard, I was way ahead of him. I burst in to the living room and screamed, “HE’S LYING!" I was like an actor who had missed his cue. The room went silent and everyone looked at me like I was crazy. No one knew what to make of my outburst until Joe came huffing and puffing behind me and said, “John was letting the air out of car tires!”

Mom was mortified. The Church Ladies wagged their heads. They didn’t actually say anything but, “That’s appalling!,” was written all over their faces. Mom moved quickly to save face, “John Michael! Go and get me a switch!” I tried to explain. I tried to tell her that Joe was lying, that there was a big difference between letting the air out of some ones tires and testing a hypothisis. It was no use. Mom had been humiliated in front of the church ladies and now she had to demonstrate that she knew how to deal with unruly children.

The injustice of it all brought me to tears and I cried as I walked out the front door and on to the porch, searching for the switch that would be used on my bare legs; to give me an Indiana-Lickin.

The first thing I saw was the magnolia tree that hung over the porch wall. The porch wall was high, ten or twelve feet off the ground, and the tree branches just barely reached the wall. I climbed up on the ledge and was attempting to break off a switch when I lost my balance and fell, hitting the ground with a thud, the same thud a pumpkin makes when you drop it off a roof.

During all this, Joe had followed me out to the porch to watch and enjoy my agony. When he saw me fall, he yelled, into the house, “John fell off the porch!” Everyone scrambled out of the house and Mom came to me as I lay on the ground. I surveyed myself. The fall had knocked the wind out of me but my brain was still working.

If they think I'm really hurt, there's no way I'm getting a lickin!

"OHHHHHHH!", I let out a long pitiful moan.

“Is his back broken!?,” asked one of the Church Ladies.

"OHHHHHHHHHH!" came my reply

“Call an ambulance!" someone yelled.

And then it all took on a life of it’s own. The ambulance showed up and I was whisked away to the hospital in Martinsville where we learn, suprise, suprise, there were no broken bones. “Just shaken up a little,” the doctor told Mom, “he should take it easy for a day or two.” I laid it on thick for the rest of the day, moaning every time I got up from sitting in front of the television. But the next day, I was good as new.

Of course none of this would have happened if Joe would have simply minded his own beezwax. But life has a way of evening the score. Joe paid for his sins at the hands of Dr. Martinsville, who had plenty of other "cures" waiting for him. But I'll let Joe tell the rest of that story. I will only say that, from that time till this, I have never heard of such a bizarre surgical procedure.

Halloween in Brooklyn

In honor of Halloween, I decided to post another memory jogger. Do you remember this little episode?

In the olden days, one of the common Halloween pranks was “soaping windows.” You would take a bar of soap and draw all over the windows, forcing the occupants to wash the windows if they ever wanted to see through them again. This was generally reserved for the stingy souls who did not “treat” the trick-or-treaters.” Ron made an exception, in the case of the Meers family, deciding to soap their windows on general principle because, Shelia Meers, who was about Ron's age, was mean and nasty.

We knocked on the door and yelled, “Trick-or-treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat!” The Meers complied, but when they closed the door, Ron went to work on their windows with a bar of soap. As we were walking away from the house, evil Shelia Meers began screaming, “They soaped our windows!” We fled the scene of the crime, by running across the street and hiding behind the mobile homes. We were home-free until Anna started crying, giving up our location. Mrs. Meers began screaming threats about calling the Marshal and having us all put in jail and Anna, being only six or seven years old, lost it.

Ron tried to settle things down by offering to clean the windows. Because we were all in costume, Mrs. Meers didn’t know who we were. And even though she was screaming at us, she was not brave enough to pull Ron’s mask off. “You was treated!” she yelled, as Ron cleaned the windows. She continued her diatribe while Ron was washing and we were watching. When we finally walked away, Ron told us that he was holding the mask on his face by biting it with his teeth.

Chime in...Do you remember?

Cracked Corn

Church Street, where we lived, gently ascended, over a two block stretch, to Mill Street. In front of our house, the ground sloped away from the street providing a bank where you could duck out of sight if it was dark outside. In the Hubbard's yard, across the street, the bank was even more pronounced and provided an even better nighttime hiding spot. This was important given the fact that we often needed to run and hide.

RD (I will protect his identity by using only his initials) got a hold of some feed corn, the kind that is dry and hard, and got some of the neighborhood boys together for a little nighttime trouble making. The boys laid on the side of the road, shielded by the bank and waited for cars to drive by. At just the right moment, they would pop-up and hurl a handful of feed corn at the passing car. A shower of corn would hit the car causing all kinds of racket, usually scaring the beejeebers out of the driver. Sometimes the driver would slam on their brakes, roll-down the window and scream obscenities into the blackness. The boys rolled around in the darkness, hands over their mouths, trying to keep from laughing and giving away their position. (I have no first-hand knowledge of this, I'm simply relaying what I was told.)

RD got more than he bargained for when, after whipping a handful of corn at a car, the driver not only brought his car to a screeching halt, he jumped out and went looking for the perpetrators. When he started moving toward RD, RD jumped up and started running. The angry driver ran after him. RD panicked and ran into the house (our house!) The angry driver FOLLOWED HIM INTO THE HOUSE! My Dad came to the rescue, threatening to call the police if the man didn't leave immediately! Because my Dad was obviously an important FEDERAL employee, the angry driver realized that he must comply.

Dad had some words with RD but I can't remember what happened after that. I will leave it to the rest of you to fill in the blanks.

Capture the Flag

Do you recognize the building in the background?
What was the name of the Scout Troop that met there?
What was the name of the troop leaders?
Do you remember Snipe Hunts, Indian Dances and "Tapping Out?"

Get busy and respond or I'll write embarassing things about you!
(And don't think I won't...does Mae, Wooba, Shelia and Glenda mean anything to you boys!)

With Love,

Brother John

When Teresa Tried to Kill Me

Sometimes it’s only in retrospect that you see the patterns. I will relay this incident from my original perspective and then ask you to reconsider it in light of newly discovered information.

It was 1965. I was in the third grade. It was beautiful autumn day. The kind of day that starts out crisp but moves to sunny and warm by the afternoon. The students, at Brooklyn Elementary School, were taking their morning recess and the playground was teaming with children swinging on swings, climbing monkey bars and riding teeter-totters. These were the days when a playground was a mixture of concrete, gravel and steel. By today’s standards it was almost industrial. But this was before liability lawsuits produced a kinder, gentler American playground.

The teeter-totters, of the good old days, were massive boards that mounted on big steel pipes. The teeter-totter designers recognized that not all children were of equal size so the teeter-totter board had multiple center-point settings. You could shift the teeter-totter, to accommodate unequal loads. About 18 inches from each end, a metal handle was mounted to the wood.

We were particularly fond of giving “bumps.” This usually involved a larger person on one end of the teeter-totter. As the larger person was coming down, he or she made no attempt to stop the teeter-totter from hitting the ground. When that end of the teeter-totter came smashing down, the lighter rider would be jolted into the air, like a rodeo cowboy, with only their frantic grip on the cold, metal handle preventing them from being launched into space.

On this particular morning there were four of us on the teeter-totter, two on each end. Teresa and a playmate were on one end and I and another friend, rode the other. My side out-weighed Teresa’s side so we made the necessary adjustments to the center-point, extending Teresa’s side to give the light end more leverage. It was a wonderful time. I would smash my end into the ground, Teresa, in her bright little school dress, would fly into the air. She looked like a rag doll whose hands were tethered to the metal handle.

Now this may seem hard to believe, but someone got hurt. Teresa was unable to completely recover from being nearly thrown off, and on the down stroke, her ankle got caught under the teeter-totter. I hopped down, leaving only one person on my end. Teresa’s end came down and I ran around to see how badly she was hurt. Her friend was sitting behind her, and when I bent over to examine Teresa’s ankle, they both slid back, off the teeter-totter.

As you may recall, there was still one person on the other end of the teeter-totter. The forces of gravity prevailed and the unoccupied end of the see-saw lifted, abruptly, off the ground, quickly accelerating, until it reached an obstruction: my forehead. The force of the collision sent me sailing through the air. As I completed my arc, from teeter-totter to earth, I looked up into the into the bright, morning sky, and oddly enough, saw stars.

I crawled over to the teacher, on playground duty, who had not yet noticed me. I got to my feet and tried to get her attention, “Mrs. Barkheimer…” I stammered in a pitiful voice. She was in an animated conversation with another student, “…Mrs. Barkheimer…” Still no response, her head was turned away, but her body langage suggested that she was ignoring my rude interruption. “MRS. BARKHEIMER!” I blurted out. “John, can’t you see I’m…” She never finished her sentence. As her eyes focused on me, she stopped short and gasped. She took me by the shoulders and steered me to the principals office where there was a makeshift infirmary, and sat me on a chair.

The knot on my head grew until it became a thing of wonder. The school staff filed by, staring in amazement, wagging their heads, and clucking their tongues. The discussion centered on determining whether or not I had a concussion. I was warned not to go to sleep. If I had a concussion and went to sleep "I WOULD DIE!" Shortly after the discussion on death and dying, they called Mom and told me to walk home. I can only assume that they reasoned I couldn't fall asleep if I was walking the two blocks to my house.

This wasn't all bad. I got the day off School! When I showed up at home, my knot was large enough to astound even my mother, a woman who had seen many a serious injury in her day. She called Glenna Jean Rassmussen, our back-door neighbor, to tell her I would be coming by to show her my knot and then sent me on my way. Mrs. Rassmussen was equally impressed. I walked home and, tired from all the walking, sat in a big chair and fell asleep. Mom woke me up a couple of times, to make sure I wasn’t dead and, later, I spent the afternoon goofing around in the back yard.

It wasn’t until years later that I learned my sweet little sister, Teresa, had a dark-side. She once lured Joe off the tree-house ladder by holding a piece of candy just out of his reach. Joe plummeted to earth, breaking his arm!

Is it possible that Teresa had planned the teeter-totter incident? Feigning injury to lure me to her side, then sliding off when my head was in just the right spot?

I have presented my case. I leave it to you, the jury to decide.

The Clown

The wood and cloth box mounted above the chalkboard crackled to life, “Miss White, would you send John Witmer to my office.” It was Mr. Satters, the principal, and as I made my way from music class down the long hallway, my life, or at least the last few months of it, flashed before my eyes.

Seven weeks early, I began my career as the sixth-grade class clown when I discovered that, over the summer, I had developed a talent. With very little effort, I could get my fellow students to laugh, out loud, in the middle of class, at totally inappropriate times. A wisecrack here, a funny voice there, an occasional goofy face and I could have them in stitches. It was intoxicating and I was addicted. I couldn’t get enough!

Mr. Meyer sat in front of the class, looking like a cross between Dragnet’s Joe Friday and Mayberry’s Deputy Barney Fife. He wore a gray sport coat, dark slacks, white shirt and a bow tie. He wore this everyday. He was regimented and he liked order and decorum. The fixed rhythm of the elementary-school schedule fit him well. But there I was, messing up his world, destined to be a thorn in his side for the balance of the school year.

I was a low-level irritant. My antics had never quite risen to the level of drawing any serious punishment because I was smart enough to back off if Mr. Meyer’s patience began to wear thin. And I saved some of my acting out for Mr. Morgan, the other, cooler sixth-grade teacher. The sixth-grade population of Brooklyn Elementary School was so large that it was split into two classes. Besides teaching history to both groups, Mr. Morgan was the football, basketball and baseball coach. Since Mr. Morgan was not my “real” teacher, I goofed around a little more in History class.

At eleven, you begin to think you’re smarter than some of the adults around you. I thought I had Mr. Meyer’s figured out. I thought I had him under control. But at eleven, you tend to overlook important things, like the fact that reports cards come out every six weeks. My grades were tolerable, not good, but not bad, B’s and C’s mostly. It was the “Checkmarks” that did me in. The report card read, “A checkmark indicates that the student needs to improve.” Under that statement was a list of behaviors:

-Respects his Teacher – Checkmark.
-Displays appropriate behavior in class – Checkmark.
-Demonstrates self-control – Checkmark.
-Completes assignments on-time – Checkmark.

…the list went on. The only box that wasn’t checked was the one that said, “Plays well with others.”

Now I was shuffling past the Gym, on my way to the office, recalling how this nightmare began. The day before, I was given my report card. After taking in the checkmark section I was in shock. I knew I was going to get an Indiana-lickin when I got home, there were no two ways about it. Hiding the report card was out of the question. All reports cards had to be returned to the school with a parent’s signature.

There was nothing to do but face the music. Mom was so stunned she handed the matter over to Dad and he was in a particularly foul mood when he inspected my report card. He took me upstairs, took off his belt and, on my bare legs, gave me one stripe for every checkmark on my report card. He sent me to bed crying and I was still smarting when I woke up the next morning. Dad had put the fear of God in me and I was determined to avoid any future run-ins with the belt. I planned to stay out of trouble. But my resolution was short-lived.

I was supposed to have completed a worksheet for my homework assignment, but seeing that being beaten, within and inch of my life, had taken up most the evening, I came to school with a blank worksheet. It was really a minor issue. Mr. Meyer assigned stacks of worksheets and each one was only a small part of the grade in any given subject. That’s how I managed to get decent grades while still receiving a checkmark for “Completes Assignments on-time.” But with Dad’s thrashing fresh in my mind, I was bound and determined I would not start the next grade period on the wrong foot.

Mr. Meyer had a practice of letting us self-grade our worksheets. He would call out the answers and we would score ourselves. He would, then, ask for our score, in roll-call order, and record it in the grade book. We rarely handed in our papers. If it was an important quiz, he would have us swap papers with our “neighbor,” and then, after grading, we handed the paper’s forward. For seven weeks, that was the drill. It never varied, at least not until that fateful day in October of 1968.

My plan was simple. I would pretend to correct my unfinished paper, and thereby avoid getting docked for another incomplete assignment, eliminating the possibility of any future report-card-related lickins. As usual, we graded our own homework assignments and, as usual, Mr. Meyer called for our grades. Then he did something, he had never done before, he told us to hand in our papers. It was time to go to Music class and he wanted us to put the papers on his desk as we left the room!

This doesn’t make sense! He has the score! He doesn’t need the paper! Has he gone mad! Why is he asking for the papers? Think, John, THINK! There has to be a way out of this. I know! I can casually drop my pencil and paper on the floor and then, when I lean over to pick them up, write the answers with Superman-like speed! …Yes!...that’s it. But I have to remember to answer one question incorrectly so it matchs the score I gave Mr. Meyer.

From the front of the room I heard, “John, what are you doing?”

“I dropped my pencil.” I said, still down on the floor behind my desk.

Write like the wind, you can do this!

“John, you need to go to Music class.” Mr. Meyer was closing in.

This isn’t working…I need a new strategy…maybe he won’t notice if I don’t hand in my paper. Maybe he’ll forget to check the papers. He’s already got the scores…Maybe he won’t check them…get rid of the evidence!

I quickly crumpled the paper into a little ball and stuffed it in my desk. When I came back from Music class, I planned to destroy the evidence when no one was looking. As I walked down the hall, I tried to relax and once I got to my seat I almost succeeded in forgetting about the whole, ugly mess, that is, until the intercom crackled to life.

As I rounded the corner and went into the office I could see Mr. Satters. Seated across from him was Mr. Meyer and in his hand was a paper, my paper, a paper that had obviously been, at one point in time, a crumpled ball.

I cannot remember the opening exchange. The utter fear of hearing the door to the Principal’s office close behind me caused me to blank out. It’s possible they said nothing before I tearfully shrieked, “Oh please, please, don’t call my parents! My father will BEAT ME!”

They seemed stunned. I tried to explain that my bad report card had caused Clarence to come down like the wrath of God and that now I feared for my life. They seemed to struggle with how to proceed, in light of these revelations. In the end, Mr. Meyer gave me a short warning against any future tomfoolery and he closed with a statement that would have seemed just as fitting come out of the mouth of his look-alike, Joe Friday, “…and if we have any more trouble with you, young man, we will call your father, and that’s not a threat, it’s a promise!”

I left the office with both the joy and exhaustion of one who has narrowly escaped death. I turned over a new leaf that day. I gave up the Class-Clown mantle, ceding it to Charlie Wilson, whose father wasn’t around to deal out the consequences of a bad report card. My next report card was checkmark-free. Although my behavior had improved, I will always wondered if the checkmark-free report card was the result of me shaping up, or the result of my Oscar-winning performance, in the principals office that October day in 1968.

Do You Remember?

The Goops

by Gillette Burgess

The Goops they lick their fingers

And the Goops they lick their knives:

They spill their froth on the tablecloth

Oh, they lead disgusting lives!

The Goops they talk while eating,

And loud and fast they chew;

And that is why I'm glad that I

Am not a Goop, are you?

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I seem to remember Dad being able to recite this poem from memory. I also remember Dad yelling, "You GOOP!" when I spilt things or made a mess at the dinner table. On the subject of family literature," do you remember when Mom used to read us this?

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THE BEAR STORY

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That Alex "ist maked up his-own-se'f"

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W'y, wunst they wuz a Little Boy went outIn the woods to shoot a Bear. So, he went out'Way in the grea'-big woods - he did, - An' heWuz goin' along -an' goin' along, you know,An' purty soon he heerd somepin' go "Wooh!"Ist thataway - "Woo-ooh!" An' he wuz skeered,He wuz. An' so he runned an' clumbed a tree -A grea'-big tree, he did, - a sicka-more tree...

Happy Birthday to Me!

I wanted to share this birthday collage Teresa sent me. The question is, "Who is the boy standing beside Ron in the picture at the top middle, wearing the Russian hat?

(Click the Picture to Enlarge it)

Thanks Tweet!

Paper Routes

It was a dynasty; a paper-route dynasty. If you lived in the town of Brooklyn, Indiana, and you subscribed to a newspaper, chances are a Witmer-kid brought it to your door. Paper routes and Witmer kids were like bacon and eggs, like fire and smoke, like VW-micro buses and car trouble, they always came together.

Douglas was probably the first to get a paper route in Brooklyn, but Ron was the one who solidified the family’s position as the paper route kings of Brooklyn. Ron was almost single-handedly responsible for the famous spike in circulation of the Indianapolis Star in the mid-sixties. If you look up newspaper-subscription salesman in the dictionary, there’s a picture of Ron alongside the definition. Joe and Dennis carried the afternoon papers, the Indianapolis News and the Martinsville Reporter and they sold a few newspaper subscriptions of their own. Me? I occupied myself with the Pennsylvania Grit.

I was limited to The Grit because I was not old enough for a real paper route. You were supposed to be twelve years old, but the Witmer boys were able to sneak in at ten because, well, because we were the famous paper-route Witmers! I’m not sure which of my older brothers, spurred on by a picture of a beefy boy, holding a stack of cash, was the first to clip the coupon from the back of a comic book and request more information on “how to make real money selling The Pennsylvania Grit,” but it wasn’t long before a bundle of the newspapers began showing up the middle of every week. As the older boys moved on to the big money, carrying the daily papers, I took over the Grit route. The face price, of the paper, was fifteen cents, my cost was ten cents, which gave me a nickel profit margin on each one I could sell. If I didn’t sell all of them, I had to pay for the leftovers out of my own pocket. It was risky business, but most the time I did okay. I made enough to keep me in Polar Bars, RC cola and Pixie Stixs. What else do you need when your eight going on nine?

The Dynasty did not go unchallenged. The evil Kirk boys (Rusty and Randy) began to horn in, passing daily papers on the north side and selling The Grit willy-nilly all over town. I remember the utter shock of knocking on the door of one of my regular Grit customers only to find that one of the Kirk boys had already been there. To make matters worse, their mom was helping them! She was driving them around town in the family station wagon! I pictured them at the Post Office, waiting for the mail to come in, grabbing their bundle of Grits, and racing ahead of me to all my formerly loyal customers. Something had to be done. I found myself knocking on the Kirk’s front door. I asked if I might come in to chat.

I had never seen anything like the inside of the Kirk house. It was nearly impossible to move from one room to another. The clutter was so thick, the family had gone to clearing walking paths through it, just wide enough to to put one foot in front of another. The paths were worn into the carpet, a testament to the long-standing presence of the piles of junk. In a flash, it came to me. I now had the advantage. I suggested that the Kirk’s confine their Grit sales to the area south of Mill Street. I suggested that if they ventured into my side of Brooklyn again, I might be forced to mention, to Mrs. Collins, the town gossip, that the inside of their house looked like a landfill. We quickly came to terms. I know it seems hard to believe that a boy of nine years old could be so clever, but as I remember it, I was an amazing child.

This was not the first, or the last time the Witmer family had to defend its newspaper dynasty and I cannot, in one entry, begin to tell you of all the adventures related to our paper routes. I will need another entry or two to tell you of the trips Ron and Joe won for selling subscriptions, the challenges of collecting from our customers and the interesting people we met as a result.

P.S.: This weeks quiz question: Do you remember “Neighbor.”

What's Different

Besides the obvious changes in landscaping, can you find a major change to the Brooklyn house? This picture was taken in May of this year. I contend that the roof line has been changed. I'm looking for old pictures to substantiate my claim. If you have any, old pictures, send me a copy.

Discuss!

Knot Head

P.S.: If you look carefully, you can see the Brooklyn Watertower in the background, the scene of Douglas' most famous stunt...more later.

Who Lived Here?

Can you identify this house? Can you name three of the people who lived here? Can you describe it's location? What famous neighborhood was just down the street?

Where's Waldo?

He wore bib-overalls; he wore them all the time and he always wore his “cap.” On fancy occasions, he would switch to a real hat. His glasses were bifocals, his teeth were store-bought and he smelled like, well he smelled like Waldo. It was a unique smell. Part sweat, part hair-oil, part shaving soap all topped off with just a touch of mothballs. It’s a smell I would recognize today, decades later, if I smelled it. Waldo came from the generation that took their once-a-week bath on Saturday night so it was quite common for folks of that era to have their own signature smell.

When we were growing up in Brooklyn, Grampa Waldo was a fixture around our house, My Dad had a tendency to buy homes that needed lot’s of maintenance and it fell to Waldo to keep the place from falling down around us. Dad didn’t know which end of the screwdriver to hold but Waldo was “handy.” He fixed broken windows, repaired leaky faucets, patched holes, cleaned gutters, put up storm windows and he did it all with only one thumb. This meant that from time-to-time he would need someone to hold something for him while he worked; a flashlight for instance. You knew if you were doing it right when Waldo would reward you with the phrase, “ats the stuff!” If you got it wrong, you would hear “Whoop, whoop whoop!” which was Waldo’s multi-purpose phrase to indicate things weren’t going well.

Dropped the screwdriver, “Whoop, whoop whoop!”
Took a wrong turn while driving, “Whoop, whoop whoop!”
Clarence and Gail are having a loud argument, “Whoop, whoop whoop!”

Waldo Hill Witmer was born in 1899 and he didn’t have a thumb on his left hand. He used to have a thumb but the story was that it was blown off when he was cleaning a gun (and they called ME “knothead!” clumsy or not I managed to make it this far with all my digits!) Having a thumb missing was only the beginning of Waldo’s idiosyncrasies. He never drank milk, opting instead for a big glass of water with his meals. The emphasis was always on the word “Big” and he stretched it out like this, “Gimma a B-I-I-I-G glass a water.” His voice came from deep in his throat and was loud, with very little modulation. He spoke in short choppy phrases and the words would sort of burst out of him. Another mealtime oddity was his tendency to mix all the foods on his plate together, “All get’s mixed up in your stomach anyway!” he’d tell us.

I could start a separate Journal with Waldo stories but for now I leave you with: “YOU MAY BE A WALDO.”

If you’ve ever put a rubber band around your wallet to keep everything inside safe and secure…you may be a Waldo.

If, while stopped at an intersection, you’ve ever shouted from the passenger seat of a car, “OKAY THIS WAY, OKAY THIS WAY!…you may be a Waldo.

If you’ve ever used house paint to fix up a pair of shoes…you may be a Waldo.

If you always leave early enough to allow time to change a flat tire…you may be a Waldo.

If you’ve ever felt the need to carry TWO spare tires…you may be a Waldo.

If you have the uncontrollable urge to stop when you go by the day-old bread store…you may be a Waldo.

If you can’t work on any project without muttering to yourself…you may be a Waldo.

If you’ve ever used plywood to fix antique furniture…you may be a Waldo.

If you’ve ever thought to yourself, “I guy could live in a VW-Micro bus…you may be a Waldo.

I will challenge my readers to perform this little exercise called “Where’s Waldo.” You see, each of us have a little Waldo in us. It’s time to fess up, to admit how the Waldo gene manifests itself in your life.

I expect to see LOTS of comments on this one!

The Shoe Brush Story

We moved to Brooklyn when I was five years old, and for the most part, this Blog is dedicated to Indiana events. But no history of our family would be complete without “The Shoe Brush Story.”

The house, in Loveland, Ohio, was a big, old, drafty, two-story frame structure. The winter mornings were cold so when I got out of bed I immediately sought heat sources to keep warm. One of my favorites was the dishwasher. In the old days, dishwashers weren’t built in, so you could sit on top them if you were a little kid, and I was only four. I was perched on top the dishwasher, warming myself and minding my own business, when the events that would lead to the great shoe brush incident began to unfold.

My father, wanting to encourage his children to understand the value of his hard-earned money, would occasionally give us the opportunity to earn a nickel by shining his shoes. Because he was an important FEDERAL employee, he wore a suit to work and he needed shiny shoes. This particular morning, Dad told Dennis he could shine his shoes. “That’s not fair! I protested, “Why does Dennis get a nickel and I don’t?” Dad, exasperated by the fact that he was now dealing with an argument instead of getting ready for work, tried to solve the problem by telling me I could also shine a pair of shoes. At this point, the story should have had a happy ending, with Dennis and I shining our Dad’s shoes and earning our nickels. But there was one problem: Dennis had the black shoe brush and he was shining brown shoes! I had the brown shoe bush and I had black shoes to shine. The solution should have been simple; switch brushes with Dennis.

But he wouldn’t.

“DAAAAD! Dennis won’t give me the right shoe brush!” I yelled in my whiniest voice. By this time, Dad was well into his morning fire drill, desperately trying to get out the door on time and he was not pleased with having to mediate a fight. “Trade Brushes with John!” Dad barked.

But he wouldn’t.

Dennis said it didn’t matter what color the brush was and in direct defiance of my father (a FEDERAL employee,) Dennis would not trade brushes with me. When I tried to bring him into compliance with my father’s orders, by snatching the brush, he bolted from the kitchen. “STOP!” I yelled.

But he wouldn’t.

The kitchen adjoined a room that seemed too big to be a foyer but was not really big enough to be used as a dining room. This room served as the hub of the first floor. You could cross to the front door, the living room, the nursery, the master bedroom or return to the large, eat-in kitchen. The open stairway, to the second floor, also ascended from this room. At the bottom of the staircase were two large windows that looked out over the hill that sloped away from the house into a wooded area. Dennis crossed the room, headed for the stairs, trying to escape into the maze of rooms that made up the second floor. I knew that if he made it upstairs, he would be out of reach, and there would be little chance of Dad being able to deal with him before he left for work.

If the authority of my father was to be protected, if the rule of law were to be upheld, Dennis had to be stopped. I quickly weighed my options and arrived at the only decision that made sense. I cocked my arm back, clutched the brown shoe brush tightly in my right hand and took aim at Dennis’ head. And then, with everything that was in me, I launched the brush toward its mark. I wasn’t trying to kill Dennis, only knock him unconscious. Then, it would be a simple matter to take the brush from his limp hand. (It may seem remarkable to you that a four-year-old child could have had such clarity of thought, but I was a remarkable child.)

From the moment the shoe brush left my hand, time was altered, the world moved in slow motion; the shoe brush rotating though the air, Dennis mounting the first step on the stairway, Dad moving about in his bedroom. I watch as the brush drifted through space, past Dennis’ head and through the large window at the bottom of the stair. The glass splintered and then fell to earth like a shower of diamonds. My father's voice broke the slow-motion spell, “WHAT THE H…” Dad surveyed the scene while spewing venom. “BONEHEAD! KNUCKLEHEAD! BONEHEAD!” he boiled as he realized that not only was he going to be late, he would also have to deal with the colossal window mess.

But it was Dennis’ fault. He was really responsible for the broken window. If he had obeyed my father and traded brushes with me, there would have been no reason for me to try and knock him out. Fortunately for me, my father saw it the same way I did. After all, he had told Dennis to trade brushes with me. Hurling the shoe brush at Dennis’ head was a “reasonable use of force” on my part. Dad realized this, so it was understandable that Dad, even though he was late for work, took the time to give Dennis the whumpin he deserved.

As I watched Dennis take his lickun, my mind drifted back to when I was only a few months old. I was laying on my back, in the crib when suddenly, the silhouette of a boy blocked out the sunlight. I could see that the boy was wielding a weapon. It was a hairbrush. Over and over again, the hairbrush came crashing down on my skull! I was too little to defend myself; all I could do was cry. I screamed for my life and just before I drifted into unconsciousness, my mother came and pulled Dennis out of my crib. The incident left me with an irregularly shaped head; “knot head” became my nickname. “Dennis was too little to know what he was doing”, my Mom told me later, but I knew better. He escaped punishment then, but he was carrying that debt with him. Now the Universe was being brought back into balance, Dennis was being spanked. Not only for the offenses of that morning, but for that long-ago attempt on my life.

There are some that will argue with the accuracy of his account. All I can tell them is to watch for flying shoe brushes.

Maxine

The Hubbards lived directly across the street from us in a house with a brick porch. I’m not sure what the house looked like from the inside because I was never inside. There were several homes in the neighborhood where it was very clear that it was okay to come over and play as long as we stayed outside. The neighbors probably saw us as peculiar. The fact that we were relative newcomers was probably the first concern. The fact that we were a large, rowdy Catholic family, didn’t help matters. For these families, it was a major concession to let their kids play in our yard. The kids had strict instructions to play outside. I think the fear was that, if they came inside our house, we might sprinkle them with Holy Water and turn them into Catholics. Who knew what strange rituals went on in the Witmer household? On summer evenings, when the windows were open, the Witmer’s could be heard reciting what sounded like a Gregorian chant, “blezus olord antheze thigh gifs”* It must have seemed as strange to them as the Nazarene worship service was to us. At any rate, Maxine Hubbard was forbidden to enter the Witmer house.

Anna and Teresa were six or seven years old and often played with Maxine, but it was always outside. That’s why it seem so strange when, one day, Maxine presented herself, at the door, and explained that her mother said it was okay for her to go up to Anna and Teresa’s room and play with Barbie Dolls. It would only be for half and hour, she explained, and so my Mom sent her up to play. It all got stranger when Mrs. Hubbard came to the door looking for Maxine and stranger still when Maxine was no where to be found.

In all the years we lived in Brooklyn, Indiana, I don’t think I ever heard Mrs. Hubbard speak, other than to call the kids for supper. But that day we all wandered through the house, upstairs and down, inside and out, calling out “Maxine!” Did I mention that Maxine’s dad was the town Marshal? It was only his part-time job, but never the less, he was THE Marshal and his 1963 Ford Fairlane patrol car sat across the street in front of the Hubbard household. The Witmers had somehow got themselves involved in the disappearance of the Marshal’s daughter.

More neighbors joined the search, combing the neighborhood, checking and rechecking all the places she might be. The panic level began to rise. But we had all failed to consider one thing: Perhaps little Maxine did not want to be found. Teresa, young as she was, sensed this was the case and went back to her room. This time, instead of calling out for Maxine, Teresa said, in a low voice, “Hey Maxine, you want some candy?” A tiny little voice came back from underneath the bunk beds, “Yes.” Maxine had been simply unwilling to leave Barbie-Doll heaven.

The word went out, “We found her! We found her!” The adults raced upstairs. Now the problem was that Maxine didn’t want to come out. She knew that in the end, she would get a good old Indiana-style lickin, the prescription for all childhood foolishness, and she was in no hurry to settle up with her Mom. Eventually Maxine’s Mom coaxed her out with soft words, promising her that she was not in trouble, that she would not be punished, but we all new better. But in the end we were so relieved, that none of us would be facing kidnapping charges that we didn’t think about Maxine’s appointment with the parental justice system.

*Bless oh Lord and These, Thy Gifts…

The Summer of Boxing

I don’t remember how Dennis cut his hand, but to make the story interesting I’ll say he cut it on a broken pop bottle at the bottom of the creek bed. We were always messing around in the creek and that’s as good as explanation as any, but in any event it was a nasty cut. Now-a-days, he would have been taken to the nearest clinic or hospital to have the wound stitch closed, but my mother grew up believing the doctors and hospitals were only for the nearly dead. Even so, dripping blood all over the house usually got her attention. Mom was pretty good at patching us up and for deep, gaping wounds, she constructed a “butterfly bandage.” She used medical tape to fashion a two-part bandage. It looked sort of like a key and a keyhole. By threading one part of the bandage into the other, after affixing each piece to opposite sides of the wound, she could draw the cut closed. And with any luck, it would hold together long enough to heal. It was after Dennis received just such a mending that the famous “Witmer – Long” fight occurred.

I don’t know where the boxing gloves came from, but if any of the parents, in the neighborhood, had given five seconds of consideration; they might have realized that giving boxing gloves to a bunch of fifth and sixth-graders was a bad idea. Of course there was no corresponding protective gear. No mouth guards, no head gear, no groin cups, just two pair of gloves; two pair of gloves, begging us to put them on and hit somebody. And, of course we did. Who knows how much brain damage we sustained during the “summer of boxing.”

The Dyer twins designated a patch of grass, in their backyard, as “the ring.” The twins’ mom worked during the day so their yard was the best place to commit mayhem without some adult asking why we were beating each other into bloody comas. The grass was on the dry side and the smell of the abandon outhouse wafted over the ring from time to time, but to us, it was as a grand arena; our own version of the Coliseum.

Street fighting was part of our culture. Like animals in the wild, there was usually more posturing than fighting. But when circumstances dictated, we were not averse to mauling each other. The concept of a “fair fight” was not one I encountered until I moved to Wisconsin. In Indiana, a fight was a fight. Punching, pinching, kicking, wresting, biting, separately or in various combination, were all allowed and expected. That’s why boxing seemed so interesting to us. It was a fight with rules, a concept that, until then, was foreign to us.

Charlie Long was an opportunist. Even though he was taller and bigger than Dennis, he wasn’t sure he could beat him in an all out street fight. He had probably seen how vicious Dennis was when fighting with his brothers. Then there was the matter of the scar across Dennis’ navel which was rumored to be the result of a knife fight and was much too jagged to be the result of a hernia repair. But when Charlie saw Dennis’ right hand wrapped in gauze, he couldn’t resist taking advantage of the situation. Charlie started to taunt Dennis. I can’t remember the exact dialog, but typically, the taunting portion of a fight went something like this:

“You think you’re pretty tough”
“Tougher’n you.”
“You think so?”
“I know so!”
“You better shut your mouth before I shut it for ya!”
“Make me!”
“I don’t make trash…I burn it!
“You wanna fight me!?
“I’ll fight ya!”
“Come-on, Right now!”

The neighborhood kids were appalled that Charlie Long was taking advantage of Dennis’ wounded hand, but that didn’t stop them from rounding up everyone in the neighborhood to watch.

“FIGHT, FIGHT! WITMER’S FIGHTIN LONG!”

The gloves went on and the boys went at it. At some point, the butterfly bandage gave out and Dennis’, hand started to bleed and he could no long deliver punches with it. I’ll never forget my brother pummeling Charlie Long with one hand and shouting, “I’ll beat with one hand!” And he did, he beat Charlie Long, he beat Charlie long with one hand. The rumor was that Charlie went home crying. All the Witmer boy’s stock went up that day. If one Witmer could fight like a Tasmanian devil, the rest might be capable of the same thing, and therefore, we were not to be messed with.

Martinsville

The Witmers made two trips to Martinsville every weekend. In addition to the Sunday-morning church trip, there was the Saturday-morning Catechism trip. Since moving from Ohio, we Witmer Children had not had the benefit of a decent Catholic education. Saturday-morning catechism was necessary to straighten us out after hanging around with the public school kids all week. Mom and Dad made good use of the time. Dad went to the Library and Mom did the weekly shopping at the Martinsville A&P, which was just off the town square in downtown Martinsville.

A town square was required, seeing that Martinsville was the county seat of Morgan County. Every Indiana County had a County Seat with a town square and the Courthouse was the center of attention. The Morgan County Courthouse, was typical of southern courthouses, red-brick, three-stories, with a church like spire, surrounded on four sides by green space and park benches. The park benches were populated by old men in overalls with mouths full of chewing tobacco and I never grew tired of watching them spit.

In those days, tobacco use was almost a requirement of being a man. Unlike the northern Baptist Churches, whose motto was, “Don’t smoke, don’t chew, and don’t hang around with folks that do,” the Baptist, in the south, could be seen smoking right in front of their church buildings. The Catholics had no inhibitions about smoking or drinking, we had a zillion rules but smoking and drinking were not a problem. Spitting on the sidewalk, however was very serious.

While being taught the ten commandments, and hearing “Thou shalt not commit adultery” my younger sister, Teresa, was prompted to ask what “Adultery” was. The nun responded that it was "spitting on the sidewalk." We learned later, that adultery was a MORTAL sin. Not the common garden-variety venial sin. Venial sins were things liking cussing, stealing change from your father's dresser and hauling off and slapping your brother a good one upside the head. Mortal sins would send you off to extra innings in purgatory, even if you confessed them. And if you had he misfortune of dying with a mortal sin on your soul, you went straight to H-E-double toothpicks. Sidewalk spitting was very serious. It needed to be promptly repented of in Confession if one wanted to avoid the fires of the afterworld.

The Church of the Nazarene

Catholics, in Brooklyn Indiana were scarce. In fact we were the only Catholic family in town. You could count Mrs. Losh, but she lived on Cabin Row, which I never considered to be part of Brooklyn. She was also just one little old lady, not a Family, and she wasn’t a regular attender, not like the Witmers. In all my years in Brooklyn I only remember one time when we did not all pile into the VW Micro Bus and make the eleven-mile trek to Martinsville to attend St. Martins Church. A blizzard had dumped two-feet of snow, the night before, and the only hope of having the Witmers represented at Sunday Mass was for Mom and Dad to make a run for it in the Rambler. The Rambler had a posi-traction rear-end and, in theory, could cut through the deep snow. Even so, the kids would have to stay behind. Besides there not being enough room for all of us in the sedan; it was too dangerous for children to be out in a blizzard. The possibility of nine children being orphaned when the Rambler slid off the road and plummeted into a ravine, didn’t seem to be an issue.

Brooklyn was protestant through and through. There were three Churches within three blocks of our house, that’s probably what put the “Church" in Church Street. The most mysterious of these Churches was The Brooklyn Church of The Nazarene. The Nazarenes were a “Holiness” denomination which meant the women did not cut their hair, did not wear make-up and kept their arms and legs covered. When they met to worship, the whole neighborhood could hear the exuberant “AMEN”s and “YES LORD”s. Kim and Kevin Dyer used to speculate with us about what was going on in the church. Curiosity got the better of Kevin and he actually went to a service. Kevin was about nine-years old when he recounted, complete with reenactments, his experience in the worship service.

“First they started beatin on the pews, then they started beatin on the floor…” At this point Kevin got down on the ground and demonstrated. “…Then they all ran up and started beatin on the altar!” Whether any of this was true or not I will never know. I could have never pulled off what Kevin did. I would have stuck out like a sore thumb, the catholic boy in a Nazarene church. I would have been spotted as soon as I walked in the door when I would have asked where the holy water was, so that I could make a proper sign-of-the cross. Kevin, on the other hand, blended in.

Uptown

If you stood on the edge of the lot, where the sidewalk should have been, and looked right, it was less than two blocks up the gentle slope of Church Street to Mill Street. The intersection of Mill and Main Street contained a store, a bank, a barbershop, a gas station and the Post Office. Main street also contained the white tumbled-down shack that passed as a restaurant. This was “Uptown” in all its glory. When Kim and Kevin got bored, the asked if we wanted to “go uptown.” “Let’s go uptown and get a Coke.” “You wanna ride bikes uptown? It made the dingy collection of buildings sound like something important.

Past Mill Street on South Church Street was the elementary school, a red brick cube with two stories and a basement that housed the cafeteria, principles office and the boiler room that doubled as the janitor’s apartment. On the outside of the building was a fire escape that looked like a giant tube. In the event of a fire, the students had to slide down it. I dreamed of the day I could use the fire escape. It was rumored that, as part of the periodic fire drill, students had to burst through the two small double doors in the library, and slide down the fire escape tube. But for me, it was not to be. Just before fifth grade, the old school was closed and we moved to the brand-new elementary school which, unfortunately, was only a one-story building.

Sidewalks

There was no sidewalk in front of our house. The sidewalk fairy had passed us over. Two doors down, at the Dyer’s house, a sidewalk proudly separated the street from the lot. The sidewalk transformed itself into small stones and then into dirt as it made its way from their place to ours. That’s the way things were in Brooklyn, Indiana, population 308. Whatever mysterious civic forces, in charge of dispensing sidewalks, decided 108 North Church Street did not need or deserve such an amenity. It’s likely the decision, to omit a sidewalk, took place decades before we moved to town in the early sixties, and now it just had to must be accepted. Any activities, requiring sidewalks, had to be done in front of Kim and Kevin Dyer’s house. And that was fine by us. Kim and Kevin were our best buds and they had been since we moved into town. Kim and Kevin were twins and Dennis and I were almost twins with barely a year separated us. We were the last of “the four boys.”

In a family of nine children, it is necessary to break the children up into working groups such as “The Four Boys” or “The girls,” which referred to my two younger sisters, Teresa and Anna. Ron, Joe, Dennis and I (in chronological order) comprised “The four boys.” Our older sister Marilyn separated us from the eldest boy, Douglas. Douglas was always referred to by his given name, a privilege that came with being the first-born, the same with Marilyn, because she was the first girl in the family. Howard, my youngest brother, was referred to as “the baby.” “Where’s the Baby,” or “The Baby’s crying” or “Who locked the Baby in the closet.”

The Witmer house was large by Brooklyn standards. My father worked for the Federal Government, not the State government or the city government, the Federal Government. Whenever I spoke this truth, the inflection in my voice changed, to emphasize to the listener just how important my Dad was. It was rumored, that in the event of a nuclear holocaust, my Dad could actually become President of the United States. All that would be necessary is for every elected official in the Federal Government and the entire military hierarchy to be wiped out. Then the succession plan named Federal Employees and my dad was a Federal Employee. That’s why we could afford such a big, two-story house. Yes, it may have been located in a no-account town but it was big just the same and we were big fish in a little pond.

We had six bedrooms if you counted the room off the living room that my parents used for their bedroom and the back porch study where we kept a little bed for company. We had two bathrooms and one had a shower, not just a tub. The garage was attached by a “breezeway” a fancy name for an enclosed walkway connecting our back porch and the small two-car garage. The driveway was gravel, crossing a small culvert as it came in from the road. The exterior was a combination of white asbestos siding and brick. Inside the home boasted wood floors and simulated wood grain walls. The simulated wood grain was printed on the sheetrock, almost like contact paper, and to this day, I have never seen anything like it.

It Begins

For years, I have been taunted by my Brothers and Sisters. Why? Because I am the only one who can remember how things REALLY happened when we were little. I come from a family of eleven, Mom and Dad (who have gone on to their reward) and my eight brothers and sisters. Now, through the power of the Internet, I have the opportunity to set the record straight:

• Who really ruined Mom's brand new ironing board cover by leaving the iron on? Teresa, Anna, or the neighbor girls?
• How many times did my brother, Dennis, get paddled in school?
• What ever happened to that big red dog?
• Was the family really the subject of an FBI investigation owing to the fact that Marilyn had "Hippie" friends?
• Did Douglas really dead-short the Tornado Siren on top the Brooklyn water tower in the middle of the night?
• Did Ron really spend all his paper route money playing Pinball at the infamous Brooklyn restaurant and what was in those brown bags the old men, who frequented the place, carried around?
• Was Joe really Dad's favorite?
• Did Howard really get all the attention because he was "The Baby?

Answers; it's time for answers. Follow along with me as we finally put some of these burning questions to rest.