Dennis and Joe

I’m going to kill two birds with one stone. Joe’s Birthday was April 10th and Dennis’ FIFTYTH birthday was May 26th. This entry is dedicated to my OLDER brothers, Dennis and Joe.
(Anna, your Birthday posting is coming!)

The details are now in dispute. We're not sure who hit whom in the head with a shovel. But there was a shovel and some one did get hit with it. The picture, above, is the scene of the crime. I’m hoping, by posing it, some deep-seated memory will be jarred loose and we will finally get to the truth of the matter.

I invite Dennis and Joe to enter their testimony in the comments section of this blog. And I invite the rest of you to be the jury.

You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.

John Rotten

Loveland Stories

Follow me, if you will, on a walk through our past. This is a view of the Loveland house as you come up the hill to the corner of 2nd and Oak. Note the porch roof over the front door. Which wee child wandered out on this roof, nearly giving our mother a heart attack?

Howard Everett

This is what they call, in the news industry, a "teaser." I will be posting more about our Cincinnati trip in the near future, but I'm behind on my birthday postings so I have to get caught up.

I know I still owe Joe a posting (April 10th) but I skipped ahead to Howard, for now...

In honor of Howard's birthday on May 1st, I've posted a picture of the Loveland homestead of Howard Everett Conley.

Did you ever wonder why Howard was named "Howard?" Mom bore ten children and Howard is the only one named after a family member.
We will ponder these and other questions, in the days and weeks ahead, in my new series "Loveland Stories."

Stay Tuned....

The Wayback

I know this is very late, but I wanted to remember Teresa’s Birthday on March 20th with this entry.

In the event that all eleven of us were going to the same place at the same time, we had to squeeze into the VW Microbus. Dad drove, Howard was in the front middle and Mom had the passenger seat, which was specially equipped with a mirror to allow her to keep tabs on the back seats. Douglas Paul, Marilyn Ruth and Ronald David got the middle bench seat; Joseph Stephen, Dennis Waldo and I got the rear bench seat. This meant the girls, AKA Teresa Mary and Anna Marie had to ride in “The Wayback.”

This was in the days before the country went "safety" crazy. We played on metal monkey bars stretched over concrete. If you fell and broke your leg, you pushed the bone back in, rubbed dirt on it and went right back to playing. That’s the way it was AND WE LIKED IT!

So what’s the big deal if two small children had to sit on a hard, thinly carpeted platform, with no restraints, perched right over the gas tank? They were HAPPY to sit there in the wintertime with the engine heat and the exhaust fumes to keep them warm. And they got to pretend that the Wayback had magical powers, like the Way-Back Machine in the "Peabody & Sherman" cartoons.

Does it get any better than this?

Happy Birthday Teresa!

Ambassador Witmer

I almost forgot Dad's Birthday (March 3rd.) This one's for you Pop.



I’m not sure why we decided to stop in Mooresville. We had been on the road for quite some time, headed home from Beaver Island so it was odd that we would stop in Mooresville, just a few miles from the finish line. We stopped to see the Conley’s and the visit became even more peculiar when Aunt Rae told Dad, “You’d better sit down.”

My father drove totally forgettable cars. The dreadfully underpowered VW Micro Bus, nicked named “The Blue Goose” had just transported us to Beaver Island and back. The Blue Goose was preceded by a red-and-white VW, which was eventually sold to Grandpa Waldo. Before that, a mint green Plymouth station wagon served as the family’s transportation. Mom had charge of the family car during the week and Dad usually drove a boxy little rambler back and forth to the office.

In his entire life, Dad made only one exception to his I-have-to-drive-a-really-boring-car rule: The 1965 Ambassador convertible. This baby had a 351 cubic inch V-8 engine and an Auto-Glide transmission that you could push through the gears. With the top down it looked fast, even when it was parked. I can only remember riding in the Ambassador a couple of times and then I was told, “Don’t touch anything!”

After Dad sat down, with worry and anticipation written all over his face, Aunt Rae explained that the neighbor-boy, Kenny Krause, had stolen the convertible. Aunt Rae went on to say that Lenny drove the car in to the ditch, tearing up the whole side of the vehicle. Kenny succeed in getting the convertible back on the road only to run it into another ditch, this time damaging the other side. Aunt Rae said that, "Kenny Krause was blind in one eye and couldn’t see out the other" and had no business behind the wheel of any car, let alone one he had stolen. Dad got on the phone and talked to the police and I don’t remember how the rest of the day played out.

A few weeks later, Dad got the Ambassador back from the body shop, but only after he had taken the opportunity to upgrade the tail lights to the, snazzier, 1966 style. Dad eventually sold the car when the timing chain broke and, for some reason, went back to driving boring cars, replacing the Ambassador with, of all things, a Hornet. This may have been due to the damage the ambassador had done to Dad's driving record. Dad racked up a few speeding tickets behind the wheel of the convertible, and as a result, the insurance premiums were sky high.

So Dad, if you were with us today, my birthday wish for you would be that you could drive a Stingray or a Mustang. Who knows, maybe your driving one right now.

But I know, for a fact, that Gremlins and Hornets aren’t allowed in heaven.

Happy Birthday Mom - (A little late.)

I had the best of intentions: To post a story about each of my siblings on their birthday. As Mom's birthday approached, I realized that I need to write a story about her, too. But Mom's Birthday is the same day as Michelle and Charity's Birthday and to be honest, I got a little depressed thinking about it and I put off writing anything for several weeks. But now it's April and the sun is out and I've made it through both Michelle's Birthday and the anniversary of her passing and I must get back in the saddle, so here goes...

I can’t iron a shirt without thinking about her.

First the collar, then the yoke, then the sleeves, then the front left. Rotate the shirt on the ironing board until you finish on the front right.

“You’re going to learn to iron a shirt! You’re going to learn to take care of yourself! Don’t you EVER make your wife iron your shirts!” She gave me this lecture, one morning, when she had become particularly frustrated with the fact that she had married a man who could barely dress himself, let alone do laundry. You never knew what would trigger these episodes of activism, but Dad’s morning refrain of “Gail!Where are my socks!” never helped matters.

Mom was a closet feminist. She never marched for equal rights, but she quietly worked, to instill in her boys, a respect for Women. It was not the first time Mom gave me the don’t-you-ever-treat-a-woman-like-that speech and it would not be the last.

By my calculations, Mom was just seventeen when Douglas Paul entered the world, and she was thirty-three by the time Howard Everett was born sixteen years later. She had ten Pregnancies in sixteen years.

You do a lot of living between Seventeen and Thirty-three. Mom told me later in life that by the time she had me, at the age of twenty-six, she had learned to relax. That’s why I turned out so good. She did all her practicing on you older kids.

I have many stories to share about our remarkable mother, but you have only limited time to read so I will save, for later, the descriptions of how she kept order in the VW micro bus and why the Blue Goose had a round dent on the front bumper.

The Oracle

I post the following in honor of Marilyn's Birthday on January 30th...

When you’re six-years old, six years is a lifetime. Marilyn is six-years older than I am, so from my perspective, when I was in the first grade, she was already a grown-up; an all-powerful sixth-grader. She always seemed to know everything. There wasn’t a question I could ask her that she could not, immediately, answer with confidence and conviction. I remember being amazed at her wisdom, when she stopped me from playing with a kitchen-cabinet door; one I was opening and closing over and over again:

“Stop it”
“Why”
“Because a door has only so many swings in it.”

There it was, a profound truth: Everything will one day wear out, so we must use these things wisely (grasshopper.)

Her ancient wisdom was not confined to kitchen cabinets. She could also expound on Catholic theology. One Sunday morning, our parents, determined to fulfill their Sunday obligation, left us behind, deeming the journey through the blizzard too risky for children. Marilyn was instructed to conduct informal services with us little kids. At that time, Catholic women were required to wear head coverings at Mass, usually lacy scarves.

“What if the woman couldn’t afford a scarf?” I quizzed Marilyn.
“Then she would have to use whatever she could find.”
“What if the ONLY thing in the WHOLE house was a rug?”
“Then she would have to wear the rug over her head when she went to church (grasshopper.)

How did she know all these things!

So here it is, Marilyn’s Birthday Quiz:

· What was the name of Marilyn’s best friend (The one that went on vacation with us?)
· What was the name of her Barber-Boyfriend-Fiancée who pulled the piece of wood out of Teresa’s foot when she impaled herself, sliding across the dining room floor in her stocking feet?
· And last but not least what is the significance of this question: “Who brought the bottles?!”

If you know the answers to these questions, write them on the back of a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and send it to me. The Grand Prize is a throw-rug that will double as a head-covering.

Born to Be Wild

Doug Witmer was born on January 17th, 57 years ago so it’s his turn to be the subject of the trivia contest:

-Where was Douglas Paul Witmer born?

-What was he driving when Marshal Hubbard chased him through the town of Brooklyn?

-Name two of his fellow Brooklyn Hoodlums.

-How old was he when he joined the United States Marine Corp? What was his rank when he finished his hitch?

If you know the answer to these questions, write them on the back of the first edition of Mad Magazine and send them to me. The Grand Prize is an Army-surplus-ammo box and a stick of dynamite.

Hobo Scramble

I know this blog is supposed to be dedicated to our Brooklyn years but it seems our trips down memory lane have jarred lose memories from “the before time.” Some of those memories are so intense that certain ones of us have purposed to travel back, looking for answers.

· Who was that old lady who lived in the shack behind our house? Was it really a shack? Was it in the woods?

· Did Douglas really dig a swimming pool?

· Was Tony, the neighbor boy, really, as he claimed, “suppose to be twins” or was their another reason for his childhood obesity? (Was that REALLY a second belly button?)

· Are there teeth marks in the concrete by the garage left by Teresa when she made a swan dive into the sidewalk from the swing? Or was it a grapevine?

· Why did Dennis hit Joe in the head with a shovel when they were playing in the sandbox?

· Was there really a secret stairway to the attic?

· Who masterminded the whole peeing-in-the-register thing?

· Why did that neighborhood lady, Shirley, always give us candy?

· Why do I always connect the name Denny Defenball to Marilyn?

· What was the name of that little Dog that bit me?

· Should I take the blame for spoiling the surprise about the flashlight on Dad’s birthday or was it really Dennis’ fault?

· Did mom really send me to the store when I was only four?


The list could go on and on. The point is inquiring minds want to know! Ron and I are traveling to Cincinnati, the first week in May, to run in the Flying Pig race. It’s officially the Flying Pig Marathon, but we’re only running a half marathon. It’s actually a collection of walks and runs, so anyone can find something to match their fitness level.

If you decide to participate, you too will be seeking the answer to the biggest question left from our Ohio years: Will the Hobo’s REALLY cut off your toes if they catch you in the woods?

That’s why I’m calling this trip The Hobo Scramble.

See you in Cinci?


http://www.flyingpigmarathon.com

Ode to Rotten Tater

On the Occasion of Ronald David’s birthday, I feel it only appropriate that I post some "Ron" Trivia Questions:

1) Who gave Ron the nickname “Rotten Tater?”
2) What rank did he achieve as a Boy Scout?
3) What vehicle did he first drive?

If you would like to enter the Rotten Tater trivia contest, write your answers on the back of a twenty dollar bill and send it to me. The grand prize is an all expense paid trip to Orleans, Indiana.