Bull Durham

It seems rediculous to have a need for a dentist inasmuch as I sport dentures top and bottom, nevertheless thats where I was one Saturday morning seeking relief from the rubbing that was taking place as a result of some repair work. Usually they take me right in and I'm out of there quickly. For some reason there was a delay and I picked up a Sports Illustrated . I was going through the pages looking for anyting that looked readable and suddenly there was a review on one of my favorite movies  I had seen 6 or 7 times in the past. Now I am a baseball nut and while I deny ever going to a R rated movie I must admit that I weaken my resolve if its about baseball. Bull Durham, a movie from 1988 caught my eye. I loved that movie and was now reading about the characters; Kevin Costner,  playing the part of Crash Davis, a, somewhat over the hill, catcher, while the love interest was played by Susan Sarandon. The comic character was played by Tim Robbins, a gangling young pitcher who was also trying to make out with the above. I won't go into the story as it played out because the unique part of this tale is that I swiped the book and took it home with me. I finished reading the various bios, where they were and what their life has been since the movie and turned on the TV which is rare for me on any afternoon. I don't watch TV during the day. The first thing to catch my eye was, yes, you guessed it, Bull Durham and yes, I began watching for the 8th time. I loved it! I loved the interaction between Crash and the Tim Robbins role-the wisdom of the catcher trying to teach the wild young pitcher, with all the humor that was a part of their relationship. Now why would I take such an interest in something of this nature when I had seen it several times and could now almost say the dialogue. Call it memories of my youth and my enjoyment of playing the game-nostalga, humor, I don't know but it was about baseball and  while it violated my decision about what kind of movies I go to, I was trapped for all of the above reasons. The  language was bad, although part of the baseball scene. The sex was almost invisible but also part of relationships, and I was weak. I noted in new coming attractions there is a baseball movie coming out soon and it looks interesting. Will I go to see it? Will I again, break my resolve? Probably! Bad habits are difficult to break.

My Golf Life

I was just watching a movie of the golf life of Bobby Jones possibly the greatest golfer that ever lived. I say that knowing that anyone that knows anything about golf is going to snicker. However the golfers of today are amazing but maybe not. When you think that in most of Jones' tournaments, he played with mashies and niblicks and ancient clubs of that long ago time frame and I defy any of todays golfers, as great as they are,  using much, much better clubs and even tremendously better balls to do what he did back in the twenties.To bring to a close my talking about Bobby Jones, I want to talk about me. I just love talking about me. Ahem!
Continuing, my Syracuse family which consisted of John Dodd and Kitty North Dodd had moved into the country, living on Thompson Road on a one acre plot with a small creek that formed the typical old fashioned farm swimming hole. I was 12 or 13 at the time. But enough of that; back to my golf. About a quarter of a mile up the road from our house was a golf course and I thought maybe I could earn a dollar or two by becoming a caddy. Uncle Chuck, in the times I went with him to a golf course, had taught me a little of the nicieties of the game and so I faked my way into the good graces of the owner  and  became one of, maybe, two other caddies. This was a public course and most people, during those depressed years, couldn't afford to pay for a caddie. So there was limited number of players willing to pay me the .75 it cost for me to caddie. Yes I said .75 for that was the going rate I earned, although every once in a while some magnaminous player gave me a "Buck" saying "keep the change, son" Wow a buck?! That was a lot in those days. However, the main reason I caddied was they let all caddies play on Mondays for free and me and the Thornton brothers  played 54 holes every Monday carrying 3 clubs and a putter in our hands and several broken tees in our pocket along with a few marred and cut golf balls. We played from 6:00A.M. until supper time when we would run home so as not to miss dinner. That was the beginning of my golf life. From that point I acquired some real clubs (Gift from Louise) and began to play in earnest. Back in Buffalo N.Y. I used to rise at 4:30 on Saturday mornings to get to the course by 5:30 and there, many times we teed off in the dark, guessing how well we had hit our ball and watching the sun begin to rise as we reached the first green. I have played, literally, all over these United States because working the last half of my career, I worked for a golf clothing manufacturer and did a lot of traveling, which resulted in many games somewhere in those travels. I played in Japan, and Taipan when travelling abroad. Did I ever become good? No, I rose to the height of mediocrity but the love of the game kept me going. My three sons all play and all can beat me, although that's not saying much. However, I have a lot of good memories of good places along with those of the "Dawn Patrol". I'm happy that I could make many friends, see many lovely courses and enjoy the many days of happiness I found there. My life as a golfer was a good one and I'm happy that was one of an my enduring hobbies.

Uncle Chuck

This is not the first time I have written about my Uncle Chuck but I want to delineate a larger picture of what he represented in my life. First of all let me say he was the ultimate example of what a young boy wants as an uncle. He was an outdoorsman and spent every Sunday doing something relating to an out door activity: fishing, golfing, digging potatoes, picking peaches. You get the idea. He would find something to do in the wide open spaces of nearby Syracuse, N.Y. And in those weeks or months that I was not in school. I was living in Syracuse at the home of my Grandparents and Aunt and Uncle. It was here where I grew to love all those things that Chuck was wont to do and every Sunday morning I was awakened to the words "C'mon Jim, lets go!"A quick breakfast and off we would go to pick those early morning mushrooms. Anybody who knows anything about mushrooms knows that the morning is when they are freshest and most delicious. Of course I knew that because my Uncle Chuck told me so. I also didn't really care for them but when my Aunt Alice cooked them, they were the best!! I also would go golfing with Charlie--I wouldn't play except he would allow me an occasional swing  at the ball just to keep me, his caddie, interested. I later became an average golfer who grew to love the  game. I recall  one day Charlie took a monstrous swing at the ball only to find himself on his butt  and the ball not far off. I spoke quickly "Hurry and get up Chuck, no one is looking". He laughed for many years about that. I guess I was the only one embarrassed by his fall. I could go on a long time about my years  as a young boy but time kept moving and I was soon involved with a couple of the other gender and was in High School and didn't get back to be with my Uncle Chuck any more; times change and so do our  priorities. However before I get to far ahead of my self I must tell you of the magic of his under ground garage. In it dwelled about a billion earth worms. There was a coffin-like box in which the worms continued to breed and multiply and were always available for our sorties off on a lake somewhere.  I had a mixture of fear and forboding in that darkened room, mixed with the excitement of pulling up a  hand full of worms. Remember I was still a boy and a hand full of night crawlers was exciting.  I also must tell you of the injustice of the military. Chuck was drafted at age 39, but when  in France  became the cook of his group and would scrounge the earth, the woods, the fields for food to cook. He could always improve the food and his group of men loved him. It was the later years where I am now a Father and Husband that I was able to, once again, make contact with my Uncle Chuck. He was living in a trailer  near one of Great Lakes of New York State and I had taken a job  in New York about 150 miles from where Charlie was living. I used to drive up on various week-ends to visit with him. We didn't do much except talk about those experiences in which we were both involved, go to dinner and retire for the night. As much as I wanted to, it was at those partings that I wanted to tell him what he had meant to the little boy of long ago. The words would never come out but I recall  one time he whispered so softly I could just barely hear the words. The last thing he said as I drove away and it was the last time I would see him, he said "You are the greatest nephew a guy could ever have". I was in tears for the next many miles, all the time thinking "No Chuck, it was you who made my boyhood one of wonder, excitement and an unspoken love". I'm really looking forward to the time in the next chapter, when my tongue will be unleashed and I can sit down and tell Charlie how much he meant to me in those earlier years and who knows maybe we can go fishing again.

My Dad

Some of you may recall that in the past I was the chief cook and bottle washer of a small group of our church members which we lovingly call “The Twig”. Why? Because its smaller than a Branch. I suspect only other members of my faith will understand those titles but suffice it to say it is only a means of reference. Although I am no longer the head liaison to our local body of church members I had volunteered to speak at the weekly service of this “Twig” and inasmuch as it was Fathers day Sunday, I decided to speak about my Father. In most, if not all, of my meanderings through my history, I don’t remember ever saying much about this man and it now seems like a good time to extol his characteristics-good or, possibly, bad.

My early remembrances of my Dad were only a few: first he was funny, made faces and tap danced for his two small sons, Jack, my older brother and me. I also vaguely recall driving down a street that was to become my home for several years. Warwick Avenue was, at that time, a mass of mud ruts and I suspect I was no more than three but the ruts were sufficient to make them remembered. I only mention this because it was one of my first impressions of my Father. It was the late twenties and the Great Depression had not yet arrived with a vengeance. It was several years later that Dad began to make an impression on me and these impressions are brighter now than they were then but only because nostalgia has a way of brightening and elaborating that which is past.



I learned later Dad was an Eagle scout, won a bugler contest in the city of Buffalo N.Y.--our home town. He also had started driving a motorcycle when he was 15 and living in Rochester N.Y. although he was courting my Mom who lived in Syracuse. I never did know how they got together considering the distance apart, but get together they did and Dad became “Wonder Dad”. Why? Because he could do anything---anything! In our new home, he became an electrician, a carpenter, plumber, seamstress, yes, seamstress, musician and of course the wage earner. I came to appreciate some of the above when I purchased my first home and therein lies another recollection of Dad. My new home required a storm door on the side and I went to the lumber yard, bought a door, planed it to fit, added the paint and hinges and voila a job well done--I thought. Mom and Dad came over the next day and in my pride of doing this work, I asked for Dad’s opinion--a mistake. He said I should have had the door open into the prevailing winds. When I explained I had done so we couldn’t agree on which was East and which was West. When I pointed out that the sun was setting, which should have been sufficient to convince my Father, he stated, with authority, “I don’t care what the sun is doing, that’s the West”. Thus a look at my Dad’s stubbornness!




I was the despair of my father. Here was a man that could do anything and a son who could do nothing. Thus he dubbed me with the sobriquet “Handy Andy” because I wasn’t! There was very little I could do to impress Dad and during those early years I became aware of my lack of talent. I played a little piano, clarinet and fife, none of which were sufficient to make an impression. I did find that I could sing a little but at a Boy Scout evening, I unfortunately, butchered a song, to the dismay of my Dad, who had managed to attend one of the few things in which he had ever witnessed me take part. Another disappointment! The Depression had now become serious in our lives and Dad was striving to keep our financial heads above water. Kids weren’t aware of things like that but I remember losing our home on Warwick Avenue. This had a big affect on my life. I never understood why we lost our house. Dad had a job as an automobile mechanic, shop manager and an occasional gig with a dance band in which he played. This was substantially more than many others had and I was always mystified why this took place but we got along in a three bedroom “flat” with Burt and I sharing a bed.



I began High School at age 12 and took 5 years to graduate. The News carried a lot about the war which had begun in Europe. Jobs were more available. I was going from one job to another. As I had said, I never did anything to impress Dad. I never heard him say I love you and I say this without grievance. I loved my Father and knew he loved me. He just didn’t know how to make the words and this is a failure I have had in my life. However, he became very proud as I entered the Navy. The war was peaking and America had become a hot bed of munitions work. It was then that Dad had a very serious heart attack. I was away and never knew how debilitating his condition became. I learned in later years, he rarely left his bedroom and while he had previously had a good social life with my Mom, now would not speak to or see any of his old friends. He took up photography as a hobby and that helped with his daily activities. He no longer could work outside the home and for a while even lived in the basement of my in-laws nearby. I don’t know how they survived with no income and no friends. During the war, he bought a motorcycle to use for transportation and he and Mom got along, with her riding in back and in winter months in a sidecar. He managed to take many pictures of me in uniform and again, nothing was ever mentioned about his pride in me because I had now become an officer. That wasn’t part of Dad’s make up. But, I knew he was greatly impressed with me being a pilot, Jack working for the government in war related jobs and my younger brother, Burt, now also in the Navy. They now had two stars to display in our windows. I recall, at a base in Schenectady, a group of us were hanging out when someone mentioned an old couple coming down the street on a motorcycle. I looked and replied, ”That’s no old couple that’s my Mom and Pop.” They had driven from Buffalo to my Naval base to see me- a distance of some 200 miles and I was very happy to see them. I also remember, with great clarity, coming home on leave late one night, entering my parents room and speaking quietly to my Mom when Dad awoke, instinctively grabbing and hugging me fiercely. It was the only act of love from my Father I can ever recall. Again this is not mentioned with any form of grievance but I have often become very emotional with this remembrance.




Soon, life began to return to normal. All three of his boys were now home safe and sound. Dad had purchased an old 1928 junker for Louise and I to have wheels while he continued with the cycle. Some of his personality returned with the arrival of my two daughters and he loved spending time with them and, again, using his hobby to take pictures of my kids and then Burt’s kids. I was attending school, although my job in the department store began to demand more of my time, and I became, first, an assistant buyer and then soon after a buyer. I know Dad’s life had become more full with the knowledge his family was surviving and growing. I had taken a new job in Wisconsin when the news came that Dad passed away. He had suffered an aneurism on the aorta and quickly bled to death. I was in shock. Here was a man of whom I had relatively little knowledge and I would never learn much about him. The Depression years, school activities, my years in the Navy and those when I became very involved with my own family and my career had deprived me of that knowledge. But still, my recall, in retrospect of Dad leaves me with a warm feeling that although I wish I had been more involved with knowing who he was, what he did, where and what his activities were about, I knew my Father was a good man, one who loved his family and even more, a man who loved my Mom. I know there will be a time when he and I will recall the memories that were a part of our former years and I’m looking forward to seeing Dad and the rest of my family in that life to come.

My Emotions

There is no question about it. I am worse now than I ever been when it comes to shedding tears, I don't know what it's all about. All I know is that as I have become older everything seems to touch an emtional nerve that leaves me teary eyed and wondering why at times. It doesn't seem to matter the subject except if there is any moral to a given subject, TV program, commercials or any wise and meaningful thought, I'm an emotional wreck! Don't show me a dog limping. Don't show me a child that is sick. Moreover, don't show me a happy family. I can't take it.I know it has to be my advanced age because there is nothing else it could be. But why? Nearer to the end of life? Nearer to the judgement seat and all I must reveal? That's an interesting thought. Maybe it is merely that I have become more tender and things take on a deeper meaning than before. But whatever it might be, don't say anything nice about me to my face. Don't even hint that I am a good person. Don't even tell me about how nice one or all of my kids might be. I will respond with welled up tears and a throat that is so choked up that I can't speak. So, be aware that you might be the reason I am emtional when you look at me with loving thoughts. Sorry but I am what I am  and at this time in my life all of the above is true and self defeating. I tell people that now that I am 89, I am going on 90. It's a fact. I am going there. Whether I make it or not, I can at least say, I am going there and at this age I'm entitled to shed a tear if I feel like it. So there!

Connie

She was a waif of a child when she arrived in the states from Spain. Living in Brooklyn for most of her younger years, the new language came easily and there was never a shred of Spanish as the years grew. Her Father was a craftsman and earned a living for his family by working with his hands. I have heard many time of his talents and industry but her Mother was well known and appreciated by those that knew her; Baba was the example of the work ethic that made the early immigants well known. She never shirked a job others never noticed. I didn't know her well but well enough to appreciate her willingness, no, her desire to help, wherever it was needed. Connie grew with those habits ingrained and in many way she was like her Mother. Lets say she was a modern Baba who fit into any place she desired to be. Connie and Marty were married at a pretty early age and like Connie, Marty was just as motivated and industrious as was most children of the earlier nationalities that came to this country in the early 20's. He was a small child that arrived from Scotland. How two, as apparently dissimilar, as were those two, got together is mystery I am not privy to, But get together they did, added three to their family and went about with Marty spending over 40 years with General Mills, changing over to Hunt industries long enough to acquire a pension to go along with one from his first job.

But this tribute is for Connie and I long ago wrote of Marty at the time of his death. Connie passed away today after defying the Doctors who had predicted she would pass away soon after she took a fall and spent almost 4 weeks of hanging in there with a heart and lungs that wouldn't give up. I first got to know Connie when my wife was to take my two girls and and a 6 month old Christopher to Utah to place the girls in school. Connie, in her positive way, refused to allow Louise to drive there unaccompanied with no one to care for Chris. Who is this person I remember asking myself? I found she and Louise had become friends after an all girls luncheon, with Connie coming to visit regularly so as to make Louise, a Mormon girl, make coffee during her visits. That trip took on even greater importance when they were snowed on September 9, in Rawlins Wy. and it took 3 days there before the plows could open the road. As time progressed and Connie became one my closest friends. I was so grateful to this 60 inch dynamo for staying with Louise and caring for Chris' dirty diapers and all else. This is a great example of Connie's unselfishness and dedication to a necessary job. This, more than anything else exemplyfies who she was - a strong personality who wouldn't back away from where she saw work. We became very close to Marty and Connie. Marty passed away about 17 years ago. Connie passed away this morning almost blind from Macular Degeneration but still indomintable but yearning to join her beloved Marty. I have spoken to her many times through these years and we always ended with the words "I love you" and I did. She will always be one of the great spirits that has touched me for good and I am a better person for having known Connie-- my friend.

Warmer Than a Handshake

It was a blustery winter day in February that I set out to make what was to become a yearly event to upper northeast New York State. My boss, Lloyd, was with me and this was my first buying trip to the glove center of the country. While there were many women's gloves imported from Italy, men's gloves were still primarily made in the Twin Cities of Johnstown and Gloversville and Lloyd was showing me how it was done. It was always a pleasant event going from this manufacturer to another over the course of the day. We were to spend 2 full days there viewing the various gloves made by the several businesses. Most of the companies welcomed the opportunity to let us take several samples back to our hotel room where we would spend two full nights poring over the way gloves were made and which ones would fit our buying budget. While it was somewhat laborious, it was my first trip and I found it very interesting, We would spend the two nights writing the styles down and then as another sample showed more promise, cross off the first and in this way gradually reduce maybe 50 samples to the 6 or 8 we would actually plan to purchase. I learned which were pigskin and which were cape -skin (Lamb) and the various grades and appearance of each; which were hand sewn as compared to machine sewn and other interesting facts about gloves. Ultimately we would arrive at a given number of which to buy and which to eliminate from our buying plan. I would make this trip and go through a similar process for several years following this first trip. I was the buyer of menswear in a department store for seven years before the store would close and I was to be employed by another retail department store in another city. But that is story to be told at another time.

The gloves purchased would begin arriving at my store in September and we would begin advertising them as the weeks passed by. As the buyer, I would supply the advertising department with necessary 'copy' so they could smooth it out for the buying public. One time I wrote my copy and used as a headline "warmer than a handshake". It was used in that manner in the paper and some years later, long after I had left the retail field, I saw that line used by another department store trying to sell gloves. That made me feel good that some one else felt it was an appropriate line to be used in advertising gloves. Small achievements are food for memories. I enjoyed those trips very much and although I worked far into the night making my decisions they were memories I had long ago forgotten until I happened to pull an old pair of gloves from a rarely used drawer. Thus are memories rekindled and brought back to mind and although it has been many years since that first trip, it was a small voyage into new learnings that even today, with this writing I have remembered a peccary pigskin from a sueded capeskin. Not only are my hands warmed by this look at the past but so is my heart and mind as well.