We had Major the dog (whom we acquired as a puppy in Palmyra). He was a medium-sized mutt and greatly enjoyed the wilds of Macedon. He would hunt woodchucks, in particular, and having caught and killed one would bring it home and we would find such rotting woodchuck carcasses around the place (not indoors!). Major died when I was 13 years old, on my 13th birthday as a matter of fact, which happened to fall on Friday the 13th that year (not that it really mattered, just coincidence). He was only around 9 years old but had been hit by passing automobiles on multiple occasions in his lifetime (the result of his car-chasing habit) and finally succumbed to his internal injuries, whatever they were. We didn’t have money for veterinarian services back in those days and we just let nature take its course. Recently I found an old faded picture of Major:
Mr. Muffs was our cat that was acquired in Palmyra as a tiny kitten (I talk about him back in entry #15). He was 14 when he kicked the bucket, the direct result of being run over by a car. It was sad to lose him – he was a member of the family and we all took it hard, particularly Mom.
We ended up with a replacement cat, though I have no idea from whence it came. I think it was a stray cat that adopted us. We named it Scrapper for a scrapper he was. He was a tiger cat with an orange belly (quite beautiful, as cats go) and the very last inch of his tail was bent 90°, the result of some mishap unknown to us. Affectionate as all get-out when he wanted to be, but a ruthless hunter of small game including rabbits that he would drag through the back door and into the utility room, still alive, only to corner and torment them. We would find blood stains on the floor and walls from the poor things. He would amuse himself at times by hiding under the couch in the living room and lurking until someone walked by with their bare feet, at which time he would launch out and grab ahold with teeth and claws. One learned to walk carefully past the living room couch. He also had an affinity for Dennis, specifically when it was summertime and Dennis slept with only a sheet because of the heat. Scrapper would hang around the foot of Dennis’s bed in the morning waiting for Dennis to begin to stir only to attack his moving foot with (again) teeth and claws. This would naturally send Dennis into an immediate wide-awake state with very loud vocalizations directed at the cat. Scrapper never bothered me in that manner – only Dennis.
My sister Rita wanted a baby goose for some reason. She was always coming up with crazy ideas. So, she went to a farm, got one, brought it home, and named it Spanky. It was a big hit with the family – so cute and quite entertaining. It waddled about the house looking for crumbs of food and bugs, peeping all the way. In the late evening it would cuddle with you and sing itself to sleep with a little peeping song. Eventually it got too big to have around – it shit all over the place plus it’s attitude was growing less sweet as time progressed. It eventually was taken back to the farm.
I came home from school one day to classical music being loudly played and the most amazing noise which turned out to be a canary my parents had purchased. Why did we need a canary? Who knows. It was in a large cage hung from the ceiling of the living room (out of reach of the cat, of course) and there was a sign attached to the cage – something like “Hello! My name is Jocko”. Dunno how my parents came up with the name “Jocko”, but us kids thought it ridiculous and a name more fit for a monkey than a bird. Silly name aside, the thing was singing its little brains out in conjunction with the orchestra on the record player and I was mesmerized. Never heard any like it. Didn’t imagine such a sound from nature existed. He eventually got ill and died, but I can hear his song vividly in my head to this day.
Dad did work for Crosman Arms (BB guns, pellet guns, and the like), a division of Coleman (the camping company). Dad was a commercial artist and had a studio in which he did his work. Sometimes the studio was at home, though I dunno why. I enjoyed playing around (carefully) with his art stuff and occasionally he would show me some process or activity related to his work.
Anyways, he designed the Crosman logo which is in use today, or at least something pretty much like it. If it has changed, it has changed very little over the years. He re-designed their packaging so it stood out on store shelves. Apparently it had an amazing effect on the company’s revenue stream at the time. He even designed at least one of their air rifles which is still being sold today.
The upshot of this to Dennis and I was that we had a virtual endless variety of BB and pellet guns to play with, along with ammo plus CO2 cartridges which supplied the air power. BTW, nobody shot their eye out. Matter of fact there were no injuries involving the use of the guns that I can recall. Dad taught us how to use them safely, and we did. We did mostly target shooting, though certain wildlife ended up dead because of us: frogs, starlings (black birds who were quite numerous and bullies at the birdfeeder), for example. We even had a Crosman air-powered shot gun (the shells were quite small in comparison to standard shotgun shells and either contained tiny shot or a ball bearing) with a skeet launcher – instead of clay pigeons there were little plastic frisbees that came apart if you hit them and could be easily reassembled.
It was a lot of fun, and I’m glad for the experience as my parents could have never afforded such a luxury out of their pockets. Plus, it incremented my popularity in the neighborhood.
4th grade was a busy time for me in the romance department. I fell in love with a cute-as-all-getout girl named Rhonda (cue the Beach Boys singing “Help Me, Rhonda”). This happened within the space of an hour (I think it was during math lesson). She, apparently, fell in love with me, too, for reasons that befuddle me to this day – there were boys in our class much better looking and much more popular than I. Perhaps my wallflower-like persona was attractive to her. Who knows, except perhaps Rhonda, and I’ll bet she doesn’t remember if I asked her now. I remember Rhonda brought her older sister to the classroom and pointed to me (i.e. “this is the boyfriend”). Her sister didn’t seem to have any particular reaction, so I have no idea if I passed muster or not. The whirlwind affair lasted a week, I think, before she discovered she really didn’t love me. Or particularly like me, for that matter. Broke my heart. I probably got over it in a week or so. Except for a brief stint at a dance in 7th grade, we had nothing to do with each other since that time, though she remained my crush and fantasy all the way through high school.
Actually, now that I think about it, I did ask her why she was attracted to me, and she said it was because I wasn’t mushy. I, thinking mushy was something like vegetables cooked way too long, sought clarification, and she explained that I wasn’t annoyingly romantic, which turns out I was, which is probably why she tired of me so quickly.
Linda was another crush – she had a darker complexion and was (and presumably still is) of some exotic descent (Mediterranean, Middle Eastern, or something). Exotic in my mind, anyway. She was a bit more tomboyish than Rhonda, which I found very attractive for some reason, but she never fell in love with me, or fell in anything with me.
I’ve never seen the movie Ben Hur all the way through – beginning to end. My parents watched it every year when it came on television. TV shows, BTW, were listed out in what was called the TV Guide which was included in the Sunday newspaper. You looked up what shows would show on which channels at what day/time during the coming week and you planned your TV viewing schedule accordingly. Plus we only received 4 channels back then: 8, 10, 13, plus UHF which required its own antenna. I remember when we acquired a motorized antenna which was mounted to the roof – by a dial on a console next to the TV you could change the direction the antenna was pointed and get a clear signal of whatever station you were watching. It was magical, at the time. VCRs weren’t yet available for the average (or, in our case, below average) family.
Ben Hur in its entirety is nearly 4 hours long but I would last only about a half hour or so before I fell asleep. My parents would wake me for the chariot races, which I found very exciting, after which I would crawl up to bed.
Suppose I should spend the time, someday soon, and watch the whole thing.
One day a classmate, Chris, came into our 4th grade class bearing a brand new Snoopy (Peanuts) lunchbox. Lunchboxes, back then, were a thing - I had a Batman lunchbox, as I recall. Anyhoo, we inquired about how he obtained it, and as his story goes his mom had gone grocery shopping the day before and spent $104 dollars in one fell swoop which included the lunchbox. Chris was quite happy with his windfall, though he told us that his parents got into a huge fight about the amount of money spent, which didn’t seem to bother him at all.
$104 was quite a large amount of money in those days, even for adults. Sort of like going grocery shopping now and spending $1000.
I had 2 Guinea Pigs for a few years. I don’t recall where the first one “Popcorn” came from, but the second one “Coon” was courtesy of my sister Rita. My parents bought a used rabbit hutch to house them, which was quite large and had an enclosed area for colder weather. Speaking of which, I kept plenty of hay in the “outdoor” section and filled the “indoor” section with wood shavings so that they remained happily outside pretty much all year around, even through the winter. However, I brought them inside during really cold periods.
I remember taking them out of their hutch on warm summer days and letting them graze for clover in the lawn. They weren’t particularly interesting or affectionate or anything, but they were my responsibility and I was diligent in taking care of them.
Eventually my interest in taking care of them waned and we ended up giving them (and the rabbit hutch) to a physically handicapped kid who aspired to be a veterinarian.
We had an old black leather-bound Bible in the house. Dunno where it came from, but I assume it was in someone’s family for a long time for it was quite worn. I wonder where it ended up. Probably tossed when the family broke up, which is a story for another time. I remember picking it up from time to time and reading it. Well, attempting to read it as it was a King James Bible and the diction/syntax befuddled me. It did serve a useful purpose amongst us kids, however, when one was made to swear (as in solemn oath vs cuss words). For example, someone would challenge another on the verity of something spoken, one would place one’s right hand on the Bible and swear it was true. Or perhaps to confirm a commitment – i.e. you would swear on the Bible that you would fulfill a particular promise.
No one ever told me that the black book was God’s Word, God’s Truth, or any such thing. I only knew that if you lied while swearing on the Bible that it was really, really, bad, and you were violating something sacred. Plus, if you did so, something pretty bad would happen to you.
Christmas was a magical time for a kid – getting out the Christmas decorations and sorting through them, hunting down a Christmas tree (a real one – we never had a fake one), playing Christmas music, etc.
One year my parents found little Christmas tree lights and used them on the top section of the tree. We liked them so much that within a few years little twinkly lights had replaced the big fat ones that had been used for decades. There were very old ornaments we hung on the tree – it was like visiting old friends when we unboxed them each year for Christmas.
Among the decorations was a musical bell. I believe my parents bought it shortly after I was born. It’s maybe 6 inches in height (plus a chain to hang it) and there is a little music box inside – you pull on the string and it plays Jingle Bells. There’s a label on in indicating it was made in Japan (in the days before cheap stuff was made in China). As a kid I thought it was solid and heavy. I discovered in my early teens by happenstance that is quite light. I’m spending words on this bell because it, more than any other physical object, signifies Christmas for me. It’s the only thing that has been present at every Christmas since I was born (apart from certain years I was not home for Christmas). Anyways, I have it now and intend on keeping it until some day one of my kids or grandchildren hang it in their house.
Until my mid teens, Christmas was also bountiful occasion – lots of great presents under the tree. Dennis & I would wake up very very early Christmas morning, sneak downstairs, and quietly survey the presents with flashlights for who got what which, of course, was all wrapped up in paper, though we had fun guessing what may be inside each. After that we would wait for what seemed like days until everyone was up, dressed, and ready to gather for present-opening time.
I was a grown-up when I found out that my parents would take out a loan each year so we kids could have an awesome Christmas. Sometimes the previous year’s loan would not be paid off on time and was added to the new loan. Eventually they caught up and stopped taking loans out as Christmas, over time, became less expensive – kids got older and some of them moved out. I was 14, I think, when one particular Christmas I looked at my quite small pile of presents and realized I wasn’t a kid anymore.
A couple of presents I especially recall that were given to Dennis and me by Jean & Dick: Atari Pong, which had just come out, and the following year a small but thoroughly enjoyable air hockey table (air hockey was also relatively new thing at the time). Those were expensive gifts. Dennis and I were really overwhelmed to receive them, though we had to wait until the adults were finished “trying them out” which was pretty much all Christmas Day.
I took guitar lessons in the 4th grade. The Macedon Elementary music teacher (I have long forgotten her name) offered them for something like $3 per student per half hour. There were a bunch of kids who attended these group lessons after school in the basement of a church across the street. I don’t precisely recall how I ended up with a guitar – I assume my parents purchased one for me. I remember my dad had one, though he didn’t play, and I fiddled with it often enough so it seems he invested in one for me plus lessons.
Apart from occasional seasons of not having a guitar, I kept playing and singing and still do to this day. Plus, I can still remember some of the songs I learned in those lessons decades ago. I never learned how to read music, which is something I regret. Nevertheless, it gives me great pleasure to play and I’m glad I learned.
Some of the songs we were taught were doggone religious. I do not know what prompted the guitar teacher to pick those songs, but I remember Rita & I (Rita learned how to play, as well, though I do not recall who taught her; could have been me, I dunno) singing songs that described Christ's coming to earth, living, dying, and resurrecting. Stuff I just sang back then but gave no specific thought to. I like to think that a seed was planted that would not bear fruit, metaphorically speaking, until many years later when I came to understand the significance of the lyrics and believed the message.
Moving from relative isolation of the rural countryside to Macedon was an improvement in social potential as friends were now down the street instead of light years away. Closest to me was Scott & Larry (brothers). Up the road and a hill from them was Bob and his little brother Reggie. Recently at a class reunion Bob confessed that he worshipped my sister Rita back then. Rita was (and still is) a few years older, so it wouldn’t have worked out. A fair distance past Bob (maybe a half mile) was Bill. In the other direction was Dave, who was closer to Dennis’s age than the rest of us. He had 2 sisters with whom I interacted very little. Way past him was Tom and Dave Heckman that we occasionally saw – they were more Dennis’s age, anyway. Up the road from us in another direction was John who was older as well and we interacted with rarely. He had a dog named “Polack”, though I do not know if the dog was actually Polish. In summary, friends were within walking distance, or at least easy bicycle distance.
I liked the house we moved into. The front door was pretty much useless, as there was a short front yard and some concrete steps down to a fast road (55 MPH speed limit). The only good use of those steps was for waiting for the bus on school mornings. The gravel driveway in the back was quite wide and came up to the garage. There was a branch of the driveway that continued to the house next door where an old lady lived by herself – Mrs. Allard, if my memory serves me. On the other side of the driveway was the woods, which was good for hiking and adventures. There was a decent sized lawn and a couple of apple trees. Some evenings we would throw apples up in the air and bats would dive bomb after them. On one side of the house was what we called the “back yard” which was really a side yard. On the other side of the house was a fence and on the other side of that the landlord kept a working swimming pool, as he owned a pool business. He told us we can use it as long as we took care of it, and we certainly did on both counts. We would never have been able to afford a swimming pool so it was an unexpected luxury, particular for us kids in the summer. It certainly made me popular amongst the neighborhood kids.
Through the back door and up a few steps was a utility room where the washer and dryer were kept. Through another door you walked into the kitchen, or turned right to go into a full bath. Which now seems to be a strange place to have a bathroom with tub, but it all seemed natural to a kid. The light switch to said bathroom was outside the bathroom door. If someone were using the bathroom at night you could flip the light switch off and get screamed at.
The kitchen was L shaped and had an area for eating. The room off the kitchen was officially a dining room. After a few years it became the TV room. After that was the living room. Off that was my parent’s bedroom which, for a number of years, doubled as the TV room. I liked lying on the bed and watching TV – it was quite comfortable. Or, you could climb the stairs to the bedrooms – Dennis & I shared one and Rita had the other. There was a crawl space off to the side which served as an attic for storing shit. The basement was off the kitchen, but I rarely ventured down there because it was old, musty, cobwebby, and scary.
I have great memories of the place as well as doggone lousy ones. I grew up a lot while living there for 5-ish years.
We moved to Macedon sometime in the latter part my 3rd grade. I didn’t like it, as it meant switching schools to Macedon Elementary and being “the new kid” which is always a challenge for an introvert.
My last day in Palmyra Elementary was a bust – I stayed home from school due to the “itches” - severe itching all over my body. Rita got it, too. We suspected the laundry soap, but never nailed down the cause. The kids in the class each made a good-bye card, which was really nice and very encouraging. I specifically recall the one from Linda Higbee who had recently moved from Macedon to Palmyra and ended up in my class. She told me that when I attend Macedon Elem that I might get Mrs. Wilkinson as a teacher. She meant to tell me that Mrs. Wilkinson was strict, but wrote it “she’s stict”. I did indeed end up in Mrs. Wilkinson’s class and found out she was really quite nice after all and not stuck to anything.
My first day in Mrs. Wilkinson’s class was dreadful (it wasn’t the class, teacher, or kids, it was me). A couple of highlights: I meet a kid named Greg (can’t remember his last name) who had recently come back from a trip to Florida and was quite tan. Never having been anywhere south of the Mason-Dixon line, I thought it was quite impressive and exotic - Florida seemed like another world far away. Another was Martha Rothfus: I had my head buried in my desk trying to be invisible when she presented herself to me and asked if she could take me around and introduce me to the other classmates. I declined, but I’ve never forgotten the kindness and mentioned it to her recently at our class reunion.
Eventually I got to know my classmates, made friends, and fit in quite well despite my introversion. In particular I remember Roland "Roly" Jones - he was extremely good looking with a kind and winning personality as well as the coolest name ever; I wonder whatever became of him as I do not recollect seeing him after 3rd grade.
We were gathered at Arnold’s house in Palmyra one evening. I think I was the only kid present and everyone was sitting around the living room listening to an album on the record player. I recall it was something comedic, perhaps Cheech & Chong (my parents didn’t go out of their way to shield us from questionable material). So, as it was the adults all smoked back then and smoked they did in the living room with the windows closed (it was kinda cold out at the time). Eventually cigarette smoke fills the air in the room and I complain that it’s burning my eyes. I was told “If you don’t like it, go outside.” Apparently they didn’t go out of their way to shield us from the health hazard of second-hand smoke, either.
I used to play around with whatever smoldering butts I found in whatever ash trays were around the house, though I knew without somebody telling me that the whole smoking deal was nasty business. Eventually everybody quit smoking for good, except Mom who, in time, took it up again.
In 3rd grade we did a study of the country of India. The class teacher was Mrs. Hino (teachers didn’t have first names back then, at least that’s what my 3rd grade brain assumed). Also, we sometimes referred to her as Mrs. Hiny behind her back (and her butt, too, come to think of it). Anyways, we split into groups and Mike, Sam, and I choose to do an artistic depiction of the monsoon in India. Our approach was unique in that we did a quite large painting of the Taj Mahal for starters, then intended to paint sheets of rain in front of it. Problem was that our Taj Mahal was so good that it seemed a shame to mask it with rain. So, we put a few big drops here and there to depict the beginning of the monsoon season. I remember Mrs. Hino showing it to the art teacher and he was impressed, despite the fact that it was very 2 dimensional (we had no idea how to draw anything with 3D perspective).
Also interesting was that Mr. Hino payed a visit to the class (wonder of wonders that teachers had spouses let alone existence outside the school grounds!). He admired our painting and even helped us enhance it a bit because he had actually seen the Taj Mahal in person. That was a cool experience, and it remains an enjoyable memory.
As a kid I enjoyed being around and spending time with my brothers and sisters, Mike and Roger in particular, and also Dennis because he was closest to me in age (still is). And then there was Arnold (my oldest brother) who was little else but mean to me. He had an abrasive personality in general, but for some reason he had no tolerance for me.
One incident, as I recall, I was being transported by Arnold out to our house in the sticks from the village in his pickup truck. He drove very fast and took the corners hard, which was probably his usual way of driving but scared the shit out of me and I asked him to slow down. “Shut up, kid!” was all I got in response.
By the time I was in my late teens, Arnie and I got along fine.
On one of those rare occasions when a friend stayed overnight at our house out in the boonies, we had an interesting experience. Well, it was interesting for Dennis, anyway, and I suppose “interesting” wouldn’t be the right word to describe it.
Anyways, it was John Wilson and he and I shared the bottom bunk of the bunk beds Dennis & I used. In the morning (I think it was a Saturday) John and I were awake in the bottom bunk chatting, and we decided to tug on the sheet which hung down over the side of Dennis’s bed above. We did so tug a little, then went back to chatting. Not hearing anything stirring above us, we tugged a bit more, then a bit more, then a bit more, essentially dragging Dennis to the edge of his bed. We were sure he was awake and playing along with us. Turns out he was dead asleep, and the last and final tug brought him down on the hardwood floor WHAM-O!
Upon hitting said floor, Dennis jumped up and ran out of the room and down the stairs to who knows where. John and I wondered out loud what that was all about and went back to chatting, not grasping the gravity of the situation (pun definitely intended). We eventually got up and went downstairs to find Dennis seated at the breakfast table consuming a bowl of some cereal with a far-off glazed-over look. I don’t think we saw Dennis for the rest of the day, not that it particularly mattered to us at the time.
Not too many years ago I brought this up to Dennis who confirmed he was asleep until he hit the floor, and that he was hurt - bad. He should have seen a doctor, but in those days if you could stand upright and manage somewhat coherent English, you’re fine.
We had one car in the family in those days. Actually, Arnie had his own vehicle, as did Roger. Mom didn’t drive and didn’t appear to be in a hurry to learn. Anyways, it was an exciting event when we got a new used car from “Shady Deals” which was the local car dealer. I thought that was the actual name of the business because that’s what everyone called it. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I happen to discover it was actually “Palmyra Motors”.
Dad, on the wall of his little art studio at home, had a pencil drawing of “the Spook” - a tall, lanky, spooky-looking guy in black who, as I was told, was one of the more notable salesmen at Shady Deals.
One auspicious evening, Rita’s friend Valerie had me in her lap and wouldn’t go. She hugged me and kissed me and told me how cute and adorable I was. This went on for some time. I feigned a struggle to escape, but the truth is I loved every second of it and was disappointed when she finally let me go.
Roger would show up occasionally, I assume home on leave from the Navy. His friends would show up, too, in the form of a music band - The New Order. They played at our house a couple times - once outdoors and once in the living room (which was exceedingly loud. I didn't like it, as loud noises bothered me as a kid). They were quite good, as I recall, and I somewhat remember a couple of their songs and can play them on the guitar..maybe.
Mom, Dad, Rita, Dennis, and I would, occasionally, record our voices on a cassette tape and send it to Roger while he was deployed. Sometimes we would sing a song to him. I remember one where we used an existing tune and made up our own lyrics, something about Roger being a sailor. He told us he enjoyed them immensely. I recall that he recorded one of himself aboard ship and sent it to us. Such was communication before the days of the Internet, though it was relatively high tech for the time – being able to hear a voice vs only having a letter to read.
I’ve done 1 painting in my lifetime (so far). I was just a wee lad and my dad stretched a canvas for me and let me go to town on it with a pile of magic markers of varying colors. Somebody had the presence of mind to take a picture of it, albeit not very clear and part of it cropped, which is all that is left as the original is long gone:
My eldest brother Arnie and his wife Pat had a baby – Mary, my niece – so I became “Uncle Jon” at age 7. I bragged about this at school as it was a novelty amongst the kids in my class, plus it made me feel/sound more mature than I actually was.
Here's a picture of me and Mary plus somebody's hand reaching into the scene:
One thing of note: when Pat was pregnant she wore blue eye shadow. I assume she didn’t all the time, but the only time I recall seeing her whilst pregnant she did. It was a bright, striking blue and I wondered if she put it on her eyes or if all pregnant women had this as a medical condition resulting from pregnancy. Kids have strange thoughts.
A year after Mary, came Hollie (named either because she was born close to Christmas or in honor of the maker of fine carburetors) and I was Uncle Jon to 2 nieces, which upped my status even more.
Dad had a large painting of his hung up on the living room wall. It was of a boxer (human, not dog) seated against the ropes of a boxing ring and down for the count. Apparently, Dad saw this scene at a boxing match in Iowa and some time later captured it in oil paint on canvas. My brother Dennis has the painting rolled up in a tube and said he would send it to me. Once I have it, I’ll take a picture of it and post it here.
Anyways, as the result of indoor horseplay, I whipped a small plastic football at Dennis who ducked, so the football smacked into the painting on the wall and left an indent with concentric circles of broken paint surface. It wasn't (and presumably still isn't) terribly noticeable except if you look at it at certain angles. I don't recall how much trouble I got into for that. Dad remembers the incident, still to this day.
I consider it my contribution to dad's artwork.
And here it is:
During a Christmas season of some year I was very sick - like on the couch not eating or nothing sick for at least a week. Probably the Plague or something. I'm sure there were times we should have been in the hospital but were kept home for financial reasons. Anyways, I do recall the Christmas tree in the living room, decorated, but I was so miserably sick I had no interest. Takes a lot to keep a kid from being excited about Christmas. Despite this, I (for some reason I cannot explain) had the intense hunger for a bowl of Wheaties with cold milk poured thereon. I asked for it, was rebuffed (logically, from a parent's perspective), but lobbied hard for that which I very much desired. Finally I got it - a bowl of crispy Wheaties with cold milk. I ate it all, relishing every bite. I very soon after (probably a manner of minutes) puked the whole thing back up. Didn't regret it. Still don't. That was the best bowl of Wheaties ever enjoyed by anyone.
July 20, 1969 - our family was gathered around the TV (monochrome, of course, grayscale to be precise) to witness the live broadcast of the first human to set foot on the moon. I was 7 years old at the time and fascinated by the whole thing. I remember going outside and looking up at the moon and wondering if I could see the astronauts and their stuff from earth. Turns out you can't.
Across the street were Mr. and Mrs. Years. They were the most laid back and kindest people I had ever met. I have no idea what either of them did for a living, though they did have a barn and some horses - Trudy, a thoroughbred I believe, and Fella, a draft horse of some sort. Rita (my sister) learned to ride. I rode Fella, once, though for a slow walk. Horses were quite intimidating to me back then. They still are, come to think of it. I'm much more confident on a motorcycle, thank you. At some point I acquired 2 guinea pigs as pets, and I would occasionally buy hay for their hutch from Mr. Years for 50 cents a bail. Dennis & I did spend one overnight at the Years' house for reasons I still have no idea. Golly, it was boring. Mr. & Mrs. Years, were WAY too mellow for our taste, though Dennis & I were polite, respectful, and appreciative. We did each get a chocolate chip cookie with our breakfast, which was different.
Major, the dog, made friends with the neighbor dog Mickey, a German shepherd from across the street. The two would hunt together and chase cars together. I wonder what it was about cars that drove the dogs to chase them (pun intended). Many a dog met their demise chasing cars and another local dog, Lucky, was no exception. We found him one day, dead and with his luck run out on the side of the road. So, Major and Mickey would chase cars whenever they went by, which wasn't too often on that country road, one on each side of the car. Occasionally they would challenge the odds and crisscross in front of the moving car.
My sister-in-law Pat (Arnie's wife) had a female Dalmatian that Major ended up 'spending the night with'. She got pregnant and had 5 puppies, one of which was born dead. Puppies (live ones) was fun stuff for a kid, though eventually they all shipped out to other homes.
After a month or so of life at the Wilson's house, we moved out to Southtown Line Rd of the outer limits of Palmyra which seemed, to me, like we had been exiled to the wilderness. The nearest neighbor was at least a half mile away, and having a friend to come over to visit took a freakin act of Congress (most families, including ours, had only one car, and mom didn't drive in those days). Though our social lives suffered as kids, it was interesting living out in the country with the woods, pond, wildlife, and such. A possum ventured into our yard. Dad went out to investigate and it "played dead". He picked it up by the tail and hung it (by the tail) on a ladder leaning up against the house. Geese would populate the pond every spring and fall, something I greatly looked forward to. Occasionally a swan or a heron would stop by, which was a special wonder to me.
Water to the house was fed by a well and was exceedingly gross - smelled like sulfur and tasted disgusting, though dad said it made for a wonderful cup of coffee and you could boil beans in it for hours and they would never get soft. Us kids never drank it - we would fill up gallon jugs at Arnie's house in the village and keep them around for drinking.
Here's a picture I found (actually, it's a scanned-in copy of a printout of a photo) of myself, Mom, and Dennis at the dining room table. Judging from my expression I believe I was attempting some form of suave, though the filthy shirt doesn't help my cause any.
We moved out of our house on Canandaigua Street across from the school and moved in with our friends the Wilson's (who previously lived next door but had moved to another street but within a short walk's distance). At least I remember Rita, Dennis, and I living there for a month. Jean and Arnold were out on their own, Roger had joined the Navy and had left home. I wonder where Mike had gone - off to college? Staying with someone else?
A few things I clearly recall from that time: one is Mrs. Wilson playing the piano. She played Wipeout which I really enjoyed (and she knew I enjoyed it). Another is having 5 minutes and an inch of water to take a bath, as there were many people in the house needing hot water and bathroom time. I remember one day the Wilsons were dressed up and all headed out to get a family picture taken. I felt left out, though I wasn't part of their family, obviously. Perhaps it was because my family had never got a complete family picture of all of us, including parents (and never would). The closest thing was a painting my dad had done of a winter scene with him, mom, and all the kids except me because I hadn't been born yet.
Another incident involved Roger who (for reasons unknown to me) was home for a bit from the Navy. It was Halloween and he along his friends Bill and Jim took me around town trick-or-treating in Bill's station wagon. We had very little money in those days so I was dressed as a hobo - raggedly clothes and cigarette ashes smeared on my face like I hadn't been shaving or was dirty or both. There were patches on my makeshift coat that mom used straight pins to attach (which is important for later in the story). Well, someone driving by pegged Bill's car with an egg, so they decided to find out who and 'teach them a lesson' or some such thing. Bill accelerated and rounded a corner. The back seat door I was sitting next to swung open and I proceeded (in slow motion, at least in my memory) to fall out of the car. Seat belt use wasn't as prevalent as it is today, even for kids. I remember hearing Bill say (as I was falling out of the car) "OMIGOSH - JB!" JB (for Jon Bryan) was my moniker for many years as a kid. They managed to pull me back into the car and continue their pursuit of the offending party which they eventually found. They parked out in front of the house and approached it on foot. There were no lights on so I could not see anything, though I heard them talking with someone or someones. Eventually a fist-fight broke out. I really did not want to listen to anything of this, so I called out to Roger a few times to hurry up whatever he was doing and let's go home. He cheerfully responded "OK!" "Just a minute!" "Be right there!". Eventually the cops came which led to more time for me sitting by myself in the car wondering when on earth we would be leaving this very unpleasant scene. As it turned out, Bill's really nice jacket was torn and Roger had a bloody black eye from the fight. Roger must have felt sorry for me because he climbed into the back seat to sit with me and sat directly on my hobo coat with the dozen or so straight pins. I don't know which had been more painful to him - the fist in his eye or the pins in his ass. Needless to say I had an exciting story to tell when we got back to the house.
Other than occasional and unintentional moments of popularity, I was generally a wallflower at school - an introvert and afraid of everything (why, I wonder). One of those moments to "shine" was when I wore a new shirt and shoes to school. The shirt was grayscale and had a lizard/snake/alligator skin pattern. The shoes were black with squared-off toes, and black pants. It wasn't often my parents chose the right clothes for me. This time they hit the ball out of the park because I was a well-dressed man in my 2nd grade class and quite admired for a day.
I came close to biting my tongue off one day. I remember it quite vividly. The family was at Seneca Park (on Seneca Lake) one fine day, and us kids (Rita, Dennis, & me, as I recall) were at a small playground in the park. Rita - who was 6 years older than I (and still is) and significantly heavier - and I got on the see saw (or “teeter totter” as we called it) and teetered and tottered on it for awhile until I decided to get off, which I did without informing Rita of my intentions. I, of course, got off when it was tottered in my direction and I was close to the ground, however the weight of Rita on the other side caused the wooden seat to rise up at a great speed and smack me under the chin, causing me to bite my tongue with great force. It hurt, naturally, and I put my hands up to my mouth and made some sort of muffled exclamation. I them looked at my hands to see if there was blood, and lo and behold there was lots of it, which caused me to scream and panic and run as fast as I could to my parents. They assessed the situation, stuffed a towel in my mouth and whisked me off to the hospital emergency room. Turns out there was nothing the doctors could do for my badly bitten tongue. Perhaps nowadays they could. There is still somewhat of a scar on my tongue after all these years.
We had little to no money growing up, though I recall a relatively happy childhood. One of the things we did for inexpensive recreation is visit one of the nearby finger lakes – Seneca or Canandaigua. I remember us fishing off a pier on a nice summer day and seeing crowds of people on the beach behind us having a grand ‘ol time. I very much wanted to join them (fishing was dull business, to me; still is). So, I whined and complained like a little shit for some time until Dad says to Mom “Let’s put him in his bathing suit and throw him off the pier.” At the time I could not swim and was deathly afraid of deep water, so I clammed up. I guess I was afraid they would actually toss me off the pier. Strange what goes through a kid’s mind.
Mom watched a soap opera on TV each weekday afternoon, sometimes 2, probably as a coping mechanism for having 7 kids. "Don't bother me it's time for My Story" is what she said to announce to anyone within earshot that she was unavailable for the next hour or 2. I remember watching them with her after morning kindergarten (back in those days it was a half day). I was pretty much clueless about the plot, but there were certain characters that I found interesting most of them for reasons I have long since forgotten. However, I always enjoyed seeing Dr. Hardy on General Hospital – he was such an approachable and kind character and was seemingly content and even-keeled all the time. I was, of course, blissfully unaware of the drama surrounding his character which I just now read about in Wikipedia. Back then I assumed the character you saw on TV was a real person and not a character being played by an actor. Sort of how I assumed that teachers only existed in school.
Cindy & Terri were twin girls in the neighborhood that I played with occasionally, being that they were only slightly younger than I. One day they showed me their new Easy Bake Oven (toy oven introduced by Kenner in 1963; heat was provided by a 100 watt incandescent light bulb). We 3 decided to bake a pie in it. And not just any pie, but a peanut butter & jelly pie. And we did. And it was gross.
We spent a week in New Jersey visiting cousins of some sort. I asked my father recently about it and he told me they were from his side of the family. The house was out in the country. There was a train tracks in the back of the property - we would stand and watch the trains go by, which was a novelty for us. There were also barn owls and bats that invaded the night, also items of interest for us village-dwellers. We went to a public pool of sorts one day. I was relegated to the kiddy pool while everybody else had fun in the adjoining "adult" pool. The water over there, as I observed, was a wonderful color blue. It spilled over into the kiddy pool and I imagined the blue tint making the kiddy pool water blue-er. A kid's imagination.
The most meaningful memory I had of that trip was an evening when the older kids played records and danced in the enclosed patio. At one point someone played a slow song and everybody slow-danced except me because, as a little kid, I was way too short. I was sad until my brother Roger picked me up and slow-danced with me. I recall the kindness and affection to this day. I talked about this incident at his funeral.
My sister Jean had moved out on her own by the time I was 3 or 4, so I only recall her not being at home except to visit. She had an apartment in Rochester which, to a kid, was a big city very far away, though it was really only an hour away at most. I did not get to see Jean on a regular basis and missed her, so I wrote her letters and had Mom mail them for me. I would also take a piece of plain white paper, place it over a portion of the dining room tablecloth (which had a textured pattern), rub the long edge of a crayon over the paper, and the pattern would transfer to the paper in the color of the crayon. I did this, and other artsy things, and send them to her along with some narrative. I would, of course, sign the letter "J.B." since that's what everyone in the family called me. Jean replied occasionally with a letter addressed to "Master Jon Perez" which made me feel grown up. She also raved about the art work I had sent her. I had the opportunity to visit her once and, sure enough, my drawings were put up on her fridge. Even though I'm sure she was only being nice to her baby brother, it meant alot to me that she took the time to write back and praise my artistic efforts. You never know what your words/actions mean to a kid.
The only grocery store in the village was Big M (till eventually another store opened up on the other end of town). I found out decades later the “M” stands for Midstate – a grocery company. It was a tiny store, compared to the multi-acre stores around today.
Grocery shopping for the family was done once a week on Saturday morning. I remember there was a nest of sorts built into a space in the wall above the dairy section with either an owl or chicken (fake, of course); I don’t recall which it was. Actually, the more I think about it, the more I'm convinced it was an owl. Once and for a time there was this life-size clown that inflated & deflated continuously. It must have been there to advertise something. I was deathly afraid of that thing. It must have been the noise of it or something, because I was not afraid of clowns in general, but boy-o-boy that thing gave me the frights.
What I enjoyed most about Saturday morning grocery shopping was this special loaf of bread my parents would buy as a post-shopping treat. It was relatively small, as bread loaves go, but it was so soft and sweet and delicious, and we would go apey with anticipation of arriving home, slicing it up, and wolfing it down! I have never found anything like it, since.
Back when I was around 4 years old my nose got broken. My dad coached a baseball team for the American Legion which my brother Mike played on. I often went along to the games, mainly to run around and play with other kids. At one particular game somewhere out in the boonies of Wayne County, I was playing chase with another kid on a playground slide. I remember being at the top of the slide and waking up at the bottom on the ground, face up. Apparently, I had taken a tumble down the slide and plowed face-first into the gravely dirt. I was carried – stretcher-like – and loaded into the back of a van (Mr. Hunt’s green cargo van) and taken to the closest hospital. At the hospital I was checked out and taken for X-Rays. It was at that point that I began to panic because I was being taken somewhere without my parents. Before that I remember being calm, cool, and collected, and just sort of “went along for the ride”.
I spent the next few days in the hospital, recovering from a broken nose and (apparently) serious concussion, because I recall not feeling well at all for a couple days. Didn’t want much to do with anything or anybody. Some young guy with a broken leg would wheel in and say hi to me occasionally, but I was not interested in the least until I started feeling better, then I socialized a little bit. I have no idea who he was or why he took an interest in me. Perhaps I shared the room with him, I dunno. Also, someone from my family – father, mother, big sister – was always with me, 24x7.
I remember that on the day before I checked out, the doctor very carefully took little stones out that had been buried into the end of my nose like I had been hit with shotgun shot. The obvious result of hitting the gravel with my face at the bottom of the slide. Here’s a picture of me in my hospital bed. What doesn’t show up well are the bruises on my face, like I had just lost an ultimate fighting match or something.
I liked hanging around my older siblings, specifically Jean, Roger, or Mike ("Mickey" as he was called until he went off to college; then he was known as "Mike" though I am not certain of the timing or reason for the transition). Anyways, one never knew what adventures might crop up whilst hanging around one of them, or possibly a treat of candy or something. I was following Roger around the house one day like a puppy dog. He, for some reason, remarked that he didn't have any money. Perhaps I asked him for something, I don't recall. Knowing that he was gainfully employed back then, I inquired as to what he did with the money he made. He said he threw it away. Not comprehending the euphemism, I fished through all the wastebaskets in house looking for some financial windfall courtesy of Roger.
Brownie (the dog) was dead & buried at the previous house and somebody decided we needed a new dog, so dad went off to the dog pound to find one suitable for us ("dog pound" is what we called it back then; nowadays an "animal shelter" or similar). He did find one - a smallish hound dog of questionable heritage which bounced up and down on all fours as if to say "pick me! pick me!" Dad said that any dog that could do that deserved to be taken home. His name ended up "Magoo". He was enjoyable to have around until one day John and I found him behind the house lying down, his eyes open and teeth bared and as still as stone. We puzzled over him for some time trying to figure out if he was frozen and could be thawed out, as it was late in the year. Eventually we decided that telling a grownup was the best strategy, so I went and told Mom. She subsequently informed me he was dead, and I was very sad. I believe that was the first time I experienced the death of something/someone important to me.
We had a cat that had died before then - named Supercalifragialisticexpialadocious (title of a song from Mary Poppins). We called it Expial, for short. Anyways, I had not seen the cat around for some time and inquired as to its whereabouts. It was told to me that it was run over by a car. Neither the nature of its demise nor the fact that it was dead had any measurable effect on me, emotional or otherwise. I was a bit older when Magoo met his Maker, so the impact was much more profound.
Post Magoo, Arnold (I think it was Arnold) brought a cute little fuzzy puppy home from somewheres. It must have been on a Friday, because I spent the entire weekend cuddling it. It was scared of everybody except me. By Monday morning we could tell it was sick, the poor little guy, so Arnold took it back and I never saw it again. Eventually we obtained another dog - a cute roly-poly fuzzball we named Major.
We had another cat around that time named Mr. Muffs. He was a good cat, as cats go, mostly white with some occasional gray. He had a large gray marking on his side that was the nearly the precise shape of Mickey Mouse's head. Dad worked in graphic arts / advertising and one of his accounts produced household humidifiers. These humidifiers were supposed to be unusually quiet, so Dad produced a cardboard cutout of Mr. Muffs sleeping on one which was replicated, distributed, and perched on every store display model of said humidifier in the country. Some years ago I found out that Dad had drugged the cat to get the picture because it had no interest in promoting humidifiers or sleeping on one, quiet or otherwise.
It was customary for us kids to have a bowl of cereal w/ milk before bed. Not sure how that habit came about, for it was the standard breakfast fare as well. Cereals such as Super Sugar Crisp, Honeycomb, Trix, Kix, Cocoa Puffs, Lucky Charms, Quisp, Quake, Captain Crunch, Wheaties, Puffed Rice and Puffed Wheat (which we referred to as Puffa-Puffa Rice and Puffa-Puffa Wheat), and a host of others I would only recall if I Googled "breakfast cereals of the mid 1960s". Most of the same cereals are in stores today and, undoubtedly, have the same amount of sugar in them, though back then they didn't hide it behind marketing words and slogans. We ate Grape Nuts occasionally, not so much for the flavor but for the loud noise when you chewed it. Someone recently referred to it as "Box-O-Gravel". Sometimes I would have my bedtime bowl of cereal with John next door, sometimes he with us at my house. The Wilsons also ate both dinner and supper, the former in late afternoon and the latter later. We thought that was weird - we had one evening meal and called it both dinner and supper. I guess there's a difference between dining and supping, after all.
Also attending school across the street was the next-door kid, John Wilson, who was in the same grade and turned out to be a good friend for many years - up until high school when our paths of life diverged. He shows up in my story regularly, as he was a major player in my growing-up years. I never told him how much it meant to have him as a friend. Maybe it was just understood between us. The last time I saw him or his sisters was at his mom's funeral decades ago.
I started kindergarten while living at that house. The elementary school was (and still is) directly across the street. I wasn't allowed to take the shortest route there unless Mom walked me across. Otherwise I traipsed up to the corner where Mrs. Mahoney the crossing lady was in charge and would guide me safely across the street. For some reason I really liked her - she was welcoming and friendly. Anyhoo, my kindergarten teacher was Mrs. Pretty, and she commanded a class of around 30 kids - all by herself. Perhaps kids were better behaved back then, I dunno. One kid - I believe his name was Stanley - was forever getting up out of his chair and wandering around. Mrs. Pretty was forever telling him to sit down and threatening to find some rope and tie him to his chair. Some of those kids I ended up graduating high school with, though I don't recall ever seeing Stanley again after kindergarten.
My 1st grade teacher was Mrs. Nearing who, in my estimation, was elderly at the time, at least compared to other teachers. Imagine my surprise some years ago to see her obituary in the paper. She must have been 180 years old when she died.
2nd grade was Miss George (I think; could have been Mrs). What I recall most vividly about her was the time she came in to work sick. While she was waiting for the substitute teacher to arrive, she had to puke and ran for the bathroom. I had never seen a teacher run. I didn't know teachers could run. A kid named Tommy laughed out loud at the sight. He was verbally chastised by a number of self-righteous hypocritical classmates. I say hypocritical because I'm sure we all thought it was funny to see Miss George dashing out of the classroom and down the hall. Also in 2nd grade we did a short play. I don't remember what it was all about, but I played some sort of military commander. I was quite good, as I recall. My first foray into stage drama.
Two friends came over one day - Jackie and some other girl. Maybe it was Cathy. Anyways, Jackie was (and most likely still is) my age. We did dances for each other in our underwear in the garage, alternating between the girls, then me, for several iterations. My underwear was a bit small for me and boys' underwear having the trap door in the front - suffice it to say that the girls found out that day what boys carry around in their underwear.
Along that vein, my parents would occasionally set a kiddy pool out in the backyard for me and I would splash around in it butt naked, though I do not recall anyone else joining me.
Dennis (my brother) and Keith (Cathy's brother) were up to something. They invited us to sit at the edge of the lawn facing the garage. They, for maybe a half hour, did a comedy show for us they had made up (how long did they plan this? I still wonder). It was a laugh riot from start to finish. There were a bunch of empty cans and stuff in the garage and Dennis would pretend to trip and fall in the dark back there. What we in the "audience" heard was Dennis yelling and things crashing. This was repeated at various times in the show. Cathy and I laughed and giggled our butts off. I asked Dennis about this recently and he had no recollection of it.
I had a friend who lived next door - Cathy Eastman - who was a couple years younger than I. Despite our difference in age, I got along with her quite well and apparently she adored me - a fact I was oblivious to. The rest of her family were very friendly and welcoming. Her brother Keith showed me cherry bombs stashed in his dad's desk drawer. One time I was outside with Cathy in their yard with her mom nearby on a lawn chair. Cathy and I were searching for 4-leaf clovers which were as rare as gold to a kid. Her mom looked down from her chair for 2 seconds and said "Here's one", plucked it, and showed us. I was astounded at her luck, as well as her nonchalance at finding such a treasure.
Here's an old photo of me and Cathy. Appears I'm explaining something to her.
UPDATE: I was able to locate Cathy on Facebook through her sister. I sent her a message along with the above photo, and she responded! It was very nice to hear from her, after all these years.
I was terribly frightened of loud noises as a kid. We went to an airshow somewhere in Wayne County, which was wonderfully interesting until the military jets did some fly-by's. The high formation wasn't the issue, it was the rogue jet that would buzz the crowd at low level and high speed after the others had passed. There were several cycles of this. The rest of my family ooo'd and ahhh'd while I cowered in the back seat of the car, my ears as plugged as I could get them. Thunderstorms would also send me hiding. I remember my parents enjoying a lightning/thunder show with the front door open and me having kaniptions thinking the world was ending. To this day I don't care for fireworks - the pretty colors are OK, but the ones that sound like mortar rounds really bother me. Interesting, my granddaughter (age 10 at the time of this writing) has always disliked loud noises.
Roger had a car. A convertible, I believe it was, and some pattern of red and white. He was working on it in the yard and asked me if I could help him for a few which consisted of turning the key on and off very quickly (has something to do with the engine cylinder timing) whenever he asked me to. I did that several times until eventually there was a lull in the action. Roger had his head buried somewhere in the engine compartment and I was sitting there, bored, so I hit the horn. The results were surprising. If there was a ceiling over us he would have hit it. After Roger collected himself, he leaned on the car door next to me and in a quiet monotone voice said "Why did you do that?". I shrugged (I honestly didn't know). He said "Don't ever do that again". I said "OK". He went back to work on his car.
One of the older boys - Arnold, I think it was - had their tonsils out and were sitting in the TV room in some form of misery. The cure for said misery, as I observed, was generous amounts of ice cream. I actually wondered when I could have my tonsils out (whatever tonsils were, I had no idea) and consume big bowls of ice cream.
These stories, by the way, aren't in any particular chronological order. Time has a way of re-arranging the order of one's memories.
I was playing with fire in the kitchen, specifically candles. Mom was upstairs cleaning, or something. I started the corner of a piece of paper on fire and it quickly was becoming engulfed in flames. I dropped it, screamed for mom who came dashing down the stairs and stomped it out. She yelled at me good for that, and I did not play with fire again...until I was a teenager and would make little rivers of gasoline down the driveway and set them on fire. But that's a different story.
Concerning the hallway: we have a game, and it's name I cannot remember. Something ghosty, I think. It was spooky game, glowed in the dark and had strange pieces and exotic parts. I wasn't allowed to see it in the light - Dennis set it up, turned off the lights, then I could come in and play. The whole thing was scary to me but intriguing nevertheless. I keep forgetting to ask Dennis what that game was all about whenever I see him.
UPDATE: I asked Dennis and he did a bit of research (Google) and found it. Turns out it was the Green Ghost Game, and one can buy it on eBay if one is feeling nostalgic enough.
The kitchen was my favorite room of the house - the hub of activity for the household. You could get into the kitchen via the TV room, the dining room, the upstairs, the basement, and there was even a door to the outside, so it was a central location. The older boys (Arnold, Roger, and Mike) had their room upstairs above the kitchen. They had a record player and strung speaker wire down to the kitchen where they hung a speaker or 2. We heard the latest Beatle's music through those speakers, as well as the Rolling Stones, and others. My parents enjoyed a wide variety of music, including whatever was popular at the time. I was told by Mom that I knew all the Beatles' songs before I knew any nursery rhymes. Dennis, for his birthday, received a huge box of red string licorice which was kept on top of the fridge. Huge for a kid, anyway. I got the same for my birthday that year.
I don't remember the basement, mainly because basements scared me when I was a kid. However, on a shelf near the top of the stairs was a marble sculpture my dad had either done or was working on - it was a dolphin, and I was always fascinated with it. I remember the smoothness of the marble. I wonder whatever happened to that thing.
We had a long driveway which led to a big garage/barn. We also had a red metal wagon that I would sit in and Mike would push me up and down the driveway very fast until he was worn out. In retrospect my older brothers Mike and Roger took a significant amount of interest in me (I assume they spent time with Dennis, too, but you'd have to ask him). I enjoyed having them as my older brothers. I am sad they are gone.
I have much more and better memory after we moved about a half mile closer to the center of town - 127 Canandaigua St. The house had an enclosed front porch (still does, last I saw). When you enter the front door, straight ahead is the hallway to the dining room, to the left is the stairs to the 2nd floor. To the right is the living room. On the other side of the living room is a smallish longish room that served as the TV room. It also, at times, doubled as my parents' bedroom at night, which was quite frustrating to a kid who wanted to watch Saturday morning cartoons while the TV was being held hostage by slumbering parents.
Speaking of TVs, the one we had was tiny, well the screen was, anyway, and black & white with shades of grey. We didn't get a color TV until I was 10 or 11. I watched Captain Kangaroo on that little TV - Mr. Green Jeans, Mr Moose, Bunny Rabbit, the shower of ping pong balls - the whole nine yards. Also Romper Room, which was a kids playtime program hosted by a goddess named Miss Rita. I came quite close to meeting Miss Rita in person - she was at a party that my friend Jackie was attending. I ended up with an autograph glossy, which was OK, I guess.
Another notable thing concerning that room was an act of kindness initiated by my brother Roger. I was spanked for some misdeed and sent to park my sore fanny on the couch in the TV room. After sitting in misery for some time, Roger came in, set up the TV tray, and placed a bottle of Mountain Dew with a straw in front of me. Mountain Dew was a relatively new drink at the time and it was delicious, to say the least. On top of that, straws were a luxury for us in those days. So that, coupled with the kindness of Roger, made it a memorable event.
"Where's the baby?" was the question of the day as the kids filed home from school. Not "Hi Mom, how are you?" I was #1 on the popularity charts from the 1st day I arrived from the hospital. Being the last of 7 children has its advantages. I was entertained, watched over, taught how to talk and read, played with, and generally spoiled rotten...I had a great time.
When I was something like a year old, we moved from Iowa to the Washington DC area (I think we lived at my Aunt & Uncle's house in Maryland) for about a year, then to Palmyra NY. I spent my childhood years (up to age 17) in the Palmyra - Macedon area.
I have scant recollection of my first few years of life. We lived (all 7 of us with our parents) at 407 Canandaigua St in Palmyra. The house is now some historical landmark of some sort. Just seemed like some big ole house at the time. We (us siblings) visited the place around 10 or so years ago, and the most common observation amongst us was how small the place appeared compared to when we was kids; seemed relatively palatial back then. I slept in a crib in a tiny side room off my parents' bedroom. I remember that room, though I was maybe 2 or 3 at the time. I have snippets of memory of Brownie, the dog. I remember riding my tricycle up and down the sidewalk in front of the house. I remember Mrs. Smith (May Smith) who lived next door or somewhere nearby, if not next door. She seemed old at the time; then again all adults seem old to a little kid. I believe she died in my early teens. Her son became a doctor, and was our family doctor for a time. We had a movie theater in Palmyra. I went to it once that I recall - Roger took me when I was 3 years old to see Bambi.
The winter of '66 was a snowy one in Western NY, as there was a particularly bad snowstorm early that year. What I remember about it was that snow drifted up and completely blocked in one of the doors to the outside. You open the door from the inside and there was a wall of snow. At one point, post snowstorm, someone was outside throwing snowballs into the house through the open doorway while someone else was standing inside launching snowballs to their declared enemy outside and using the drift as a shield. Whomever they were they were having a great time, as I recall.
I was born of Spanish parents
Well, not exactly…
My father’s parents came from the Dominican Republic, but he was born in New York City. From the stories he tells it seems that growing up in the Big Apple, even way back then, was far from easy. He joined the Navy at age 16 and served during WWII, sometimes aboard ship, more often in Naval aircraft. I have heard a few war stories, some funny, some tragically sad, but this is my story so I’ll let him write his own memoirs. I know that he was a tough guy growing up (born of necessity living in NYC and also of his family situation, which I do not know much about but gather that it was generally lousy). I have seen a picture of him in a boxing ring knocking out a fellow boxer. This is significant because if you talk to my older siblings (I’m the youngest) they describe a father that is foreign to me: tough, demanding, aloof; my experience was significantly different.
Somewhere’s along the way, someone convinced Dad he had a flair for art. He went to art school after leaving the Navy and pursued a career in commercial art. I’ve never known him to do anything else for a living; not that I think less of him for only doing art, for there was an immense amount of variety, challenge, and creativity involved. I have the same creative bent, but excepting the occasional dramatic stint it goes largely unfulfilled.
My mother was born in the state of Maine, the youngest of 6 girls on a farm. Her father was born in the US of Scottish heritage, but her mom came from Sweden. I talked with Mom not long ago about her experience growing up: it had its ups, downs, struggles, and highlights, but it was generally hard living on a farm and her parents were not the warmest people on the planet. Like the weather in Maine, they were pretty chilly. Sometime after she graduated from high school she went to work in Washington DC (in the Pentagon, no less), which is where she met my father, and they were married 3 months later.
They had 7 children in the next 15 years. Jean and Arnold were born in NYC. Roger and Michael followed in Binghampton, NY. The first 4 were “planned”. The next 3 were not. Rita was born in the back seat of a car in Missouri. They didn’t make to the hospital in time. Dad had to stop the car along the highway, help Mom deliver the baby, drive them the rest of the way to the hospital. He was deathly sick for the next 2 days as a result of the experience.
Dennis (#6) was born back in Binghampton. I’m not Catholic, but I am indebted to the Catholic Church. Right after Dennis was born, Mom was scheduled (while still in the hospital) to have her Fallopian tubes tied, thus rendering her unable to have more kids. Apparently the hospital administration caught wind of it and put the kibosh on it, being a Catholic hospital against contraception at the time. As a direct result, I had the opportunity to join the human race. A couple years later, Dad got a job as Art Director for a company in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. So, the family picked up and moved (again) to a small town outside Cedar Rapids called Marion.
I was born (at a very young age) in St Luke’s Methodist Hospital, Cedar Rapids IA, on September 13 at 3:55am. I weighed in at 7lbs and 15oz. Coming up with a name for the 7th kid wasn’t so easy, but in the end I was named Jon Bryan. I found out very recently that I was named after a guy named Jon whom my father golfed with. All this time I thought they had picked my name out of the air.
The back of my birth certificate showing my footy prints and something else I dunno - butt print?
I found a picture of me at 9 months in an apparent attempt to escape from my highchair:
Someone had written on the back of the photo "J.B. - our future president - at 9 mos". Looks like Mom's handwriting. She died in 2011, so she never got to see me become President.
