tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53139447263095353842024-03-16T14:52:53.757-04:00GEM CITY HISTORY GEMSHistory articles about Toronto, Ohio and baby boomer nostalgia by Bob Petras Sr.
Take a journey into the past of Toronto, Ohio in Bob's latest novel, River Rats! Order your own copy on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/RIVER-RATS-ROBERT-PETRAS/dp/B0BB9LGN96Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-17739783693408576422022-07-12T19:27:00.000-04:002022-07-13T13:07:03.795-04:00ROCKIN' AT ROCK SPRINGS PARK<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">The folks who really knew me early on said that I took after the McCloskey side of family, especially </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">in the looks, that I took after my grandfather, William McCloskey.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">This clan originally hailed from the </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Johnstown, Pa area.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">We had relatives who died in the Johnstown Flood and who fought for the Union at </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Gettysburg.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">My grandfather and his wife Mary Pearl Angus McCloskey had two daughters: my mother </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Elmina and her older sister Evelyn.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Together the two McCloskey girls would go on to bear 12 girls and </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">two boys.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I suspect the reason everyone in this clan said I resembled my grandpa was because I was a </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">male.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W8BrOkWG6RM/X0l939uy6EI/AAAAAAAAHyQ/8Zb22o27xrcBPABlhcW0z8rR6oy2vGtcgCPcBGAsYHg/s4032/IMG_0035.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="384" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W8BrOkWG6RM/X0l939uy6EI/AAAAAAAAHyQ/8Zb22o27xrcBPABlhcW0z8rR6oy2vGtcgCPcBGAsYHg/w512-h384/IMG_0035.HEIC" width="512" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From left to right: Auntie Evelyn Lawrence, Sharon Lawrence, Grandma McCloskey, Elmina Petras</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /> Anyhow, every summer my Uncle Ray and Aunt Evelyn loaded up their bus (they had ten of the 14 </span><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">kids) and met us up at Rock Springs Amusement Park in Chester, West Virginia for rides and a picnic. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Auntie Evelyn made the best potato salad ever, Pennsylvania Dutch style. The kiddie rides at Rock </span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Springs were pretty memorable, too.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AsKKvOGGiVI/X0l-dMAhzWI/AAAAAAAAHyk/p989e_3iTu0F8I9lkuYV2JqSMtpVGMY1ACPcBGAsYHg/s3066/IMG_0031.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3066" data-original-width="2526" height="410" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AsKKvOGGiVI/X0l-dMAhzWI/AAAAAAAAHyk/p989e_3iTu0F8I9lkuYV2JqSMtpVGMY1ACPcBGAsYHg/w338-h410/IMG_0031.HEIC" width="338" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Safely landed, with sister Elaine as navigator.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /> During my kiddy ride days, my Aunt Evelyn was still a few kids shy of having a full battalion. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Cousin Richard was six years older than I, and I had always hoped mom and Auntie would someday </span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">pop out a boy whom I could beat up. I was five when my parents brought home my third and youngest sister, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Elaine, whose introduction to me was pretty much summed up by my house-welcoming to her: “Oh, no, not </span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">another dumb girl!”<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Auntie,” by the way, is a term of endearment of the mountain folk of Pennsylvania Dutch. On the Petras—Slovak—side we always said “Aunt.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oID9W3F4_Lc/X0mMv3rTxOI/AAAAAAAAH08/6xDEhhoCgWQ79sXANinQJgeo5Ve61DebwCPcBGAsYHg/s3074/IMG_0033.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3074" data-original-width="2653" height="410" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oID9W3F4_Lc/X0mMv3rTxOI/AAAAAAAAH08/6xDEhhoCgWQ79sXANinQJgeo5Ve61DebwCPcBGAsYHg/w354-h410/IMG_0033.HEIC" width="354" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Judy and I sharing a boat at Rock Springs</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /> The kiddie rides at Rock Springs were especially memorable, thanks to my family’s passing down tales through the generations of the horrors that had befallen them at Johnstown. And it all started because of an earthen dam upstream constructed by rich people, like Andrew Carnegie and Henry Clay Frick. Because of this catastrophe, my mom never trusted anything put together by man. When we rode the tethered airplanes at Rock Springs, Mom expressed her concerns that their cables would snap and fling us back to Johnstown. Mom equally voiced her fears that the kiddie boats would sink and we would drown like Great Aunt Auntie Suzanne Buck, the kiddie cars would crash and give you seven kinds of whiplash. As far as the mammoth wooden wonder, the Cyclone Roller Coaster went, you could get stampeded to the size of an Amish throw rug just by standing in line.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Probably the kiddy ride I remember the most in my kiddy days was the Ferris wheel. Rock Springs smelled like buttered popcorn and cotton candy. And I could smell these sweet aromas as I wheeled around and around, listening to the calliope of the merry-go-round and the laughter and screams on the big boy rides. Suddenly I stopped wheeling around and my carriage, with me still inside it, stopped at the tip top. And I started thinking about Great Auntie Suzanne, how she clung on to that tree branch until her Pennsylvania Dutch grip let go and she was swept away with the raging Little Conemaugh River, and I started trembling and my trembling started rocking the carriage, and I let out a scream, but returned to earth safely, more mature from the firsthand experience, bearing my park souvenir of electrified white hair.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-d7eLl5BYHFU/X0mP-Z6_iOI/AAAAAAAAH3w/g0ucy4mH2CUUfYGvhxBoKhQePSJ4B5DpQCPcBGAsYHg/s4032/IMG_0039.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="307" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-d7eLl5BYHFU/X0mP-Z6_iOI/AAAAAAAAH3w/g0ucy4mH2CUUfYGvhxBoKhQePSJ4B5DpQCPcBGAsYHg/w410-h307/IMG_0039.HEIC" width="410" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the top left is our tethered airplane right before its cable snapped and flung us to Johnstown.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_868PNd4g0w/X0mPFQYbuVI/AAAAAAAAH20/GHMb7eEcoi4Eorf7PvSigpjyjtk9YQN7gCPcBGAsYHg/s4032/IMG_0034.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="410" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_868PNd4g0w/X0mPFQYbuVI/AAAAAAAAH20/GHMb7eEcoi4Eorf7PvSigpjyjtk9YQN7gCPcBGAsYHg/w307-h410/IMG_0034.HEIC" width="307" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The tethered planes platform. sometimes known as the launch pad</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> A few years later, I did not think girls were so dumb, just those I was related to. Near the end of the </span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">school year, 7<sup>th</sup>and 8<sup>th</sup>grade at SC Dennis Junior High would load up the buses and take us to Rock </span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Springs Park for the day. I was in Seventh Grade and rode the Cyclone, bumper cars, tilt-a-whirl with a </span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">pretty blonde eighth-grader Debbie Westlake, and we went on the tunnel of love quite a few times. I </span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">even worked up the courage to put my arm around her shoulders. Debbie was my girlfriend that </span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">summer.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> I really can’t remember any more memorable experiences at Rock Springs after my tunnel-of-love summer. I remember becoming self-conscious about pimples and nose hair and tattle tell sisters. But the wildest amusement ride of all is life itself, and my wife Debbie (Minor) and I had our first born, a girl, of course, in 1976. Most everyone says Severine looks like me; so she must take after the McCloskey side of the family in the looks department, but not the Johnstown fears. She, together with our son and their spouses-- Felipe and Brandie --have four girls and two boys. I believe it’s a good time to endear these beautiful women in the family by calling them Auntie. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">We have enough in the family now to participate in a good go at bumper cars.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Rock Springs Park closed in 1970, the year before I graduated from Toronto High School. But every once in a while every summer I go back to Rock Springs for a spin or two in the front car of my memories.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6IOBd4542Y8/X0mQWVyRh7I/AAAAAAAAH4U/2r9bi0Ugbd0ndtgG8LH8lcwMZqpoydL-gCPcBGAsYHg/s3836/IMG_0042.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2874" data-original-width="3836" height="306" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6IOBd4542Y8/X0mQWVyRh7I/AAAAAAAAH4U/2r9bi0Ugbd0ndtgG8LH8lcwMZqpoydL-gCPcBGAsYHg/w410-h306/IMG_0042.HEIC" width="410" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moments before derailment</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_FelwZEvvnA/X0mQhRI9AaI/AAAAAAAAH4Y/LtgGKQ1vlq0HxzuVVFLrohDawjAEIkz3gCPcBGAsYHg/s4032/IMG_0038.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="410" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_FelwZEvvnA/X0mQhRI9AaI/AAAAAAAAH4Y/LtgGKQ1vlq0HxzuVVFLrohDawjAEIkz3gCPcBGAsYHg/w307-h410/IMG_0038.HEIC" width="307" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My last time on a Ferris wheel--ever</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NUbbnveS1aQ/X0p_BQvEm-I/AAAAAAAAIFI/2JXpsldPNy8mK3GVUqrChe73VTWKkVWgACPcBGAsYHg/s4032/IMG_0037.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="512" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NUbbnveS1aQ/X0p_BQvEm-I/AAAAAAAAIFI/2JXpsldPNy8mK3GVUqrChe73VTWKkVWgACPcBGAsYHg/w384-h512/IMG_0037.HEIC" width="384" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Auntie Evelyn on stampede look-out in front of the Cyclone</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></div>Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com0Chester, WV 26034, USA40.6131203 -80.56284780000001412.302886463821153 -115.71909780000001 68.923354136178844 -45.406597800000014tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-12188080954134380682022-07-12T15:17:00.000-04:002022-07-13T13:06:28.432-04:00A BABY BOOMER'S SUMMER DAY<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I was growing up, my dad worked
at Sears and Roebuck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t have any
stock, but he had a lot of stock sayings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He especially liked to blurt “money doesn’t grow on trees.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He blurted “money doesn’t grow on trees” so
much I suspected he was hiding something. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I like to attribute my father’s
frugalness to being a child of the Great Depression, as were most of the
parents of my generation—the Baby Boomers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>By the way we lived it up back then, you would have thought the Great
Depression ended with the landing on the moon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Only rich people had color
television sets back in our day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
average family had one console tv, a monstrous rectangle of wood and plastic
that could have been a recycled coffin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>These black-and-white monsters squatted upon the living room floor and
received black-and-white transmissions from the lightning -rod antennas snugged
to the chimneys, the tines on the antennas with spans as long as the Market
Street Bridge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On a good day, they could
pick up fuzzy transmissions clear to western Pittsburgh, depending, of course,
upon on how high your house stood on a T-town hill.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Often, when some neighbor was operating
a power tool, the broadcast emitted on your coffin emitted enough static and
white squiggly thingies to make your standard RCA casket look like a snow globe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other times, the vertical control went
bonkers, resulting with a never-ending black-and-white image steadily dripping
from top to bottom, a visual torment as excruciating as the infamous Chinese
water torture. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Whenever the vertical took the
eternal horizontal, you brought into the living room the little shoe box
portable your mom watched game shows and soap operas on and mounted it upon the
lifeless snow globe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every night, you
participated in the family squint fest watching the only channel the rabbit ears
would pick up—good, old Channel 9.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The television
remote back then consisted of the youngest son, who had to physically hike from
the couch to the microscopic tv to turn by hand the volume and blasted vertical
control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Often, he had to hold one of
the aerials so that the reception improved.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gcRiPTy0Ubo/X0u0HMUMJ2I/AAAAAAAAIhc/4TAdGWmQAW46qIUK3eeqicWGfjlNw0HWQCPcBGAsYHg/s1136/IMG_6772.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1136" data-original-width="862" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gcRiPTy0Ubo/X0u0HMUMJ2I/AAAAAAAAIhc/4TAdGWmQAW46qIUK3eeqicWGfjlNw0HWQCPcBGAsYHg/s640/IMG_6772.JPG" /></a></div><br /> </span>No one had private swimming pools or
jacuzzies in our day, if they did their name was Clampett.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The closet thing that came to a private
swimming pool was if you lived within the proximity of a creek and it was
dammed and had lazy spills and pools.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
swung into the cool flowing waters of the creeks from monkey vines and had
chicken fights and other challenges with our friends while our pop chilled
within the shallows of the creek.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>None of us lived in air-conditioned
homes back then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the Petras manor, we
had one condition—“Either stay inside or out,” another stock saying of my
dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had screen windows on the house
and one fan that was about the size of the box that package the television, the one the
size of box the Keds came in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whenever a
hole developed in one of the window screens, my mom would darn it with a needle
and thread.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our family cars provided little relief
from the summer sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the hottest
days, we rolled the windows completely down manually with hand cranks as
stubborn as tow truck winches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For extra
BTUs, you would accelerate the MPHs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Additional
climate control could be maintained by moving these little triangle panels of glass
in front of the passenger and driver’s windows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was only when I was taking Driver’s Ed that I learned these little glass
jibs were called “vents,” not “cigarette disposal ports.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In a Baby Boomer’s booming day,
self-propelled and self-motivated usually resulted from a gentle nudge toward
the lawn from a father’s steel-toed work boot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Steel rule usually awarded lawn care duties to the designated television
remote, or so titled at 1017 Biltmore Avenue the “aerial- holding specialist.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We indeed had one of those push
mowers you sometimes see in a museum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Our so-called push mower was more like a mush mower because it required
to budge it a smidgen the lean and the leg
power of an Iditarod sled dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mower
paddlewheeled glass clippings, dandelions and dust while chirruping like a Bill
Mazeroski baseball card in the spokes of a bicycle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After zigzagging swathes of lawn
that resembled a cornfield maze, you rewarded yourself with a cool drink from
your outside drinking fountain, more commonly known as the garden hose.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">There must have been something
rejuvenating about the taste of rubber-flavored water.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">We always had plenty of energy remaining for
a game of sandlot baseball.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">In our day, we
didn’t have composite-alloy bats.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">“Graphite”
we called “lead,” and it was inside our standard number 2 Ticonderoga pencils, and the wood of the pencil was probably the same wood our bats were made from.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">If you swung the 28-ounce Ticonderoga bat and
connected the hardball smack dab on the trademark, the bat handle would crack
and need some repair because we didn’t have extra bats.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">We would mummify the bat handle with black
electrical tape that we would borrow from some father’s toolbox and use the bat
over and over until it was reduced to a mere tent peg.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The leather from the hardballs would
also peel off as would the compressed yarn comprising the ball’s guts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again, we would repair it with a generous raveling
of borrowed electrical tape.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On the Baby Boomer sandlot, we did
not have batting gloves to reduce the sting of contact with the hardball.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Believe me, hitting a taped-up Spalding with a
tape-reinforced 15-inch Louisville Slugger emitted an aftershock you felt
clear up to your ears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To reduce the
sting to a mere 5.5 on the Richter scale, we would spit into our palms and rub a
generous helping of dirt into them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Come
to think of it, we didn’t do much handshaking after games.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I like to think I have come a long
way from those booming Boomer days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now,
after a few hours of mowing grass on my John Deere X330, I like to hang out at
my pool with a glass of Cabernet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
wife Debbie says that my wine would best pair with a brown paper bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My taste buds have progressed, as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can detect traces of black cherry, chocolate,
tobacco, with a very big finish of garden hose.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com7Ohio, USA40.4172871 -82.90712300000001312.107053263821157 -118.06337300000001 68.727520936178848 -47.750873000000013tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-12244829621177883732021-10-26T15:53:00.036-04:002021-10-28T09:47:28.107-04:00A HAPLESS HALLOWEEN--THE 1970 MUD BOWL<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> It was a game that should not have been played, a game that was more about the field than what happened on it. The field for at least one night was haunted, maybe because Halloween had something to do with it. Most likely a three-day blow of incessant rain had left Wheeling Island Football Field with a battered stucco surface.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s4kC9D_dTDc/YXlhOiyQ9FI/AAAAAAAANN0/_QZDMC-jwlAK7HjRWyTJW0TAeHlZm6MeACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/430114D3-8776-4196-A286-18D0DA0C47A0.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s4kC9D_dTDc/YXlhOiyQ9FI/AAAAAAAANN0/_QZDMC-jwlAK7HjRWyTJW0TAeHlZm6MeACLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/430114D3-8776-4196-A286-18D0DA0C47A0.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Back in 1970, five Wheeling high school teams –Triadelphia, Warwood, Linsly Military Academy, Wheeling Catholic Central and Wheeling—called the island stadium home, not to mention their freshman and junior varsity squads. Multiply five by the games that were played nine weeks into the West Virginia season and the result was a field trampled by a constant stampede of human beef.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Then came Halloween on Saturday and Mother Nature turned into a mischievous witch wearing Linsly colors and cast a spell at the Mischief Hour of 12 pm and ceased the rain, leaving time enough to dry the field into clay with a texture of Play Doh. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">There had been some concern the upcoming football game between the Toronto Red Knights and the Linsly Military Cadets would be canceled because of flooding. A win would continue the Red Knights’ quest to become the team with the second greatest win-loss record in school history with a 9-1 season.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vUM_3-XvgBE/YXlh9Z55n9I/AAAAAAAANOA/B0Ha7b7aJ_8CBQCkZzKyIMkFZbgKjVVsACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/B7F85F12-0BD3-47E0-9178-77339E6DDD6F.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1082" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vUM_3-XvgBE/YXlh9Z55n9I/AAAAAAAANOA/B0Ha7b7aJ_8CBQCkZzKyIMkFZbgKjVVsACLcBGAsYHQ/w211-h400/B7F85F12-0BD3-47E0-9178-77339E6DDD6F.jpeg" width="211" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Senior Center Ron Paris</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><p></p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> By the time visiting Toronto disembarked from the school bus, the first thing most players noticed was that the only grass remaining on the field were four little triangles in the rear corners of the end zones. A few fragments of chalk lines somewhat suggested a hint of former occupancy by some organized entities. The field did have a surreal Zen-like quality; you could see the reflections of the floodlights in a thousand or so mini-puddles.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> The opening kickoff pretty much summed up the game for the visitors. Red Knight return man Bob Morris collected the ball somewhere around the 20 and scooted downfield 40 yards, unfortunately the last 30 were out of bounds.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='330' height='337' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyLpNgdJTqeMcBHk-itDDj1UjhPe9eS08Y49jfncrW67OSmWVqAJAIndP03HaC9S6opH20DXASX6a3Z89INNA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “I thought I was going to go all the way,” said Morris, a longtime football coach and an inductee in the Toronto High School Athletic Hall of Fame. “But I guess I was a tad out of bounds.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> The uncharted runback by the 1971 THS graduate turned out to be the longest play of this Halloween eve for the Red Knights. They would not gain a first down until the fourth quarter. Linsly would gain four first downs, all on runs more than ten yards. Besides those four runs, the Cadets pretty much went backward in yardage the remainder of the game.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SCnZrd_xxwQ/YXiYHfpGeQI/AAAAAAAANM8/qvSy69xt-dc-QDlrHSZ6xEQhlE5L7twNQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/WjaF1B1oS5yvt6n324tjtw.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SCnZrd_xxwQ/YXiYHfpGeQI/AAAAAAAANM8/qvSy69xt-dc-QDlrHSZ6xEQhlE5L7twNQCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/WjaF1B1oS5yvt6n324tjtw.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bob Morris posing in the Red Knight 1970 program</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “I remember the DB guarding me, his name was Tom Tribett,” Morris said. “I remember telling him after the first few minutes of the game, ‘Let’s not get in this shit if we don’t have to.’ Well, by the end of the first quarter, you couldn’t tell who was or who wasn’t on your team.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “We changed jerseys at halftime,” said quarterback Bob Eshbaugh, another THS 1971 grad and Hall of Fame inductee. “I wasn’t worried about getting the ball from center but getting my feet out of the mud. It had suction and was up to my shins.”</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kwL5qRuA4uU/YXiYlUPTTeI/AAAAAAAANNE/-XVIMwR4LXQW4ONcSrm_ZmnoMyH70PrRACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/aTdvkS%2525YSf%252B%252B0s2a90SjVQ.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kwL5qRuA4uU/YXiYlUPTTeI/AAAAAAAANNE/-XVIMwR4LXQW4ONcSrm_ZmnoMyH70PrRACLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/aTdvkS%2525YSf%252B%252B0s2a90SjVQ.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> The ball was on the ground more than in the air, courtesy of 14 fumbles to 11 forward passes. Had the sport been baseball, the ball would have been illegal because of the aerial tricks a doctored ball could do. The only tricks during this game were sleight of hand-- now you have it now you don’t-- as exhibited on the first drive of the game when center Ron Paris long snapped a ball that stuck in the mud three feet behind him. On film, it looked like the senior snapper laid an egg, which Linsly promptly collected.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='321' height='320' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz9fZ_VCH6DmDvp-xIEOmq38Esk2GvlFEyKKYkrbi4OuNtesV_u5hvh63klMmy62rlrqwPVwd3LqEfG9cxHDg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “I remember,” Morris said, “someone lost his shoe in the mud on the field and during the game the refs took the football to the faucet on the stadium wall and just hosed the mud off the football.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Toronto outweighed the host team by 20 to 25 pounds a man. Usually on a wet surface, the heavier team holds a big advantage, but in this kind of quicksand, the lighter team simply doesn’t sink as deep.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9oVukhmLbJE/YXliOdD7OgI/AAAAAAAANOI/vncnay5K6Po6EVaHWZl4q1i8FGH1fk3jQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/AF4CA6DE-6EDE-4927-B91F-CA50019D7FEF.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1348" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9oVukhmLbJE/YXliOdD7OgI/AAAAAAAANOI/vncnay5K6Po6EVaHWZl4q1i8FGH1fk3jQCLcBGAsYHQ/w264-h400/AF4CA6DE-6EDE-4927-B91F-CA50019D7FEF.jpeg" width="264" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> At 6’ ½” and 202 pounds, senior Red Knight Tom Lowery was the second heaviest player on the field that evening, two pounds lighter than fellow tackle Ted Butler. “It was terrible conditions that night,” Lowery said. “You couldn’t do anything on that slop. I remember looking at Ted Butler after we made a tackle and all I could see was his eyes with that mud all over him. It was funny as hell.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span> <span> </span></span> Remarkedly, there were zero penalties called on either team. The closest any infraction that could have been called was the opening kickoff when the Cadets gang- tackled Morris five feet out of bounds. Had an ineligible lineman went out for a pass, the referees wouldn’t have known it. Of course, getting the ball to any receiver was the problem. By the fourth quarter the ball was as heavy as an anvil. “I had to shotput the ball,” Eshbaugh said about his passing form.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='321' height='273' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwQ-CYT1b2558N4D6dbH0E5uRHuar35cPJla3OHS9_XpIE-x-SfQiND_WmZayOWH6bMhi4loBQxxFDiLjt9tQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> In the fourth quarter,” Toronto and Linsly squared up with a goal line offence versus a goal line defense with the Toronto offense utilizing running back Jim Franke. Franke’s flatfooted style proved him to be what they call in horse track lingo a mudder. Behind a seven-man front and full-house backfield, he and Steve Jones ploughed for four consecutive first downs to the Cadets’ 12-yard line. But the Knights could push no farther because, unfortunately, for both teams this was the worst end of the field regarding game conditions. Compared to the other end, which still had some traces of chalk lines, this end of the field more resembled land recently washed by a receding flood. The Cadets fumbled the ball right back to the Red Knights. Again, Toronto could not wallow beyond the 12. And Linsly promptly coughed up the anvil back to Toronto. On a final desperate attempt to scramble open to get a shotput off toward the end zone, Eshbaugh slipped to the floodplain while trying to change direction, ending the game tied at zero.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='322' height='242' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dy0t_h6vE8kOifPMH2VWIKElhNiBlbXFdTlEPBBsOD2xAT97ZT-wZsY5dDIsExdsH4-ofC0zvF7gFddX7ZZWQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “We took our showers with our uniforms on,” Eshbaugh said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “I remember getting hosed down with water after the game to get the mud off and having your shoe strings cut so you could get them off,” Morris said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Summing up the game, Morris said, “The line couldn’t get any footing, receivers couldn’t run routes and running backs couldn’t run. Everything seemed to be in slow motion.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Toronto experienced only one injury and that didn’t occur until after the season when two-way senior Bill Sloane missed the first part of basketball season because of blood poisoning, his condition attributed to the mud from Wheeling Island Stadium.</span></p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “We should have never played on the field,” Morris said. “We had a good team and would have crushed them on a dry field. I know Coach (Wilinski) was hot about the field and game, and we never played Linsly for a long time after that.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “All I know is we would have killed Linsly on a dry field,” Lowry said. “Wellsville beat them 50-0 on a dry field.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Wellsville was the only team to beat Toronto that year by six points in another freakish game. After the Mud Bowl, the Red Knights defeated their next two opponents by a combined 92-18 points to finish the season with still the second greatest school record at 8-1-1.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g50jBgrJX6c/YXliunMQE_I/AAAAAAAANOQ/4ATuacFfujoY9iUp04a7_G7CPcZYaKX1QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/1BA0484C-CAE2-4D22-A254-4F63EE63562E.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1120" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g50jBgrJX6c/YXliunMQE_I/AAAAAAAANOQ/4ATuacFfujoY9iUp04a7_G7CPcZYaKX1QCLcBGAsYHQ/w219-h400/1BA0484C-CAE2-4D22-A254-4F63EE63562E.jpeg" width="219" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_NsYl806d9M/YXlj7kYQsKI/AAAAAAAANOg/50LyNiv9FYsmkHiInFBSmScB3o3MeL-5ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/EB9C4C03-3E3A-4C05-B64E-3EC0F527ADF9.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1376" height="454" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_NsYl806d9M/YXlj7kYQsKI/AAAAAAAANOg/50LyNiv9FYsmkHiInFBSmScB3o3MeL-5ACLcBGAsYHQ/w269-h454/EB9C4C03-3E3A-4C05-B64E-3EC0F527ADF9.jpeg" width="269" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">I am not so sure we would have blown them out on a dry field," said Bob Petras, a two-way senior lineman. "Defenses that lined up in a 52 always gave us problems on offense. Carrollton, J.U. and Linsly manned 50 alignments with a middle guard, which eliminated our trapping the tackles and made pulling around the opposite ends slower, and those were our bread-and-butter plays. Still we should have beaten Linsly by two, three scores. Like the Wellsville game, when we suffered injuries and illness and lost Eshbaugh to ejection, the Mud Bowl, 50-some years later, still haunts me. We were so so close to having a perfect season."</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CGpa9-aNFCw/YXljPLUT49I/AAAAAAAANOY/mMD63VaVpdYBQ7GDlHFZ5OGDXnRVtDgQwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/2F4C2EFF-4EB2-47F9-A1F7-2BD74A9ABB76.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CGpa9-aNFCw/YXljPLUT49I/AAAAAAAANOY/mMD63VaVpdYBQ7GDlHFZ5OGDXnRVtDgQwCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/2F4C2EFF-4EB2-47F9-A1F7-2BD74A9ABB76.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aAAwNMdAEtY/YXlkUaWJx2I/AAAAAAAANOo/D-OazImlk1AnK9dd4S4ZLtwQd3N6lyHDQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/A3714825-E47B-4DEE-A04E-640A86ECA11D.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aAAwNMdAEtY/YXlkUaWJx2I/AAAAAAAANOo/D-OazImlk1AnK9dd4S4ZLtwQd3N6lyHDQCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/A3714825-E47B-4DEE-A04E-640A86ECA11D.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">CHECKEYE<br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p></div>Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-13426156913194216492021-03-29T10:09:00.001-04:002023-04-05T12:40:07.960-04:00THE EASTER EGG HUNT<p> <span style="font-family: Times; text-align: center;">THE EASTER EGG HUNT</span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"> I have never shagged a souvenir baseball during a professional ballgame. I came close a couple of times, close but no Marsh Wheeling.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"> I did snatch a baseball from a Little League game once. After a full afternoon of swimming and licking Melhorn’s banana fudgesicles at the old swimming pool, Timmy Maple and I were strolling up the alley south of the ball field when suddenly I espied it right there in the middle of the alley, sticking out like a pot of white gold stuck on a fresh coating of tar—an official Little League Spalding baseball. Meanwhile on the hillside sloping toward the alley, the score keeper, two batboys, twenty-some bench-warmers and one very frugal coach were combing the weeds for the runaway hardball. Tim abetted me by being the lookout while I pretended to tie my carboard-reinforced Keds and ever so subtlety shoved the handstitched keepsake inside my towel roll next to my chlorine-saturated swimming trunks. Our rolls snugged by the crook of our arms against rib cages—giving a whole new meaning to “crook”-- Tim and I strutted up the hill, grinning like two river rats.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"> That ball would experience a summer of sandlots and outlive three or four rolls of electrical tape and the scent of chlorine until it unraveled into yarn oblivion.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"> Maybe I was born missing the gene for the hand-eye coordination and the mechanical dexterity, the mental timing for grabbing spherical objects in a crowd; for example, I have never collected an Easter egg in an officially sanctioned Easter egg hunt.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"> I remember one particular Easter Egg hunt staged at the then bucolic Memorial Park back in the days before Ohio Route 7 became the New Highway and cut off the town from the hills a medieval moat. I was nine, I think, innocent, reminded of this innocence every once in a while by a nun’s straight-edged ruler from Kuhn’s Hardware. I toted a straw Easter basket to lug the bushel or so of the eggs I planned to amass and later sell as a side business, maybe even pawn a few at Richie Wallace’s.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"> Easter egg hunts back then were like trick or treat these days; kids came out of nowhere, only better disguised. Coming directly from the mountain top called Biltmore Avenue, I was standing at a lower elevation in the middle of Ridge Avenue when I suddenly found myself engulfed by older kids. I, however, knew I was somewhere near the starting line, standing amongst the shadows, some of which were of the five o’clock kind. These shadows reeked of Aqua Velvet, Brylcreme and Pall Malls.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"> Lions Club officials would later say this Easter egg hunt drew a record crowd. I don’t know whether they meant numbers or average age. I am pretty sure the average boy there was not so much impressed with the generous bounty of the Easter Bunny as he was with that of the Playboy Bunny.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"> I did manage to peep through some cracks of the jostling mob. The grounds gleamed of pastel oval jewels of every color—from the oiled down gravel of Ridge Avenue all the way up to Indian Rock and across to the outhouses—gems everywhere bejeweling the grounds. These precious eggs were set with such precision and aesthetic arrangement you would have thought Ernie Trosky had handset them himself. Suddenly I had an epiphany why Toronto, Ohio was called the Gem City.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"> The whistle blew, the stampede began. By the time I saw sunlight, the horde was already returning with bulging bags. I peeled myself off Ridge and plucked a few pieces of street shrapnel from my body. Somehow, the mob had overlooked one Easter egg, a yellow gem near the shelter house. It stood out like a sales tag on the Mummy’s pajamas. I rushed over to snatch it, this attempt occurring before I perfected the shoe-tying diversion. I reached out and connected with a cuticle or two on the plastic shell when some Palooka—so fast and violent-- snatched the gem and left me spinning so much both my shoes became untied-- and they were double-laced.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"> Years later, I was watching the Akron Aeros minor league team from behind the third base dugout, fifth inning, or so, when suddenly a foul ball arced toward me. “Use two hands,” I could hear my dad’s ball-catching instructions inside my head. The ball descended, nearer and nearer, my two hands rising to meet it. I could make out its red stitching, the official trademark, I could smell the leather. Then the ball arrived, the impact stinging like Sister Mary Paul’s straight-edged ruler rapping my palms, the ball hopping off like a greased white rabbit and then bounding along the bleachers as if it had been shot by rock salt in the ass. Suddenly I found myself engulfed by that huddle of my Easter Egg days, but I was determined to be on that piece of leather like cheap second-hand smoke. I threw all caution to the past and myself headlong, hands outstretched for that coveted souvenir, but a kid around nine years old pounced on that Spalding as though it were the last egg remaining in an Easter Egg hunt.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"> I looked at my Nikes. At least they remained tied, but my socks didn’t match, and I found myself, once again, swallowed at the never-ending starting line to near misses.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Times;"> </span></p>Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-66790149799957708022020-11-23T12:21:00.003-05:002023-02-10T08:51:14.611-05:00UNWRITTEN RULES OF SANDLOT FOOTBALL WRITTEN<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bv-f9efx670/X7vjKAdTQlI/AAAAAAAAM_0/rlCn7iWWXuoB8LQGsONfYje9Ydvi_6pYACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/465284AD-CEFF-4590-A725-8A1C69E68D67.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bv-f9efx670/X7vjKAdTQlI/AAAAAAAAM_0/rlCn7iWWXuoB8LQGsONfYje9Ydvi_6pYACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/465284AD-CEFF-4590-A725-8A1C69E68D67.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span> <span> <span> </span></span><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> by</span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Bob Petras Sr.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">First Down Markers—toboggans, ball caps, jackets and sometimes houses placed strategically anywhere from ten to fifty yards apart, depending upon the length of the sandlot.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Regulation Kicking Tees—The elevated toe of one fearless and sometimes stub-fingered placekick holder and occasionally a divot dug out with the heel of the kicker’s Converses.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4QdwNfDDHNo/X7vkD4lwj-I/AAAAAAAANAA/oVhPAOxMi6EESgupX-fL6_Bnmtb7O6jcACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/57DE8627-2CEA-4869-93A8-B7A7936505F0.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4QdwNfDDHNo/X7vkD4lwj-I/AAAAAAAANAA/oVhPAOxMi6EESgupX-fL6_Bnmtb7O6jcACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/57DE8627-2CEA-4869-93A8-B7A7936505F0.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The versatile toboggan, used as first down markers, penalty flags, footballs and sometimes helmets.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Two-hand Tab—A supposedly non-contact version of sandlot football, played on Sundays by players wearing their Sunday clothes.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">One-hand-after-the-other Rule—In two-hand tab, the tackler’s hands must simultaneously touch the ball carrier for the tackle to count.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I’ll-take-my-ball-and-go-home Rule—The undiplomatic leverage by a player who has sole ownership of the sole football used during a sandlot game, usually invoking this rule on a disputed one-hand-after-the-other rule.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Halftime—Communion services at St. Francis when Father Cappelli turned to face the altar and one hundred and three boys would spill out the back of the church.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Next-touchdown-wins Rule—Usually cried when mothers and sisters caterwauled “Supper!” from back porches, though occasionally invoked by a team trailing by six or more touchdowns.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Blitz—Designated pass rusher, eligible to rush qb after counting out loud a cadence of three to five Mississippis, not skipping a syllable. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Safety—A defensive back positioned a medium of 40 yards away from the line of scrimmage, often manned by a player needing a rest or a smoke.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Touchback—Not to be confused with the safety. A touchback is called when a kick returner fails to move the football out of his own end zone, whether by running or by passing, the kickoff team awarded anywhere from ¼ to two points.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Toboggan—a knitted wool cap often used as first down markers, though occasionally substituted for footballs after the I’ll-take-my-football-home Rule has been invoked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">New One—Option of kick returning team if it does not like a punt or a kickoff, even an onside kick, and has an unlimited number of them.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Hiker—The offensive player who hikes the football to the quarterback. He could be anyone on the line or the quarterback himself, picking up the ball or toboggan from the ground.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Punt Pass—Option to use a forward pass instead of your foot to punt.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Punt Check—Call by hiker-punt-passer to make designated pass rusher stand ten yards back and spell <i>Mississippi</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Designated Pass Rusher—A great pass rusher has the legs of a cheetah and the lip speed of a country auctioneer.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Time-Outs—Unlimited number of them with no duration limits, unless one team strategically calls “No More Time-outs!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Steady Quarterback—Sandlot rule that allows the use of the same qb on both teams, usually invoked when an odd number of players shows up or the kid simply was still wearing his Sunday clothes after sneaking out of church at halftime, or has a leg in a cast, the injury suffered from a previous sandlot game.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Trick Play—Wide receiver feigning to limp with a broken leg and then sprinting past an unsuspecting safety playing sixty yards deep while puffing on a Lucky Strike, or a running back executing the old hidden toboggan trick.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Piling On—Occasion when players on both offense and defense avalanche upon a dude for behavior unbefitting the gentlemanly game of sandlot football. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">About the author: Bob Petras Sr. is a graduate of Toronto High School and West Liberty University. His single season record of 16 quarterback sacks still stands after 50 years as does his career total of 27. He went on to play on scholarship with the Young Thundering Herd featured in the Matthew McConaughey film "We Are Marshall." He has never been in Mississippi and preferred playing safety on the sandlots.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Co3UaPNu4vY/X7vkTTjq8aI/AAAAAAAANAI/rfXytIuiLu0JTYMbfdGAPSoD4k8o83PCgCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/C50ABAE3-4DDE-4E1A-8231-3AA2F0028C13.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Co3UaPNu4vY/X7vkTTjq8aI/AAAAAAAANAI/rfXytIuiLu0JTYMbfdGAPSoD4k8o83PCgCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/C50ABAE3-4DDE-4E1A-8231-3AA2F0028C13.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><p></p>Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-86386705772290345182020-10-15T13:05:00.004-04:002020-10-19T13:19:29.619-04:00MEMORIES OF MEMORIES--The day little Toronto, Ohio took on the Pittsburgh Pirates<p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VyLflIcgDfs/X4h5-ul5EUI/AAAAAAAALeY/IT5ZX11ye7ANL6K-nIwfggVRXCtI0NEGQCPcBGAsYHg/s720/IMG_0137.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="434" data-original-width="720" height="386" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VyLflIcgDfs/X4h5-ul5EUI/AAAAAAAALeY/IT5ZX11ye7ANL6K-nIwfggVRXCtI0NEGQCPcBGAsYHg/w640-h386/IMG_0137.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1911 Toronto Athletic Club, John Petras third from left</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <span> <span> </span></span><div><span><span> <span> I have memories of memories. They were my grandfather's memories. Mostly my grandfather, John Edward Petras Sr., talked about baseball, how he played for a semi-pro team--the Toronto Athletic Club--after the turn of the century.</span></span></span><p></p><p><span><span><span><span> <span> <span> </span></span>My grandfather played first base and sometimes second and batted cleanup for the town of 4000 residents. I just </span>remember bits and little chunks of his stories, but these odds and ends of this patchwork memory stick out like a seam in time.</span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> <span> <span> My grandfather played during the Dead Ball Era; so </span></span></span>home runs were hard to come by, even on some fenceless fields that sometimes resembled more pasture than stadium. He did tell me he hit a pitch at the old Kaul Field that landed on a fly beyond the Pennsylvania Railroad tracks, 400 and some odd feet in all. Pappap wasn't a big man, standing 5-8 and weighing perhaps 150 pounds, and a pound of that was probably chaw tobacco. But he had wrists and forearms as sinewy as cable steel, developed from working the sewer pipe factory since he was 12 years old, when he had to support his family of seven because his father, Joseph Petras, had become infected with tuberculosis. </span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> <span> <span> <span> I grew up in the 60s, my favorite </span></span>players being Roberto Clemente, Bill Mazeroski and Mickey Mantle. My grandfather always complained that the modern ball players were prima donnas, that they never played hurt like the old-timers did. Maybe he held such sentiments because he took a high hard one that left his nose disfigured for life. The dead ball was not so dead, after all. </span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> <span> <span> </span></span></span> My grandfather also played <span>when the spitball was still legal, and besides taking an occasional high hard one to the kisser, a batter also got an occasional shot of Mailpouch squeezins right between the eyes.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> <span> <span> Pappap would tell me about trick plays the semi-pros would pull off once in a while, like one time a pitcher was attempting to pick off a runner on first base and he threw an errant pick-offf attempt down the right field foul line. Turned out that errant toss was a potato and they nabbed the runner between first and second with the real ball.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span> <span> <span> I was in my Biltmore Avenue backyard, pretending I was Whitey Ford, when suddenly out of the visitor's dugout via </span></span></span>back porch next door appeared Fred Maple. "Your grandfather was the greatest ballplayer from Toronto I have ever seen," Mr. Maple said. I don't know exactly why he told me this, maybe because I was throwing rocks into his backyard. After he told me this, I never threw rocks into his yard again.</p><p><span> <span> <span> My grandfather, despite dropping out of school at such an early age, could speak several languages, including Slovak, Polish and German, and occasionally served as an interpreter in the trenches of Belgium and France during World War I. He told me only the humorous anecdotes about capers he and his chums pulled off upon the officers, never about the horrors of the trenches. But of all his tales of Army life and sports, the one I remember most is about the time the little town of </span></span></span>Toronto, Ohio took on the mighty Pittsburgh Pirates.</p><p><span> <span> <span> Back in the Dead Ball Era, the major league's regular season </span></span></span>ended late September. The players, by no means, earned the exorbitant salaries today's prima donnas do. After the regular season, the Dead Ball Era players would supplement their incomes by returning home to farm or factory or by barnstorming against local nines. The Pirates were one such team that regularly vied against semi-pro teams from Western Pennsylvania, and Ohio teams such as East Liverpool, Steubenville and Toronto.<span> </span></p><p><span><span> <span> <span> I remember one </span></span></span>Sunday afternoon. My grandfather was sitting upon his threadbare red recliner, his hands clasped behind his neck, a plug of Union Workman bulging from his cheek. My grandmother's house smelled of rhubarb pie, Neapolitan ice cream, cabbage rolls, Pinesol and Lemon Glade when suddenly I was smelling the coal soot from the kilns and giant smoke stack from the old wooden stadium across the tracks of parent company Kaul Clay.</span> </p><p><span><span> <span> <span> The Pittsburgh Pirates came to town, hopped right off the train behind left field.</span></span></span> The Toronto Athletic Club had beaten their rivals East Liverpool and Steubenville and now had a star player on its squad to make this contest against the major league club more interesting. Alva "Pick" Nalley was back on the Toronto nine. Nalley had just returned from a stint on the Toledo Mud Hens and was looking to have a good showing against a Big League club to show he belonged. </span></p><p><span><span> <span> <span> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sZIkC0_F5SM/X43JKDTh4JI/AAAAAAAAMPQ/JgVHuJj6mug3fQrfKOgWmv4UD3Bm-2Q7ACPcBGAsYHg/s720/IMG_0146.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="720" height="445" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sZIkC0_F5SM/X43JKDTh4JI/AAAAAAAAMPQ/JgVHuJj6mug3fQrfKOgWmv4UD3Bm-2Q7ACPcBGAsYHg/w640-h445/IMG_0146.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Toronto Athletic Club around 1906 or 1907. John Petras third from the left, Pick Nalley, front row second front the left. Nalley's presences this photo suggests it was taken during barnstorming season.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></span></span></span></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span><span></span></span></span></div><span><span><span> On the visitors' squad was arguably the greatest Pittsburgh Pirate of all time, shortstop Honus Wagner. He watched with interest my </span></span></span>grandfather take batting practice and asked whether he could borrow my grandfather's bat for the game. It was longer and heavier than most bats of the era and had a handle as thick as most men's wrists. With such a stick of lumber, a batter needed strong shoulders to start the swing and whiplike wrists to finish it. My grandfather said that it would be his honor for the Pittsburgh legend to use his bat.<span> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y_CVZyf9Hao/Xz6_StaOaVI/AAAAAAAAGy8/4gB0vS8vb7I_Aef7871JV-aQrrP0H0SkACPcBGAsYHg/s719/IMG_9938.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="719" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y_CVZyf9Hao/Xz6_StaOaVI/AAAAAAAAGy8/4gB0vS8vb7I_Aef7871JV-aQrrP0H0SkACPcBGAsYHg/w334-h400/IMG_9938.JPG" width="334" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The legendary Honus Wagner would go on to play for the Toronto Athletic Club in 1919 under manager Bill McKechnie, another future Hall of Famer, who took up residency in the Gem City.</td></tr></tbody></table> <span> </span></span><p></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> <span> <span> I don't remember the details about the game, just those about the bat and that Toronto won. I suspect my grandfather must have made the bat himself. He and Honus Wagner rapped out a few hits apiece with this wonder bat that predated the real Hollywood Wonder Bat. I don't know what happened to this bat, or maybe I was afraid to ask, to know like all things forgotten forever.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> <span> <span> </span></span></span>Pick Nalley never did reach the big leagues, but he did play 13 years in the minors. Throwing right, batting left, Nalley rapped out 1429 hits during his minor league career. After baseball, he worked as a longtime custodian for Toronto City schools.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> <span> <span> My dad</span></span></span> once told me my his father was a little too slow a runner to play in the majors during an era when the main strategy relied upon stolen bases, the hit-and-run and bunting--small ball, they still call it. The Dead Ball Era unofficially ended1919 when Babe Ruth hit a Major League record 29 home runs, the year after the Great War ended. At 29, my grandfather was too old to be considered a prospect, and, besides, after taking that high hard one to the snoz, my dad also revealed, Pappap was never the same </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>player again.</p><p><span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-USZc-BLOIHY/X43J7bO-imI/AAAAAAAAMPk/SwpW-zzJGU0MW4acE7GVWtRarVezKs2FACPcBGAsYHg/s720/IMG_0147.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="720" height="469" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-USZc-BLOIHY/X43J7bO-imI/AAAAAAAAMPk/SwpW-zzJGU0MW4acE7GVWtRarVezKs2FACPcBGAsYHg/w640-h469/IMG_0147.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1913 Toronto Athletic Club. John Petras standing third to left, Pick Nalley kneeling in uniform.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><br /></span></div><span><br /> <span> <span> After the Kaul Clay riots of 1935, my grandfather became custodian at St, Francis Church. My favorite story of his janitor days was when he learned World War II had officially ended and then sprinted from his Loretto Avenue home down the church to St. Francis to ring its massive bell, joining the resounding peels from all the steeples in town. The bronze peels must have been the most melodious sounds ever heard in the Gem City.</span></span></span> <p></p><p><span> <span> <span> The only rocks I throw nowadays are the stones I skip across the ponds of time; they ripple with memories, memories I like to share with five </span></span></span>grandchildren, with another grandchild on the way, memories when I, like them, was a child, memories ever green, ever-sweet and wild-eyed, memories of memories.</p><p> </p><p>See related stories: "The Kaul Clay Riots of 1935," and "Kaul Field Revisited."</p></div>Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com1Jefferson County, OH, USA40.387172199999988 -80.765780413.948457100230158 -115.9220304 66.825887299769818 -45.6095304tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-12512070909723424262020-10-05T11:06:00.000-04:002020-10-05T12:49:01.603-04:00THE HANGING TREE OF GEM CITY<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
name is forgotten, maybe because those who remember simply want to forget.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
the memory lingers like a child’s nightmare, the repressed one deep in the seat
of the subconscious, this one deep in the woods outside Toronto, taking one
deep in time, back to Camp Crumb, where time seems to cease.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
tale of the Hanging Tree has been passed on from generation to generation until
now it looms high with other urban legends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it truly legend, a myth worthy of the lunatic with the prosthetic
hook, or just another haunted forest yarn to scare schoolboys on pitch dark, campfire
nights?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
the legend goes, a distraught man hanged himself near the cliffs at Camp Crumb sometime
during the 1930s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Camp Crumb is
situated a quarter-mile up Sloane’s Run along the northeastern base of Wallace
Hill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the latter decade of
the 19<sup>th</sup> century and the first decades of the 20<sup>th</sup>, it
was a popular site for picnics and other outdoor excursions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hundreds of initials tattooed into the
bald gray beech trees still attest to this day how popular Camp Crumb once was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>These
ancient gray trees cast gentle shadows of upon a terrace tasseled with ferns rimming bench-sized sandstones velveted with moss and lichens, a site during the day Zen-like, an ambience tranquil enough to meditate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But after the sun goes down…</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“That’s where a man hanged himself,” s said Dick Walker, who has lived all his 54 years in Toronto.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">"</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">My mother and some old-timers told me
how the man hanged himself with a chain at Camp Crum and </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">that he remained
missing for two weeks until his dog drug his hand home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the search party </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">arrived at Camp
Crum all they found was the man’s head swinging from a chain wrapped around a </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">limb of a beach tree near a cliff.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">His late mother told Walker the hanged
man’s name, but he can only remember the gruesome details </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">and that the man
worked for Mike Henry probably during the 1930s at the White Front Café.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“I heard too many people talk about the Hanging
Tree to pass it off as some campfire tale,” Walker </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">said.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“Besides, something is weird up there
at night. Just makes your skin crawl. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Me and five other </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">guys tried camping out there overnight when
we were young, but it’s just too spooky.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Plenty of other </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">guys have tried sleeping out up Camp Crum and nobody can
claim he made it to daylight.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I remember one night like it was
yesterday, said Pat Daughtery about an adventure he shared with </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Walker at Camp
Crumb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“There were six of us
laughing up a storm, telling stories and suddenly we </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">heard a chain clanging
high in the beech trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We took
off so fast we forgot to pick up our beer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“We called it the Hanging Tree,” said Joe
Nemitt Sr. recalling boyhood excursions to the tragic site.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">We got scared quickly and didn’t stick
around long.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zkGBIrWn5bc/UIqm1nrdZOI/AAAAAAAAASM/Ap3oei0iDqs/s1600/IMG_3634.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zkGBIrWn5bc/UIqm1nrdZOI/AAAAAAAAASM/Ap3oei0iDqs/s320/IMG_3634.JPG" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some old-timers believe this lightning-charred beech tree is the notorious Hanging Tree of Camp Crum. Others claim the victim boosted himself upon "Scaffold Rock" before completing the deed. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I wouldn’t camp out there with 50 guys
and two kegs and a bucket of holy water,” added Daughtery, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“and I bet no one
else would last there more than a couple of hours.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">EDITOR'S NOTE: I, too, tried camping out at Camp Crumb. I did not last two hours.</span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-31114521820053724662020-08-05T14:19:00.052-04:002020-09-08T19:20:07.036-04:00SISTER MARY JEAN CONNER: A Heroine and Angel
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<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">Toronto, Ohio Nun Falls Victim to 1918 Pandemic</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Times;"> Toronto, Ohio is truly the Gem City
because it’s streets are jeweled with hundreds of banners depicting photos of
its military heroes. Its annual Independence
Day fireworks display is arguably the best in the Upper Ohio Valley. And the city erected the first ever World War
I monument November 11, 1919.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Times;"> If you look closely at the bottom of
the southwest side of this masterpiece by artist Giuseppe Moretti, you will see
the name of Sister Mary Jean Conner.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FpPjgRBh5To/Xy631lPvJxI/AAAAAAAAAzw/Wwi9UAwnSawSAVfO80U9Ak17JUnvSz-MACPcBGAsYHg/s4032/IMG_9928.HEIC" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="410" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FpPjgRBh5To/Xy631lPvJxI/AAAAAAAAAzw/Wwi9UAwnSawSAVfO80U9Ak17JUnvSz-MACPcBGAsYHg/w307-h410/IMG_9928.HEIC" width="307" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mary Jean Conner front row first on left.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></div><span style="font-family: Times;"> </span><div><span style="font-family: Times;"> Perhaps Sister Mary Jean’s sacrifice
has special meaning today, 102 years later—2020—a year of a </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;">pandemic, because
this Toronto, Ohio native succumbed to a pandemic, the Spanish influenza.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UA_Ci20KJec/XyxIiSRbxsI/AAAAAAAAAsk/8j68mMuQbhkyYoUsdkNsm2K6MNvFTjQyACPcBGAsYHg/s1024/IMG_9926.JPG" style="clear: left; display: block; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="870" data-original-width="1024" height="340" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UA_Ci20KJec/XyxIiSRbxsI/AAAAAAAAAsk/8j68mMuQbhkyYoUsdkNsm2K6MNvFTjQyACPcBGAsYHg/w400-h340/IMG_9926.JPG" title="Sister Mary Jean's Funeral, October 30, 1918." width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Full Military Funeral<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></div><span style="font-family: Times;"> The first peak of this deadly </span><div><span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;">disease
occurred during October of </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;">1918 and infected 20-percent of </span><div><span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">the US military, overburdening
the </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">country’s medical system. Volunteers </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">were needed and many orders </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;">of nuns filled this void, including the </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;">Sisters of
Loretta, to whom Sister </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;">Mary Jean, a St. Francis Church </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">parishioner, was a
novice. Although </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">training to become a
teacher, she and 11 other Loretta nuns arrived </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;">at Fort Zachary Taylor in
Louisville, Kentucky, the largest training facility in the country with as many </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;">as 64-thousand soldiers at one time within its combines.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Times;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VawuVDxGsSU/Xy61Rs2S-lI/AAAAAAAAAys/4Zn4pceIJo4jEnulniTF31BZ52lZnwLbACPcBGAsYHg/s4032/IMG_9927.HEIC" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="384" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VawuVDxGsSU/Xy61Rs2S-lI/AAAAAAAAAys/4Zn4pceIJo4jEnulniTF31BZ52lZnwLbACPcBGAsYHg/w512-h384/IMG_9927.HEIC" width="512" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></div><span style="font-family: Times;"> The sisters, wearing their white
long-sleeved robes, tended to the soldiers stricken with the Spanish </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;">influenza,
performing such duties as taking vitals, cleaning wounds, administering
medicine, providing </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;">general comfort and writing letters to the patients’
families—all under the direction of the American </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;">Red Cross.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Times;"> Four Loretto nuns became stricken
with the Spanish flu, including Sister Mary Jean. She succumbed to the pandemic 29 years of age, a casualty of
war, October 28, a mere 16 days after arriving as a volunteer at Camp Taylor,
less than two weeks before the war ended.
She was given a full military funeral at Camp Taylor and later buried at
the Loretto Community at Nerinx, Kentucky.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: Times;"></span></div><span style="font-family: Times;"> The Loretto Order was the original
order of nuns at St. Francis Assisi Church in Toronto, later </span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dm3eVT-HKT8/XzAyHJBYImI/AAAAAAAAA1I/ad8v_E_eOpkSB7rIUZ6gAR1L1NKZApIDACPcBGAsYHg/s4032/IMG_9929.HEIC" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="375" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dm3eVT-HKT8/XzAyHJBYImI/AAAAAAAAA1I/ad8v_E_eOpkSB7rIUZ6gAR1L1NKZApIDACPcBGAsYHg/w500-h375/IMG_9929.HEIC" width="500" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sister Mary Jean's Funeral Procession.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Times;">replaced by the
Ursuline Nuns in 1948.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<!--EndFragment--></div></div></div><div><span><span style="font-family: times;"> <span> <span> The Spanish </span></span></span><span style="font-family: times;">influenza was estimated to have killed 675,000 Americans.</span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="576" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-71TQlZwlOS8/XzA76w5r3BI/AAAAAAAAA24/IUU6UXCz8v0-Yy6G8MVcN-1uk6JWiQFaACPcBGAsYHg/w180-h320/IMG_9945.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="180" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Loretto Compound Grave.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-93OVR96fr2A/XzAxL69zmLI/AAAAAAAAA08/OJtpswC5vGEKvnJa91SgJ8rA93euH3X2gCPcBGAsYHg/s4032/IMG_9947.HEIC" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-93OVR96fr2A/XzAxL69zmLI/AAAAAAAAA08/OJtpswC5vGEKvnJa91SgJ8rA93euH3X2gCPcBGAsYHg/w320-h240/IMG_9947.HEIC" title="Toronto WWI Memorial Statue." width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">TORONTO WWI MEMORIAL STATUE<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">(related articles: See "The Nation's First World War I Monument)</div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><br /></span></div>Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com3Toronto, OH 43964, USA40.4642335 -80.60090579999999212.153999663821153 -115.75715579999999 68.774467336178844 -45.444655799999992tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-69768734095784818822019-08-25T09:14:00.004-04:002020-08-30T10:18:22.147-04:00A TALE OF TWO HALF-CITIES<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;">THE NORTH END/SOUTH END RIVALRY OF TORONTO, OHIO</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>More than the most common street
name in the United States, Main Street of Toronto, Ohio has a most uncommon
distinction, and might as well at one time have been the Mason-Dixon Line, or
the Center of the Universe, as some Torontonians thought and still think; such was
the rivalry between the North End and the South End of the Gem City.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Although some Toronto residents have
always disputed the true demarcation separating the town’s north from the
south, Main Street marks the boundary between Knox Township on the north and
Island Creek on the other side of the street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No one, to this writer’s knowledge, from the City of Vision has ever publicly
called himself a Knoxer or an Island Creeker; always a South-ender or a North-ender,
or even a North-end Hunky, even those not of Slavic heritage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The term “Hunky,” in fact, was an
ethnic slur, whose origin predated the turn of the 20<sup>th</sup> Century and
referred to Slovak and other Slavs who had emigrated to the U.S. to escape the
oppressive rule of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, a reign that forbid Slovaks to
teach their own language.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although their
native land was Slovakia, their official entry papers listed them as immigrants
from Hungary, and hence the ethnic slur, “Hunky.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Toronto Slovaks congregated in the north
end of Toronto where an abundance of job opportunities attracted them, jobs
with low pay and long hours, this tenure often requiring them to work 32
consecutive hours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My Slovak grandparents told me
stories about prejudice toward Slavs back then, told me why they did not pass
on their Eastern Slovak dialect onto their children and grandchildren, that
they did not want them to grow up with accents and become targets of prejudice
and derision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My grandfather John Petras
Sr. told me a story about the Ku Klux Klan marching up and down Loretta Avenue in
1935, and while standing upon his front porch, he shook his fist at one
Klansman, recognizing him by his peculiar gait, and saying, “I know who you are,
Charlie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You look ridiculous!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the robes continued down street, he
shouted again, “And by the way, Notre Dame will beat Ohio State again this
season!” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the Fighting Irish did—7
to 2.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Back then Slavs were distinguished
as a separate race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hitler wanted to eradicate
them, and back home, if they held a position in City Hall, it was on their
knees, scrubbing it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In “Out of This
Furnace,” a novel about an immigrant Slovak family—the Dobrejcaks—author Thomas
Bell wrote that most Americans did not consider Eastern Europeans, such as
Slovaks and Poles, as well as Southern Europeans, like Italians, white.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In 1935, the same year as the Klan
March, the racial tensions came to an ugly climax April 17, four days before
Easter, when pickets at the perimeter of Kaul Clay, the majority of which were
of Slavic descent and other minorities, met a storm of gunfire from Pinkerton
Detectives, resulting in one death and another four wounded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fatality was Andy Lastivka, a Slovak
whose residence stood two blocks from where he had fallen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another Toronto Slovak, Andy Straka, carried a
Pinkerton slug in his leg for life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No
one was ever arrested or convicted for the shootings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Even to this day, one can see the
stigma of prejudice by touring Union Cemetery and the headstones in the oldest
section to discover not a soul of Slavic or Southeastern European descent
buried amongst the obelisks and monuments dedicated to the Masons and other
prominent residents of a municipality nicknamed the Gem City.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Union Cemetery was a site frequently marched
by the Klan, often numbering more than 50 hoods.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If Time is a great healer, it is
because it is a great inducer of forgetfulness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Gradually, the wounds of this culture clash became subsumed into oblivion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>North-enders moved southward, the direction
by which the expanding city grew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>South-enders moved north.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Slavic
names blended into a hodgepodge with those of Irish, Scottish, German, Anglo,
Italian and others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
intermarried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And World War II united
everyone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Second and third generation Slavs
married sons and daughters of Toronto’s founding fathers, one of whom was
Revolutionary War scout and Indian fighter Michael Myers, who had 11 children
with his wife Katherine Strickler, and the Auver rumored to have fathered
more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has been said by more than a
few T-town old-timers that half the town is descended from a dude who lived to
a ripe old age of 107 years while the other half is of Slovak descent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Said more bluntly: half the town is related;
the other half doesn’t know it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps that is the reason the north end-south
end rivalry eventually became reduced to brotherly banter and that, too, has faded.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There are some striking geographical
and demographic features distinguishing the two half-cities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the most part, the North End is flat, the
streets straight while the South End is hilly, the streets often curvy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The North End is overlooked by Meyers Knob,
part of the Pennsylvanian Escarpment, the South End overlooked by a geological
anomaly, Mount Nebo, where the Ohio River once flowed on the west of the
mountain, the floodplain that is Walton Acres today. In geological terms, it is
classified as Wisconsinian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were
the clay works and the power plant in the Mosti side of town and the paper
mill, block factory and Titanium in the Coulters side ; Rudy’s in the north and
Melhorn’s and Happy’s south; the Power Plant houses in the north, the Mill Row
south; and the North End Tavern in the draft root beer side of town, the South
End Tavern in the Goonie Burger side, or simply called Skunk’s if you didn’t give
a flying river rat’s ass about zonal distinctions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Even the currents of the Ohio are
claimed by some to flow funny below Main Street.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>An old Kaul Clay veteran, a Hunky at
heart, once exclaimed that City Hall had a conspiracy to move everything important
in T-town south of Main Street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe
there was a conspiracy, looking back, now that every grade school, K through 12,
sits on one site.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Rumor says this
conspiracy began when the color blue initially appeared in Red Knight
uniforms.). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The north-end and
Slovak-language teaching parochial school St. Jopeph’s merged south with St.
Francis until that, too, merged with oblivion, like Slovak Days, which incinerated
into nothingness when Kaul Hall along Croxton’s Run Road burned to the ground
in the 1970s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And the south end holds a wide margin in this pizza-consuming town of a
four to one margin, a town further divided by loyalties to a square pie, and
like an Ivy League rivalry in which you are a staunch Harvard man or a Yale
man, in T-town you can distinguish oneself as an Iggy’s man or a Dicarlo’s or Domino’s
dude, a Gem City Pizza gal or one of the diminishing few, the most loyal of the
loyal, still holding out for the return of Johnny’s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;">An interesting fact about the pizza
logistics of the Gem City is that the town never has had a pizza shop operated
its ovens north of Clark Street, not even the fabled monopolistic Johnny’s,
which moved from site to site as often Bill Jaco, always in the South End.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Some
dispute, until this day, occurs about the true line separating the two halves
of the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some claim as far north as
Myers while some say the south end begins at the Overhead Bridge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then there is the mythical midtown, a
so-called neutral zone from Main to Clarke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In truth, to the best of this Iggy’s man and anti-blue bring-back-the-Goonie
advocate, and based on personal bar- and- tavern on-the-site research, no such establishment
has been named anything close to “Midtown Bar” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>while there has been fierce patronage for decades
at the aforementioned North End and South End Taverns, the mythical midtown
home to such neutrally named watering holes as the City Restaurant, Frogs and
Gem City Restaurant, unless, of course, “Candyland” was some secret blue conspiracy
code name for the “Center of the City Fish Bowl.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Perhaps,
the north-south T-town rivalry became extinct at the advent of open enrollment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe too many Cernanskys and Scalleys moved
south.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who knows?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ask the millennial and younger T-towners
about the north end-south end rivalry and they’ll probably respond by asking if
that’s a new video game.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
town’s north end-south end rivalry is gone, faded like the advertising on the
Daniels Building, memory-aided, barely discernible but to some.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Toronto, Ohio is one town, as it should be, a
small city, as it has become, a hometown, always.<o:p></o:p></div>
Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com0Toronto, OH 43964, USA40.4642335 -80.60090579999999212.153999663821153 -115.75715579999999 68.774467336178844 -45.444655799999992tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-81631010752836587112019-08-02T12:53:00.004-04:002020-08-30T09:27:14.268-04:00DOUGHNUTS<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;">DOUGHNUTS<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What I am attempting to write is
urban legend, what I remember of Doughnuts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Not too much to tell, really; not so urban when you consider a town as
small as Toronto-- Toronto, Ohio, that is, if I may be so bold to borrow the tease
on words from a local cookbook.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Doughnuts walked in a perpetual
stoop, hands folded upon the small of his back, his oversized overcoat swaying
from side to side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You could not see one
feature of scenery where he trod, not so much as a flower, a mailbox, a lawn
ornament, when you saw Doughnuts walking, you saw only his gait.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whether he liked it or not, whether he wanted
it or not, he commanded attention.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They said he walked this way because
he had spent so much of his life down in the local mines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doughnuts had a pair of paws like sledges,
forearms and wrists like steel cables, no doubt from picking veins of
coal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His bewhiskered face was as
angular and chiseled as the coal veins he hacked daily.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Or had he been a miner at all?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There were other rumors about his
origins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one I heard most and the one
making the most sense to this then teenager was Doughnuts held a patented
invention for Titanium (Timet today) that made him a millionaire eccentric, our
little town version of Howard Hughes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The locals said that Doughnuts lived
along the riverbank in the company of dogs in the south end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They also said he walked stooped over because
he was always searching for money, a strange habit I thought for a millionaire,
but befitting of an eccentric one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I encountered Doughnuts only a few
times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was inside Melhorn’s, sitting
upon a red vinyl bar stool sipping on Cokes and puffing on cigarettes with
friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doughnuts came in and skulked
to the corner booth near the jukebox. Whether music played, I cannot remember,
if it did I wouldn’t have heard anyway, his presence commanded that much
attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The waitress came to him. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He ordered coffee and powered doughnuts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple of minutes later, Lou Melhorn himself
brought the man two doughnuts and the coffee pot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doughnuts carefully tilted the pot and
trickled the steamy coffee into a saucer, not a cup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He then dipped a powdered doughnut into his
coffee, nibbled on it, and then tilted the saucer to his mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He was British, we decided.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s how they drank coffee over there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were 12 and 13 and worldly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Worldly, we watched him dip his doughnuts and
sip his coffee, until he finished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
then he stood, hunkered over and wobbled through the haze of tobacco smoke, out
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the door, into the invigorating air,
seasoned with coal soot, fly ash, lead fumes and steel dust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We watched through the big picture window his
head hobble by, disappearing south on Trenton Street, then Ohio Route 7, busy
with traffic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One other time, I encountered the
man everyone called Doughnuts, perhaps that same summer of Kool Aid, Melhorn’s
Popsicles and filterless cigarettes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One of the Conlon twins accompanied
me along the north sidewalk of the Overhead Bridge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hardly anyone walked the south side, still to
this day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you wanted to take the
shortcut, you sidled along the concrete base and skipped across the railroad
tracks in the cool eternal shadows below, saving you something like 15 to 20
seconds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Above at the western base of
the north sidewalk, we saw Doughnuts heading toward us, a caricature of a man
from where we stood, his head seeming directly stemmed to his shoes because of
his pronounced stoop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TxA7QK4DWT8/XzcOc7YNdkI/AAAAAAAABeg/_f877RGYrg8gpq-9okAmKlsniQ8XJSPqACPcBGAsYHg/s3183/IMG_9972.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3183" data-original-width="2452" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TxA7QK4DWT8/XzcOc7YNdkI/AAAAAAAABeg/_f877RGYrg8gpq-9okAmKlsniQ8XJSPqACPcBGAsYHg/s640/IMG_9972.HEIC" /></a></div> </span>Usually in the Gem City, they name
the streets and buildings after someone, someone deceased.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pretty sure no one in town had bore the
surname Overhead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Overhead” made more
sense when you were taking the 15-second shortcut.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But we were not taking the 20-second
shortcut; we were striding along the side of the sidewalk everybody took,
including someone walking stooped over with his hands clasped behind the small
of his back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our paths intersected near the top
where in my insolence, I said, “How are you doing, Doughnuts?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He swiveled his head, his eyes
steely and penetrating, “None of your God-damned business how I am doing.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His voice was like sandpaper, number 2
grit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It certainly wasn’t High Tea
British.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Another time I saw Doughnuts up
close.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am uncertain what year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I certainly couldn’t pin a date by his visage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was one of those people like your Great
Uncle Harry or your afghan-knitting baba, who always looked old, even when they
were younger than you in those faded brown vignettes sitting forever with the
knickknacks upon the fireplace mantle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Doughnuts, I had to believe, was born gray on a gray day and swaddled in
sandpaper.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He was part of a crew pouring a
sidewalk in a neighbor’s yard on the Federal Street side of the ally,
cattycorner from my parents’ home on Biltmore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Shielded from potential steely rebuke, I spied upon him behind
shrubs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Immediately I lost focus on the
other workers and features of the house and yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had a spittoon of gold glistened at the end
of the rainbow, I wouldn’t have paid it a glance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw only Doughnuts, his whiskers glistening
with sweat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He worked hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wheeled the wheelbarrow, hoed, shoveled, troweled.
He made that concrete lay down like an unruly puppy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Occasionally, he would stand erect, all six
feet of him, to point out some flaw in the concrete that needed attention, and
then he would resume his robotic labors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He had what we T-town Hunkies called
the Hunky work ethic, although I didn’t know <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ethic </i>from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ethnic, </i>but I
did know Doughnuts was one hell of a worker and didn’t stoop because of some
physical impairment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I would later learn the man I had
insolently called “Doughnuts” to his face was actually named Barney and like a
large number of T-townies, he was of Eastern European descent, like me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would also learn later somehow through the
self-awareness that the slow incubation of<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>maturity brings, I had stooped lower than the
tail of Barney Evanosky’s overcoat and was most deserving of being called a few
choice names, the one most salient starting with the letter A and ending in E,
and I don’t mean <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I did learn Mr. Evanosky wintered in
Bergholz and returned every spring to Toronto. I like to think Toronto, Ohio is
the center of the Universe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I like to think of him as another
colorful character in the history of this colorful city, another gem of the Gem
City, and upon a soft windy summer evening, you can smell a trace of powdered
sugar in the air and you can hear the steady clomp of invisible footsteps ascending the
north sidewalk of the Overhead Bridge, and somehow the surroundings become
fuzzy as though you are looking through a time telescope out-of-focus, and all
so silent, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and the clomps trickle into
the distance while dogs howl in recognition.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-82711003845685115142015-10-05T12:02:00.004-04:002020-08-30T10:18:48.677-04:00HAUNTED TORONTO<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">THE HANGING HEAD OF CAMP CRUMB</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
name is forgotten, maybe because those who remember simply want to forget.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
the memory lingers like a child’s nightmare, the repressed one deep in the seat
of the subconscious, this one deep in the woods outside Toronto, taking one
deep in time, back to Camp Crumb, where time seems to cease and the human
psyche surrenders to fear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
tale of the Hanging Tree and its vile fruit the Hanging Head has been passed on
from generation to generation until now it looms high with other urban
legends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it truly legend, a
myth worthy of the lunatic with the prosthetic hook, or just another haunted
forest yarn to scare schoolboys on pitch dark, campfire nights?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
the legend goes, a distraught man hanged himself near the cliffs at Camp Crumb sometime
during the 1930s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Camp Crumb is
situated a quarter-mile up Sloane’s Run along the northeastern base of Wallace
Hill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the latter decade of
the 19<sup>th</sup> century and the first decade of the 20<sup>th</sup>, it was
a popular site for picnics and other outdoor excursions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hundreds of initials tattooed into the
bald gray beech trees still attest to this day how popular Camp Crumb once was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qr0S2ECa0RM/VhKdij5hK0I/AAAAAAAAAfI/QMaGT9mUa4U/s1600/IMG_1450.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qr0S2ECa0RM/VhKdij5hK0I/AAAAAAAAAfI/QMaGT9mUa4U/s320/IMG_1450.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>These
ancient gray trees cast gentle shadows upon a terrace tasseled with ferns and
sitting-sized sandstones velveted with moss at a site during the day Zen-like,
a setting tranquil enough to meditate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But after the sun goes down…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“That’s where a man hanged himself,” said
Dick Walker, who has lived all his 50-plus years in Toronto.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“My mother and some old-timers told me
how the man hanged himself with a chain at Camp Crumb and that he remained
missing for two weeks until his dog dragged his hand home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the search party finally arrived
at Camp Crumb all they found was the man’s head swinging from a chain wrapped
around a limb of a beach tree near a cliff.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">His late mother told Walker the hanged
man’s name, but he can only remember the gruesome details and that the man
worked for Mike Henry probably during the 1930s at the White Front Café.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I heard too many people talk about the Hanging
Tree to pass it off as some campfire tale,” Walker said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Besides, something is weird up there
at night. Just makes your skin crawl. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Me and five other guys tried camping out there overnight when
we were young, but it was just too spooky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plenty of other guys have tried sleeping out up Camp Crumb,
too, and nobody can claim he made it to daylight.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I remember one night like it was yesterday,”
said Pat Daughtery about the adventure he shared with Walker at Camp
Crumb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“There were six of us
laughing up a storm, telling stories when suddenly we heard a chain clanging
high in the beech trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We took
off so fast we forgot to pick up our beer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“We called it the Hanging Tree,” said Joe
Nemitt Sr. recalling boyhood excursions predating Walker’s by two decades to
the tragic site.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We got scared
quickly and didn’t stick around long.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I wouldn’t camp out there with 50 guys
and two kegs and a bucket of holy water,” added Daughtery, “and I bet no one
else would last there more than a couple of hours.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Exactly where this desperate deed
occurred is a matter of speculation these days, says J.L. Minor a former deputy
sheriff for Colliers County, Florida, now returned to the Ohio Valley, bringing
home his passions that include paranormal arboreal phenomena and
crptozoology.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“You have to remember that trees in a
forest tend to grow a few stories high before branching out,” Minor said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“So the branch from which he hanged
himself probably jutted from a tree ten to 15 feet above some kind of platform
from which he could have jumped off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Such a tree would now be around 85 years old today and much too high to
determine where a chain or rope once hung.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The American beech, according to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wikipedia</i>, averages 150 to 200 years of
age and can live up to 300 years in ideal habitat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These trees reach maturity around 40 years of age and can
attain heights of around 100 feet.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tokkn1C5bZE/VhKd2AY6gWI/AAAAAAAAAfU/Ns7mvUaExfE/s1600/IMG_1453.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tokkn1C5bZE/VhKd2AY6gWI/AAAAAAAAAfU/Ns7mvUaExfE/s320/IMG_1453.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The beech, also according to another
electronic web site, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Masonic Druid</i>,
was the most used tree for lynching and ritualistic sacrifices during the 1700s
and 1800s in the United States, the limbs valued for their pliability, the tree
for its purgative power.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">From <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Google
Earth</i>, if one knows where to look, the latitude and longitude coordinates
can be found to locate the lost forest camp, on the map, that is, but on foot
one’s cell phone service seems to vaporize mysteriously in the mist.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Why the victim chose Camp Crumb as the
site for self-destruction is another matter of speculation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The camp had fallen into disuse for
about a quarter-century when he committed the desperate deed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps some tragic event predates his
hanging and left an evil energy summoning the distraught and the
desperate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, indeed, there are
tales of unholy rituals, whispered, from those who seek the refuge of
anonymity, but it is best to leave these tales untold and buried deep beneath
the cryptic dark shadows of the forest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">CAMP CRUMB</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">It’s called Camp
Crumb<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Because
everything falls<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Apart like the
dude <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">That hanged
himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Limb by limb by<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Limb fell to
fertilize<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The forest floor<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Until all that
remained<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Was his head, a
trophy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Defying gravity,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Defying the
senses until it<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Fell to decay,
rotting<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Into an unholy
fruit,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">A stagnant
weight<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">upon a rusty
chain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">It still holds,
sways<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">In the windless
rustic night,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Clangs-clangs
like a train<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Steaming from
Hell,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Pulling up to
Scaffold Rock<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">To offer passage<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">From a platform<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Where everything
falls<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Apart—your
senses, your sanity,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Even your soul.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C3gQUnQ8-mY/VhKebw2U1RI/AAAAAAAAAfk/rNHBmU28mqY/s1600/IMG_1623.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C3gQUnQ8-mY/VhKebw2U1RI/AAAAAAAAAfk/rNHBmU28mqY/s320/IMG_1623.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">ORIGINS, GEM CITY</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">So you think
this is your town?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Call it Gem
City,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Have been
calling it Gem City so long<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">You don’t even
know why<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">You call it Gem
City,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Just take it for
granted <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Like on the
corner of Grant Street<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Those little
noises, tweaks, bumps-in-the-night<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">At the old
Melhorns building<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">At times
strolling by old Harry Goucher,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Lost, looking
for his home, you know,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The one no
longer on River Avenue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">He doesn’t feel
at home in the grave,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Either, up in
Union Cemetery, absent<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">With a few other
absentees<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Like Suzanne
Daniels, a centenarian<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Formerly of the
living some 90 years ago<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">So formal in
place-setting her tables,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">She’ll rearrange
your forks, spoons and sanity<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">For you with an
unexpected appearance<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Here and there
in her building.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Then there’s that
John Doe<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">You call the
Hanging Head of Camp Crumb,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">He was
distraught, all right,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Found out he married the wrong woman,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Turned out his
black-hearted half-sister,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">So he took the
eternal plunge<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Right off
Scaffold Rock, keeps<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sentry up there
high in the trees<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Whistling trespass
alarm through<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The hollows of
his eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">These common
folks had so much in common,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">My descendents
who descended <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Through my dark
side.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Some call me patriarch,
some usurper,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me, who bathed
in Chief Logan’s baby’s blood<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">At Yellow Creek,
me, who lived to be 107;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">So strange,
don’t you think,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Even for strange
folks like you,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">You whose sires
I sired so so long ago,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me, Auver
Michael Myers, the <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“great”grandsire<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Of you who not
esca</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nF3uoZv-G-I/VhKevlsZL0I/AAAAAAAAAfs/tX2U31JTxc8/s1600/IMG_1012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nF3uoZv-G-I/VhKevlsZL0I/AAAAAAAAAfs/tX2U31JTxc8/s320/IMG_1012.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">pe this caging city—<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Cousins,
kiss-of-death cousins—<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Who shall live a
long long time,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">If you can call
ghosting living;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Such glowing
examples of kin you are,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Even for inbred
hybrids.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Shine shine
shine on,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">All my little
gems.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-puTLcx1bW3g/VhKe5RqlK2I/AAAAAAAAAf0/tNpev9E7HWU/s1600/IMG_1079.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-puTLcx1bW3g/VhKe5RqlK2I/AAAAAAAAAf0/tNpev9E7HWU/s320/IMG_1079.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p>THE BERMUDA TRIANGLE OF THE OHIO VALEY </o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>September
1781, It was a scene worth of a Hollywood plot:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Andrew Poe and Wyandot Chief Bigfoot combating along the meanering
stream of Tomlinson Run with riffles and tomahawks and continuing their
struggle into the Ohio River where they were reduced to the savagery of
bare-hand combat where the half-foot taller Virginian. Wading waist deep,
finally gave the Wyandot subchief a fatal baptism.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Witnesses
stated that before his brother Adam could reach them with his scalping tools,
Chief Bigfoot slipped away on the surface, rolled over and howled in pain and
hate before the blue-gray currents claimed him and swept him away to his
ancestral sky lands.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TFnGlAp23_8/VhKfEpQJnrI/AAAAAAAAAf8/S41Ddy7d1kc/s1600/DSCF0065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TFnGlAp23_8/VhKfEpQJnrI/AAAAAAAAAf8/S41Ddy7d1kc/s320/DSCF0065.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Some
claim his final utterings were a curse, the dark tone of hatred in any language
unmistakable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whether the curse
theory is merely conjecture, there is some evidence to give credence to truth
in it for drownings followed there by an unholy dozen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
first recorded drewning occurred April 12, 1912 when four young Port Homer men
returning from a prayer meeting across river from Wesely Chapel in a john boat
capsized, spilling Harry Brant, 20, and brother Earl, 18, along with Hugh
Sproul, 18, and Clifford Howard, 17.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All four drowned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A fifth
passenger, J. Crosley, managed to desperately cling to the upturned craft until
rescued.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>According
to Crosly, during the boys’ return trip, they were rowing smoothly across the
river, reached midstream, when for no apparent reason the boat overturned,
spilling the crew of five into the swift spring currents of the Ohio River.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
should be pointed out the Ohio River was much shallower and less wide at that
period and that the navigational structure<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dam Number 9 just south of Empire was currently under
construction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
new dam when finished did slow the big blue stream some and widened it and then
in 1960 the completion of a yet more modern structure, the New Cumberland Locks
and Dam, made the water upstream deeper, almost lake-like, at times
current-less, but not less dangerous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Still the drownings happened at Port Homer, including one of a
recreational boater in the chamber itself in the early 1980s and another on
april 6, 2009 when 26-year-old Michael Harvey,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a deckhand for Campbell Towing Company, fell off a barge and
drowned in harvor of the W.H. Sammis Plant’s harbor at Port Homer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
Sammis Plant harbor, incidentally, has also been a collectio point for victims
drowning upstream, in colloquial river talk called “floaters,” three of which
found their final passage downstream directl across te site of the deadly
dunking of Chief Big Foot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Perhaps
even outside the Ohio River did the Wyandot’s curse carry because in April
1935, a 12-year-old boy fishing in the lake used by Stratton Clay for
industrial water slipped in and drowned, the accident occurring less than a
mile from BigFoot’s watery grave, and what a quarter-century later would become
the site of the New Cumberland Locks and Dam where two workers fell and drowned
during its construction.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Coincidence
or curse-induced?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We will never
know for sure, but a tally of 11 have found a watery demise within a one-mile
distance of one another, and counting the first victim, the Wyandot subchief, a
total of an unholy dozen, giving credence to the title “Port Homer—the Bermuda
Triangle of the Ohio Valley.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-38534857512123739532015-02-18T12:36:00.002-05:002020-08-30T09:29:20.197-04:00MELHORN'S CORNER The Four Tops' "Same Old Song" blared from the jukebox in the corner while the four of us puffed away on Old Golds, blowing smoke so thick you could have cut it with a knife pawned at Richie Wallace's. We were nursing our bottles of Coke, about 15 cents a bottle and deposit- worthy those days, when suddenly Lou Melhorn swept his arm from his side toward the exit. "All you boys do is come here to smoke behind your mothers' backs," he cried in that reedy voice of his. "Now get the Hell out of here."<br />
Hell was a smokey place we had heard, perhaps not so smokey as the ledge upon which we were now smoking outside Melhorn's overlooking the sidewalk. We were somewhat critical of Lou's entrepreneurial skills. How could any T-town businessman risk losing such big and influential spenders to perhaps Happy's up the other side of the block or even to Rudy's near the high school. Crossing over the north end boundary of Cleveland Street was akin to scaling the Berlin Wall because a few north end toughies always seemed to materialized out of the Ohio Valley pollution and participate in their favorite pastime: rearranging your face simply because they didn't like your looks.<br />
Me, Tim Maple and the two Jocko twins would take our 27 cents elsewhere and tell Lou where to stick his Popsicle sticks.<br />
Back then tobacco companies like Lucky Strikes, Marlboro, Winston and Old Gold advertised on television how relaxing, soothing and James Dean cool cigarette smoking was. The only side affects that we knew of was that smoking stunted your growth. So whenever a faintly familiar car would approach along Trenton Street, we would deftly cup our mouldering smokes inside the palms of our hands because we did not want the Red Knight coaches thinking the next Don Sutherins and George Deideriches were going to develop into some puny weaklings good for only practice dummies.<br />
Coming from the direction of Lenny's Sunoco down our side of Trenton was Doughnuts, stooped over as though looking for money, hands folded behind his back. Occasionally, he stopped inside Melhorn's to drink tea from a saucer.<br />
A cocker spaniel yapped along the white picket fence two lawns above us. Doughnuts slipped a hand into a pocket of the baggy hobo jacket he always wore--even in the dog days of summer as was this day--and stuck his hand inside the fence, the dog licking the treat from his hand and Doughnuts's face.<br />
One of us, probably a Jocko, would have asked Doughnuts how he was doing, but Doughnuts would have most likely told us "None of our God-damned business" as he did the day before. We watched Doughnuts shuffle down Trenton Street onto the overhead bridge, only seeing his blue ball-capped head appear as he ascended the summit of the bridge.<br />
We knew any moment Lou would beg us to go back inside to spend the 27 cents remaining amongst us. Five, six…15 minutes later we were still awaiting the apology when Bill Jaco came lumbering toward us toting a black umbrella with a wooden hook despite the cloudless sky. Bill was making his early evening rounds and we could tell by the pizza sauce and chocolate on his white sleeveless T-shirt he had already made his stops at Johnny's Pizza and the Dairy Aisle.<br />
"How's it hanging, Bill?" one of the Jockos asked. I couldn't tell which Jocko; they both looked the same that day.<br />
Bill stuck out that footlong pointer finger of his and poked Jocko right in the stomach. "Whoops!" Bill said. His voice sounded as though it trumpeted through an elephant trunk. To us, his shoulders were as broad as an elephant's.<br />
A white Ford Fairlane rolled to a stop at the corner. "Ford junk," Bill tooted as though he were reading a fact from the Encyclopedia Britannica. "Ford junk. Hit a bump and the seat falls down."<br />
The driver rolled his window down, asked Bill, "Can you tell me where Clarke's Funeral is?"<br />
The man was obviously from out of town. Only out-of-towners got lost in this town of 7,000 residents or stopped for the stop sign at the bottom of the overhead bridge.<br />
"Up bay," Bill trumpeted, "Up bay." Toot fix Fords. Fix junk. Clarkie's goosey. Clarkie's full of stiffs."<br />
Bill was talking talk only T-towners could interpret while the out-of-towner just shook his head from side to side. Bill must have seen the guy's wife in the car and said, "Man marries woman something loose--something loose."<br />
Finally, the man poked his head out the window and shouted, "Man, you are completely nuts!"<br />
Bill merely eyed the man as if adding another nut to a town already full of nuts and then said," "Not lost."<br />
The man peeled rubber onto Trenton, smoke fountaining from his wheels still crossing Findlay. Bill philosophically said, "Town's full of nuts" and then lumbered his way toward downtown.<br />
The four of us figured we would let Lou off easy and returned inside, lit up four Old Golds while we listened to "The Same Old Song."<br />
Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-31055562958410425762015-02-08T14:45:00.004-05:002020-08-30T09:30:16.748-04:00THE BEST THERE NEVER WAS--THE LEGEND OF HAROLD "OINK" COULTER<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div> When a few old sports veterans get together in the Gem City, the topic of Toronto High School's greatest athlete arises occasionally. Names such as Chip Coulter, Clark Hinkle, George Deiderich, Don Sutherin and Otis Winston are always mentioned, but one name I always bring up won't be found in any of the record books.<br />
You see, a classmate of mine, Harold "Oink" Coulter, played basketball only his freshman year. Had he continued to play--that includes any sport--I am certain he would have been crowned the best.<br />
Oink possessed the hand-eye coordination of a magician. He wasn't the tallest, fastest or strongest athlete in our class, although he was gifted in all these attributes. What he possessed was way above what everybody had and that was coordination.<br />
Playing Little League for Cattrell's during the early 60s, I had heard all about the legend way before I encountered him He was rumored to throw the only curve ball in the entire league, and to an 11-year-old batter during those days to face that kind of skill was akin to confronting someone with supernatural powers.<br />
I recall the fateful day when we were finally going to face Oink on the mound. We were undefeated, with Oink posing as our last obstacle to remain unblemished for the 20-game season in a league consisting of twelve teams. Our strategy was to step up in the batter's box when Oink started hurling curves, an approach enabling the hitter a good shot at the slower pitch before it broke. Oink recognized this plan immediately and reared back and blew his lively fastball by us. So--we moved back in the box and he curved us simple. The game was our only loss of the season.<br />
I recall another time when we were in seventh grade playing pick-up football at S.C. Dennis School. Oink was passing by on his bicycle and stopped. I never saw him play football before, or even hold one in his hands for that matter, but he asked for the ball and promptly punted a perfect spiral 45 yards. "Let's see you do that again," everyone said, knowing football was our rare chance to embarrass Oink. He duplicated more kicks, all going 40 to 50 yards--all perfect spirals.<br />
Another time I recall sitting in sixth grade at St. Francis School. For some reason the public schools were off that day and we weren't. I was daydreaming out the window when I saw Oink approaching on his bicycle. At the corner of Grant and Euclid, he popped a wheelie and pedaled right by the sixth grade windows, the seventh grade windows, the eighth grade windows and continued, reared back in the banana seat, hands braced on the handlebars, churning the pedals until turning the corner on Daniels Street, two blocks away, out of sight. The first flight by the Wright Brothers could not have covered the same distance.<br />
Basketball was by far his best game. He could do anything with a round ball except make it talk. Oink was the only ball handler I had ever seen being guarded by defenders with their legs crossed. Nobody wanted embarrassed by having the ball dribbled between their legs by anybody. And Oink could turn an opponent's face redder than a Red Knights jersey.<br />
The best way to defend Oink was to stand under the basket and bet him he couldn't make a shot from half court, and maybe his heel would accidentally touch the mid-court line so that you could get him on and over-and-back violation. Oink was the only kid I knew who practiced shots from half court, and he made a good percentage of them.<br />
He was the last guy you wanted to challenge in a game of H-O-R-S-E. Besides being able to rainbow shots from various distances, he could bank a ball off both walls on the northwest corners of the Franklin School building and swish it through the hoop.<br />
As I mentioned, Oink played only one season at the high school level, most of which was on junior varsity, although everyone in school and in the stands knew Oink was the best player on the varsity. A few times the coach would put Oink in the varsity game. I remember one time Oink was dribbling about 20 feet from Toronto's basket, an opponent between him an the hoop, arms raised high, knees bent in defending position. Oink nonchalantly dribbled behind his own back and then around the defender, a complete 360-degree sweep and then swished the ball through the net.<br />
This wasn't exactly the type of tactic coaches in those days had in mind regarding fundamental basketball and was probably the main reason Oink spent most of his varsity tenure on the bench. The coach tried to make Oink play basketball the way the coach thought basketball should be played. Oink could achieve greatness and lead the Red Knights to the state title someday, only via the way of the head coach.<br />
But sports was not about titles, the state and the greatest--certainly not about pressure. If he could not have fun, he wasn't going to play. He never shot his majestic arching set shot in a Red Knights uniform again.<br />
Looking back, Oink was right all along. If anything motivates you in sports other than having fun, you are participating for all the wrong reasons. Coaches and athletes work themselves to the brink of exhaustion. Heck, Oink was good at what came natural to him. He was the best that never was.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-blcSYF46_u8/VNe5kdCdnzI/AAAAAAAAAdg/Oxp2-jUxbmQ/s1600/IMG_1886.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-blcSYF46_u8/VNe5kdCdnzI/AAAAAAAAAdg/Oxp2-jUxbmQ/s1600/IMG_1886.JPG" width="175" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harold Coulter, shown on THS 1967 squad, was the only guy who could have wore a name like Oink gracefully</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com2Ohio, USA40.4172871 -82.90712300000001312.107053263821157 -118.06337300000001 68.727520936178848 -47.750873000000013tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-16452046751341240452012-09-29T12:42:00.004-04:002020-08-30T09:32:01.815-04:00THE MYSTERIOUS INDIAN ROCKS OF BROWNS ISLAND<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>THE PETROGLYPHS OF THE UPPER OHIO VALLEY</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
age-old adage regarding art says that every picture tells a story, but
regarding the Indian Rock art of the Upper Ohio Valley, every picture portrays
a mystery.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
native American representations are called petroglyphs, which are crude images
of wildlife, humans and symbols scratched or pecked into the surface of large
flat sandstones lining the shores of the Ohio River and other sites across the
country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of the more renowned
local petroglyph sites include Smith’s Ferry, Babb’s Island, old Dam Number Eight
and the head of Brown’s Island, although evidence suggests, the two-mile
mid-water flood plain could have centered four different petroglyph sites.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Rock
Art chronicles the long histories, the hunting ceremonies, and the religions of
diverse native peoples, “wrote James D. Keyser and Michael Klasser in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman";">Plains
Indian Rock Art.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i><span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman";">“They reveal their relationships with the
spirit world and record their interaction with traditional enemies and the
earliest Europeans.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Native
Americans considered boulders prominent features of the landscape, and the
Ohio, itself a Native American name, meaning river with whitecaps, or just
simply beautiful stream, was a major route of transportation and trade
centuries before the first Europeans arrived.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Archaeologists
have often calculated the time periods when the Native Americans etched their
work in rock, ancient peoples ranging from Hopewell, Adenas, woodland and
modern Indians, but often have been left with only educated guesses of the true
artists as in the case of the late James L. Swauger of Ohio State University,
who studied the local petroglyph sites in 1969.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Babb’s
Island is the only site investigated in Ohio which holds water bird figures,”
Swauger wrote in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Petroglyphs of
Ohio.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>“It’s affinities are
with Brown’s Island in W.V. and Smith’s Ferry in Pa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The generally more sophisticated artistry of the carvings on
these sites, as well as their common possession of water bird figures suggest a
‘school’ of petroglyph artists working along this 30-mile stretch of river.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman";">Swauger also theorized that the local
rock art could be attributed to Mongahela Man, also called proto-Shawnees from
1200 a.d. to 1750 a.d.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman";">Work by Charles Whittlesley suggests
otherwise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or perhaps he knew of a
site other than the Brown’s Island one, recorded in the archaeological ledgers
as site 46HK8.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whittlesley noted
in the American Antiquarian and Oriental Journal that Newburgh founding father
Michael Myers “saw from the south shore of the river, opposite the head of
Brown’s Island, an Indian at work on the flat rocks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He shot the Indian, and, getting to the island on a raft, he
saw effigies of animals, among them that of a deer which the Indian had partly
executed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman";">Using the Deer Rock incident as
conclusive evidence, Whittlesley went on to write.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It is nearly demonstrated that they are not the work of the
Mound Builders unless that race and the historical Indian are one.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman";">Indeed, on the last page of Dr. E. R.
Giesly’s epic poem about Myers, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stalwart
Auver, </i>is a drawing of a boulder with 1797 on top, and below this date are
several crude drawn images.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What
they represent is indistinguishable because of the poor quality of print.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman";">One petroglyph site overlooked by Swauger
was thought by antiquarian James McBride to be situated above the old Half Moon
Farm on the West Virginia side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On
July 4, 1838, McBride crossed the river from Cable’s Eddy, present day Pottery
Addition.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman";">“We found the rock lying on the Virginia
side of the river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It lies about
three feet above low water mark, having a flat surface of about nine feet by
seven inclining a little toward water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is of hard stone, and all over the surface are various figures cut
and sunk into the hard rock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Amongst these figures are rude representations of the human form, tracks
of human feet representing the bare foot and print of toes as if made in soft
mud, tracks of horses, turkeys and a rabbit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Several figures of snakes, a turtle and other figures not
understood.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman";">During that period existed another
landmark bearing the title “half moon,” a wing dam opposite the head of
present-day Hancock County and perhaps the petroglyph about which McBride wrote
sat farther north than the farm on the big bend of the river.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman";">“One (carving) represents a wild turkey
and is about life size,” wrote Joseph B. Doyle in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">History of Jefferson County.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></i>“Stretched across its neck, apparently in flight, is a wild goose
with neck extended at full length.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The heart of the goose is indicated by a small circle, with a line
extending to the head.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman";">Other figures carved into this rock
included a fox, a bear and some outlines of feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doyle wrote that the rock bearing these figures stood at the
upper entrance of Holliday’s Cove, now downtown Weirton.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman";">One of the prominent Indian carvings upon
the Brown’s Island site that James L. Swauger had investigated were two sand
hill cranes approximately four meters square.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Curiously, like one goose at the Half Moon site, the heart
of one crane is represented by a small circle with three lines running to the
neck.</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2PFwJRxgYfM/UGccwssO4TI/AAAAAAAAARk/_JdBXAQ-SoA/s1600/smiths+ferry+petroglyphs.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2PFwJRxgYfM/UGccwssO4TI/AAAAAAAAARk/_JdBXAQ-SoA/s320/smiths+ferry+petroglyphs.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Petroglyphs at Smith's Ferry, Pennsylvania. These flat rocks abounded on shoreline before submerged by modern dams.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kNSNgIAAD3w/UGccZAAC7kI/AAAAAAAAARc/pa7ppj377FA/s1600/petroglyphs+browns+island.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="305" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kNSNgIAAD3w/UGccZAAC7kI/AAAAAAAAARc/pa7ppj377FA/s320/petroglyphs+browns+island.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sandhill cranes petroglyph of Brown's island.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span face="" style="font-family: "times new roman";">Could this petroglyph site and the other
three be one and the same or four separate sites?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps even archaeologists will never know because these
sites and the others along this 30-mile stretch of history have probably been
permanently submerged with the erection of the modern high-rise dams.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com2Steubenville, OH, USA40.3697905 -80.63396379999998912.059556663821155 -115.79021379999999 68.680024336178846 -45.477713799999989tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-7876330537077416112012-05-07T15:50:00.004-04:002020-08-30T09:33:12.017-04:00THE NATION'S FIRST WORLD WAR I MONUMENT<br /><br /><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>TORONTO, OHIO LAYS CLAIM TO THIS DISTINCTION</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p6BvBQpUqNM/T6gkkujxbMI/AAAAAAAAAPw/vqm3uJWVgaI/s1600/moretti.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p6BvBQpUqNM/T6gkkujxbMI/AAAAAAAAAPw/vqm3uJWVgaI/s320/moretti.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">GUIESSEPPI MORETTI</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hHtZh-4LStw/T6gnQ9MKonI/AAAAAAAAAQA/UxBiEEgi06g/s1600/Toronto+Statue.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hHtZh-4LStw/T6gnQ9MKonI/AAAAAAAAAQA/UxBiEEgi06g/s320/Toronto+Statue.jpg" width="210" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">THE COUNTRY'S FIRST WORLD WAR I MEMORIAL</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Despite
its Canadian name, Toronto, Ohio has always been a city of patriotism and
fierce national pride as currently displayed by its array of American flags
lining its streets. But never was
Toronto’s patriotism more fervid than when it unveiled the nation’s first
monument dedicated to the American soldiers and sailors who had fought in World
War I.</div>
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It
was November 11, 1919, Armistice Day, one year after hostilities of the great
war had ended that as many as an estimated 12,000 to 15,000 people amassed in
Toronto streets, which were decorated with patriotic colors from one end of the
river-edged town to the other.
These spectators watched a parade of 3,000 marchers, led by 250
soldiers, sailors and marines, trailed by the Toronto band, various civic
organizations, as well as 800 school children all carrying tiny American flags.</div>
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After
the paraded concluded, the soldiers marched to town square where the War
Commission awarded the servicemen bronze medals and made a few speeches, and
then the honored defenders and public dignitaries crossed Market Street to the
First Presbyterian Church where they ate a chicken diner prepared under the direction
of Mrs. Mary Hanna and assisted and sponsored by the Daughters of America.</div>
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After
diner, the servicemen stepped outside under mild mid-autumn weather across to
town square as the shadow of the five-ton statue canted eastward under the
two-o’clock sun. A large white
cross now loomed on a platform before the veiled monument and standing before
it were eleven girls clad in white, clasping a red rose, each girl representing
the ten fallen sons and one fallen daughter of the Toronto area.</div>
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The
crowd of 3,000, settled and quiet, watched with eager anticipation a Miss
McClean draw the cord encasing the ten-foot high monument that many of them had
personally contributed to financially.
As Miss McClean swept her arm toward the glistening bronze statue, the
crowd erupted into resounding applause.</div>
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Present
at the unveiling was Guiesseppe Moretti, whom the Toronto War Board had
commissioned to sculpt the monument, of which the artist stated, “It represents
the glorious liberty with the American soldiers and sailors by her side.”</div>
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Moretti,
62 years of age at the ceremonies, was an Italian émigré who had gained fame in
America for his public monuments cast in bronze and marble, most notably his
work “Vulcan” in Birmingham, Alabama, still the largest cast iron statue in the
world. Other important works of
his included the Stephen Collins Foster memorial and the entrance to Highland
Park in Pittsburgh, where he had resided much of his life.</div>
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Moretti
was known as an eclectic personality who always wore a green tie. Undoubtedly he was wearing his
trademark color as he stepped off the podium, standing before the towering
five-ton memorial he had completed in just six months.</div>
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Next
United States Congressman Benjamin Frank Murphy took the platform. Murphy, a Republican representing the
district, won election for six successive terms. He gave a brief speech of welcome to the crowd and
servicemen and then introduced keynote speaker William D. Upshaw, recently
elected by Georgia voters to Congress.</div>
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A
son of a Confederate soldier and a staunch Southern Baptist, Upshaw was a
strong supporter of the temperance movement, so much, in fact, he was known as
the “driest of drys.” Prior to his
election to Congress, Upshaw served as vice president for the Anti-Saloon
League and was instrumental with making prohibition a Georgia law by 1907.</div>
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Upshaw,
suffering from a spinal injury that occurred at age 18, and now 52, leaned upon
crutches as he addressed the crowd with his passionate deep Southern
drawl. “I congratulate Toronto,
Ohio on being the first community in America to erect and dedicate a monument
to the glory of the living and the memory of the dead who fought for the safety
of America and for the living of the world.”</div>
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After
several minutes of continued praise for the town’s patriotism and for its being
a role model as an American melting pot, Upshaw segued into sermonizing upon
the other war that was threatening the individual’s freedom. “…in order that America may be kept
clean for them—for those who come back to us in buoyant manhood or stagger back
to us maimed or blind, reaching out their hands for encouragement from the
nation for which they offered their all.
We have learned that if it required a sober citizen to live well and
teaching this vital lesson to the nations now new-born in their freedom from
autocracy, but still shackled by the slavery of drink, is America’s new mission
to the peoples who have been set free.”</div>
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Ironically,
Upshaw’s visit to the Gem City failed to influence the citizens’ attitude
toward consumption of alcoholic beverages because a little more than 50 years
later in 1970, a poll conducted by “Time Magazine” listed Toronto the city
consuming the most alcohol per capita in the United States.</div>
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In
1932, Upshaw ran as presidential candidate for the Prohibition Party against
Franklin D. Roosevelt, who favored the repeal of prohibition, and was
overwhelmingly defeated.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-np9iSDW8EYE/T6gkQXmBaAI/AAAAAAAAAPo/1Z66UH8EvvU/s1600/William_Upshaw+2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-np9iSDW8EYE/T6gkQXmBaAI/AAAAAAAAAPo/1Z66UH8EvvU/s320/William_Upshaw+2.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">William D. Upshaw</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5Ph2H9y-tXo/T_tA977H1iI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/BXj38ouJJu8/s1600/fort-wayne+exterior.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5Ph2H9y-tXo/T_tA977H1iI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/BXj38ouJJu8/s320/fort-wayne+exterior.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lamplight Assisted Living Coming to Toronto soon.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In
2004, the Soldiers and Sailors Monument was restored by the Toronto
Beautification Committee and accepted in the National Register of Historic
Places.</div>Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com2Toronto, OH 43964, USA40.4642335 -80.60090579999999212.153999663821153 -115.75715579999999 68.774467336178844 -45.444655799999992tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-71302430320718555782012-05-07T09:48:00.007-04:002020-08-30T09:33:47.703-04:00KAUL FIELD REVISITED<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">HISTORIC SPORTS VENUE OF TORONTO, OHIO</div>
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Hallowed
is the ground where the glinted steel spikes of summer and autumn once trod in
the north end of Toronto.</div>
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This small piece
of earth, Kaul Field, where the bowling alley currently sits parallel to the
1100 block of Fifth Street, served as home field for some of Toronto’s most
revered sports heroes, including Pick Nalley, Gabby Kunzler, Clarke and Gordie
Hinkle and Hook Comer.</div>
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Soon
after the turn of the Twentieth Century baseball became vogue in the Gem City,
with a semi-pro team, the Toronto Athletic Club, dominating most local
nines. At Kaul Field, the TAC
hosted other semi-pros from the area and sometimes others of higher caliber.</div>
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“The
Pittsburgh Pirates came barnstorming into town along with Honus Wagner,” John
Petras said. “I can’t remember who
won, but yes they did play in Toronto.”</div>
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Petras,
now resides in Royal Oak, Michigan, is the son of John Petras Sr., who was a
member of the TAC before World War I and played alongside Pick Nalley, Wenzel
Straka and other founding fathers of baseball in the Gem City.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: -0.25in;"><span> <span> <span> <span> At the end of the 1918 Pittsburgh Pirates' season, Bill Mekechnie dropped out of baseball and moved his family to little Toronto where he took up a position of sales for Kaul Clay. He also set up a grocery in the Daniels </span></span></span></span>Building. The following year, Mekechnie became player-coach for the Toronto Athletic Club and convinced no retired Pittsburgh Pirates legend Honus Wagner to play games for Toronto on weekends. Both would eventually be inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--mWGpvglWMU/Xz7Q3awv8BI/AAAAAAAAGzU/WpCFAujRdOYFItzEfr1Fj6qcM98HaVkfQCPcBGAsYHg/s719/IMG_9938.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="719" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--mWGpvglWMU/Xz7Q3awv8BI/AAAAAAAAGzU/WpCFAujRdOYFItzEfr1Fj6qcM98HaVkfQCPcBGAsYHg/w267-h320/IMG_9938.JPG" width="267" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Honus Wagner</td></tr></tbody></table></div>
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A
wooden fence enclosed Kaul Field then, but sometime around the 1920s the only
wooden structure remaining was the grandstand framing the home plate area at
the site approximately where the cul-de-sac is today on Fifth Street.</div>
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It
was this period that Toronto resident Tom McKelvey remembers well. “Kaul Field was used for baseball in
the summer and football in the fall,” McKelvey said. “We had church leagues five nights a week, Monday through
Friday. Every church had a team. The best team was always St. Francis,
who we called back then the Mickeys”</div>
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McKelvey
also has fond memories of the semi-pro football club, the Toronto Tigers, when
professional football was at its infancy and germinating in northeastern Ohio.</div>
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“The
Toronto Tigers played their games at home in the fall months in front of good
crowds,” McKelvey said. “The train
pulled in across the field and the opposing players and fans stepped off; then
walked to the field.”</div>
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According
to McKelvey, the Toronto Tigers and their opponents played with fierce
competition, locals occasionally being replaced by ringers--college athletes
playing for dough under aliases.</div>
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“I
heard two Ohio State players came in playing for 100 or 200 dollars. Fats Henry came in from Washington and
Jefferson. Henry would later play
for the Canton Bulldogs and become inducted in the Hall of Fame”</div>
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Some
of the Toronto standouts included the Ferris brothers and Hook Comer. Comer had a short stint at fullback
with the Canton Bulldogs alongside Henry and the great Jim Thorpe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: -0.25in;">
Toronto
High School also staged its football games at Kaul Field prior to 1930. McKelvey’s father, Tom Sr., took young
Tom to watch his first game, a match-up between Toronto and Warwood.</div>
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“There
were no lights back then,” McKelvey said.
“The games were held in the afternoon. There were ropes stretched along the sidelines to keep us
from coming onto the field.”</div>
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Kaul
Field was used for other endeavors beside sports during that era. McKelvey said a traditional ox roast
was held at the grounds around Thanksgiving Day.</div>
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“I
remember the kids from the north end ice skated in the winter there,” Vince Exterovich,
a 1942 THS graduated said. “There
was a pond, actually a marshy area that froze over during the winter. Mostly north end kids skated there.”</div>
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Exterovich
resided at Sixth Street back then, considering himself a south ender. Today, the line separating the two ends
of the Gem City runs east to west along Main Street, making the southern end
larger in area than the older north. All of Sixth Street today is located what is considered the
north end. </div>
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“The
south end wasn’t developed in those days,” McKelvey said. “It was mostly farms and Sloane’s.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: -0.25in;">
During
the Forties and the Fifties, with the emergence of Little League at newly built
Memorial Park and the development of the south end with its new schools, Kaul
Field was reduced to a sandlot until it ceased to exist at all with the
construction of Toronto Lanes around 1960.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cVUbJswyk-E/T6fQ9eDzJCI/AAAAAAAAAPU/7q-65z_KPPI/s1600/Kauls+Field.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="193" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cVUbJswyk-E/T6fQ9eDzJCI/AAAAAAAAAPU/7q-65z_KPPI/s320/Kauls+Field.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">T-formation from the Toronto High School band on Kaul Field.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jeF4EAg3-Ho/T6fSGUHLUWI/AAAAAAAAAPc/M8Zj1sgd9-o/s1600/T.A.C..JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="196" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jeF4EAg3-Ho/T6fSGUHLUWI/AAAAAAAAAPc/M8Zj1sgd9-o/s320/T.A.C..JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1913 Toronto Athletic Club</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
“The
field was very important,” McKelvey said.
“It was our arena. Kaul
Field was the center of ououtdoor sports for Toronto back then.”</div>Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-5580389450632077752012-02-08T10:30:00.002-05:002020-08-30T09:34:27.111-04:001940s Aerial Photos of Toronto<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-67G8XsbQ9Iw/TzKYJwCBS0I/AAAAAAAAAOU/HvD_2t-bp7o/s1600/power+plant+002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="464" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-67G8XsbQ9Iw/TzKYJwCBS0I/AAAAAAAAAOU/HvD_2t-bp7o/s640/power+plant+002.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The former Jeddo, Ohio and Follansbee Steel. Note the village of Jeddo across from the north of the mill and the farmland before the construction of S. C. Dennis School. At the lower left of photo are remnants of the dam once as the Dike. It ran diagonally from the tip of Brown's Island to just downstream from the mouth of Jeddo Run.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-djAAL35dZKw/TzKYWR9WxWI/AAAAAAAAAOc/8CTHIs2SoLg/s1600/power+plant+003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="464" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-djAAL35dZKw/TzKYWR9WxWI/AAAAAAAAAOc/8CTHIs2SoLg/s640/power+plant+003.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">South end view of Toronto Power Plant where a town once named Calumet sat. At top of picture, barely discernible is Dam Number 9.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_F2ied6pxUI/TzKZOm7PZvI/AAAAAAAAAOs/dsq8-mcgA-0/s1600/power+plant+004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="464" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_F2ied6pxUI/TzKZOm7PZvI/AAAAAAAAAOs/dsq8-mcgA-0/s640/power+plant+004.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The former Stratton Clay works sat where the present day Lime operations of the W.H. Sammis Plant are. Just left of center is Stratton Heights, minus the park.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--ijr-zZ3fEE/TzKY0ModvWI/AAAAAAAAAOk/40_RgXoSUvA/s1600/power+plant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="464" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--ijr-zZ3fEE/TzKY0ModvWI/AAAAAAAAAOk/40_RgXoSUvA/s640/power+plant.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Overhead few from north of old Toronto Power Plant and old Route Seven.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DezGPDh6Sig/TzKXfXNVHpI/AAAAAAAAAOM/WLKDLZqiEcQ/s1600/power+plant+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="464" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DezGPDh6Sig/TzKXfXNVHpI/AAAAAAAAAOM/WLKDLZqiEcQ/s640/power+plant+001.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At lower left just showing is old St. Francis Convent across from new convent built around 1960. Also, below old overhead bridge are houses standing along Railroad Street and a chemical plant on lot where present fire hall stands. Prominent along lower Jefferson Street are vacant lots. Note across the river is East Toronto, still with residencies.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com1Toronto, OH 43964, USA40.4642335 -80.60090579999999212.153999663821153 -115.75715579999999 68.774467336178844 -45.444655799999992tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-67096724546375678672011-12-19T17:28:00.001-05:002020-08-30T09:35:01.749-04:00Farewell to old Clarke Hinkle Field<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M2osaJFXeWY/Tu-1862NKFI/AAAAAAAAALc/m18Lv5ecIoU/s1600/IMG_0289.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M2osaJFXeWY/Tu-1862NKFI/AAAAAAAAALc/m18Lv5ecIoU/s200/IMG_0289.JPG" width="161" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clarke Hinkle</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GQL1y1tryjI/Tu-2X5f6--I/AAAAAAAAALk/CntGli4Pj24/s1600/IMG_2686.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GQL1y1tryjI/Tu-2X5f6--I/AAAAAAAAALk/CntGli4Pj24/s320/IMG_2686.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Members of 1970 team, left to right: Joe Chadwick, Bob Petras, Dan Baker, Larry Hughes.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1FwffO-uJrg/Tu-2mK0zBRI/AAAAAAAAALs/ePVzR2_q558/s1600/IMG_2688.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1FwffO-uJrg/Tu-2mK0zBRI/AAAAAAAAALs/ePVzR2_q558/s320/IMG_2688.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pre-game gathering</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bJ8Ob0iqhks/Tu-2vXDBWmI/AAAAAAAAAL0/dui93uy4qhY/s1600/IMG_2689.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bJ8Ob0iqhks/Tu-2vXDBWmI/AAAAAAAAAL0/dui93uy4qhY/s320/IMG_2689.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red Knights Forever</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PTPiPox2CWI/Tu-2612OMPI/AAAAAAAAAL8/JeenS2cxnbM/s1600/IMG_2622.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PTPiPox2CWI/Tu-2612OMPI/AAAAAAAAAL8/JeenS2cxnbM/s320/IMG_2622.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View From South End </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kOnwX8lamH8/Tu-3Cn27NOI/AAAAAAAAAME/kJ3_Xpnuc7w/s1600/IMG_2691.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kOnwX8lamH8/Tu-3Cn27NOI/AAAAAAAAAME/kJ3_Xpnuc7w/s320/IMG_2691.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ron Paris Jr., Ron Paris Sr., Head Coach Ralph Anastasio</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vM8wtrS--X4/Tu-3MSmyw2I/AAAAAAAAAMM/9YdbY8MM9Kk/s1600/IMG_2692.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vM8wtrS--X4/Tu-3MSmyw2I/AAAAAAAAAMM/9YdbY8MM9Kk/s320/IMG_2692.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bob Chadwick, THS Class of 1974 and West Point graduate.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GP4IT5WNxTw/Tu-3XwPzpRI/AAAAAAAAAMU/Fk5gj4BHHVM/s1600/IMG_2693.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GP4IT5WNxTw/Tu-3XwPzpRI/AAAAAAAAAMU/Fk5gj4BHHVM/s320/IMG_2693.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chuck Walker, late 60s guard and linebacker.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fxKWHc8ljRM/Tu-3hhCmKbI/AAAAAAAAAMc/BCjWMsD27ug/s1600/IMG_2702.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fxKWHc8ljRM/Tu-3hhCmKbI/AAAAAAAAAMc/BCjWMsD27ug/s320/IMG_2702.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brian Zorbini, running back, early 90s.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Pr2KNJfwpY8/Tu-3wGOWoPI/AAAAAAAAAMk/4Gsnkkozm_Y/s1600/IMG_2705.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Pr2KNJfwpY8/Tu-3wGOWoPI/AAAAAAAAAMk/4Gsnkkozm_Y/s320/IMG_2705.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red Knight mascot leading the final charge.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com0Toronto, OH 43964, USA40.4642335 -80.60090579999999212.153999663821153 -115.75715579999999 68.774467336178844 -45.444655799999992tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-81901166776423332042010-12-04T10:13:00.001-05:002020-08-30T09:35:45.525-04:00HALL OF FAME CITY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/TPpcHss9WJI/AAAAAAAAAKo/5Iy2hIErcio/s1600/sutherin_don.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/TPpcHss9WJI/AAAAAAAAAKo/5Iy2hIErcio/s320/sutherin_don.jpg" width="240" /></a></div> It's neither Cooperstown, New York nor Canton, Ohio, but few towns the size of the Gem City can claim that five professional hall of fame athletes once called the ball fields of Toronto, Ohio home.<br />
Receiving his first shot of professional football here at the old Kaul Field was Wilbur "Fats" Henry, an All American lineman from the College of Washington and Jefferson. "Those were rough and tumble days," the late Tom McKelvey said about the 1920s. "Doc Kilgus was the owner of the Toronto Tigers and was trying to build up the team with outside players. One of those was Fats Henry, fresh out of college."<br />
Henry would go on to play and coach for the Canton Bulldogs, and in 1926, he brought up Toronto native John Comer for one game. Wearing number 3, Comer carried the ball once for one yard, giving him the distinction of being Toronto's first professional football player.<br />
Henry is both a member of the College Football Hall of Fame and the National League Hall of Fame.<br />
The Gem City athlete to next join the professional football ranks was Clarke Hinkle, after whom the high school stadium is named. Carl Snavey, his coach at Bucknell University said of the Lackawanna Express, "Without a doubt, the greatest defensive back I have ever coached." Hinkle became a three-time All American at Bucknell and then went on to play with the Green Bay Packers from 1932 to 1941, a period this fullback-linebacker became the NFL's all time leading rusher with 3,860 yards.<br />
In 1964, the NFL enshrined Hinkle in Canton and the NCAA in 1971.<br />
Two decades later, continuing the proud gridiron traditions of Toronto was Don Sutherin, a 1954 graduate of THS.<br />
Sutherin, of course, is best remembered for kicking the winning field goal of the 1958 Rose Bowl for Ohio State, but, locally, he and fellow classmate George Deiderich have the distinction of being the only two future professional football players to have paired at THS at the same time, from 1949 to 1953. During their senior season, the two future Canadian Football League players performed on a squad that produced four wins, four losses and one tie.<br />
The New York Giants drafted Sutherin as a defensive back in 1959. He played for the Giants part of that season and then played with the Pittsburgh Steelers the remainder of the year and the 1960 season. Sutherin then took his talents north to the Hamilton Tiger Cats and played in the CFL for 12 years, participating in eight Grey Cups, his team winning four.<br />
By the time he retired, Sutherin held 18 CFL records. He was inducted into the CFL Hall of Fame in 1992.<br />
Toronto contributed to the Baseball Hall of Fame, as well. Pittsburgh Pirate shortstop Honus Wagner often brought several teammates to barnstorm against local clubs. He also played for the Toronto Athletic Club.<br />
In <i>The Era of Elegance </i>author Walter M. Kestner wrote, "Wagner, in the twilight of his years of his career, played in Toronto where he alternated with Lawrence Hughes on the all star team managed by Doc Kilgus."<br />
Kilgus also recruited for the all star squad Boston Red Sox outfielder John Bates and Chicago Cub catcher Tom Needham, both from Jefferson County.<br />
One hall of fame athlete who did get away from the Gem City was Rollie Fingers, whose father George played for Class D Williamstown in the Mountain State League in 1938.<br />
The Fingers family resided at 601 Clark Street. Around when Rollie was ten years old, father George, fed up with working at Wheeling Steel in Steubenville, decided to move the family to California.<br />
Rollie went on to play 18 seasons in the major leagues, pioneering the role of closing pitcher while recording 341 career saves.<br />
He was inducted into Cooperstown in 1992.Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-13532736977287281332010-09-08T13:25:00.002-04:002020-08-30T09:36:32.871-04:00RETURN TO THE CORNER MARKET<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/TIfLZrhIhiI/AAAAAAAAAKg/842zCInQUck/s1600/baby+pool+019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/TIfLZrhIhiI/AAAAAAAAAKg/842zCInQUck/s640/baby+pool+019.jpg" width="466" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1935 Advertisement from old Victory Market</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/TIfKvW1Eg4I/AAAAAAAAAKY/2Y1KyaKyY34/s1600/Melhorne+Cap.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/TIfKvW1Eg4I/AAAAAAAAAKY/2Y1KyaKyY34/s400/Melhorne+Cap.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Melhorn Dairy sold not only its own products, but also that which you purchased on the typical corner market of the period. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/TIfKYLSWqlI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/kQkJuZ_JhcY/s1600/Barnums+Store.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/TIfKYLSWqlI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/kQkJuZ_JhcY/s640/Barnums+Store.JPG" width="604" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barnum's Stores, Fourth Street, early 1900s</td></tr>
</tbody></table> The corner market, like penny candy inside glass counters, has long disappeared from Gem City neighborhoods, but has left sweet memories and a rich history.<br />
With the development of Toronto during the late 1800s came the arrival of the neighborhood market, its numbers increasing as the town expanded southward, peaking during the 1950s and 1960s when nearly 8,000 people inhabited the river town. As many as 20 small markets were in business during that period, usually family owned and operated, the family often residing in the same building that contained the store.<br />
From Romey's, Karaffa's and Brem's in the north end to Calabrese's and Didd's at the south, a Toronto resident could walk within a few minutes to purchase bread, milk, lunch meat and other daily groceries. One street, Federal, had three such stores-Frank's, Wasyk's and Smitty's--on three successive city blocks.<br />
"Most families had only one car back then," said Mike Swaykus, who was owner and manager of the former Mike's Market, where now sits the empty Olive Branch. "While the father worked, the kids or mother could walk to a store to get whatever they needed."<br />
Karaffa's Store, catty-corner from the present Tucker's Tavern, was the small grocery with which the Swaykus family dealt when Mike was growing up.<br />
"My family had an account there," Swaykus said. "I remember my mom would call Karaffa's and order a pound of bologna, a rump roast or a bag of potatoes, and Joe Karaffa would deliver them to our home on any day of the week. My mom would always settle the bill on pay day. That kind of thing is a thing of the past."<br />
Handshake accounts and home deliveries are two childhood memories for Liz Fedash, who lived on the 900 block of Loretta Avenue, where Katz's was the neighborhood grocer from the 1930s to the 1950s.<br />
As a teenager during the late 1940s, Fedash cleaned the Katzes' upstairs apartment and worked filling orders at Calabrese's, then located at Pierce and Wentworth.<br />
"Katz's was like a general store," Fedash said. "They sold produce, meats and penny candy. They were really nice people. Many times my mom needed milk on Sunday, and they would open the store for us. You don't get that kind of service today.<br />
"When I went to pay my family's bills, regardless of how much we paid, Mr. Katz would always give me a bag of candy," she continued. "The Katzes would always send us gifts on Christmas, which I thought was especially nice since they didn't celebrate Christmas because they were Jewish."<br />
Friendliness was also a familiar trait with the Calabrese family, for whom Fedash worked filling orders.<br />
"They took call-in orders. They sold meats and produce and beer by the cases and delivered all over town," she said.<br />
Vince Exterovich, who grew up on Sixth Street during the 1930s and early 1940s, described McClane's on the same street as "a very small store where you could buy some canned goods and bread."<br />
He also mentioned Russell's on Findley, north of the old Roosevelt School and and the Victory Market on downtown Fourth Street. "They were very friendly," Exterovich said of downtown store owners. "They would always speak to me."<br />
Just north of downtown was the old Ralph's Golden Crown Store, which the Swaykus family purchased in 1976 and renamed Mike's, a store with a name that reflected the first-name basis values of the traditional corner market.<br />
"I can honestly say at one time I knew half the people in town by their first names," Swaykus said.<br />
He attributed the demise of the corner market to the ownership of more than one family vehicle and the competition with franchise markets.<br />
"The small grocer started declining in town during the 1970's," he said. "Families could then drive to look for better prices."<br />
Mike's, the last corner market in town, went out of business in 1998.Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com0Toronto, OH 43964, USA40.4642335 -80.60090579999999212.153999663821153 -115.75715579999999 68.774467336178844 -45.444655799999992tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-42063497992799521472010-08-29T11:16:00.002-04:002020-08-30T09:37:19.133-04:00THE OLD TORONTO POOL<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/THp4Gt8QQTI/AAAAAAAAAJY/9ZAGa_BBrqA/s1600/9463.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="396" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/THp4Gt8QQTI/AAAAAAAAAJY/9ZAGa_BBrqA/s640/9463.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking east from Little League ball field.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/THp4CYC0nMI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/5v8Z-l2xhqc/s1600/,.:v.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="419" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/THp4CYC0nMI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/5v8Z-l2xhqc/s640/,.:v.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Add caption</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/THp4PzZx1-I/AAAAAAAAAJg/20kxmLv3_oQ/s1600/baby+pool+003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/THp4PzZx1-I/AAAAAAAAAJg/20kxmLv3_oQ/s640/baby+pool+003.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby Pool, circa 1956</td></tr>
</tbody></table> In the mind's eye, the best way to lap around the old Toronto Memorial Pool would not be performed by swimming around its white-walled basin.<br />
Rather, it would be by padding barefoot along the gritty, puddled concrete deck, past the powder-blue sliding board, past the white wooden lifeguard chairs, past the buoyed rope separating the shallow and deep sides of the topaz water and then onto the high and low diving boards, the stroll enriched with the shrieks and laughter of children, the piercing whistle of a teenage lifeguard, the coconut aroma of Coppertone suntan lotion mixed with the pungent taste of chlorine while the Beach Boys "Good Vibrations" blares from a transistor radio.<br />
The stroll back in time is nearly complete when the aluminum ladder of a diving board is ascended, the fiberglass bows and catapults, and a "kerplunk" resounds and soon follows is the well angled geyser of a can-opener, drenching the few fully clad adults leaning upon the white railing of the spectator section, the lap finished, the water receding and receding--swept away with the waves of nostalgia.<br />
For a little more than three decades, the Toronto Memorial Pool provided local youths with their primary source of summer recreation and social activity and, years later, still fresh memories.<br />
John Romey, longtime recreation supervisor and civic leader in the Gem City, grew up during the 1950s, putting in plenty of recreational time at Memorial Park.<br />
"The old pool was exactly the same as the one at Marland Heights in Weirton," he said. "Identical. There were two levels. The bottom level was for women and men to change clothes, the same level the present pool is located.<br />
"It was fun, exciting for a kid," continued Romey. "We had pretty good crowds. People came to view as spectators."<br />
Being a longtime recreation supervisor, Romey pointed out that many laws regarding the operation and maintenance of a municipal pool have changed, including one from a period that did not shine so brightly in the Gem City.<br />
"Way back in the beginning, it was segregated," Romey said about the town's swimming pool. "I could never understand it. That was a part of segregation those days. It was not unique to Toronto. It was part of the times."<br />
African-Americans were granted access to Memorial Park Pool only on Tuesday. Segregation ended at the public facility around 1966, two years after President Lyndon Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act of 1964.<br />
A lesser change occurring to the park, Romey recollected, was the positioning of the Little League ball field, which sits approximately 30 feet in elevation above the current Olympics-style pool. In 1951, the first year of junior baseball in town, Romey played catcher for Kaul Clay.<br />
"Home plate was where the concession stand now is," he said. "Below left center was where the pool stood. It was always a dream for me to hit a home run into the pool. Of course, I never came close."<br />
A decade and a few years later was the era another longtime Toronto resident, Mark Rebres, fondly remembers.<br />
Rebres said that a typical summer day started out walking with friends Paul Morris and Tommy Lang from their Clark Street homes to the pool, their suits rolled up in towels, and then participating in morning swim lessons. They would return home and walk back to Memorial Park to swim again.<br />
"You picked up wire baskets with numbers from behind the counter," Rebres said upon paying the ten-cent admission fee. "You had to walk on the wet, cold, musty concrete all the way around and step into a little tub of water right before you took the steps to the pool deck."<br />
Rebres said that the pool and its lifeguards had their own peculiar rules. "You were supposed to be able to swim the width of the pool before you were allowed to go off the dives. You would get yelled at by lifeguards for hanging on the ropes separating the shallow and deep ends."<br />
Clinging on to happy pool memories of the period is Karen Walker, who lived a Frisbee's throw away from the pool on Jefferson Street and walked from there to work at the concession stand.<br />
"I remember all the kids coming up to the concession stand," Walker said. "It was penny candy. You could get a lot for your nickel then."<br />
During that time, the Trenton Street-based Melhorn's Dairy provided many of the pool's refreshments, including banana Fudge Sicles and blueberry, cherry, root beer, orange, lemon, lime and even licorice Popsicles. "Fudge Sicles were seven cents. Popsicles were a nickel," Walker said. "Kids would ask you at the beginning of the day if they could pick up papers around the playground so that they could get ten cents worth of candy. It's hard to believe what you would do for ten cents back in those days."<br />
Besides working at the concession stand, the 1971 Toronto High School graduate spent plenty of time at the pool level. "That was a hangout," she said about evening swim parties. "The big thing was whether you got thrown in with your clothes on." Traditionally the old pool opened on Memorial Day and closed on Labor Day, but on closing day the park staged its biggest events of the swimming season and sponsored races, diving competitions and stunts, the crowning of Little Miss Lions and dances at the tennis court.<br />
"You would have to go hours before so that you could get a seat," Walker said about the pools Labor Day festivities. "Some people would be sitting on top of the monkey bars."<br />
The last year for operation of the old Memorial Park pool was 1980, being replaced the following year at the same site by the current Olympics-style model.<br />
<br />
Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com7Toronto, OH 43964, USA40.4642335 -80.60090579999999212.153999663821153 -115.75715579999999 68.774467336178844 -45.444655799999992tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-20766094532459111242010-01-09T09:57:00.003-05:002020-08-30T09:39:40.364-04:00TORONTO'S FIRST PROFESSIONAL FOOTBALL PLAYER<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/S0iZrnDt1cI/AAAAAAAAAIY/xU6O0JfQokM/s1600-h/History%2520Toronto%25208.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/S0iZrnDt1cI/AAAAAAAAAIY/xU6O0JfQokM/s320/History%2520Toronto%25208.jpg" /></a></div> Many men would give their souls to play just one game in the National Football League, but it was the heart of Toronto Tiger legend John "Hook" Comer that gave him that single opportunity.<br />
During the first quarter of the 20th Century, football players participated for the love of a game with crude equipment and often with equally crude treatment. Those playing for semi-professional teams, such as the Toronto Tigers, supplemented their primary jobs at the local clay works with a few extra bucks against such notable teams as the Akron Silents, Bradley Eagles, Dusquesne Apprentice and various Ohio Valley clubs.<br />
"Those were rough and tough days the way they dressed and talked," said Tom McKelvey, who watched many semi-pro games during their heyday in the Gem City. "I remember before one game the Toronto coach had his players diving into a mud puddle by the old home plate to practice recovering fumbles."<br />
Out of the most physical and punishing era of football emerged one athlete, John S. "Hook" Comer, standing 6'3" and weighing 180 pounds.<br />
"My father told me Hook Comer could kick the ball almost the length of the football field," John Petras Jr. said.<br />
"They said he could throw the football 100 yards," McKelvey said. "Of course, that's probably exaggeration."<br />
What isn't hyperbole was Comer's athleticism. Some old timers said he was equally gifted at running, kicking and passing.<br />
In his "Era of Elegance," author Walter M. Kestner gives this account of Comer: "As I recall the football of that era was much larger in diameter that that used today and consequently was much harder to throw. However, John Comer or Big Hook as he was called could grasp the ball and throw it with extreme accuracy. On one play particularly called the Formation A, Dave Ferris would lateral the ball to Hook, who would then throw a pass down field to Goose Mundy or Jim Condrim with a touchdown usually resulting from the play."<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/S0iUuBipCCI/AAAAAAAAAII/C-6DQZztmLI/s1600-h/CantonBulldogs1922.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/S0iUuBipCCI/AAAAAAAAAII/C-6DQZztmLI/s320/CantonBulldogs1922.gif" /></a></div> Accounts by both Kestner and McKelvey attest that the early Toronto Tiger teams consisted of local talent, but around 1920 Doc Kilgus, club owner, wanted to increase the talent pool in the Gem City.<br />
"Doc Kilgus brought in guys from out of town to build up the team," McKelvey said.<br />
Often these athletes were collegians playing under aliases for money to maintain their amateur status One such athlete was Pete "Fats" Henry, an All American tackle from Washington & Jefferson who played on the same side of Kaul Field with ringers and the few remaining legitimate locals, such as Hook Comer.<br />
Henry would go on to play with the Canton Bulldogs in 1920 and, as player-coach in 1926, he brought up fullback John "Hook" Comer, now 36 years of age and well past his prime. Wearing number 3, Comer played but one NFL game, carrying the ball once for one yard alongside 38-year-old Jim Thorpe.<br />
The Bulldogs that year finished with one win, nine losses and three ties--the worst record in the fledgling National Football League.<br />
In 1963, Henry was inducted into the NFL Hall of Fame, one year before Toronto and Green Bay legend Clarke Hinkle was enshrined, arguably giving the Gem City two members in Canton.<br />
Comer went on to become a well respected policeman in Toronto, serving with Hinkle's brother Les. He died in 1950 and is buried in Toronto Union Cemetery, not far from other Gem City legends, such as Clarke Hinkle and Pick Nalley.Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com2Toronto, OH 43964, USA40.4642335 -80.60090579999999212.153999663821153 -115.75715579999999 68.774467336178844 -45.444655799999992tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-22816782319910764712009-12-09T18:26:00.001-05:002020-08-30T09:40:41.119-04:00BILL JACO REMEMBERED<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/SyA6TFAnppI/AAAAAAAAAH4/JX6xjnMaJyk/s1600-h/DSC00717.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/SyA6TFAnppI/AAAAAAAAAH4/JX6xjnMaJyk/s320/DSC00717.JPG" /></a></div><br />
During the 60s, when I was growing up, I thought Toronto was nicknamed the Gem City because it had so many colorful characters like Nick Yanick, Singing Kate, Johnny Wasco, Chief, George Tarr, Joe Hitchcock, George Peckins, Naughty Dotty and many others. None, however, was more memorable than the man himself who said "the town's full of nuts"--Bill Jaco.<br />
My first recollection of Bill came at the old A & P where the abandoned Save-a-Lot now stands. My father was pushing a cartful of groceries to the family Ford while my mother was trying to herd her four children safely across the parking lot. "Push cart, push cart," Bill said, knowing this courtesy usually amounted to tips of dimes and quarters.<br />
"That's all right," my father replied, "I can handle it."<br />
Bill trailed us to our car, anyhow. As my father began stowing grocery sacks inside the trunk, Bill said, "Ford junk. Ford junk. Hit a bump and the seat falls down."<br />
I would later learn every model of car made was junk in Bill's estimation, except for funeral cars, not many of them being drove those days other than by Clarkie, of whom Bill said was goosey. <br />
To me, back then, Bill appeared as tall as Wilt Chamberlain, but in truth, during his prime, he stood, at tallest, six-foot, three-inches. He was naturally big-boned and broad shouldered and had a Santa Clause-like belly. Legends abounded about his strength, including being able to lift the rear end of a Volkswagen Beetle off the ground.<br />
When I was first married, my wife Debbie and I lived across the empty lot from Bill and his sister May at the top of Daniels Street. Many people were afraid to let their children go near Bill, but he was a gentle giant who would hold the hand of our daughter Sevy and walk her up and down the block.<br />
Bill did not know Monday from Tuesday or a weekday from the weekend, but he did know garbage day and took out the trash faithfully the evening before garbage day, and, on cue, the following morning, regaled the truck crew with his Jaconian philosophy, usually always referring to junk Fords and that Clarkie was goosey.<br />
Whenever I saw Bill toting an umbrella, I knew rain was probably coming sometime soon. The weather, however, never stopped Bill from taking his daily and evening strolls. Wherever Johnny's Pizza Shop was located, Bill would walk in that direction, or toward whoever was passing out free goodies to Bill--nearly everybody. I could always determine what Bill had eaten because half of it was smeared on the front of his shirt.<br />
Back then, Johnny's was the only pizza shop around, and it frequently moved. For a while it stood at the corner of Federal and Franklin, later next to the Manos Theater and still later in the heart of downtown Toronto. No matter the location and the change of pizza cooks, Bill would always be there, one minute calling my date "skinny girl," the next minute telling me, "Man marries girl something's loose."<br />
Bill almost always repeated his statements as though his diaphragm had a built-in echo chamber. He would sneak up behind you, poking his finger in your back, and in that signature flutey nasal voice, utter, "Whoops. Goosey. Goosey. Clarkie's goosey."<br />
The Dairy Aisle was another regular stop for Bill, who held an equal affection of free ice cream, courtesy of the Henry family. One evening, a young man coasted his car onto the Dairy Aisle parking lot, stopped by Bill and asked him directions for Kuhn's Hardware Store.<br />
Naturally, Bill assessed the man's car first and called it "a piece of junk." Then Bill said, "Turn up bay. Turn up bay. Drive junk by Clarkie's--by Clarkie's. Clarkie goosey. Clarkie goosey. Turn up bay."<br />
Frustrated the man crisscrossed his arms and yelled, "Just stop now; you're nuts!"<br />
Bill casually replied, "Ain't lost."<br />
Another signature quote of his was "push daddy." I could never quite determine what that one meant, but maybe it bore some reference to his old A & P days when pushing grocery carts was in vogue. Or just maybe he used such phrase to fill in conversation gaps. Bill was certainly not quiet or one for a loss of words.<br />
The seats of my cars have never fallen down, sometimes I agree with Bill that the town was full of nuts. About his assessment of marriage, I am going to have to plead the Fifth.<br />
"Push Daddy."<br />
Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com17Toronto, OH 43964, USA40.4642335 -80.60090579999999212.153999663821153 -115.75715579999999 68.774467336178844 -45.444655799999992tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-7564726175380287082009-12-08T17:11:00.002-05:002020-08-30T09:42:02.338-04:00WE ARE MARSHALL<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/Sx7MEabFkYI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/mHbg24aJeDI/s1600-h/DSC00706.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/Sx7MEabFkYI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/mHbg24aJeDI/s320/DSC00706.JPG" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/Sx7MXdluFNI/AAAAAAAAAHg/clgSNigA5p8/s1600-h/DSC00695.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/Sx7MXdluFNI/AAAAAAAAAHg/clgSNigA5p8/s320/DSC00695.JPG" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/Sx7MM1pKFxI/AAAAAAAAAHY/JtupRJKZruc/s1600-h/DSC00719.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/Sx7MM1pKFxI/AAAAAAAAAHY/JtupRJKZruc/s320/DSC00719.JPG" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/Sx7MpD_JWHI/AAAAAAAAAHo/MnYaUEFcdNc/s1600-h/DSC00702.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/Sx7MpD_JWHI/AAAAAAAAAHo/MnYaUEFcdNc/s320/DSC00702.JPG" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/Sx7M3KY1CxI/AAAAAAAAAHw/nKZB-rvEegY/s1600-h/DSC00714.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/Sx7M3KY1CxI/AAAAAAAAAHw/nKZB-rvEegY/s320/DSC00714.JPG" /></a></div><br />
Andy Warhol once said everybody has fifteen minutes of fame. Eight of my fifteen minutes probably were spent in the 2006 movie We Are Marshall, starring Matthew McConaughhey.<br />
Fellow THS 1971 graduate Bob Eshbaugh and I played on the Young Thundering herd team that followed the one devastated in the tragic plane crash November 14, 1970. We won two games that year, the big one against Xavier just our second contest of the 71 season.<br />
I tell everyone that I am the long-haired skinny blond kid who disrespectfully picks up the Falls City beer and drinks it inside Reggie Oliver's dorm room. I was probably the skinniest player on the team, undoubtedly the main reason my football career was short. Truth of the matter is that we were not allowed alcoholic drinks in our rooms. Even truer, I did not like Falls City, despite the fact it fit a college boy's budget.<br />
Despite the Hollywood fictionalizing of a true story and all the slow motion sport cliches, We Are Marshall conveys the loss, grief and suffering of a college and a community in an artistic and sensitive manner.<br />
I am very proud to have been a part of the rebirth of Marshall football.<br />
PICTURES: Me on the sidelines against Potomac State.<br />
My Young Thundering Herd Certificate<br />
Matthew McConaughey, who played head coach Jack Lengyel and Matthew Fox as assistant coach Red Dawson.<br />
Number 43 Bob Eshbaugh, holding football Jack Lengyel, number 58 me, Bob Petras.<br />
1971 football team and coaching staff--the Young Thundering Herd.Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com01 John Marshall Dr, Huntington, WV 25755, USA38.4235252 -82.42641449999999311.336096874269458 -117.58266449999999 65.510953525730542 -47.270164499999993tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5313944726309535384.post-81922629292216210462009-11-24T16:21:00.002-05:002020-08-30T09:42:51.227-04:00THE DIAMOND MINE OF YELLOW CREEK<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/SwxN1Q35QoI/AAAAAAAAAFg/2ygxxK_Ecls/s1600/DSCF0159.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/SwxN1Q35QoI/AAAAAAAAAFg/2ygxxK_Ecls/s320/DSCF0159.JPG" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/SwxOAbywbQI/AAAAAAAAAFo/ZVHmx4QQIBM/s1600/DSCF0163.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/SwxOAbywbQI/AAAAAAAAAFo/ZVHmx4QQIBM/s320/DSCF0163.JPG" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/SwxOQhMKlYI/AAAAAAAAAFw/3mgc8jFClTA/s1600/DSC00551.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_bQQWt4V4HaY/SwxOQhMKlYI/AAAAAAAAAFw/3mgc8jFClTA/s320/DSC00551.JPG" /></a></div><br />
"To the paleontologist there are few places in the world more interesting than the Diamond Mine at Linton," wrote Cleveland geologist John Strong Newberry in 1856, "since here he gets such a view of the life of the Carboniferous age as is afforded nowhere else, and of the great number of species found there."<br />
Few people other than men of science have heard of the Linton, Ohio to which Newberry referred, but it was a small village that once sprawled along the mouth of Yellow Creek. No more than a roadside park now sits at this historic site, and yet paleontologists still refer to it as Linton, and have excavated the hillside for fossils as recently as 2007.<br />
Linton was known primarily as the mouth of Yellow Creek prior to the 1800s when settlers erected a small blockhouse as protection from hostile Indians. It remained an unincorporated village for more than a half-century, although a post office and a railroad depot put Linton upon maps by the mid-1850s. This began the period when Connecticut entrepreneurs started operating the Diamond Mine, which produced a nine-foot seam of Freeport coal. Below this rich seam, miners discovered a six-inch slate-like coal called canal from which they culled one of the richest pockets of fossils produced in the United States.<br />
Newberry and some of the most renowned paleontologists have visited the Diamond Mine, one such being Edward D. Cope, perhaps the most prominent paleontologist of the 19th Century. His most notable contributions to science included the discovery of dozens of dinosaurs and the development of Cope's Law, which expounds upon the gradual enlargement of mammalian species.<br />
During the 150 years scientists have documented fossils gleaned from the Diamond Mine, ten dozen taxa of invertebrates, including small worms, millipedes and crustaceans, and forty taxa of vertebrates, mostly fish, have been documented. According to Dr. Mark J. Camp in his book "Roadside Geology of Ohio," some fossils found at Linton are the only such kind ever discovered.<br />
"The Linton location ranks as the most prolific Pennsylvanian vertebrate fossil in the world," Camp wrote.<br />
Camp also stated that the most common fish found at Linton, numbering in the thousands, is the coelacanth, a carnivore that attained sizes of 6.5 feet in length and weighed nearly 198 pounds. It was thought to have gone extinct with dinosaurs, but was discovered off the south coast of Africa in 1938. A group of scientists theorize the coelacanth represented an early stage in the evolution of fish to terrestrial four-legged animals like amphibians.<br />
Long before the Ohio swept past what is now Linton, once sat an ox-box lake in which these fish including sharks and the coelacanth--as well as invertebrates inhabited. A complex chemical process under enormous tonnage of sedimentary deposits preserved and fossilized these once living creatures in the canal seam of the Diamond Mine.<br />
The Diamond Mine officially operated from 1855 to 1921, collapsing during 1924. In the ensuing years, scientists continued collecting specimens at dump sites of the mine and by the 1960s were taking them from the road cut nearby the development of the four-lane highway now consisting of Ohio Route Seven. Scientific activity at the hillside cut discontinued during 2007.<br />
Many of the Linton fossils can be observed at numerous museums, including the Cleveland Museum of Natural History, the Orton Geological Museum of Ohio State University and the Smithstonian Museum of Natural History in Washington D.C.Gem City Gemshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02935293919977058520noreply@blogger.com65Jefferson County, OH, USA40.387172199999988 -80.765780412.076938363821142 -115.9220304 68.697406036178833 -45.6095304