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Wednesday, December 9, 2009
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.
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.
"That's all right," my father replied, "I can handle it."
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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."
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."
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.
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."
Frustrated the man crisscrossed his arms and yelled, "Just stop now; you're nuts!"
Bill casually replied, "Ain't lost."
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
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.
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.
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.
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.
I am very proud to have been a part of the rebirth of Marshall football.
PICTURES: Me on the sidelines against Potomac State.
My Young Thundering Herd Certificate
Matthew McConaughey, who played head coach Jack Lengyel and Matthew Fox as assistant coach Red Dawson.
Number 43 Bob Eshbaugh, holding football Jack Lengyel, number 58 me, Bob Petras.
1971 football team and coaching staff--the Young Thundering Herd.
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