Dutch
Although my father didn’t finish high school, he was an educated man in the ways of the world. He knew most of the plants and animals of the area, and how to survive both in the woods and in the back streets and bootleg bars of Akron. He was an expert with a rifle and shotgun, and taught us how to use and respect these weapons. He did respect knowledge and education, but he didn’t have much use for pompous people, nor did he think that a fancy degree would change a person who was morally bankrupt. On hearing about someone who was supposedly highly educated but got caught in some dishonest or shady deal he would say, “It just goes to show, If you take a son-of-a-bitch and educate him, all you end up with is an educated son-of-a-bitch”.
Dad was not a large man – maybe 5 feet nine inches tall with absolutely no fat – all muscle and sinew. He had no rearend to speak of. His pants hung down in back where the rearend should be. Sometimes someone would make fun of his lack of a behind.
“When they made me they made MEN, not asses!”, was his usual reply.
Early Days
When I was born Mom and Dad lived in Akron. It was 1933 during the depression. At the time Dad was working at the B.F.Goodrich Rubber Company. He was soon laid off as were many people at that time. In order to keep from being homeless, we moved in with my Grandparents in Randolph, OH. They pretty much kept us from starving. Dad helped out to some extent by working for the WPA for very little money. Also he spent much time and effort raising a garden which helped provide food.
At the time the neighbor boy Donny had a chicken coop full of nice white pigeons that he raised as pets. The pigeons had a habit of coming over to Dad’s garden and eating his plants. Complaining to the neighbors about this did no good. They said that they had no control over where their pigeons went or what they ate.
One morning Donny went out to feed his pets. What he saw was a coop full of dead pigeons with blood, pigeon parts and feathers all over the floor and walls. When Dad was asked about this, he said it looked like the work of foxes or weasels to him.
Only God will ever know what really happened.
Operation Cat
Dad was the person who was often called when any of the local farmers needed castration done. He had the necessary skills and along with his razor-sharp pocket knife and a little sheep dip as antiseptic the job was done in short order.
My buddy, Kenny, had a black tom cat that was as ornery as sin. I suggested to Kenny that Dad had some skills that could possibly change that cat’s attitude. I asked Dad and he said, “Sure, bring him over”. I wondered how Dad was going to perform this operation without getting clawed to death since that cat was as ornery as a snake and we had no anesthetic. Well, he obtained a burlap bag and some twine, put the cat in the bag and closed it with the twine, tying it really close to the cat. He then cut off the corner of the bag and pulled the cat’s tail out along with the appropriate parts. I heard a few low growls and deep breaths from the bag as the sharp knife did it’s work. The operation was over in a matter of seconds. Dad then untied the bag. The cat emerged, ran in two or three tight circles, and tore off into the woods.
“He will be gone for about three days”, Dad said. “What will he be doing”, I asked, “Canceling dates”, Dad replied.
Evil Knievel
On the south side of Ravenna on Rt 44 there is a bridge over some railroad tracks. It is about a 50 yard span with a 40-foot drop to the tracks below. The bridge had to be replaced in the early 30’s and at the time of the following incident the girders were in place but the deck had not been installed. The story goes that Dad was headed to Ravenna on his motorcycle. Ike Coler had asked for a ride so he was on the buddy seat of the bike. When they came to the deck-less bridge there were detour signs that guided traffic around it. According to informed sources Dad ignored the signs and took the Harley across on one of the girders with Ike hanging tightly on the rear. The workers had to scramble to avoid being hit.
“T-thhe damn fool went right across”, stuttered Ike, and rode home with someone else. My dad never would admit to this one but several people told me about it.
There were other stories about Dad and the bike. Mom told one where he was showing-off for her by going by at a high rate of speed standing up on the seat. The buckles on his boots became tangled and he went flying, doing a face-plant in the weeds.
It is interesting to note that Dad would have killed me if he had ever caught me on a motorcycle. I remember the time my buddy Mahlon drove his new Triumph over and proudly parked it in the yard. Dad looked at the bike and then looked at Mahlon and said, “If you ever want to play dirty trick on Gene, just get him on the back of that thing and let me see it!”.
To this day I have never been on one.
Prodigal Son
When I was 17 I played guitar in a polka band. One of our jobs was at the Lakeview Cafe, a small bar south of town. If my mother had known that I played in there she would have had a fit. Thinking it over later I can see why. I played there for a year before she found out. By that time it was OK since I hadn’t grown horns or a tail .
One of the consequences of my playing in a band was coming home late, although I can’t blame all of my lateness on playing music. One morning about 4 AM I arrived home, took off my shoes on the porch and proceeded to pussyfoot into the house. Opening the kitchen door produced a loud clatter that sounded as if the house was being destroyed. What happened was my dad had taken all of the pots and pans in the kitchen and piled them up behind the door, so when I opened the door the whole stack came tumbling down with a racket loud enough to wake the dead and scare the bejesus out of me. I heard him exclaim from the bedroom, “Gene, If you’re going to come home so damn late could you be a little quieter about it. We can’t sleep with all the noise out there”.
Another time I arrived home about 6 AM . I thought I had made it to my bedroom without being discovered. I sat on the bed, took off one shoe and sock. At that time Dad walked in and said, “Gene, are you getting up this early?”. “Yes” I said, and put the sock and shoe back on. I stayed up all day although it almost killed me.