Hello Readers!

It has indeed been awhile! For some reason (I suspect Google has played a part), I have not been able to get into my own blog!

Finally! I, (with the help of my wife) have figured out the sequence to come online.

Here is a short sample of a story of a former Geneva business that was located outside the city's limits. I call it "Club Moderne".

“Excuse me,” I said to the fellow sitting there with an Old Style as I squeezed my way through the crowd to the bar.

He took a long sip of his beer, looked me over and growled, “there’s no excuse for you!”

I thought for a moment, remembered where I was and just nodded pleasantly, “yep, guess you’re probably right.”
Later, while we drank our beers and listened to the joint’s crappy redneck band, a beer bottle whizzed by my ear and crashed into the wall behind me.
“Oh shit,” I said. 
Diane screamed, “Look! Look at Merle, look at Jerry!” 
Some twenty years older than us, there he was, Merle, the old fifty-something bar brawler grabbing a fellow just as he was readying to punch another. Meanwhile, a group of other guys had pounced on both of the potential combatants. 

As in most bar fights, few punches were thrown because everyone piled on to stop the fight.
Jerry, valiantly balancing his beer, in one hand, jumped in to the throng of drunken and semi-drunken peacemakers. 
He never spilt a drop.
I grinned.
“Take it outside!” roared the bouncer as he threw both drunks out the front door, narrowly missing a couple stumbling in.
When the 2:00 last call came some minutes later, the lights came on. I looked around; there was spilled beer, broken glass and various other non-descript items littering the floor.
“Time to go!” I shouted.

We got up, avoiding the broken glass while slipping a bit on the spilled beverages.
Walking out to the gravel parking lot, I could hear some raised voices. To the left were a group of guys arguing about something, maybe a girl, maybe a car. Further back, we could see a couple making out in a parked car. 
“Looks like someone’s laying some pipe tonight,’ murmured Merle. He lit another cigarette, blowing the smoke toward them in the hot, muggy and still early morning air.
Behind an old Chevy, someone was quietly retching the contents of his night’s drinking, while standing nearby, his apparent buddy was relieving himself on the Chevy’s rear wheel.

Yes, that was late night at Club Moderne, the bar everyone went to after all the other bars closed.



Hello Readers,

This next story is one in which I've been working off and on for a number of years. More or less, it's a retelling or an accounting of something that happened 50 years ago, It is indeed a very good example of "you had to have been there".
Recently, I looked at the calendar and realized that the days were exact; only they were 50 years apart. That Tuesday, March 19 in 1963 is the same as this past Tuesday, March 19, 2013.
In thinking about it, I realized that I really couldn't add to this story without actual photos or newspaper clippings of the events that happened.
In the eyes of an eleven year old kid growing up in 1963 Geneva, the time in which this story occurs was amazing. That particular night in March was absolutely wonderful.
As with all of the stories, or chapters of my book, they are raw and unedited. From time to time, you might visit this blog and find them changed somewhat.
Have fun with this one; it's titled March Madness. 

March Madness

Brrr! It’s cold!
Shivering just a little, I zipped my coat up to my chin and then looked down the street.
Gosh! Even if it was March 19th, it sure seemed to be much colder than the 30 degrees that the thermometer read.
Suddenly, there was the roar of an engine.
“Is that them?” asked Jojo.
I shook my head, “nope, just a truck.” We watched the semi-trailer truck drive west, its diesel engine sending black smoke into the air as it accelerated, speeding out of town.
More people were taking up spaces on the street’s parkway.
I looked down at my little brother. Jeff was keeping himself busy playing with a toy car. Using the folds of the blanket as pretend hills in his imaginary road, he ran his little car up and down, back and forth.

******

It had started out when our telephone that we had had installed the year before, started ringing and ringing. I wasn’t sure, but I think it was my older sister Jean’s, girlfriends.
“Go downtown!” They said.
But we already knew; we had heard the news on the radio.
None of us voiced any objections. Those of us who were older quickly decided that we should go. Last Friday, we had missed the celebration. This time, we wanted to be sure we would be there.
Jean and Joyce, my older sisters who were in high school, bundled up the two youngest ones, my little brother, Jeff, and Jojo, my sister who was in second grade.
It was their job to watch over the younger kids in our family whenever our mom and dad were gone. Yep, they were dressed warmly.
Jessie, who was in seventh grade at Coultrap Junior High, could take care of herself. I was in fifth and had a paper route. Even though Joyce fussed about what I should be wearing outdoors, I was judged responsible enough to know how to dress. We even brought our two dogs, Queenie and Sam.
As we headed towards State Street from our house on North Sixth, I wondered if Mom and Dad would have let us go. But, it didn’t really matter; this week, they were working the night shift at Owens. Why, they wouldn’t even know we were out here!
“We should hurry!” urged Jessie.
Almost running, we were at the corner of State and Sixth Streets, the Jewel Foodstore parking lot, in record time. There were more people walking towards the east.
“Let’s walk towards downtown,” suggested Jean.
We nodded. They would be coming from the east side. The closer the better suited us.
Bang!
We stopped walking and stood, looking down the road.
Was that them? No, that was just a loud car.
“This is a good spot,” said Joyce. “We’ll wait here,” she decided.
Jeff clenched her hand tightly.
Stooping a little bit, she quickly spread out one of the old olive drab army blankets.
“Jeff and Joanne (that was Jojo’s real name) you can sit here. We’ll let you know when they come down the street.”
They knew the plan; it was the same as what we did for the Swedish Days Parade.
We waited, standing in the grass parkway on State Street just down from the Standard gas station. Downtown Geneva was only half a block away.
It was a good spot.
I gazed down State Street, towards the river, as far as I could see. No sign of them. The waiting was becoming unbearable.
Where were they?
More people were beginning to fill up the little gaps between the first groups of onlookers. It was almost as if there needed to be more and more people before they would arrive.
I looked in wonder across the street; the Sinclair gas station at the corner of State and Fourth Streets was quickly filling with cars.
Gosh, it was as if the Swedish Days parade was happening in March! It didn’t even seem as cold. It was almost as if the arrival of more people and the anticipation made it feel warmer.
A little further down, Gus’s station, just across Fourth Street and next to the Geneva Arcade Building was doing the same. Cars were being parked up to and even around his old tow truck that sat in front of the station’s repair bay doors.
Some people even parked their cars in the Sinclair station’s cramped side parking lot that faced Fourth Street; the area in front of their pumps was already full.
I guess it didn’t matter; both gas stations were closed for the night.
I could see the outline of the Sinclair station’s old Packard that sat like a lord of the manor, towering majestically over the more modern cars. Proudly, it rested there, rusting away under the big mulberry tree.
Sometimes, when I would ride downtown to the library or Robin's Bookshop, I would stop to eat a few ripe mulberries and peer into its windows, breathing in its musty aroma and then stand back to admire the Packard’s fancy hood ornament.
Once, emboldened, I even asked the teenager working at the station how much they wanted for it.
“Why, kid? You ain’t gonna buy it anyhow!” Was his smart reply.
“’Cause I’m gonna tell my dad. He likes 'em. We have a newer one at home right now. He might wanna buy that one too."
That was partially true. The old man had the old 1952 Packard that didn’t run. Plus, he like Packards and, the ‘52 was newer. As for buying another one; well, I doubted it.
“So, how much is it?”
“Fifteen hunnert bucks. Now bug off!”
“Oh! Okay, thanks mister.”
Man! One thousand five hundred dollars! I never told the old man; I knew it was too much money!
I shook my head; that poor old car just rusting away.
Just then, an older man with a grayish mustache appeared in front of us. It was Ernie, our old man neighbor from across the street.
Apparently, some way, somehow, he had heard the news and decided to come and join the crowd. My dad was friends with him; but at the same time he said he was a nosy old bugger who oughta mind his own business and stay in his garage drying out his black walnuts.
“What’re you kids doin’ down here so late? It’s prit near ten!”
He stopped for a moment and glanced around, “say, wher’s yer ma and pa?”
“They're working the second shift this week, “ explained Joyce.
Ernie nodded, rubbing his chin as if to think about it.
Then, seeing my little sister Jojo, he smiled warmly. “Well hi there Jojo.”
Jojo smiled shyly and whispered a, “Hi Ernie.”
She liked old Ernie and often went over to his garage to hang out, petting his black German Shepherd named Beren and chatting about the Cubs.
For me, black walnuts and Cubs talk weren’t even in my realm of interest.
Besides that, Beren slobbered. A lot.
“We heard on the radio that everyone should come down here. Then some of my girlfriends said they were gonna come down. So here we are.” Jean explained it logically. She stretched to look over the growing crowd.
Looking for girlfriends or boys, I bet.
Ernie seemed to listen carefully. He nodded. He knew Jean from stopping in at Carney’s Bakery. She worked there on the weekends. He was a regular customer.
“Aha! I see then. Well, be sure to make a lot of noise when they go by!”
“Okay Ernie,” we said in unison, almost sounding like a chorus.
Ernie’s mustache twitched a moment.
Rubbing it, he added, “ then I reckon you’ll be gittin’ these little ones back home and off to bed?”
“Of course, Ernie. We all have school tomorrow!” Jean almost sounded indignant.
With those instructions duly given to us, he turned and continued walking down the sidewalk, waving to others before stopping again to talk to someone.
It was the old man who lived on the corner of Peyton and Sixth Street, kitty corner from Earl and DJ’s house.
Yep, I was certain of it. That’s his tiny little dog that was busily yapping at each passerby. Sometimes he talked to my dad, calling him "sarge".
Further down the street, were some of my Fourth Street School classmates from Mr. Ellmaker’s combined fifth and sixth grade. Standing directly in front of the Standard Station were Rex, Pete and Ronnie, sixth grade boys. Next to them were Marilyn and Cheri, two sixth grade girls.
Suddenly, Sam started barking furiously; Queenie’s nose was straight up as if sniffing the air.
I sighed; two overweight younger boys were walking down the sidewalk; Earl and DJ had shown up! Trailing them were their two younger brothers, Petie and Dale. Oh gee whiz!
Was their mom gonna be with them? Man! I hope she wouldn’t be. She might wanta yell at me for calling Earl or DJ a big fat pig or something.
I waited and looked past them, breathing a sigh of relief. It was only the four of them. They were by themselves.
“Hi John, can we stand by you guys?” it was Earl. He was being polite.
Before I could say yes or no, Joyce wrinkled her nose, “you boys can stand right there,” she replied, pointing to a spot on the curb.
Little Petie sat down with Jeff, watching him play with his toy car.
“Okay, thank you.”
Huh! Earl was being especially polite, I noted. DJ was silent, keeping his remarks to himself. What’s going on? A trick?
I decided to be just as polite, but wary, "Dju guys come down here by yerselves?” I asked.
“Yeah, Ma said it was okay so long as we brought Petie and Daledee and was with you guys,” said Earl.
Earl and DJ referred to their younger brother Dale as “Daledee”.
Man, I woulda punched them for that, I thought.
“We saw you leave yer house. But when we tried to catch up, you started going faster,” added DJ.
Dale and Petie nodded.
“You boys can sit by us. But you better behave,” warned Jean.
“Yes ma’am,” Earl nodded looking at his brothers and then me.
I snickered; he called my sister “ma’am” like she was an old lady or something.
Before I could say anything , I heard someone shouting my name, “John, John!”I grinned. I knew that voice. Behind them was that familiar striped stocking cap, a flash of red hair poking out; it was my pal Scotty. His dad and sister, Lorie, were walking right behind him.
Seeing me wave, he broke into a run, breathlessly shouting, “Hey John! John! Didya listen to the game? We won! We won again!” Scotty’s grin seemed to stretch from one side of his glasses to the other.
Just then, Scotty’s dad interrupted, “slow down Scott,” his voiced boomed with its deep tone.
Seeing us, he asked Jean and Joyce, “where’s yer ma and pa?”
“They’re working the second shift. They should be home in an hour
or two.”
Once again Jean replied very logically, “We wanted to come down to cheer.”
“Well good!” His voiced boomed even deeper. “They need to see we’re behind them all the way.”
He glanced over at Earl and his brothers, “where’s yer ma and pa?”
“Uh, we came down to be with them guys, sir,” Earl pointed to us.
Scotty’s dad rubbed his chin, as if in thought. “Well okay. You boys behave yerselves and be sure to cheer when the team come by!”
“Yessir!” all four boys said at once.
Thinking for a minute, he looked at Jean and added, “I’ll be down Saturday for some donuts. Save some chocolate covered ones for me.”
Just then, Ernie caught Scotty’s dad’s attention, "Hey there Ray."
Meanwhile Scotty’s sister, and Jessie were yapping on about some singer.
I shook my head. Gee whiz! We’re here for this, not donuts and some dumb singers!
“Well, didja listen to the game!” Scotty could hardly contain himself.
I was just as excited, “Yeah! Man O Manisheverts! What a game!” I was a bandwagon jumper, I guess.
Even though I lived in Geneva and went to Geneva schools, I was a latecomer to the party. It was only when the enthusiasm became so contagious did I take notice. I just hadn’t been able to get that interested to pay attention.
When he did his recap of the White Sox games over the summer, it could be interesting.
But, Scotty’s joyful description of each of their basketball games was just a bit boring.
I suppose it was only natural that basketball would be more interesting to him; he was the more athletic of the two of us. It wasn’t that I didn’t play any sports; we played baseball or a reasonable semblance of it during the summer and then some football during the fall. But basketball was foreign: a game played indoors, in the winter and at school. There were no outdoor basketball courts that we knew of and it was cold and snowy anyway. Besides, none of us in our neighborhood even owned a basketball. For me, if I couldn’t participate in the sport, it became something that didn’t carry the weight of my interest.
But now, this team, our team, our team from Geneva was winning a lot of games.

******

******

Oddly, the season hadn’t begun that well. After four games, they had two wins and two losses, losing a game over the Thanksgiving weekend to Lockport and then another to East Aurora High School.
Then they had begun the incredible winning streak. The excitement of the winning streak through much of the winter, game after game had Scotty and his dad tuned to the local radio station, listening to and, whenever it was possible, attending their games.
After each game, Scotty would regale me with the account of the action whether it was on our morning walk to school or a Saturday afternoon.
By late February, he was recounting the West Chicago game: who scored what, how they did it and, of course, the game’s final score. I needed no newspaper. Scotty was very accurate.
Apparently, the game was very exciting; the win, even more so. In short abrupt sentences, he explained that the team was now 12 and 0, in first place of the Little Seven Conference. This time they had won, beating the West Chicago High School team, 58 - 52. It was their seventeenth straight win and the third time that they had defeated West Chicago that season. Scotty said his dad told him that it evened the score. The year before West Chicago had beaten Geneva three times.

******

******

“Only two games to go and they’ll be undefeated,” he crowed.
“Wow!” I was suitably impressed.
But then I remembered their two losses. “Hey! I thought you said they lost two games! How could they be undefeated?”
“John,” he said patiently. Those were non-conference games. They don’t count in the standings for the conference.”
“Oh. Oh yeah.”
I felt like a dummy. I should have known better. Even in our class at Fourth Street School, everyone was talking about the winning streak. They even repeated what Scotty had said: after the West Chicago game, there were only two games to go.
To make his point, Scotty recited the teams that were in the Little Seven Conference and where they stood in the standings: Geneva was in first place, then came Naperville, next, West Chicago, Batavia, Belvidere, Sycamore, St Charles and in last place, little Mooseheart.
All they had left was Sycamore that Friday and then Batavia on Saturday.
“If they beat Sycamore they’ll break the school record of eighteen in a row. If they beat both of ‘em, Sycamore and Batavia, they’ll be undefeated!”

******

******

Scotty’s enthusiasm was becoming infectious. All of our pals were excited about the winning streak and the chances of going downstate. We hadn’t the faintest idea of what going “downstate” really meant other than winning a lot more games. But as their streak went on, we began to understand. There was a trophy and a state tournament of some sort that they could win.
At least our Fourth Street School teachers understood. They were just as excited about the team and its winning streak. I even overheard my old fourth grade teacher Miss Pierce, talking to Mr. Hoss, the sixth grade teacher.
“Ted, do you think they have a chance in the state tournament?” she was wearing blue and white, the colors of the Vikings as a show of support.
“Well, every team has a good chance of winning, Donna. Geneva’s enrollment is much smaller than many of the teams.”
Seeing her puzzled look, he added, “I mean that there are not as many athletes in such a small class size. But, they’re a well-coached team, they’ve played together since they were young and, Mel Johnson is one of the best coaches in the state. They just have to be consistent and patient.”
Mr. Hoss always did seem to be a logical and plain talking teacher. I think that was why he was so well liked.
According to my sisters, Jean and Joyce, the enthusiasm at Geneva High School was overwhelming: the halls were filled with team support posters and banners, numerous pep rallies with rousing cheers and special days where the students wore team colored clothing as a show of support.

******

******

Even girls like my sister Joyce, a freshman, were becoming regulars at their games. She had never, ever shown any curiosity or attention to sports. Now, her accounts were as breathless and enthusiastic as Scotty’s In short, you just couldn’t escape the excitement.
Both of them could even recite details of the team. They knew the starters and the subs: there were the starting five, the guard, little 5’8” Dick Krell, 6”1” forward Tom Busch, 6”5” center Bob Johansen, 6’4” forward George Peck and 5’11” guard Pete Burgess. Then, there were some of the subs, Bob Liden, Doug Skogland, Fred Rhoads, Steve Jacobson, Rick Tornberg and Jay Ellsworth.
Although all of the players got playing time, Scotty said that the starters were the key players on the basketball team. They were the ones who their coach Mel Johnson depended upon.
That Friday night, the 22nd of February, the Vikings defeated Sycamore 80 – 60. The very next day, they played the Batavia Bulldogs. The game was close; but, Geneva won 56 – 50.

******

******

“I told ya! I told ya! They’re undefeated!” Scotty was wild as we listened to that game.
He was jumping up and down on his bed, spilling popcorn on the floor, on his bed and behind it. I wasn’t much better, celebrating by parading around his room blowing the toy bugle we used when we played Geronimo Indians.
Knock, knock, knock!
We stopped; someone was knocking on his bedroom door!
“Scott Raymond!” it was his sister Lorie. She was a few years older than him. When she used his middle name, Raymond, we knew she meant business. “If you don’t quit jumping on yer bed and blowing that horn, I’m gonna tell John he hasta go home!”
Lorie was home keeping an eye on us while their mom and dad went out for the night. She was the boss and we had been told that we had to listen to her.
Yipes! I was spending the night and did not relish going home to face my mom and dad. I could just see it. I would trudge in the door.

******

“How come yer back home?” My mom would ask.
“Uh, we were making too much noise and I got kicked out,” I would answer.
“Kicked out? Kicked out?” my dad would squawk like a parrot. He would’ve already have had a few beers in him.
“Geezus Christ! Don’tcha know how to behave yerself? What da hell? Git upstairs, yer grounded!”
The old man would be furious.

******

But, of course that didn’t happen.
“Shh, Scott! Be quiet!
Okay Lorie, we’ll be quiet!”
We giggled, gleefully, picking up and eating the spilled popcorn while guzzling our Yummy Soda root beer.
“Okay then.”
We could hear walking away down the hall.
“Ya think she’ll tell yer mom and dad?”
“Nah, what for?”
The next Monday on our morning walk to school, Willie and Jerry came running up. They were the two brothers who lived at the opposite end of Sixth Street.
“My dad says that Geneva will be playin’ some team named Lisle Lions tonight cause they’re in the state basketball tournament,” Jerry was almost breathless. “He says first they have to win the District Tournament and then go into the Regional Tournament.”
“Yeah, well my dad says Geneva won last year’s tournament and the one the year before that.” Scotty was a wealth of basketball knowledge. “They’ll win all right!”
“Yeah, Dad says it’s gonna be a hard game,” added Willie.
I felt left out. My dad only talked about cars and stuff. When he did talk about his high school, it was East Leyden. That was the high school that him and my mom had gone to. I didn’t even know where that was!

******

******

That night, the Vikings beat Lisle 75 – 45. The “hard” game was easy.
Geneva went on to win the District Tournament, playing Batavia for the District crown that Friday night, beating them 55 – 44. That meant that the following Monday, they would face St Francis of Wheaton in the East Aurora Regional Tournament.

******

******

“Dad says St Francis is one of the top sixteen teams in the area,” Scotty announced out of the blue that Monday morning. We had been talking about how the snow was melting and maybe getting out our baseball mitts.
“Gosh! Really? Ya mean we might lose?” I was worried. Top sixteen sounded ominous.
“Heck no!” Scotty grinned, “Dad says Geneva is sixth!”
“Wow! That’s pretty good, isn’t it?”
That night, I laid in my bunk bed listening to the game on my old tube radio. My dad had shown me how to repair it, testing its tubes down on the tube tester station at Wayne’s, the drugstore just down from Henry’s Five and Dime.
Tuned to WGSB, I listened to the game and then the final score, Geneva 67 – St Francis 50.
Silently I stared at the radio’s glowing tubes; I hadn’t yet put the cover back on the radio. Breathing a sigh of relief; they won! The announcer reminded the listeners to tune back in for the Wednesday night game.
At Fourth Street our teacher, Mr. Ellmaker said that these games were with much bigger schools. We shouldn’t be disappointed if Geneva loses. They’re a good team. But district champions like Geneva have historically had a very difficult time playing against the big suburban and Chicago area teams.
“The last time a District champion had won anything was in 1952. Back then, it was a little team from Hebron from further up north.” Mr. Ellmaker stopped for a moment and then grinned, “You know what? They won the state championship!”
Mr. Ellmaker was right of course, about much bigger teams. Their next opponent was East Aurora, a city so big that it had to have two high schools.
Yet, as we listened to the game, it was apparent, the Vikings were hot. East Aurora went over four minutes without scoring. Geneva won by sixteen points 53 – 37.
“Man O Manisheverts!” I exclaimed on our walk to school Friday morning. “All they hafta do is beat Naperville to win the Regional!” I was getting the hang of this I thought to myself.
Usually, I only read the funnies in the papers. But, after the St Francis game, I had started reading the sports sections of both Chicago afternoon newspapers, the Daily News and the American. Gleaning pertinent basketball information, I could converse in Geneva Viking basketball with anyone!
“Yep,’ agreed Scotty. “If they win tonight, they go on to play in the Sectionals and then the Supersectionals. Each game gets tougher my dad says. But they’re really good,” he added, seeing my dazed look.
“You know what? If they win the Sectional, they’re in something called the Sweet Sixteen,” said Jerry.
“Yeah, it’s like a girl named thing almost,” said Willie grinning his wicked grin. There was a gap in his teeth where his cavity filled front tooth had finally come out, I noticed.
Sweet sixteen? Hmm, I guess I don’t know everything.
Scotty and I listened to that Friday night game. Although it was just as exciting as they all were, the game seemed won by the third period; they went on to win decisively, defeating Naperville 67 – 44.

******

******

We grinned at each other, clinking our Yummy Soda root beer cans; another win! Next was the Sectional Tournament!
The excitement at Fourth Street School was becoming a wave that seemed to wash over everyone. The second and third graders were now talking about the team. Our music teacher, Miss Minor even mentioned the Vikings.
After school, walking home, Scotty listed the four teams playing in the sectional on his fingers.
“There’s only four teams playing: Geneva, Willowbrook, York and St Patrick. Dad says Geneva plays Thursday in the second game against Willowbrook.”
“Wher’re they from?” Even though I was reading the sports pages I wasn’t familiar with that school.
“Some place named Villa Park. I think they’re pretty far away.”
“Who’s playing in the first game?”
“A team called York is playing St Patrick.”
“Haha. I wonder if York spits like Yorkie!”
We snickered and then chuckled over our friend Yorkie’s habit. His real name was York. He had a bad habit of spitting almost continually.
Snickering again, we continued on our walk home.

******

******

That Thursday, when the Hinsdale sectional tournament began, in the first game, York overcame St Patrick. In the second game, Geneva defeated Willowbrook by the lopsided score of 90 – 59. That meant that Geneva played York for the championship Friday night!
Some of the students in our class had older brothers and sisters who were in high school. They talked excitably how there was a “pep” bus going to the York game.
I told Mr. Ellmaker and the class that my older sister Joyce and some of her friends were going to the game. They were high school freshmen and probably didn’t know very much about basketball. But, that didn’t matter.
Once again, Mr. Ellmaker cautioned us that as Geneva progressed in the state tournament, each game would become more difficult.
“All of these teams now playing are very good, well coached teams,’ he explained. “These are much bigger schools,” he reminded us.
Not much schoolwork was done that Friday. If a math lesson came up, the scorekeeping of a game inevitably was mentioned. History brought questions of the team’s winning streak, now in the twenties. In science, we talked about how basketball players grew to be so tall. The day flew by. Before we knew it, the bell rang, dismissing us from class.
Just before I left to do my paper route, the telephone rang.
It was Scotty.
“John! John! Guess what?” Before I could answer, he spilled the beans. “My dad got tickets to the game! We’re goin’ to the game!”
“Wow!” was all I could muster.
Gee whiz! I wished I could have gone along!
But, tickets were hard to get for these games. His dad had only two tickets. Besides, I had a paper route to do.

******

What a game it was!
It had started out horribly; they were slow and the scored showed it. Within minutes they trailed by twelve points; the score was 20 – 8.
But then, they came back. By halftime, it was 22 – 16.
When play resumed after the half, Geneva battled back, leading by one point, 33 – 32 as the third quarter ended.
Then, the game really got exciting; both teams use the “stall”, a strategy of holding on to the ball and not scoring, just using up time.
Geneva scored only 5 points; Johansen and Burgess making the shots. But York scored 4 points; Brackman and Marbarger scoring baskets. The score was 38 – 36, Geneva was ahead!
York got the ball. But Dawson, their player missed his shot. Only 4:14 left in the game! Geneva’s ball!
Once again, Geneva used the stall tactic. This time the Vikings kept possession until there was only 2:07 left in the game. Then, they called a timeout.
As we sat by the radio, listening at home to radio station WGSB, we were in agony; on the edge of our seats. Score! Score! Why don’t they score? The radio announcer was almost hoarse as he described the scene over the roar of the crowd in the background.
Our hearts were beating faster and faster. Score! Score!
Play resumed, the stall continued.Now, there were only 43 seconds left! We were ahead 38 – 36! Only 43 seconds! I started counting down. Oh no! A missed pass! York gets the ball!
Johansen fouls York player, Kurt Fowich. He proceeds to makes both free throws! It’s tied: 38 – 38!
Only 7 seconds left!
Darn! York has the ball.
A shot by Dawson!
He misses his shot!
Overtime!
George Peck of the Vikings gets fouled after the overtime tipoff.
He makes the first freethrow, it’s 39 – 38! But then, he misses the second.
Wait! He recovers the rebound!
It’s Geneva ball!
Stall! Stall!
Busch is fouled.
Oh! He misses his freethrow. Now he won’t be given the second! Wait! A York player entered the lane too soon.
Busch gets to make the second shot!
Swoosh! It’s 40 – 38 with 16 seconds left!
Kurt Fowich has the ball. He misses his jumper!
Peck rebounds!
He’s fouled by Fowich.
We get another freethrow!
No! Peck misses the first shot!
He makes the second!
The game is over!
Geneva wins 41 – 38!

******

******

Saturday, the very next day after the game, I returned home after finishing my paper route. Tossing the wet and torn papers that were not acceptable to deliver to my customers on the kitchen table, Mom was the first to see it.
“Why look at this! There’s Joyce!” she exclaimed.
I looked at the picture on the back page of the Chicago American. The headline read:
State Affair – Gym Dandy Style

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******

Sure enough, there was my sister Joyce, wearing bobby socks, and a cardigan sweater over a white blouse and plaid skirt, sitting in the bleachers at the Geneva – York basketball game. She was in the middle of other excited and animated Geneva students. Her mouth was open as if she were screaming something.
My mouth was agape. Gee! I had never known anyone who had their picture in the paper.
She was famous!
Even the Chicago Daily News had photos of Geneva’s exciting win. There on the front page were four different photos of Geneva cheerleader Sharon Foreman in various states of suspense. Its headline read:
Geneva Wins and It’s Such Sweet Sorrow

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******

The win meant that they were in the “Sweet Sixteen”, one of only sixteen remaining teams playing for the State of Illinois High School Basketball Championship.

******

******

It also meant that they would have to play another “Sweet Sixteen” team in the Hinsdale Supersectional. If they won that game, they would go downstate to Champaign, one of eight teams left!

******

******

That following Monday, Mr. Ellmaker was the first one in class to bring up the game.
He said he was amazed.
“I wish I could have been there. But I did listen to the game on the radio. Wow! Wasn’t it exciting?”
But then, as if remembering the Friday before, he changed the subject, “Now, we need to talk more about our class trip to New Milford for the Outdoor Education week.
Remember, each of you needs to be here at Fourth Street School, a week from today, Monday morning, March 25th at 7:00 AM with your suitcase. We want to be sure to have the bus loaded and ready to leave by 8:00 AM sharp.”
Then, he started listing off more stuff, one by one using his fingers to demonstrate each concept.
One finger up, “Make sure that you eat a good breakfast.”
Second finger up, “You do not need to pack a lunch. It will be provided by the Outdoor Education Facility.”
Third finger up, “Do you have the materials you are supposed to be bringing?”
Fourth finger, “If you don’t or have forgotten, take this note home for your parents. There is a list of the required materials that you will need to be bringing.”
Then his thumb: “Bring a warm sweatshirt and jacket. We’ll be outside most of the time. It is Outdoor Education after all.”
New Milford! Outdoor Education! Gee whiz!
In all the excitement of the basketball team’s winning streak and the state tournament, I had completely forgotten that our class was going to the Outdoor Education facility in New Milford! I hadn’t even thought about how I would be doing my paper route! Who would do it while I was gone. And here it was next week!
I thought for a minute. Stevie! I’ll get Stevie to do it. He can just pick up the papers and do the route.
Sure!
I breathed a sigh of relief.

******

Time passed quickly as lessons were once again forgotten in talking about the game.
Then we talked about their upcoming game on Tuesday. The Vikings were matched up against Bloom High School. Before we knew it the bell had rang!
Before I delivered my papers that Tuesday, I went through the sports sections. It looked bad for Geneva. The papers said Bloom was ranked third in the state. They had 3100 students, Geneva, only 500.
Yikes! Did we even have a chance?
That night, we listened to the game.
This time Joyce didn’t go; there just weren’t enough tickets available. We popped popcorn and sat next to our radio; the television was forgotten. Homework was forgotten. This was the game, the game to decide if they went downstate. To be one of eight remaining teams left in the sate tournament!
Who could do homework? Who wanted to watch TV?

******

******

We listened and then grinned.
The Vikings had won again! We had beaten Bloom 60 – 52!
We were going downstate!

******

******

And so, here we were.
We heard about it when it was announced on the radio: there would be a small parade to greet the team. Everyone should go downtown in about an hour and await the team’s arrival.
So now, on this late Tuesday evening in March, here we were standing on State Street awaiting the arrival of the team.
Happily, Scotty and I sat on the curb discussing basketball with Earl and DJ. Even DJ’s smell didn’t seem to bother us. Jojo held my little brother Jeff’s hand. Everyone was looking east, towards the river. Where were they? Wasn’t it time?
Suddenly, we heard loud booms. Then, the town fire siren went off.
That’s it! They were here!
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Then, there were more loud booms.
They’re shooting off firecrackers!
Then, we heard the fire engine sirens! Wait! There were police car sirens too!
First Queenie started to bark. Then, Sam started howling. Soon, they were both barking.
“I see ‘em! I can see ‘em!”
Someone was shouting above me.
That sounds like Scotty. Where is he?
We looked up.
Quietly, he had climbed one of the parkway trees.
"Scott Raymond!" Lorie shouted, "You come down from there!"
 But, before she say anything more, Scotty shook the tree and began shouting, pointing past the downtown, “Here they come! They’re here! They’re here! There they are!”
Everyone stared. He was pointing towards the east.
From his vantage point, he could see the police cars and fire engines, sirens sounding and lights flashing coming down the East State Street hill; then, they were crossing the river.
We could hear cheering in the distance.
Suddenly, they came up the West State Street hill! There they are!
Rippling like a wave, the cheering  became a huge roar from the crowd. It grew as they came closer until it was upon us. The crowd cheered and clapped as they passed. Some people had brought things that they spun over their heads. Others blew horns and banged pots and pans. Oh Man O Manisheverts! Why didn’t we think of that!
There were two Geneva fire engines sounding their sirens and horns as the victors came into downtown passing right through the red light at State and Third.

******

******

Then, led by the Kane County Sheriff’s cars and Geneva Police patrol cars, came the victorious team of Geneva Vikings basketball players.
Their bus seemed decorated in waving hands. Soon, the players were hanging out the windows yelling to the crowd.
As they waved their hands, they held up the basketball nets cut from the site of their victory, the Hinsdale gymnasium.
Seeing the nets, the crowd roared even louder, over and over.
The sound became deafening as the sirens and horns joined with fireworks and the crowd’s noise. Sam and Queenie barked and howled even louder.
I looked at Jojo; her eyes were as big as the moon. Her mouth wide open, no sound coming out. My little brother Jeff had put his fingers in his ears.
Earl and DJ and their brothers were yelling, “Vikings! Vikings! Yeehow, yeehow! ”
Scotty’s dad was whistling that high pitched whistle he knew. Then, his deep load voice erupted into a loud yell that seemed to echo, “Hoorah, Hoorah. Go Vikings!”
Ernie, our old man neighbor was yelling something that sounded like “Koowee, koowee! Vikings! Vikings!”
Everyone was screaming and shouting their own variations of "GoVikings"!
It was if the entire town had gone nuts!
My mouth hung open. I had never seen anything like it.
Even the Swedish Days Parade wasn’t this crazy!
Closely following behind, with their horns honking were all sorts of cars; from souped up hotrods to fancy Cadillacs and Buicks. Hanging out their windows waving and shouting were adults, high school teenagers, even little kids. Apparently, some of them had driven to the east side of town to await the team and join in the parade.
We stayed and cheered until it was apparent that the celebration was over. Before we knew it, the last car filled with cheering kids drove by, zig zagging and weaving recklessly up the street.
Scotty and I watched them, in admiration, wishing we coulda been with them.
Joyce folded up the old army blanket and we began the walk home. Jeff and Petie were rubbing their eyes; the excitement and time of the evening were having their effect. After only walking a block, I was giving Jeff a piggyback ride while Earl was doing the same for Petie.
I adjusted Jeff's little hands; he was almost choking me as he held on.
Jean and Joyce walked with Scotty’s dad as he led the neighborhood procession home. Ernie and Jojo brought up the rear, talking about the Cubs and nuts, I presumed.
In the middle were Lorie and Jessie, still yapping on about – well whatever it was that they talked about.
The remainder of us kicked a can while we walked home in between talking about the team and their chances. Scotty and I took turns giving Jeff a piggy back ride.
At the corner of Sixth and State Streets, we bumped into Jerry and Willie who were with their dad.
“Dad says, we’re gonna go to the high school. There’s gonna be something there too. You guys comin’?”
I shook my head, “Nope. Hafta go home. Sorry guys.”
Scotty looked at his dad hopefully.
“Got school tomorrow Scott.”
Earl and DJ just shook their heads, “we gotta go home.”

******

We heard later that there was another celebration at the high school, in the gym, that night.
But, we were satisfied, we had done our part, cheering them as they came into town that evening.

******

As that week went on, the excitement grew. If they weren't already, they were now, the talk of the town.
The local paper, the Geneva Republican had front page pictures of the team and an “On to Champaign” headline, describing their victory over Bloom High School. Even the Aurora Beacon News had front page headlines about the team.

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The town was abuzz. Many of the businesses and shops in town decorated their windows in support of the team. It really did seem like Swedish Days in March!

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But, that Friday night, March 22, 1963, we lost, 57 – 50.
Chicago’s Carver and their big player Big Joe Allen were too much for the Vikings. Even though it seemed like Geneva’s Bob Johansen made most of the baskets, all of the team did score. It just wasn’t their night.
I stared in silence at the glowing tubes of my old radio. Then turned it off, watching their brightness silently fade away. 

It was over.

******

******

They were a great team.
Our town loved them win or lose.
We still remember them.

******

That Saturday, Scotty was over after lunch. He had his baseball mitt hanging off of his handlebars; his red hair sticking out under his White Sox baseball cap.
“Hey John, wanna play catch?” Scotty’s grin was ear to ear.
I grinned too.

Baseball!

“Sure, why not?”

Most Reliable

Hello Readers,

It's been a while since the last chapter.
A lot of things have been happening and I've been busy.
But, I've decided to add my January chapter in its entirety.
The title is The Most Reliable Bugger

As always, your comments are welcome and needed.

The Most Reliable Bugger

“Geezus Christ its cold!” exclaimed my dad. “I wonder if the Olds’ll start!”
It was the day after Christmas and the weather had become colder and colder. That morning, the thermometer read eleven below zero.
Just like his dad, my grandpa and his brother, my Uncle Paul, my dad was a self-professed Oldsmobile guy. We had the 1956 two tone green one that my grandpa had given us and the older, black ’55 Olds. With their single headlights in each front fender and extensive chrome grillwork they reminded me of two overgrown frowning bugs.
Dad had other opinions of them.
“Most reliable cars ever made,” he would tell me, nodding towards them with a wink.
I never questioned him, even when he made statements wondering about their ability to start in cold weather.
He once told me that Packards were the best cars ever made. I guess that was why we had the given up for dead, turquoise colored 1952 Packard hibernating in the side yard between our house and the lilac bushes. It hadn’t run in a while, but maybe when you have a “best car ever made”, you’re reluctant to part with it.
Scotty’s dad, Ray, on the other hand was a Ford guy. They had an old 1956 turquoise and cream colored Ford pickup truck and, a much newer yellow and black “T’Bird” convertible.
Ray, with a grin, used to say we had two old Olds.
I thought it was rather clever sounding. But, when I informed my dad of this funny play on words, he just frowned and bit down on his Pall Mall cigarette.
To him it must have been an “insult” to his Oldsmobiles, his running stock, even the one that was equipped with one of the day’s (1956 that is) latest “time-saving” technology..
The newer ’56 had a photoelectric device that Oldsmobile referred to as the “Autronic Eye”. I had puzzled over the word “Autronic”. It wasn’t found in the dictionary, even the big one down at Geneva’s public library.
But one day I figured it out. Aha! I snapped my fingers. It’s a combination of “Automatic” and “Electronic”; “Autronic”! Gee, those guys at Oldsmoblile sure were smart fellows!
It was a strange, futuristic rocket ship shaped device that sat on the driver’s side of the dash near the little vent window. Its purpose was to automatically dim the headlights from high beams to low beams whenever an oncoming vehicle’s headlights were caught by its “Eye”.
My dad often would skeptically refer to it as the “Moronic Eye” and, in more heated moments as that “Gotdammed Eye”. Other times, though, he just muttered and yelled at it with a choice curse word or two.
Even though he didn’t use a lot of curse words as part of his daily vocabulary and he wasn’t as imaginative or varied as his brother, my Uncle Paul, the “Eye” tormented him enough that he could become almost animated, repeating the same words only in different adjective use.
“Gotdammit, you Gotdam thing. Gotdammedsonofabitch. Gotdammed Eye!”
The Autronic Eye was oblivious to my dad’s anger and swearing; it seemed to have a mind of its own. I guess 1956 “time-saving devices” like the “Eye” were still in their infancy. Maybe the “bugs” just weren’t worked out of it.
The “Eye” just wasn’t that accurate.
It had the annoying habit of inadvertently dimming the headlights at the most unexpected times. It might catch sight of a street lamp or some other non-automotive light that came into its field of vision and decide the headlights needed to go to low beams.
Dad hated it of course, saying he preferred the metal foot switch. He would say as much to my mom or one of us kids but never to an “outsider”, especially someone like Scotty’s dad.
“What the hell? Geezus Christ, I could do a better job of it!” he would cuss when it dimmed the lights.
But, as I recall, the footswitch on the floor of the ’55 wasn't a favorite of his either. It could sometimes get stuck from rust or ice. Then it would reap his wrath as well.
It seemed that cars and their individual peculiarities gave my dad stress, not to the point of apoplexy, but just enough to warrant a reason to use a good swear word or two.
One summer evening when Dad was driving the ’55, the headlights suddenly dimmed. “Jiminy Christmas, that gotdammed eye!” he exclaimed, thinking it was the “gotdammed “Moronic Eye”.
But, then he realized he was driving the non “Eye”equipped Oldsmobile.
“Now what the hell? Gotdammit!”
Stopping the car, there was a “clunk!” and then crash! The sound of breaking glass accompanying it.
Dad and I got out to investigate. The left headlight had fallen out of the rusty fender.
More swear words followed. “Gotdammit!” he exclaimed, kicking the broken headlight to the side of the road. “Gotdammed rusty Olds”.
But now, we were in the dead of winter. Cold weather starting was important.
I knew that at least their radiators were winter ready. I had helped.
Before the first frost, in late September, the old man would prepare as he always did for the upcoming winter and its onslaught.
“John, get an Army blanket and crawl under the Olds,” he would command. “I want you to drain the radiator,” pronouncing radiator with a short “A” rather than the more correct long “A” vernacular.
Since we didn't have a driveway, the family autos (the running ones that is) were on the street in front of our house. The lack of a driveway meant that all work was done on the street. This suited my dad’s purposes just fine, especially when it came to radiator draining.
I knew the drill: First, spread an old army blanket under the vehicle in question, making sure it was far enough back of the radiator’s drain spigot. Lie on it, and then turn the spigot's handle open.
As it poured out upon the street and ran to the curb, then down towards the street drain, the coolant made a colorful show. When the flow ebbed to a sporadic dripping, I would turn the spigot closed. It was an easy job. My dad had shown me numerous times how it was done.
“Which one?” I asked smartly.
“The old Olds,” he said, forgetting he was almost parroting Scotty’s dad. “Then do the other. I picked up some ethylene glycol antifreeze from down at Wille’s.
“Wille’s” was Wilbur Wille’s BF Goodrich auto repair and supply shop at the corner of Second and State Streets in downtown Geneva. A place that knew the old man well; he was a frequent visitor.
In his quest to keep his rolling stock in working order, Dad would stop in at Wille’s for some automotive advice and often, a “deal”; some type of free or reduced priced automotive related item.
“Got a deal down at Wille’s,” the old man would tell my mom as he strolled in, confident as a cock of the walk.
Mom would just roll her eyes and murmur, “hmm”.
The “deals” he got were car wax and chrome cleaners and other stuff that seemed to be old, dried up or even used stuff. I wondered if the ethylene glycol (anti-freeze) was one of those “deals”.
As for ethylene glycol, it was of particular importance. During his stint in the Army, Dad had learnt from the motor pool guys that “ethylene glycol coolant” was their antifreeze of choice.
“John,” he would advise, lighting up a Pall Mall, “never use that alcohol based antifreeze. It’ll bugger up the radiator sure as hell.” The words came out as smoothly as the smoke from his cigarette.
I would nod appreciatively, reflecting at the same time that, I rode a bike; it didn’t have, let alone, need, a radiator.
However, I did catch that word “bugger”. Hmm. Now there was something to add to my list of useful words! I was not sure if it was a swear word; I hadn’t heard it from any other adults, or kids and I was not very sure of its meaning, but it sure sounded pretty neat.
Along with this automotive knowledge gained from the Army’s motor pool, he had also secured a good supply of the Army’s blankets. During the cold weather months, all of us had one of the dark olive colored woolen blankets on our beds. The excess was kept in the mothball laden army foot lockers that my dad also secured before being discharged. They were stacked in the basement next to the furnace’s oil tank.
When automotive work was performed, the old man always seemed to need a cigarette as an added aid. If he had trouble starting a car, he would pop open the hood, pull off the air cleaner, light his smoke and then go to work on the carburetor while I or one of the older kids turned the ignition key.
Once he even used a bit of ether spray. It was one of Wille’s “deals”. That was how I learned that ether was flammable.
“Turn the key John,” he ordered. Dutifully, I turned the key. Dad sprayed a bit ether into the carburetor’s throat while hand pumping its linkage.
No start. I let up on the key. He had instructed me not to “grind’ on the key.
“Gotdammit! Turn the gotdammed key again! Quit buggerin’ around!”
Buggerin’ around? Another way to use the word. How about that!
Whirr, whirr whirr. The car’s engine spun over and over.
More spray down the carb.
Nothing.
I could almost see the cuss words floating like a vapor out from under the hood.
Dad looked up at me, held up his palm to stop. Then, he sprayed some more into the stubborn thing. Biting down on his lit cigarette, he waved his arm to me with a circular motion. turn the key.
As he gazed into carb’s throat, muttering, “What the hell, gotdammit,” it blew.
The black '55 Olds had a bad habit of backfiring, even when we were just driving through town. Sometimes it sounded like a gunshot, other times, a cannon. At least that's what I imagined the sound those weapons made. Sometimes when it backfired, the noise made passersby jump. Dad thought it was funny.
It decided to do it then.
With a loud bang, the thing backfired. An orange flame like a jet’s exhaust blew straight up and out of the carburetor as the engine roared to life. With catlike reflexes, my dad luckily escaped the carburetor’s blowtorch flame, banging his head on the hood as he jerked his head from the angry thing.
“Geezus Christ, turn that bugger off,” he roared, eyes as big as silver dollars.
My eyes were even bigger, “is it gonna blow up?” my voice quavered; Gee whiz! I had almost roasted the old man!
“Oh, hell no. I was just a good clean-out. It ain’t nuthin to get excited about,” he said fearlessly. “I just didn’t want ya’s drivin off with the Olds,” he explained logically. But I noticed, his face was pale and he had bitten through his lit smoke.
The ether spray was dutifully discarded.
But this morning it was really cold. I sighed. I knew their radiators were full of the cold weather juice. But would they start?
I did not relish sitting in the cold Oldsmobile turning the key while my dad swore at the thing’s dead engine.
Sure enough; he was already planning for my help if needed.
“John, I wantcha to come out to help me start the Olds if I has problems”.
I watched as the old man trudged out to his car, the black Oldsmobile, cigarette in mouth, a black watchman’s cap on his head, and his hands clad in brown jersey gloves.
Whirr, whirr, whirr.
I watched and listened as he endeavored to start the stubborn thing. I could almost hear him inside the car, “gotdammit, gotdammed Olds,” he would be cussing.
But then, just as the Shell tow truck with the jump starting generator was driving by, a cloud of white smoke magically appeared from its tail pipe. It started!
Ronnie the driver, stopped. ‘Havin troubles wit da Olds?” his grin was a chesire cat’s grin. My dad said he was too smart for his own britches. “Betcha it needs a tuneup!”
“Hell no!” exclaimed the old man, waving Ronnie off with the back of his hand.
Ronnie frowned, rolled up his window and drove off.
I breathed a sigh of relief. No braving the elements for me, I could go back to my chemistry set, forgetting, that I too, would be out in the frigid weather delivering papers.
The old man came in triumphant, crowing, “Most reliable car ever made!”
I nodded, my mom just looked over murmuring; she was busy preparing pancakes for my brother Jeff,
“Uh huh.”
I suppose she had heard other, more expletive defining terms regarding the Olds. Little brother Jeff, on the other hand smiled brightly. His blonde hair still wet from a bath was translucent, making his head appear bald. To him, the old man was always right and besides, there were pancakes being made.
Later that afternoon, the News Depot delivery truck came by dropping off my route’s newspapers. It was time to start delivering papers.
As I wiped the Christmas day snow from my bike’s seat, I shivered. It was buggerin’ cold! I mumbled to myself.
And man o manisheverts it was cold! it was buggerin' cold!
Later, when the TV newsman Fahey Flynn asked his weatherman, “How cold was it today PJ?”
PJ Hoff replied, saying that the high temperature for the day was eight degrees, the low, eleven below zero.
As I rode along, finishing my paper route, darkness was settling in. I flexed my fingers and toes; all but my thumbs were numb. Even my ears felt like they were burning through my stocking cap. I was so chilled that when Scotty came over that evening to ask if I wanted to see his slot car Christmas present, I politely declined. I was not going outside again. At least for that day!
But the next day, it warmed up. Scotty came by, his face red from the cold. “Hey John! Let’s go over to my place and play Eskimos,” he suggested. The hearty soul that he was, seemed to thrive in the cold. Much of the Christmas vacation, he spent playing outside, building an igloo under the maple tree in his front yard.

“Well, okay. But later maybe we could race slot cars when we get cold,” I proposed.
“Sure!” Scotty’s grin filled his rosy face.
One of his Christmas presents was a full blown slot car racing track with a dragster that raced against a replica Jaguar. The track took up half of his bedroom.
I was in awe of the amount of presents that he received. No socks and underwear for him. At least he never showed me them if he did get them. It must have seemed to him that all kids got such a large assortment of gifts: toy model airplanes to build, a baseball mitt, board games; all of that on top of the slot car racing track. I was justifiably envious.
As I was leaving late Friday afternoon, after having spent much of the day playing Eskimo and racing slot cars, Scotty’s dad drove up in his blue Geneva squad car.
“Hiya John, you stayin for dinner?” he grinned, his square jaw jutting out.
Friday night dinners at Scotty’s house were often “breakfast for dinner” type of affairs. Sometimes they would have waffles or pancakes and breakfast sausages and other times, bacon, eggs and toast.
One breakfast a day was enough for me. Besides, they often poured syrup on their breakfast sausage. To me, it was like pouring Kool-Aid on Wheaties, Ugh!
“Uh, no sir. I gotta go do my paper route.”
“Oh yeah. That’s right. You’re a paperboy now. Aren’tcha?”
Sometimes it seemed I could prattle on when I was asked about my paper route. “Yep. I gotta new basket from Nick’s and I deliver the News, American, Beacon.....”. Before I could finish reciting my workload, method of transport and maybe even my arrangement with Nick, Scotty’s dad interrupted me.
“Wow!” He had heard it numerous times before.
I quickly put on my cold weather gear, I noticed Scotty’s dad appeared suitably impressed.
“You’re deliverin’ them papers up and down Richards Street on yer bike?”
“Yep, and some of the sidestreets and even Anderson Boulevard. But not so many on Union and Center or even Stevens Street”
My face went red thinking about old man Hansen on Stevens Street and his front door window. Did he know about that? I held my breath.
Nothing was mentioned.
He nodded, thoughtfully, rubbing his chin and then went on, “I s’pose yer mom is taking you ‘round during these cold days. You know in the Olds?”
I shook my head, “nope, I’m riding my bike.” Then I added a bit uncertainly, biting my lip while puffing out my chest, “My fingers get a little numb, that’s all.”
I don’t think he really believed me as he wrinkled his brow as he listened, “Well then, stay warm. It’s durn cold out there!” Grinning, he patted my shoulder and winked as I left, closing the kitchen door behind me, repeating, “Stay warm!”
I pulled on my stocking cap and stepped out the door, into the freezing air.
Walking home, I mumbled, “Geezus Christ, its buggerin’ cold!”
Ray’s question about my Mom driving me on my route had me wondering; should I ask Mom if she would do that, drive me around in her car? Willie and Jerry’s mom even delivered the papers for them!
But then I remembered how she had remarked about a paper route being hard work, especially in the winter. Maybe that would disappoint her that I didn’t listen to her advice.
I shook my head. Nope, nope, nope, I better not. Then, I upbraided myself: Gee whiz John, what are you, a big baby?
After all, I was gonna be eleven years old pretty soon. I was in the fifth grade. Heck! Next year would be my last year in grade school!
And so, I went on, delivering my papers through the month of January. Some days were just plain cold, but others were absolutely frigid with temperatures below zero.
The first week, after Christmas vacation, it warmed up. And though it had snowed Sunday and Monday, on Tuesday, the eighth, my birthday, the temperature was in the forties. But then it snowed that Thursday, Friday and Saturday.
As we watched the Channel Five weather, that night, the TV weatherman, Harry Volkman described how a high pressure system was following the snowstorms with very cold air. The high started somewhere in Canada and slid down over the Chicago area bringing its cold, subzero temperatures.
By Sunday morning, the temperature was eight below and rose only to a cold ten above zero the next day.
It was too cold to play Eskimos. Scotty and I raced cars on his slot car track, the cold was forgotten temporarily.
But Monday morning came. The temperature was eleven below. I delivered my papers in frigid five degree temperatures while riding and half dragging my bike through the snow clogged streets. My fingers and toes were numb. They ached as they thawed out later that evening.
But Tuesday, the fifteenth, was even worse; eighteen below zero! The milk that the Johansen Dairy milkman delivered was frozen, its contents pushing the little wax lid out of the bottle.
For breakfast, my little brother and sister, Jojo and Jeff , made ice milk adding cinnamon sugar to the frozen milk that they poured into their cereal bowls. Thye cereal itself omitted.
My dad gazed out the window, puffing on his Pall Mall, cursing the weather.
“Geezuz Christ”. Then, he stopped and stared, gazing icily at his growing nemesis, Ronnie and the Shell tow truck driving by.
Just like the milkman, Ronnie and his Shell tow truck were making stop after stop, jump starting cars. You could hear its rear mounted generator echoing in the cold silence. Its sound was of an ominous power lawn mower.
As we walked to school, we stopped and watched in fascination as Ronnie, cigarette in mouth, pulled up next to the dead vehicle. He hopped out of the truck wearing heavily insulated, brown workman’s clothing, the name Shell Oil Co emblazoned in yellow upon his jacket. As he popped the car’s hood and attached the long cables to start the stalled thing, he would say a few choice words of advice to the owner about tune-ups and car care. All with an ever present sardonic grin
We didn’t watch for too long, it was too cold.
I’m not sure what he charged for starting frozen cars and dead batteries, but I guess for the people who used his services, it was well worth it. His advice was another thing.
My dad, on the other hand, would have nothing of it. He considered calling the Shell tow truck for a jump, an insult to his automobile acumen. And, he made darn sure he wouldn’t have to call them. From oil dipstick heaters to even a heating pad, he had all sorts of devices plugged into the long extension cords that he strung out to the Oldsmobiles in the street. He was certain that they would keep the freezing autos warm and ready to start.
No sir, that Shell truck was not going to be needed by him! And, he sure didn’t want to hear any smart aleck suggestions from Ronnie the driver.
But, this string of continuous below zero mornings had him feeling uneasy. I could tell as he watched Harry Volkman’s weather forecast, groaning as Harry explained that yet another high pressure system was sliding south as if on parade.
Even PJ Hoff, the Channel Two weatherman was proclaiming a string of record cold. My dad was beside himself.
"Gotdammit!,” was all he could muster as he had Jeff switch the television channel from one weatherman to another.
Each one was ominously predicting below zero temperatures.

******

I began to dawdle about delivering my papers. I grumbled to myself about just warming up from the walk home from school and now I had to go deliver these dumb papers. I began to dread the ride that seemed so easy only a few months earlier.
I wondered if this was what the arctic explorers went through, numb hands and feet, no hope of ever being warm. Their bodies later found frozen in the snow.
Then I remembered the movie where a cowboy was freezing in a blizzard. He shot a buffalo, slit it open and crawled inside its body to stay warm. They found him later, frozen inside the buffalo with only his head sticking out! I shuddered thinking about the gruesome sight.
By the time I was half way done, my ears, fingers and toes were numb, even my the heels of my feet were numb. I cursed the weather, my paper route and anything else in the vicinity. I cursed out loud. Who cares? There was no one else outside but me, braving the wind, pulling my dumb bike through the buggerin’ snow drifts.
“Gotdammit!” I shouted.
A car’s headlights appeared.
I looked over my shoulder. A police car! It was one of Geneva’s blue Chevy police cars!
Wild thoughts filled my head.
Had someone heard me?
Did they call the cops?

******

“This is the police. Can I help you ma’am?”
“Yes officer, There is some kid out in our neighborhood swearing up a storm. Please arrest him for using bad words.”
“What? The hell you say! Where is he?”
“Why he’s on Richards Street officer! He’s that same kid who broke Old Man Hansen’s window last month!”
“Why that little urchin! Okay ma’am, you stay inside. He might be dangerous! We’ve had trouble like this before! But we’ll catch him and throw the book at him!”

******

“Hi Johnny, I betcha you’re freezin’. Wanna hop inside my car and warm up?”
It was Ray, Scotty’s dad. Did he hear me swearing? Did someone call the police on me?
“Uh, yessir. It is cold. Thanks,” I entered the car uncertain as to what might happen next.
“You know, it’s below zero already. I was thinkin’ about you and yer paper route today. I thought I’d drive by to see how yer doin’.”
“Well, I’m half way done and it’s buggerin’ cold out!”
Ooh, I winced as I let out the word.
Not in front of an adult, John, you dumb pig!
My faced glowed a deep red.
Scotty’s dad looked at me in astonishment, his eyes wide, eyebrows raised. Then he snorted, chuckling and grinning as he agreed, “yep, it is buggerin’ cold out there!
By the way, Johnny, do you know what “buggerin’” means?”
“Uh, it’s like sayin’ it’s really, really cold?” I asked.
“Well, I suppose that’s one way of thinkin’. Tell you what, just don’t use that word around girls or ladies, like your ma.”
He thought for a minute and then added, “and probably your Pa too. Okay?”
“Okay!”
So, as I warmed up in the car, Ray offered me half of his Milky Way candy bar, We talked about the Geneva basketball team. How it was winning all those games. How their coach was always sick.
Scotty’s dad told me how Scotty had a lazy eye and that he had to be held back a grade because of his poor eyesight.
He even talked about his days in the Marines, playing for the Marine football team. I was enthralled.
We talked about my old man’s Oldsmobiles.
“Those things startin’ I see,” he commented.
“Yep. Dad’s got stuff to keep them warm,” I explained.
He nodded. He already knew. He had been over to see the electrical methods my dad was using.
After about fifteen minutes, Ray suggested that I hurry and finish my route.
I nodded and stepped back out into the ice blast. My fingers had thawed somewhat.
Not knowing what else to say, I waved and yelled, “Thanks!”
Ray grinned and drove off.

******

As that cold January continued, the below zero cold continued, the Oldsmobiles continued to start. The old man’s method of combating the cold weather assault seemed to be working.
If he encountered a starting problem needing two people, Dad would have me sit in the car and, as usual turn the key while he fiddled with the carburetor.
I watched as white puffs of his breath separated themselves from the smoke in his mouth. There were no new swear words emanating from my his mouth, just variations of the same in various degrees of volume. I did hear a sonsofbuggeringotdammit once. But I decided it sounded too silly to be even used as a swear word even if I was a kid.
By the third week of January, every day seemed to have below zero temperatures. Everyone grumbled and cursed, even my mom got in on the act, complaining with a few dammits!
On Monday, the temperature hit seventeen below zero, the next day, it was two below. But, on Wednesday, it reached eighteen below! Not again!
“Geezus Christ! Gotdammed cold weather!”
Dad bundled up and went out to start the cars, hoping, I presumed, that his array of electric cords had kept the frozen things semi frigid in this extreme cold. They would start for sure, just like last time.
I watched as he walked down the walk. Suddenly, he stopped and picked up the extension cord, examining one end and then the other. He gazed back at the house and then sadly at the two frozen Oldsmobiles. Then up and down the street.
Unplugged!
The extension cords were unplugged!
I could see his breath puffing out, probably with a few gotdammits and sonsabitches carried away in the white air.
Dad walked over to my mom’s car, opened the door and sat down. As he turned its key, I could hear the engine of her green two tone ’56 Olds slowly turning over. Suddenly, it roared, white smoke shot out of its tailpipe as it churned to life, chugging away.
Placing a brick on its accelerator, my dad got out, a big frozen grin on his face. I could almost hear him thinking, “most reliable car ever made”.
But, then he sat down in his black ’55, he turned the key.
Nothing.
No start.
No sound at all.
 A dead battery.
The hood was opened immediately. He peered into the compartment.
Looking back to the house, he saw me at the window. With a wave, he motioned for me to come out.
I sighed and nodded my head. Quickly, I donned my winter gear and came out.
“John, I wantchas to turn the key when I tell ya to.”
“Okay”. I knew this drill.
I sat in the driver’s seat and awaited his command.
He banged a few things under the hood and then whirled his hand in the circular motion in which I was familiar.
Whirr, whirr, whirr, whirr, whirr. The battery had some life!
I ground on the key, not noticing his hands waving to stop. It was only when I heard him exclaiming, “Geezus Christ! Gotdammit! Stop buggerin’ the thing!” did I stop.
“John, you wait here, in the Olds, we’re gonna jump 'er,” he explained.
Jump? Man, I had only done that once. The old man had almost electrocuted himself with that decrepit set of jumper cables, another one of those “deals” that he had purchased at Wille’s.
That time, when he attempted the “jump”, I had witnessed a long electrical spark being emitted from the hinge of its hood.
Dad pulled my mom’s Oldsmoblile up to the front of the black ’56, set the emergency brake, applied the brick to the accelerator and hopped out. Then he retrieved the keys from the ignition of the ‘55.
“Cable’s in the trunk,” he grunted.
As he rattled and rummaged through the trunk, I wondered if I would be electrocuted in this ‘jumpstarting” process. I had already received a shock from Scotty’s slot car racing track when I slipped and sprawled upon it, my tongue touching the metal contact point on the track.
That was a neck jerking jolt. Would this be worse? Would my fingers have to be pried from the ignition key? Would I just melt on the spot?
I pondered the gory details.
The old man walked by, gleefully waving the cables, a lit cigarette in mouth. I watched as he first connected one end to the dead battery, then to the running vehicle.
“Okay, John. Turn ‘er over,” he shouted waving his hand in the circular motion.
Whirr, whirr, whirr. I watched him intently for the stop motion. The engine turned over faster and faster.
Nothing. No start.
He scratched his head and thought.
Just then, Ronnie pulled up in the Shell tow truck.
“Whatcha doin there’ Big John?”
The ever present smart grin on his face was apparent immediately.
Some of the men in town referred to my dad as Big John. Ronnie was one of them.
“Havin a lttle trouble wit da Olds,” the old man acted nonchalant about it.
“Prolly needs a tuneup!”
The old man was insulted, “Oh hell no, it’s just someone’s gone and unplugged its dipstick heater.”
Then he looked suspiciously at Ronnie.
“Weren’t me!” Ronnie was even more insulted then the old man.
As I watched the exchange between the two, I began to shiver. Gee whiz, hurry up, you guys!
“Tell ya what Johnny old boy, I’ll help ya start her. You jump in and turn the key and I’ll man the cables! We’ll get ‘er goin’,” he said confidently. “No charge!”
A “deal”! The old man couldn’t resist.
He looked at Ronnie with some misgiving, “Okay, but you be careful with her,” he instructed.
Ronnie frowned and waved him off.
I jumped out of the car and stood back, my curiosity overcoming my shivering.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, Dad looked at Ronnie and nodded.
“Okay Big John, turn ‘er over,” Ronnie waved his hand just like the old man did.
Whirr, whirr, whirr.
No start.
“Just a minute Johnny!” Ronnie ran over to the Shell truck, rummaged around and then returned with a can.
I recognized the container.
Ether!
Holy cow!
I moved farther away. I had no intention of being roasted alive.
“Hey Ronnie, I don’t like usin’ that stuff!” Dad shouted over the calliope that was the Shell tow truck, its running generator and the roar of my mom's car with the brick  on its accelerator.
Ronnie grinned even wider and waved him off.
Then he gave the can a few short spurts.
“Okay, give ‘er a whirl,’ he motioned with his hand.
Whirr, whirr, whirr.
Nothing.
“Jusssst a minute,” More spray.
“Okay,” hand whirling in the now compulsory circular motion.
Whirr, whirr, whirr.
Nothing.
“What the hell, you sonofabitch you,” Ronnie cursed the car.
More spray and some pumps on the carburetor linkage.
“Okay, again” hand whirled.
Ronnie glanced over at me with questioning look; my fingers were in my ears.
Whirr, whir, whirr, BOOM!
There was a loud boom, a flash of flame, a big puff of smoke and then the roar of the engine.
She started!
I gaped at the scene. I had never been outside the car when it had happened.
“Sonofabitch!” I exclaimed. Luckily, no one heard me over the noise.
Ronnie’s sardonic grin was gone just as fast as the smoke and flame appeared.
I stared at his “Shell Oil Co” badge. It was badly blackened.
There was a distinct smell of burnt hair filling my nose. Ronnie's hair was singed.
His eyes were as big as saucers.
“Gotdammit John! What the hell kinda veehickul you got runnin’ here? Son of a bitch if it didn’t almost roast me alive.” Ronnie sounded each word out slowly, trembling as he did.
The old man hopped out of the Olds, almost dancing a bit, tears in his eyes, grinning ear to ear and coughing cigarette smoke out his mouth.
“I told ya I didn’t wanna use that stuff, Ronnie!” He could hardly get the words out in between his guffaws.
“Geezus Christ Almighty! What the hell is this thing, a jet engine?”
“Ronnie, there’s no need for that type of language ‘round my kids,” the old man admonished, nodding towards me.
“Oh, yeah, sorry about thems words, Johnny,” Ronnie looked over at me ruefully rubbing his singed hair.
I shrugged my shoulders, “Okay”.
Even though I had heard variations of the same words from my dad and my Uncle Paul, I still appreciated the old man sticking up for me.
That was the last time Ronnie stopped by to offer the old man help with his car.
That suited my dad just fine.
“Serve’s him right,’ he sniffed, as Ronnie drove off. Ronnie drove away, his grin was already back in place. “Think’s he’s a smart bugger anyhow.”
Although I initially suspected that Earl or DJ had crept over to unplug the things, it was never determined how they became unplugged. Probably the old man tripped on them the night before and inadvertently disconnected them. One thing is for sure, it didn’t happen again. The old man checked them every night.
As for the brutal temperatures and my paper route, they continued into the first part of February and I continued to deliver papers.

******

Over that course of time, until the cold eased, Scotty’s dad would nonchalantly pull up at the same spot just about every late afternoon as I did my paper route, offering me a seat in the warm police car, half a candy bar and a chat.
I don't remember ever telling Scotty or my mom and dad about his gesture. It just seemed the right thing to do.
But, I wondered back then if he ever did that for the other paperboys in town.
I guess I’ll never know.

******

As for the old Oldmobiles, they continued to start through that cold winter. The ’55 gained some notoriety for its pistol and cannon sounding backfire. My folks kept them a few more years.

After all, they were “The Most Reliable Cars Ever Made”.