They, Too, Were Heroes

With Veterans Day approaching, many stories in the media tell us about the actions of heroic military personnel who were crippled or killed facing enemy fire. Some interesting tales are repeated year after year and circulated widely. But others emerge only long after the event when an enterprising historian publishes a previously untold tale.

Lieutenant Charles J. Searl, a World War II pilot, bore a family name familiar to most residents of my hometown of Tomahawk, Wisconsin.  Bronsted-Searl Post 93, American Legion, has been active in veteran’s affairs and community service work since shortly after Armistice Day (now Veterans Day in the U.S.) ended World War I. My father was an active member of the post for more than 40 years. I played baseball for two seasons on a team sponsored by the post. One of my most treasured possessions is a trophy awarded by the Legionnaires for achievements in high school.

Yet all I knew about the post name was that “Bronsted” was killed in World War I , and “Searl” died in World War II.  I knew that because my father told me. I believe some Tomahawk natives with fewer ties to the local American Legion group had no inkling about the origins of the name.

Just a few weeks ago, Lt. Searl’s story appeared on the internet, posted by a Tomahawk resident on Facebook. The Tomahawk Leader carried a similar story this week. The story didn’t originate in Tomahawk, or Wisconsin, or anywhere else in the U.S. An Englishman, Ronald M. Setter, compiled “B-17 ‘Tomahawk Warrior’ A Tribute to Charles J. Searl and Crew.”  Mr. Setter made the story very personal, including ages and home states of all the crew members and some speculation about how they might have spent their off-duty time in the village of Royston, near the airfield where they were based.

Lt. Searl (top row, third from left) and the other crew members with "The Tomahawk Warrior"

Exercising a pilot’s privilege, Lt. Searl named the B-17 heavy bomber he flew after his hometown. “The Tomahawk Warrior,” with its original crew of 10, flew 24 missions to France and Germany, including one on D-Day, after it arrived at the Nuthampstead airbase in March 1944. On August 12, the plane took off for the 25^th mission, one it did not complete.

A 25^th mission might convey the idea to some that the crew of “The Tomahawk Warrior” would be safe permanently when they returned, but that probably was not the case, and Mr. Setter does not make that claim. American bomber crews suffered horrendous losses early in their participation in mainland European bombing raids. During the first three months (1941) the typical crew completed only 8 to 12 missions before their plane was shot down or disabled.

Apparently to boost flyer morale, the Eighth U.S. Army Air Force decreed that finishing 25 missions in a heavy bomber constituted a “completed tour of duty” and the crew could stand down. I know that happened sometimes, because a Tomahawk resident who lived on our street was sent back to state-side duty after his bomber safely completed 25 missions. However, histories tell us the “25 mission rule” was extended to 30, 35, or more depending on circumstances. By the time “The Tomahawk Warrior” arrived fairly late in the aerial campaign, fighter plane cover was much improved and German resistance was diminished. So, claiming that the “Warrior” crew might have been on its last mission on August 12 would add drama to the story, but probably would not be true.

On Saturday, August 12, 1944, without one crew member who was left behind for unknown reasons, “The Tomahawk Warrior” took off for a bombing run to Versailles, France. Less than an hour later one engine caught fire, and Searl turned over the town of High Wycombe to return to base. Another engine was observed to be on fire.

Mr. Setter wrote, “It has always been accepted that the pilot was trying to find open ground to attempt a landing when he had no chance of reaching his base or even Bovingdon airfield, which was only ten miles away to the north. He would have seen the populated area he was flying over and realized the devastation the plane would cause if it crashed there. It skimmed over the farmhouse of Lude Farm and crashed into open fields opposite. ‘Tomahawk Warrior’ and its crew of nine young men ended life in a massive explosion and fire. No one had bailed out of the stricken plane and no distress signal was ever traced. They stayed together, comrades now for all eternity. . . A short entry in official records at their base read: Takeoff 0618 hours, 0720 no return.”

To my knowledge, no special ceremonies have been held in the U.S. to mark the end of “The Tomahawk Warrior” and its crew. However, the remarkable part of their story is that the Brits in the area (Penn) have never forgotten.

Each Armistice Day, a special service at Penn Church honors the American flyers. Their names are read along with men from the village who gave their lives. Usually, “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” is sung during the service. Small American flags, each with the name of a crew member, are placed with British flags along the path to the church door. The Book of Remembrance in Penn Church has the American as well as the British military names inscribed in memory of their sacrifice.

At Penn Church, the crew of "The Tomahawk Warrior" are not forgotten

Mr. Setter concludes his story: “To all who read this tribute, remember . . . they gave their lives just as bravely and in sacrifice for peace, just as those who were lost on and over the battlefields of Europe.”

Charles J. Searl, age 23, left behind a wife and two small daughters. None of the other crew members was married. Their ages ranged from 20 to 27. 

Where're You From, Mac?

Nobody likes being an outsider.  But if you’ve relocated a time or two, you’ve had no choice but to be “the new kid on the block.”  In some places, acceptance of newcomers is a lengthy process. You could be a new kid for a very long time, especially in a small town.

During a dinner conversation at our home in northern Wisconsin when I was a teenager, my mother several times referred to “that man from Illinois” in a discussion of a happening across the street from our house.  We weren’t sure who she was talking about. A clarification revealed that the “man from Illinois” had owned his home in our neighborhood for 26 years!

I’ve only been an outsider in one place where a native enjoyed identifying and embarrassing newcomers. My first job outside Wisconsin (except for Army duty) was an assignment as the Public Information Officer for the Boise National Forest.  One of the duties was participating in team teaching at environmental education workshops. The Idaho Fish and Game Department always had one or two representatives on the team.

It was obvious that one of the F&G men, a native Idahoan, was not overly fond of U.S. Forest Service personnel, nor was he delighted to be working with National Park Service people who sometimes were team members.  At that time, pay for the federal natural resource people was considerably better than that of state personnel. The federal agencies didn’t employ many wildlife biologists, so state wildlife specialists had a difficult time moving to the Forest Service, Park Service, Bureau of Land Management, or Fish and Wildlife Service as a way of gaining a heftier paycheck. 

In addition to resentment about pay disparities, there sometimes was an undercurrent of native-newcomer tension.  The majority of Idaho Fish and Game employees at all levels were born and raised in the state, or at least were long-time residents.  Most professional federal agency people had transferred to Idaho from other locations. 

The state man liked to make it clear he was a native son.  He did that at least once during every environmental education workshop by suggesting we all stand and sing the state song: “Here We Have Idaho.”  He, of course, rendered every word loudly and correctly.  Most of the rest of us muttered along as many have while trying to mouth an unfamiliar hymn in church.  The F&G man made a point of staring at me a time or two as I stood there pretending to sing the state song.

I actually tried to learn “Here We Have Idaho” just to thwart him.  The tune consists of two short verses and a chorus. It should have been easy, but I never got the hang of it.  That wasn’t surprising.  How many Americans know the words to any state song?

“On Wisconsin!” should be a snap for me.  The tune doubles as the university’s football fight song and the state anthem.  After years of hearing both, I can negotiate the football version pretty well, but can’t get past the first line of the lyrics honoring the state.

Apparently destined to forever flunk the Idaho anthem test, I strongly suggested to the song leader that he drop the whole hidden-agenda affair.  “You know damn well there aren’t two of every ten people you con into this who know the words, whether they spent their whole lives here or not,” I said. “You’re just embarrassing everybody.”

He finally agreed to suspend the musical salutes to the Gem State. “I know how to show you flatlanders up, anyway,” he said.  “I just get you talking about the Idaho Panhandle.  As soon as you say you like that big lake near Sandpoint, ‘Lake Pend Orioles,’ I gotcha.”

Hard to bluff your way through that test.  Any worthy Idahoan knows Pend Oreille, the state’s largest lake, is pronounced “pond-o-ray.” Seldom does a newcomer get that one right, perhaps with the exception of a French immigrant.

Other states we’ve spent some time in have place names designed to baffle a neophyte. On the way from our long-time home in Ogden, Utah, for a little recreation in the nearest Nevada gambling houses, we drove through Tooele County.  Telling locals you had traversed “Toolee County” brought big guffaws every time.  After several years as Utah residents, we became experts at announcing we had just returned from a trip through “Twilla County.”  We had become old settlers.

Indian names can be especially tricky.  Many acres in far northern Wisconsin are included in the Chequamegan National Forest.  “Shewameegun” rolls right off the tongues of people from my hometown and environs.  How would you say it?

The "Big Mac" truly is AWEsome.

Here in our adopted State of Michigan, a designation based on Indian words probably holds the record among U.S. geographic names mispronounced most frequently. Much of the fun started in 1957 with completion of the Mackinac Bridge linking the state’s upper and lower peninsulas.  At the time, the bridge was the longest two-tower suspension span in the world, so it got lots of attention.

Many tourists said they’d crossed the “Straits of Mackinack” on the “Mackinack Bridge,” and they still do. Actually, the newcomers traversed a bridge over waters whose name ends in “awe,” not “ack.”

The endings of most names in the area that look like "ack" are pronounced "awe." That holds for the bridge, the straits, and Mackinac Island, plus Fort Michilimackinac.  But just to confuse things, Mackinaw City sounds just like it looks.  And, to add more fun, some Michiganders refer to the famous “awe” bridge as “Big Mac.”

A little off the point is the fact that many long-suffering winter residents of both northern Wisconsin and Michigan wear sturdy overcoats known as “mackinaws.”  But that can be a help.  Think of big coats and you have a key to remembering the proper name of the big bridge and associated heart-warming stuff.

Much more could be written on this topic, but beautiful wife Sandy is telling me it’s time to start on our day trip to Dowagiac.  Folks, I haven’t a clue about how to say that.  Some local surely will be delighted to tell me after a guffaw following my feeble attempt to say I’m enjoying my first visit to D…..something or other.

Don’t look it up.  I did it for you.  Dowagiac (Doe-WAH-jack) is an Indian name meaning foraging ground.  Don’t damn those Indians; a legacy of unpronounceable names is just a reasonable bit of revenge for past war crimes against the tribes.

Northwoods Wants

The geezer doesn’t spend much time reading a weekly electronic edition of my hometown newspaper.  Members of my immediate family are long gone.  Even my interest in the obituaries is declining as fewer and fewer familiar names show up. 

A visit to the want ad section is extremely rare. Yet something drew my eye there in the April 17 edition of the Tomahawk Leader. I found this entry:

WANTED:  Double-barrel shotgun. Also: A girlfriend. Each need not be real pretty but proper functioning is important (Need not be a single transaction). 715-612-1680.

At least one north woods denizen hasn’t lost the somewhat quirky sense of humor long associated with the area.  If you’ve got the goods and  want to make a deal with him, call the number.

Another Merry Birthday

This topic is revisited annually.  Why?  Well, it happens every year, and as long as it keeps happening all is well with the Geezer.

New Years Day is my birthday. “Ah,” say many of those who first learn of this, “your parents were lucky.”

Those who make this type of observation usually envision front-page news stories and tons of presents showered by various businesses seeking some free advertising on the mother and father of the first child born every year.  Even medical folks get into the act.  Parents of the first child born at one of the major area hospitals this year got extra diapers and gift cards good at a local restaurant and movie theater from the hospital staff.

Note the hairline resemblance

It didn’t work that way for my parents.  I didn’t appear until about 7 p.m. on Jan. 1. A half-dozen babies were born earlier on New Years Day that year in my hometown.  The prizes and gifts were long gone when I arrived. 

Sympathizers then sometimes remark that at least my coming gave old Dad another income tax exemption. That didn’t work, either. At the time, toward the end of the Great Depression, Dad didn’t earn enough to have any income tax liability.

The timing of my birth was not only financially disappointing; it ended a family tradition that might have provided the Klade clan some measure of fame.  My father, Fred J. Klade, was born on Christmas Day, 1891, in Wausau, WI.  His father, Fred C. Klade, was born on Christmas Day, 1855, in Germany. We don’t know the birth date of my great-grandfather or previous male ancestors.  Had I appeared as “scheduled,” it would definitely have been three Christmas boys in a row, with a slim possibility of four or more.  My mother said I was too stubborn to conform to the family pattern.

In tough times, a holiday season birthday can be a distinct disadvantage.  A good number of my father’s Christmas presents were labeled “Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday.” The gift givers cut their costs in half, but Dad’s gift-receiving pleasure suffered equally, although he never complained.  In better economic times, there apparently is no problem.  I have yet to receive a single gift or card in honor of both Christmas and my birthday.

The lasting advantage of my “1/1” birth date is that friends find it very easy to remember, and good things happen because they do. This year was no exception. Once again, my birthday celebration started with congratulations via e-mail from Jake Jirschele, a high school pal I haven’t seen for some 50 years.  After many years of mystery as to how Jake knew my birth date, he admitted remembering it from a conversation in a bar in 1955! (see the Jan. 6, 2011 post, “The Consistent Mystery Every New Years Day,” in the archives).

Shortly after reading Jake’s annual message, the Geezer was treated to a telephone call that began with a “Happy Birthday to you” song accompanied by some giggles and chuckles.  The song leader was Jim Shea, another chum from long ago who I haven’t seen for many years.  He recalled visiting our house on Christmases past to partake of some “shaum tort,” a special dessert whipped up (literally) by my Mom in honor of Dad’s birthday.  Jim remembered both of the notable Klade birthdays, and quite a few other events from years gone by.  His call was among the many things that made my 2012 birthday something special.

I also finally cashed in with a special first-day gift from a business.  Denny’s restaurants e-mailed a coupon good for a free birthday breakfast. Nothing pleases me more than an occasional escape from healthy fare in favor or a good old American breakfast featuring lots of fried, high-calorie stuff.  Denny’s does that sort of meal well. 

Soon after beautiful wife Sandy and I settled into a booth at Denny’s a gray haired couple somewhat older than me (and that’s pretty old!) sat down in an adjacent booth.  The man exchanged a hearty “Happy New Year” greeting with the waitress.  The two chatted pleasantly throughout their meal.  I noticed the waitress bringing a plate of pancakes to their table.

As I was checking out, the elderly couple stood close to me waiting their turn. They were all smiles and exchanged pleasantries with everybody in the area.  Sandy waited nearby while I made a restroom stop after I settled our bill.  The couple had gone when I returned.  “I heard what their bill was,” Sandy said when we were in our car.  “They paid $4.24 for two breakfasts. The cashier confirmed the statement with the man. I heard the old gent say he had two pancakes, and the lady had one. They had nothing else but water.”

We’re guessing of course, but we both got the impression that the elderly couple was starting their new year treating each other to a restaurant meal they could barely afford.  They did it with dignity and good cheer.  Just seeing them made our morning more pleasant. They reminded us that material wealth is not necessary to create a celebration

May 2012 will be a happy year for you, full of the little pleasures that really matter.

Boo! and Poo

It’s a good thing--Halloween hijinks have been toned down so much over the years they hardly exist anymore.  Back in the 40s and 50s failing to provide a proper treat could result in some serious tricks.

In many communities, “Gate Night” produced various levels of damage and civic disruption by older youths, who perpetrated some strange acts apparently just for the hell of it.

Soaping windows was fairly innocuous.  Tossing trash onto Main Street from cars driven by juveniles set the bar a little higher.  Actually tearing gates off fenced areas to fulfill the Gate Night tradition was not uncommon. There were other types of property damage.  Local police gave chase when they spotted miscreants, but they were outnumbered by bands of roving youths and had little chance of apprehending anybody.

The police even could be the target. My father recalled Gate Night escapades back in the early 1900s when he was growing up in Wausau, Wisconsin, long before police had squad cars.  They traveled by bicycle when in hot pursuit.  His favorite story:

A group of boys spread horse manure liberally in an alley between two garages.  They strung a sturdy cord between the buildings about four feet above the mess, and then lured an officer into chasing them into the alley on his bike at full speed.  The result was not pretty for one of Wausau’s finest.

A somewhat similar Halloween story told in my hometown involved the lads who lived in "Jersey City," a community a short distance outside the city limits. The victim was "Shorty" Ruff, a small man whose outhouse was a favorite tip-over target during Gate Night forays by neighborhood youths.

After several years of outhouse restoration projects, Shorty decided enough was enough. Early on Gate Night, he took a seat in his outhouse with shotgun in hand, ready to scare away the most dedicated vandals who might show up.

Legend has it that Shorty fell asleep. The tippers appeared and had their way with the outhouse as usual. Shorty fell into the pit. He was said to be uninjured but considerably more aromatic when he emerged.

Cops, outhouse users, and all the rest of us can be happy these sorts of things won’t happen this year.  Or will they? Only the witches’ brew can tell us for sure.

What Have We Become?

I don’t remember all the details, but I can clearly recall the scene on VJ (Victory Over Japan) day in my hometown.  My father took me on the two-block walk from our home to the downtown area.

It seemed as though every ambulatory citizen was there.  Democrats, Republicans, Independents, Socialists, and perhaps even a Communist or two were hugging each other, slapping each other on the back, shaking hands, and dancing in the middle of the street.  Loud music emanated from the several taverns in the small business district.  Dad said everyone who wanted a free drink had no problem finding someone to buy it.

Joy was general.  No one was asking any questions about the ethics of actions that ended World War II, including atomic bombings.  No one was questioning our military strategy, or the intentions or operations of any of our allies.  Some of that came later, but for the moment Americans were just plain happy that the killing finally had stopped.

In recent days, American involvement in two wars ended.  The eight-month civil war in Libya reached the last of its final days when rebels killed the nation’s tyrannical leader.  Almost simultaneously, President Obama declared our military work in Iraq over after eight years of struggle in a war that every poll showed was unpopular with a majority of our people.

Were there huge celebrations?  Parades?  Loud music? Free drinks?  Not at all.  We were immediately treated to a volley of carping and bitching by various politicians and commentators.

Our NATO allies, primarily the United Kingdom and France, who did the heavy lifting in Libya, where charged in the United Nations and some American media with violating their charter to provide air power to protect Libyan civilians.  What were the British and French pilots supposed to do?  It seems wildly impractical to suggest they should land when they spotted an armored vehicle and ask the driver if he intended to shoot rebels, innocent civilians, or just a couple of rabbits before they launched a rocket.

From the right came complaints that the U.S. did too little in Libya, and never should have let allies assume the leadership in the military actions.  From the left came assertions that we should have shunned any involvement at all, and had run a huge risk of getting into another Viet Nam or Afghanistan quagmire. From other quarters came charges that helping the rebels would surely result in replacing a secular dictator with Libyan leadership controlled by religious fanatics.

We did have the leading role in Iraq, so the critics had to shelve that complaint and come up with a few new ones.  One was that Obama played a political trick to gain support before the next elections.  That is a strange position, indeed, considering he made a clear promise during his presidential campaign to get us out of Iraq. Apparently, keeping a promise nowadays is an evil act.

Others complained about leaving four or five thousand contract guards in Iraq to protect our diplomats and other civilian workers.  They cautioned that relying on contractors for security purposes was a serious danger.

What should we do?  Let the remaining known thugs in Iraq wipe out a segment of our diplomatic and foreign aid corps?  The prime minister of Iraq refused to continue to allow legal protection for American troops; thus it seems quite logical to turn to contractors to provide needed para-military power.

Probably the most unbelievable criticism is that Obama acted precipitously and failed to execute an orderly withdrawal.  Good grief; our withdrawal has been in the planning stages for at least two years.  Our administration is well into planning a withdrawal from Afghanistan, with a target date some three years in the future.  That would seem to indicate the people in the White House and Pentagon are practicing careful planning.

This critic thinks three years is way too long to wait for the Afghan withdrawal.  I hope that doesn’t make me as un-American as the rest of those idiots who can’t take even a day off from their political agendas and negative attacks to celebrate the end of a war and praise our young men and women for their role in bringing it about.

Of course, World War II was much larger, although it lasted only about half as long as the Iraq adventure.  And, American involvement in Libya was relatively minor and resulted in no loss of life. No matter the scope or length of the conflicts, however, lives were put at risk and dollars were spent that could have been used for better purposes.  

But yet the spirit in the country seems very different from the way people felt at the end of hostilities in 1945.  Have all the wars since then caused us to no longer feel any personal connection to military actions?

For the Record

It’s October, and the boys of summer are jousting once again for the World Championship of Baseball. Where but in the U.S.A. could the champs be crowned?  No other nation has the same extensive professional league structure and widespread amateur interest in the sport.

In more than 100 years, baseball has caught some public fancy in Canada, Japan, and parts of Latin America, but gets little or no attention elsewhere. In the U.S., the sport gradually has lost its position as the national game to football.  Why?  Basically, baseball games are slow-paced with long intervals of nothing much happening interspersed with a few moments of furious action.  In other words, watching baseball is boring most of the time. It’s also getting expensive to go out to the old ballpark—this summer fans had to fork over $6.00 for a hotdog in the Chicago White Sox’ stadium.

Perhaps as a way to add some interest, statistics expanded in scope and depth as the baseball years rolled by.  From the start number crunchers have provided fans with batting averages and totals for such essentials as home runs, runs batted in, strikeouts, and walks.  For pitchers, they gave us won-lost records, strikeout and walk totals, innings pitched, and (relatively recently) earned-run averages.  Now the keepers of the record books seem to have gone mad.

The Geezer watched a playoff game on TV a couple of nights ago.  A pair of announcers filled every second of spare time with numbers.  There was a lot of spare time as the teams changed pitchers whenever a hitter looked threatening. Viewers learned how many pitches a hurler had thrown in every conceivable situation, how every batter fared historically against every pitcher, and the speed of fastballs in miles per hour.  We even were treated to something the announcers labeled a “productive out.”

Where there are numbers there will be records.  Someone, sometime won the most games, hit the most home runs, and drew the most walks, or was the first to do something or other.  These are significant things to baseball fans.  However, we can get along well without knowing that Justin Verlander retired an average of four left-handed hitters with an outside slider every time he lasted five innings when he started a game in 2009.

Negative records perhaps are atop the pile of unimportant baseball matters. For example, do we really care if Los Angeles Dodger infielder Eugenio Valez this season set the modern-day record for nonpitchers for consecutive times at bat without a hit?  Perhaps Mrs. Valez does, if there is a Mrs. Valez, but I don’t.  And I’m sure Mr. Valez would rather not have his performance noted in the record books for all to see.

Other types of trivial baseball records sound positive, but mean very little.  High on that list are accounts of the first person to do some obscure thing or other or the only one to perform a trivial feat. The Geezer holds that sort of baseball record—one that probably never will be equaled.

I was the only person ever to play in both the junior and senior championship games in the same Wisconsin State Amateur Baseball Tournament. Wow!

Some might be awed by this achievement.  Wisconsin has held amateur championship tournaments for 63 years. Back when I played in the 1950s every little town and many companies sponsored teams.  Today, although interest in baseball is much diminished, Wisconsin still has about 60 amateur teams concentrated in northern and western parts of the state.  So my record might be considered a biggie, but how I earned it is as bizarre as the honor is unimportant. It was a pure case of being in the right places at the right times.

Through some mysterious manipulations by the chamber of commerce, my hometown (Tomahawk, Wisconsin) was selected to host the 1953 state amateur tournament.  At that time, tournament sponsors invited teams to compete in two divisions, also by a somewhat mysterious process.

Players in the junior division could not be older than 17.  They played seven-inning contests.  The senior teams had no age restrictions, and apparently few or no requirements about who might be considered an amateur or a regular member of the team.  All the teams, junior and senior, were known to add any talented players they could find to beef up rosters for the tournament.

I don’t know if the sponsors considered it a courtesy to the host city or needed a couple of teams to fill the brackets, but that year they invited one team from Tomahawk to participate in each division.  Apparently, the invitation came somewhat unexpectedly.  Managers had to hustle to assemble the two teams.  No one expected the locals to win anything—just play one game and take a bow after the defeat.

I was working that summer in a National Tea store.  Bob Koth, a local businessman involved with American Legion baseball, showed up and convinced my boss to let me off work because he needed a catcher for the junior division team he was assembling. I had played Legion and high school ball and was 17.  The first game was the next afternoon. Our ragtag nine wore the Legion team uniforms.  We won.  We won the next day.  To the amazement of one and all we were headed into the championship game.

The performance of the senior Tomahawk team perhaps was more amazing.  Competing against teams loaded with former minor league professional players, the local all-stars also won their first two games, which were nine-inning affairs played at night, and advanced to the championship game.

Our junior team had a big problem.  We only had two pitchers and it would have been a disaster to put one of them back on the mound with inadequate rest.  Mr. Koth learned that high school pitcher Dave Lemke was returning from a trip to Chicago the day before the title game.  He met Lemke at the train station and gave him a briefing and a uniform.  We had our pitcher, a guy with a strong arm but not as much experience as the first two we used.

Lefty Lemke was superb for six innings.  He was up against a team of stars from the Wisconsin Rapids area, a hotbed of amateur baseball.  One outfielder had signed a professional contract after a tryout.  We were tied 1-1 going into the last inning. Then we broke down defensively, and the visitors wound up winning going away for the championship.

I barely got home and shed my uniform when the manager of the senior Tomahawk team phoned.  His catcher had been called up by the National Guard and he couldn’t find another one when he checked with all of the area mens teams.  Would I play in the championship game that night? I did. We took a terrible thumping from a team that competed in a Milwaukee industrial league. 

Two championship game appearances in one day—two sound defeats. Not a record to be pointed to with great pride. But my very own record, nonetheless.

Recently, two local authors published a 550-page “History of Tomahawk Sports” book that covers teams and events from 1897 to 1980.  The book includes records and noteworthy accomplishments by athletes while they played on school teams and afterward in college or elsewhere.  Yes, I’m in there.  My appearances are in those standard pictures of a bunch of kids lined up to pose for high school football and baseball team photos. 

My 1953 amateur baseball record does not appear in the book.  The authors obviously have a keen perception of the importance of things.  

  

A Blogging Birthday

The year has been slipping by so quickly that an important (at least to a few) milestone almost was neglected.  This is the fifth anniversary of the Gabbygeezer blog.  It started back in 2006 with, of all things, a little story about how it started.  Since then, 300 little stories have appeared, discounting a dozen or so that defy classification as stories, or much of anything else.

Which story generated the most favorable comments?  Hands down it was “Give Yourself a Proper Sendoff,” referenced in my profile on the right-hand column of this page.  That story describes why each of us should write our own obituary, and how we can do it to maximize self-aggrandizement and still be truthful. It uses my obituary (now somewhat out of date) as an example.  Most of the commentators said the story left them laughing, or at least mildly amused.

Which of the 300 stories attracted the most readers?  That is impossible to determine.  But one story was republished several times. The story repeated here, of my business venture in my hometown of Tomahawk, Wisconsin, first appeared as a Gabbygeezer post early in 2006.  It soon was published again in the Tomahawk Leader newspaper. Like the obituary tale and 165 others, it then appeared in my memoir, “Days With The Dads,” in 2008. Shortly thereafter, the Tomahawk Historical Society included it as part of a book it published. 

Here’s the story, once again seeking a few more readers:

A Very Small Business

As small businesses went in Tomahawk, Wisconsin, mine had to be one of the smallest. And as business owners went, at age 10, I was probably one of the youngest.

In the summer of 1946, Billy “Barrel” Schmidt and I were hanging around my dad’s tailor shop voicing the usual complaint of youth that there was nothing to do. Barrel’s uncle Louie, who ran the Central Drug Store in front of my dad’s shop, suggested we do something useful and start up a shoe shining business to make a little money.

We thought that was a pretty good idea. My dad found a shoeshine box somewhere, bought us a few supplies, and we were in business. The partnership lasted only a couple of weeks. Barrel decided going swimming at Crystal Lake and other typical Tomahawk summer activities beat heck out of work. He left me as the sole proprietor of the business.

One of the group of downtown businessmen who met every morning for coffee at Rouman’s Restaurant told my dad he thought the Hotel Tomahawk once had a shoeshine stand in the lobby. Sure enough, it was in storage at the hotel. Dad got it for me, and I hauled it out in front of Central Drug every morning, ready for business.

My only advertising was two cardboard signs attached to the arms of the chair. They read: “Shoe Shine 15 cents, other shoe free.”

This postcard showed me at rest

When business at the stand was slow, which was often, I toted the shine box to the local barber shops (I think there were three in those days) looking for customers. My recollection is that the only shop where I did much business was Charlie O’Rourke’s. That’s where I got my hair cut, and Mr. O’Rourke returned the favor by trying to gently persuade the men awaiting their turn in his chair to let me shine their shoes.

I think my dad suggested my other regular “house call.” If my mom had found out about it, the business would have ended right then and there. On Friday nights, Dad worked until 9 p.m. so Mom thought I was tending to business at my stand until we came home together. Actually, I was at Scorch’s Bar with my shine box. Business there was great, often netting me $2 or $3 for a couple of hours work—big money in those days for a little kid.

At 15 cents a customer, making that kind of cash depended on how much beer was flowing at Scorch’s (usually quite a lot) and some help from my friends.

My friends were two single ladies who worked at the A&P Store and always showed up at Scorch’s about 6:30 on Friday nights. They sort of adopted me, and since the males at the bar were trying to adopt them, they convinced a lot of drunks to get shoe shines—and woe to him who didn’t include a tip in the payment. One slightly absent-minded, or more likely very inebriated, guy paid me to shine his shoes twice in the span of 10 minutes!

I also did some “carry out” business. The best customers were Myron Veith and “Bev” Beverson, who owned The Gift Box across the street from my stand. On Saturday mornings, they left the door to their upstairs apartment unlocked and set out a half dozen pairs of shoes for me. I carried them across the street, shined them up, and took them back.

Another regular customer was Terry Small, who worked at the Quality Meat Market owned by his parents. Terry always dropped off two pairs of shoes for my attention, also on Saturdays. This was easy to recall because Terry was a very big man. His shoes were size 13 EEE. However, he always paid 25 cents a pair, so I didn’t complain about needing to use extra polish and elbow grease.

I worked all summer and occasionally in the fall after starting the seventh grade. Then work got a little old, and in the spring playing baseball was a lot more attractive than popping shoeshine rags and wielding brushes. I sold the stand and my supplies for $5 to Bob Gilley, an older man with some physical handicaps. Mr. Gilley shined shoes at the stand in the entryway of Nick’s Casket Factory on Wisconsin Avenue for quite a few years. He, however, was not known to solicit business in barbershops or bars.

Photographer Claude Venne gave my business a small measure of fame when he sneaked up on me one day when I was taking one of my frequent breaks, reading a comic book and eating a popsicle. Venne made his photo into postcards, which he sold at the Tomahawk Drug Store across the street with some other local scenes he had snapped. He had a note on the shoeshine card display that said something like, “Business is lousy, ain’t it?”

Business wasn’t too lousy. In addition to paying for popsicles, I saved nearly $100 from my summer’s work 60 years ago. I still had the money in the Bradley Bank seven years later to help pay for my first year at the University of Wisconsin. In those days, tuition for one semester at UW was $90.

* * * * * * * * *

Five years from now, I’ll rerun the most-republished little story from the previous five years. That’s a promise.



Sgt. Einer Ingman at age 82.



A True Hometown Hero

Other commitments kept me from attending the Fourth of July weekend activities in my hometown--Tomahawk, Wisconsin. That was unfortunate for several reasons.

The parade is a good one. There’s plenty of music, lots of participants, and having a Harley Davidson plant in town ensures there will be enough high-volume roaring to suit those who appreciate Fourth of July noise. Many high school classes hold reunions during the weekend, so it is a good time to renew old acquaintances.

But most important, I missed a chance to see a real American hero for the third time, and there probably won’t be many more chances. Most people have never seen a Medal of Honor or met anyone who has earned one. Sgt. Einer Ingman, who now lives in Irma near Tomahawk, received one for extreme valor during the Korean War.

Ingman is one of only 85 men alive today who have earned a Medal of Honor. About half the awards were made during the Civil War, when the medal was established. Since the start of World War II, only 859 soldiers, sailors, and airmen have earned the medal, and half forfeited their lives doing so. Ingman is one of just three Medal of Honor recipients now living in Wisconsin.

The Medal of Honor is nothing like those ribbons you see covering the chests of generals and admirals. That gaudy stuff mainly consists of unit citations awarded just for being somewhere, not doing anything. Earning a Medal of Honor requires heroic action.

I never was personally acquainted with Einer Ingman, but because of him I can claim membership in the small group of people who have seen both the medal and a recipient. In 1951, Ingman was flown from a military hospital to receive his award from President Harry Truman. Shortly thereafter, he took leave from a military hospital to be reunited with his family in Tomahawk.

The visit was somewhat of a surprise to civic leaders, but they moved quickly to set up a parade and a program to recognize Ingman. I marched in the high school band during the parade. Immediately after that, the program was held in Pride Athletic Park. I was among the spectators.

Tomahawk people did themselves proud. They gave Sgt. Ingman a new Buick sedan and what is almost as essential in northern Wisconsin—a new boat. I was close enough to the hero to see the award he wore around his neck.

A few days later, I got much closer to Ingman. We were in a small group waiting for the doors to open at the Lyric Theater for an evening movie. Ingman had difficulty walking with a cane and support from his girlfriend, who he married a year later. Frankly, it was hard to look at his disfigured face. It was said he had a dozen operations up to that time. He ended up having 30, before surgeons could do no more for him.

I said “Hi,” and he said “Hi.” I think it was just a ritual hometown greeting. He joined the Army while living in southern Wisconsin, and thus probably made north wood’s visits only occasionally on leave. Two years earlier, I worked with his brother, Bobby Ingman, for two months at the Highland Egg Farm near Tomahawk, and that was my only direct contact with the Ingman family, I think the war hero was just saying hello to everybody he encountered, which is customary in small Midwestern towns.

In the 59 years since, I’ve never crossed paths with Sgt. Ingman. He and wife Mardelle, who had seven children, attended numerous patriotic events over those years, including 11 presidential inaugurations. I had to make a living during that time, and didn’t travel in the same circles.

Medal of Honor recipients are so rare because of the extreme courage they must exhibit to merit the award. Here is a summary of what Sgt. Ingman (then a corporal) did to earn his medal, and what happened to him as a result:

Ingman was in one of two lead squads of an assault platoon in Korea. While attacking a fortified ridge held by the enemy, the platoon was pinned down and both squad leaders and several men were wounded. Ingman assumed command, combined what was left of the two squads, and formulated an attack plan.

Than Ingman single-handedly attacked a machine gun crew that was firing on his group, tossed a grenade into the emplacement, and killed the soldiers with his rifle. He approached a second machine gun, and was knocked to the ground and lost part of one ear when a grenade exploded near his head. As he got to his feet, he was shot in the face by a Chinese soldier. The bullet entered his upper lip and exited behind his ear.

Ingman continued his attack on the machine gun emplacement, firing his rifle and killing the remaining crew with his bayonet. He then fell unconscious as his men captured the objective and forced the enemy troops to flee.

Ingman was sent to Tokyo for medical treatment; he regained consciousness seven days after the battle. He lost his left eye and the hearing in his left ear, and had severe amnesia. Memories gradually returned after emergency brain surgery, but he has experienced memory problems throughout his life since and has difficulty speaking clearly. He was transferred to Percy Jones Army Hospital in Battle Creek, MI, for additional treatment, which spanned two years and included 23 surgeries.

What heroic action and what a horrible price to pay. I relate the details only to emphasize the huge sacrifices made by men who earned the Medal of Honor.  Ingman still carries the scars of battle, and now is wheelchair-bound.  The photo here was published recently by the Tomahawk Leader.

My hometown people saluted Sgt. Einer Ingman once again with a special ceremony on July 5, sixty years to the day after he earned his Medal of Honor. I wish I could have been there, if only just to say “Hi” to a hero.

By Which Rules?

In sports, as well as in life, there are written and unwritten rules. And sometimes, the unwritten ones take precedence.

Two incidents in major league baseball just a few days apart illustrate the point. Both involved catchers. I toiled at that position as a youth on grade school, high school, American Legion, and county league teams, so the news got my attention.

First, Buster Posey, a legitimate all-star performer with the San Francisco Giants, had a broken leg after an opponent crashed into him instead of sliding as Posey awaited a throw near the plate. Posey is out for the season. Just days later, Houston Astros’ catcher Humberto Quintero was put on the 15-day disabled list with a sprained ankle after a collision at home plate.

What’s new? Not much. Catchers have led most leagues in injuries since the game began back in the 1800s. “Muddy” Ruel knew of what he spoke when he dubbed the face mask, shin guards, and chest protector (plus a cup to protect a young man’s most important parts) as “The Tools of Ignorance.” Ruel was a catcher for the Washington Senators. The implication was that intelligent people with some semblance of ability could choose more rewarding positions with fewer hazards.

I was a very slow runner with other limited skills, so working behind the plate was my only real chance to participate in what was then, without a doubt, America’s pastime. Green Bay Packers t-shirts were rarely seen when I was a kid in Wisconsin. Chicago Cubs and White Sox and St. Louis Cardinals (and eventually Milwaukee Braves) caps were common. Every rinky-dink town had a baseball team, and, especially on Sundays, going out to the old ballpark was the thing to do. Boys wanted to be part of the action, and donning “The Tools of Ignorance” was my chance for glory.
 
My baseball career ended at age 17. By then I was smart enough to know I couldn’t hit curve balls tossed by even washed-up former minor league players. I also knew by then I had a relatively weak throwing arm to go with my poor foot speed. Before those truths dawned on me, I had played in several hundred games.

Four things remain from my days on the diamond. A deep bone bruise in my left hand still hurts if something hits there hard enough. The thumb on my right hand is noticeably larger than the one on the left, the result of being split open (it resembled an overcooked hotdog at the time) by a foul tip. All four fingers on my left hand work just fine (I can type really fast), but I can bend them at the first joint in a way few other people can. My left kneecap has a small scar over an area that serves well as a weather forecaster.

That’s what catchers do. They get hurt, whether the hurt is applied by errant balls, foul tips, flying bats, or base runners intent on scoring any way they can.

During the time I played, and to this day, the written rule in baseball said a catcher cannot impede a runner by standing in the base path without the ball. I knew that, because I made an effort to be familiar with the rules of the game.

My high school coach, who was a former minor league catcher as well as a college football star, never mentioned it. He taught the unwritten rule: “Your job as a catcher is to guard that plate. Make the opponents respect your territory. Whenever you can, make them pay a price for crossing the plate.”

My mentor pointed out that catchers have an advantage. The “Tools of Ignorance” give them some armor-plating the runners don’t have. That doesn’t always help, though. It often didn’t help in county ball.

The Lincoln County League, where I played two summers, was made up mostly of men in their 20s and 30s with only a smattering of high school boys. It was a man’s game, no question.

In one contest at Tug Lake, a community consisting almost entirely of a tavern and a rudimentary baseball field with no fences, the going got rough. Early in the game, a runner charged in from third base after tagging up on a fly ball. I took the throw and had plenty of time to block the path between him and the plate. He chose to slide with one foot high enough in the air to rake a spike across my leg above my shin guard. There is no written rule against that kind of high-spiking; there is an unwritten rule.

He was the third out, so the father of one of our players had time to give me medical attention between innings. That consisted of pulling a piece of sod out of my wound, dousing the cut with beer, and applying a bandage brought by a lady who had been watching the game from a window in the tavern. I continued to play. We had no subs.

A bit later, one of my teammates, Joe Obey, retaliated. Obey weighed well over 200 pounds and had success as a football center and hockey goalie among his athletic credentials. He was clearly out at first base on a routine ground ball. The first baseman somewhat sloppily let his foot drag over the bag. Obey stepped on it. Howls of pain and a few choice words resulted, but there was no serious injury.

Perhaps intentionally, perhaps not, an opposing runner tried to run right over me several innings later. He was attempting to score on an infield ground ball. I blocked the plate without the ball, assuming it had a chance of arriving about the time he did. It did.

The runner threw himself into me with a sort of clumsy cross-body block. But he missed most of me. I heard a sharp crack as I tagged him out. The middle of his shin had collided with the middle of my shin guard. He had a broken leg. The game was stopped for some time waiting for a stretcher and an ambulance. There were no further incidents, and both teams adjourned to the bar after the contest.

In the wake of the major league collisions, some are proposing rules changes to make it illegal for runners to try to level catchers and to keep catchers from impeding a runner’s path to the plate. The latter already is the rule. Neither of the two injured big league catchers had the ball when they were bashed. They were the ones violating the rule, not the runners.

The better player of the two, Posey, made somewhat conflicting statements. “I don’t think he did anything illegal,” he said of the runner who broke his leg. Later, he suggested that runners might be required to slide if “a lane presented itself.” Why should they have to slide when they could score by just running straight ahead?

Traditionalists yowled that just because an all-star was seriously hurt doesn’t mean the rules should be changed, and that injuries in the battleground around home plate are inevitable. I’m pretty much of an anti-violence guy, but in this case I’m with the traditionalists.

And, it’s not all bad to have a left knee that throbs a little to warn you when a storm is coming.

Sighting a Beauty


The death of Elizabeth Taylor this week rang a bell in my memory of a close, although brief, encounter with the great actress and legendary beauty.


The Chamber of Commerce in my hometown, Tomahawk, WI, for years billed the community as the “Gateway to the Great North Woods” as it sought to establish the place as a tourist mecca. We had many nice resorts in our locale and lots of visitors from the Milwaukee and Chicago areas who returned year after year, but ours was somewhat of a minor- league resort area. The big-time was farther up Highway 51, about 30 miles due north, in the Minocqua area.


In summer, Minocqua went from a sleepy little burg of about 1,000 souls to a booming place where the wealthy and near-wealthy escaped city heat and responsibilities in favor of boating, fishing, or just relaxing in an informal environment. Elizabeth Taylor spent some ten summer vacations at a lodge called Cedar Gates on Lake Minocqua.

Minocqua was pretty much a family vacation spot. Mom and Dad brought the kids along, and that meant an influx of teenage girls. This fact was not lost upon young men who lived a half-hour drive away. My friends and I made several forays to Minocqua, convinced we were just the guys to entertain any bored young ladies who were seeking companionship. I don’t, however, remember that we ever found any girls who shared our high opinion of ourselves.


One sunny day in the early 1950s, three of us were strolling down the small Minocqua main street. Ms. Taylor, arm-in-arm with a handsome man wearing a yachting cap, approached from the opposite direction. The man probably was Michael Wilding, the second of eight Taylor husbands. We came nearly face-to-face with the pair, and, as I recall, even had to step aside for them to pass.


We all probably wonder sometimes if those beautiful people on the silver screen get that way largely because of the attentions of expert makeup professionals and artistry by lighting and camera wizards. Anyone who has seen Robert Redford in the flesh knows he magically grows taller for his movie roles.


The day we saw Elizabeth Taylor she was making no attempt to enhance her appearance. She was wearing jeans—the old-fashioned kind, not the skin-tight variety we see today—a nondescript windbreaker, and a scarf over much of her jet-black hair. Nevertheless, there was no doubt about her identity.


She was absolutely gorgeous.




No Enhancements Needed



A Sort-of Hometown Hero


I should have puffed up with pride when a photo of a ferocious-looking footballer appeared in the University of Wisconsin alumni magazine with this caption: “Mike Webster as a Badger: the Tomahawk, Wisconsin, native was drafted by the Pittsburgh Steelers in 1974 and played seventeen seasons in the NFL . . .”


Like all small communities, my hometown hasn’t produced a big crop of famous people, so a legitimate hero means a lot. The trouble here is that referring to the man who became known as “Iron Mike” for stellar play that took him to four Super Bowl victories and a berth in the NFL Hall of Fame as a “Tomahawk native” is stretching things.


Webster’s parents were potato farmers north of Tomahawk, but Mike went to school and played high school football at Rhinelander, which is about 18 miles from my hometown. The Rhinelander High School stadium is named for him.


Although he ranks right at the top in discussions of the best center ever to play pro football, the sport did not treat Webster well. He suffered numerous head traumas, was hooked on painkillers by the time he retired, had bouts of amnesia, depression, and dementia, and died while still a young man. His family sued the NFL for disability payments in 2006 and won a $1 million judgment.

The lawsuit and attendant news stories did much to raise the level of concern about effects of concussions on athletes. The topic is on the front-burner today throughout the sports world.


The Webster family saw to it that Mike made a contribution to the cause of better protection for athletes. After he died, his brain was sent to the University of Pittsburgh. There, a pathologist did an autopsy resulting in the first diagnosis of CTE, a condition caused by years of absorbing blows to the head. That made Webster the first NFL player to receive that diagnosis, a research breakthrough upon which others are building as they study effects of repeated jolts to the head and how to prevent the damage.


Webster’s posthumous contribution may turn out to be his finest. He became a hero, hometown or not, once again after he died.


The pro football anti-heroes right now are the greedy owners trying to convince the players’ union to agree to expand the schedule by two for a total of 18 games. This is unconscionable with ample scientific evidence in hand that damage from repeated head-knocking is cumulative.


My favorite club, the Green Bay Packers, is a nonprofit corporation and thus has no greedy owner. We small-fry shareholders should be watching closely on this one to see what position our representatives take. Clearly, the players’ health should be the top priority.

The Consistent Mystery


Every New Years Day, I look forward to two things. Gifts and good wishes from family are one. A birthday greeting from John “Jake” Jirschele is the other.


Once again, the family came through. So did Jake, at about 8 a.m. on January 1.


Jake Jirschele lived a couple of blocks up the street from my childhood home in Tomahawk, Wisconsin. He was in the class behind mine in high school. I haven’t seen him for about 50 years, but I remember him well. Obviously, he remembers something about me very well.


Jake was consistent, as I recall. He stroked every shot as hard as possible in Spike’s Pool Hall, whether it was a long one or a four-inch “gimmee.” He made a lot of them, and bounced a few cue balls off the walls in the process. He fired off shots from outside the circle (three-pointers nowadays) with reckless abandon on the basketball court. He made a few of them. When he itched, he invariably scratched. Where? Well, we won’t go into that.


When it comes to my birthdays, Jake has been equally consistent for a long time. We connected to the Internet as soon as that became possible. Early on, we added Jake’s addy to our list and knew he had ours, but we rarely corresponded. The first New Years Day we could receive e-mail, to my surprise, Jake sent me a happy birthday message.


How did he know? The first greetings arrived many years before my birth date became readily available to the world through this Blog and, more recently, via Facebook. Jake has remembered the big day every year—probably about 15 times—since his first message. Each time I ask him how he knew New Years Day was my birthday. He has never answered the question. Either he has a very long memory or a well-maintained calendar.


The Jirschele birthday message always includes wishes for good fortune in the year ahead. We’re planning on making those wishes come true.


Everything here is Jake, Jake.


For you youngsters, that saying is said to have become popular in the 1920s and still was heard often during my teenage years. “Everything is Jake” means “everything is OK.” I hope it applies to John Jirschele as well as to our present situation and our prospects for 2011. Maybe Jake will even answer my question this year.

Keeping the Good Stuff

Otsego, Michigan, and Tomahawk, Wisconsin, have several things in common.

The lynchpin of Otsego’s economy is a paper mill, a reminder of bygone days when mills dotted the Kalamazoo River. When I was growing up in Tomahawk, the paper mill provided most of the desirable jobs, and it still is a major employer. There is a location difference. Otsego’s mill, now a U.S. Gypsum operation, is just a couple of blocks from downtown. Tomahawk’s is a couple of miles outside the city limits.

Otsego (population 3,900) has an unusually wide main street because years ago the city fathers thought the town would grow into a large center of commerce. That never happened. The width of the main drag in Tomahawk (population 3,800) is nearly identical. That’s because the lumber baron who hired an architect to develop the city layout assumed the settlement would eventually hold tens of thousands of residents. That never happened.

Small-town living has its drawbacks. One often cited is that everybody knows everybody else’s business. Another is the lack of diversified shopping opportunities. And a high school band concert is unlikely to satisfy the entertainment needs of some folks the way a night with a symphony orchestra does.

Among my memories of growing up in Tomahawk 60 years ago is that most people didn’t have a lot of money. A few coins, however, went a long way. For a long time, a good-sized ice cream cone cost a nickel. A glass of beer went for a dime, and astute bartenders made sure their customers stayed happy by pouring a free one occasionally. You actually could buy things for a nickel or a dime at the “five and dime store.” Some of those prices prevailed when we made rare visits to the state’s big city, Milwaukee, but a lot of things cost more there.

The retail landscape has changed across America, in big and small cities. The big-box stores and chains have forced many mom-and-pop operations to close. Selections have improved a lot, but convenience and service often have declined, and the changes aren’t always as cost-effective as we tend to think. Occasionally, some of the good things of the past are preserved in small towns.

A few days ago I needed just one finishing nail of a certain size to complete a small project. I couldn’t foresee any future use for that size nail, and didn’t want a box of them adding to the clutter in my already overly extensive collection of miscellaneous hardware. An attempt to find the needed nail in my son’s even bigger collection failed. I was resigned to paying a few dollars for a whole box or package of unwanted nails to get the one I had to have. We must do that nowadays in most big-box hardware stores, and other stores that carry basic household supplies.

I stopped at Bob’s True Value hardware store on the main street of Otsego. I thought I’d get a laugh: “Big deal today. I only need one nail. Can we do that?”

“Sure we can,” said the clerk who had asked about a minute after I entered the store if she could help me. “We have nail bins. Follow me and we’ll look.”

In the lower bin on the far right was a good supply of the perfect finishing nails. I took three, assuming I would louse the project up at least twice before I got it right, as usual. When I asked the cashier what the charge was, she asked, “You got a nickel?”

Looking for a nail was somewhat incidental to my main mission. I was in Otsego on a Tuesday for a haircut. A real barbershop is located right across the street from Bob’s hardware. It even has a barber pole near the entrance. Four barbers, all men, were busy shaping and snipping the locks of a bunch of mature adult men. Business was booming because on weekdays the geezers get a one-dollar discount. Even without it, a haircut there costs $11, not $16 or more as it does in today’s phony barber shops, where the chairs are lightweight metal tubing and the snippers mostly are female.

In the Otsego shop, the talk is of things like football, hockey, guns, fishing, and cars—guy things and big boys’ toys. I firmly believe that is the way God intended barber shops to be, but it’s the only one I’ve found in the past ten years that fits the bill.

The Otsego shop is a good place to feel important in a real barber chair, and the barbers, several of whom are fully mature, are very good at their craft. They’re good in another way.

The senior discount day is supposed to be Wednesday. The first time I forgot and showed up on Thursday, I chuckled about missing my chance to save a buck. The barber told me I had no problem; they give the discount every weekday anyway. Perhaps this is in deference to the geezer customers, some of whom might occasionally have a bit of trouble remembering what day it was when they arrived assisted by their canes and walkers.

By happenstance, wife Sandy and I returned to Otsego the very same day. Judy’s Restaurant is right next door to the barbershop. We had spotted an ad for a lunch special featuring a sandwich we both love and have trouble finding in restaurants. It was our first trip to Judy’s.

Judy’s is not part of a chain, or any other type of arrangement to apply the name to a place you can find anywhere else. It is unique. The restaurant has been in business for 44 years. The real Judy seats patrons, and takes the time for a little chit-chat with them if they want. The place is not elegant, but it was neat, clean, and busy. The décor features historic photos of Otsego scenes and individual pictures of many area natives. The service was excellent during our visit.

Our waitress offered a half-dozen variations in the components of the special. I kept asking, “Is that included?” It was. The portions were more than adequate, but so good I finished everything put before me. I skipped dinner that night.

Costs weren’t bad either. A three-item lunch for two including drinks (mine was accompanied by a pot of coffee left at the table) and tip totaled a whopping $14.00. We checked the complete menu. It had a fair amount of variety and was chock full of down-home items not a whole lot pricier than the daily lunch special. We’ll go back.

In small towns, some things still are the real deal.