Happy F@#king Birthday, Dad!

I'm imagining it's an ice cream cake

Today would have been my Dad's 72nd birthday.

I've told you about Dad's day of birth, and how he celebrated at Owasippe.  Now I'm going to tell you about one of the most memorable of Dad's birthdays: the first time I ever heard him drop an F-Bomb.

I told you about our 1981 Appalachian Trail trip.  When it was all over we were driving home for two days.  We had Mr. Zaremba's van, mostly loaded with gear; and Dad's van, the "Rally STX" or "The STX" for short (pronounced either "stix" or S-T-X).

On the morning of the first day, after driving a few hours we stopped for breakfast.  It was Dad's 39th birthday and Mr. Z took him in a dinner for a nice breakfast while the youth stayed out in the van and ate leftover trail breakfast.

Trail breakfast is mostly breakfast bars so it went pretty quick.  While we were waiting for the adults to finish, my brother Shawn took a bungee cord and hooked on end to the bottom of the open sliding door and the other end on the top rain gutter.  Then he started strumming it like a standing bass.

Bum bum bum bum bum bum SNAP!

The top metal hook slipped off the roof gutter and smacked him right in the eye.  He collapsed on the ground clutching at his eye.  We knew he was badly hurt so I ran into the restaurant to get Dad and Z.  We came out and everyone was crowded around Shawn, who was sitting on the ground holding his eyes in his hands.

The STX in all her glory, and some other people

"I can't see, Dad." Shawn said.

"Uncover your eyes, son," Dad said.

Shawn did and looked up at Dad.  Dad said his one eye was completely red.  It had filled with blood.

He told us to all get in the van and he would try to find  a hospital.  We were in the middle of Somewhereville, Tennessee or Kentucky.  Dad found a medical clinic.

They clinic said they couldn't do anything for him, but they did call and talk with our eye doctor back in Chicago.  Our eye doctor said it could be treated, but he would have to get back right away, and he shouldn't fly because the change in pressure could cause more damage.

Shawn and I got in Zaremba's van.  The plan was for Z to drive like a bat out hell, trusting on Police professional courtesy to get out of any potential tickets.  The thought was that the van with few people should take the speed risk while Dad, with the bulk of the "children" should drive slower and more cautiously.

We drove straight through.  Shawn had both eyes bandaged over.  We had a pot full of corn on the cob that had been made the night before and to stay awake, and avoid stopping for food, we ate it.  Zaremba would hold the cob in both hands and steer with his elbows as he ate each individual kernel off so clean there was nuthin left for the hogs.  And he did all this while singing barbershop quartet songs and driving well over 90 mph.

We got to the hospital late at night.  They fixed Shawn up, but he spent a week in the hospital with both eyes bandaged.

What about the F-bomb?  Oh, while we were looking for a hospital Dad looked over at Shawn and said, "Why the F@#k did you do that?"

Happy Birthday Dad, and you know what, we ARE impressed.

New Scoutmaster

I'm on a Boy Scout bend lately.  It is probably because I've been very heavily involved myself and it makes me think.

I was working with one of the ADC's last night and we were talking about helping a troop move on to a new Scoutmaster.  It made me think of how my Dad ended up becoming the Scoutmaster of Troop 881.

I told you in this post how Dad ended up at Pack 3881 and eventually Troop 881 as a scout.

Dad went away to join the USMC after High School.  He was not really available for a couple of years.  When he did come back he stopped in to the basement of the Irving Park Baptist Church to say hello to his old troop.

He found a group of boys doing scouting stuff, being led by their boy leaders.  What he didn't find was any adults.  There was not one adult there on that Friday.  I'm guessing this happened sometime after the Autumn of '64 since that would have been when he was already married and home to stay (when did he leave the Active Marines?).

Tony Baneshki (I'm sure I spelled that wrong, would someone please write in and help me with that?) was the SPL (Senior Patrol Leader) at the time and he told Dad that their Scoutmaster had just quit.

Dad volunteered on the spot. 

He would have been only 22 at the time, a mere boy himself.  Back then they didn't have Youth Protection or Two Deep Leadership like they do today (and have since the late 80s).  A single adult could lead a troop, and so he did.

I have heard Dad say he was sure he learned more from Tony than he taught him.  In a few short years Tony would do everything for his Eagle and leave for the USMC himself.  Tony's paperwork got lost in the shuffle and he ended up not actually being presented his Eagle Scout award until 1983 when he, Jac Charlier and I were all presented it together.

Just Who Do You Think You Are?

Pre-Leave No Trace I guess

Something today reminded me of this story.  I think my Dad told this to me once, and I'm not sure if I got it right, but I don't think there is anyone around who was actually there so I don't think anyone can call me on this.

When I was young we used to make up our own skits for Boy Scouts.  We had an electric campfire that we brought out at the end of each Friday night scout meeting and we gathered around to sing songs and do a skit.

I remember one that we did that had something to do with the Space Shuttle.

Anyway, I guess we weren't the first scouts of troop 881 to do this.  Back in the day when Dad was a youth they did it too.

Once, when Dad was the Senior Patrol Leader (SPL, or for those unfamiliar with the Boy Scouts, the person who actually runs the meetings and leads the troop, the Scoutmaster is supposed to only be there as a guide) the boys in the troop wrote a special skit.

The skit started out with some young boys being roughed up by some older boys.  A rather large boy ran in and fought the older boys until they ran off.  Then the whole scene repeated with the heroic boy jumping in to save the young boys. 

Finally on the third rescue one of the boys asked the gallant champion, "Who do you think you are, Superman?"

The stalwart lad replied, arms akimbo, "No, I'm Bill La Fleur!"

I understand Harcus got a real kick out of that.



I guess he should have had one of these.



Another Anniversary. What Do You Mean Down?

As I sit here with my bad knee up, and thinking about Dad's anniversary I am reminded of our 1981 trip to the Great Smokey Mountains portion of the Appalachian Trail.


In 1981 Dad was 39, seven years younger than I am now, but he too suffered from a bad knee that year. That combined with a bad experience he had on the 1971 attempt at the same trip made him take up a particular strategy for the '81 trip.

In '81 Dad and Rich Zeremba were the two adults and there were seven scouts, Jac Charlier, Dave McCormick, Don Cotar, Shawn, Ken Klusendorf, Myles and me. I was the Senior Patrol Leader, but we were all very seasoned, experienced, expert campers.

Dad's strategy was to hang back with Z, be the last ones to leave camp each day, and to be the last into camp each evening. We had no problem with this as we had a crack crew and a great youth leader (me) with a plan (duty roster).

We young bucks loved to stop for a rest and as soon as the adults reached us on the trial, we would hop up and rush off. I rarely saw Dad on the trail.

One day as they we were hiking along we passed a Ranger who was doing some sort of ranger-y things in the National Park. I remember I didn't pay him much mind, but when Dad reached him they had been having a rather rough day. It was one of our longer days and it seemed like we were hitting several peaks.

Leaning wearily on his hiking staff, and breating heavily, Dad asked the Ranger how far it was to the campsite. The Ranger said that it was only another couple of miles and not to worry because it was all, "basically down" to the camp.

It was five miles I think and when Dad and Z finally made it up the mountain to the top where our camp was he collapsed in the Adirondack shelter mumbling something about how, "Up" was the same as, "Basic Smokey Mountain Ranger, 'Down.'" From that day forward Dad used that phrase whenever he could.

We woke on our last day on the trail with only seven members in our shelter. Dad and Z were gone, and so were their packs and gear. This was very disturbing because we woke with the dawn. They must have left in the dark of night.

We quickly got ready and got on the road ("hit the bricks" as Dad would say) as soon as we possibly could.

I was hesitant and wanted to search around before we left, just in case, but the rest of the boys were determined to catch Dad and Z up before the end of the trail.

I was the last to leave that day.

Somewhere about halfway through the day's hiking Jac and Don caught up to the adults. They wouldn't let them pass. It seemed that my Dad was, despite being last every other day, and clearly the slowest member of our group (with his bum knee and all) determined to be the first to finish with whole length of the park.

Sure enough he was. I found him laying on the grass beside the road with his feet up and his shoes off. We had reached our pick up point about four hours ahead of schedule and with no way of alerting our Ground Support (Aunty Mae).

So, in the end the Ole Man put one over on us. He pulled a Kobiashi Maru and changed the rules of the game so he could win.

As the song says, Dad, "...cut a hole and pull me through." If anyone can, you can.

Daredevilry

My young Sophia did high ropes this weekend, which reminded me of when I did COPE and Dad shouted encouragements, "You're my hero, son."  I also talked to Boushette on Mother's Day about a story about Dad that I'd like to share.

All but Z, ready to go

When we were camping in Maine at the (then) National High Adventure Base, we canoed across Grand Lake Matagamon.  When we did, we tied our 5 canoes together and strapped logs to them for stability.  We hoisted a big tarp as a sail and crossed the lake in something like two hours.

As we were lazily sailing along, Dad said, "You ain't got hair on your ass if you can't walk across those logs."

Garrett and I couldn't let the challenge lie.  I tried first and fell.  Garrett went next and made it by putting his hand on the head of each man he walked past.  It was judged not to count.

G & me balancing paddles in our teeth

Then we goaded Dad, "Why don't you try it?"

We reminded him, "You ain't got hair on your ass if you can't walk across those logs."

He said, "That's why they call me 'Old Baldy.'"

2 for Second

Here are two stories from Dad's 2nd grade year.
2nd Grade Downfall

When Dad was in 2nd grade he moved into the house on Kostner and started school at Saint Edward's. Until that point he had been a model student loved by teachers and peers alike.

At St. Ed's Dad was seated in the sixth row in the sixth desk. When it was time to take their first spelling test the boy in the fifth row, sixth desk told Dad to pull out his spelling book.

"Lay it on the floor here between us, open to the chapter test. That way we can both look at it during the test. That's the way we do it here."

Dad complied and sure enough, when the test began the nun found the book almost immediately. Without asking the boys, she turned to the front of the book where Dad had dutifully written his name.

She moved him to a desk that she placed just outside the door of the classroom in the hall. He spent the rest of the year there, and in fact spent the rest grade school there. He also spent every summer in summer school. His grade school career had been ruined, and he would not recover until he joined the military.

From the Church on Kostner Avenue to the Church on Kostner Avenue

That same year, Dad joined Cub Scouts at St. Ed's, on Kostner and Sunnyside. I think it was Pack 3904 back then. It certainly was when we went to St. Ed's.

One night very early in the year Dad got kicked out of the meeting for being too loud. His Mother, Nani told him that it was okay and they would just go two blocks south to the Baptist Church on Irving Park and Kostner.

At that time the Irving Park Baptist Church had chartered Pack 3881 and Troop 881. The pack welcomed him and a grand tradition was born.

Winter Camping

One of my New Year's Resolutions is to sit my butt down and write a Papa story at least once a week so that I can post it on Saturday or Sunday.


I don't remember too many Christmas or New Years Papa stories.

I do remember going camping some winter and we had to dig out the ground to put the tent up. It was a family trip and we brought along some kid named Bobby something. We were trying to give Bobby an adventure, but part way through the night (probably before 8:00pm) we gave up, packed up and went home.

I also remember my Dad being very proud of a camping trip he took with the troop. I don't know what era it was, but I suspect it was the Bryan Albro years.

The troop went out one Friday evening and nearby a man pulled up with his RV. The RV man bundled up in a parka snow boots and snow pants, walked around the vehicle and cranked up his TV antenna. The rest of the night he spent inside watching TV.

The troop spent the night trying to stay warm. In the morning the ranger came by and told them that it had been the coldest night of the year (maybe much longer) and it was only going to get colder. They decided that descrection was the better part of valor and after spending the day out there they packed up and went home.

The ranger had spoken to RV man and he too decided it was too cold to stay out, because at the end of the day he bundled up again to crank his TV antenna back down. Then he drove off.

I remember my Dad saying that the boys felt ashamed to be giving up. He reminded them that they had camped through the coldest night of the year, and the RV man would probably go home and tell everyone that he did too, but that wasn't camping, what they had done was REAL camping.