A New Friend, Baseball and Disappointment

One day before Mom returned from Cincinnati a car pulled up in front of Grandma’s house. A tiny woman and a boy about my age climbed out. Grandma came out on the porch and told me that the woman was Catherine Darling and the boy was her son Jeff. They wanted to know if I would like to play catch. That was how I made my first friend in Genoa City, Jeff Darling.

Jeff was a year older than I, a sports nut, and we hit it off immediately. While we played I noticed that he moved in a sort or herky-jerky manner. I later found out that he had cerebral palsy and had worked his butt off learning to deal with it.

Genoa City was about as big as my old neighborhood only with less to do. When you entered town down cemetery hill (I already knew that place too well) the population sign said:

 

Genoa City

population 1005

When you entered from State Highway 12 it read:

Genoa City

population 990

Later I drew my Uncle Bill’s attention to it. I think he must have said something to somebody on the town council because within a month or two both signs said 1005.

I’ll write more about Genoa City (We called it Genoa, but there was another Wisconsin town across the state to the west called Genoa) later but now I want to get back to that game of catch with Jeff.

He loved the Cubs, and I the Reds, but we both loved baseball so we always had something to talk about. While we played catch that afternoon he invited me to come to the town ballpark and join their Pony League team.

The last picture of me taken in Cincinnati

I can’t say that everyone on the team was happy to see me. Pony League ball was for kids 14-16 and I had just turned 13, but the coach, Chuck “Skeets” Schuren welcomed me and promised me a uniform. Now I was going to be on the team.

My role was official bench warmer for a couple of games. Then, in a game against Elkhorn, Skeets got mad at the whole team for taking too many pitches. After one kid took three straight strikes for the second time, Skeets threw his hat down, looked at me and asked, “Will you at least swing the damn bat?” I said I would and he had me pinch-hit for the next batter. I swung at the first pitch and hit a hard ground ball to the third baseman who threw me out. I was disappointed but Skeets was ecstatic. “That’s what I want. That’s what I want,” he bellowed. “Just swing the damn bat.”

After that I played the rest of the season—and kept swinging the bat. Being a numbers freak I know exactly what I hit; 9 for 19 for a .474 average.

Jeff’s invitation to play probably kept me sane that summer. I will always be thankful to him (and his mom—more about her later) for what that game of catch did for a lost and angry young boy.

The other good thing that happened was that my Uncle Bill (for convenience sake I am just going to write “Bill” from here forward) began to let me ride with him and help on his truck. Bill worked for the local co-op picking up bulk milk from area farms. His was one of three local trucks operating there.

My uncle Bill, his wife Dorothy at my grandparent's house, with their first child, Nancy

Riding with him I learned the difference between beef cattle (Angus and Hereford) and dairy cows: Guernseys, Jerseys, and the big producers, Holsteins. Holsteins gave the most milk, but Guernseys and Jerseys produced higher butterfat content. Farmers were paid on both total weight and percentage of butterfat so it wasn’t unusual to see mixed herds.

I also learned to see the difference between sweet corn and feed corn, wheat, hay, straw, and silage as well as an assortment of other things about farm work.

 Every farm had a dog and I met them all—and all were nice except a little mutt at one of our final stops. He would wait behind Bill or me until we started to climb into the truck and then take a nip at our fanny. Bill talked to the farmer a couple of times but the farmer did nothing. One day as we left the truck to hook things up I saw Bill put a small pipe wrench on the seat. When we finished and went back to the truck, the dog jumped at Bill he turned and whacked it in the head with the wrench. The dog staggered around like a drunk as we drove away and never came near the truck again.

With me helping Bill hook and unhook from the bulk tanks he saved about an hour and an hour and a half each day. He told me that later in the year he would take me to the Walworth County Fair as a reward. I was excited about that because I knew that mom and dad had first met there.

Fair time came, and I wasn’t going to ask, but Bill didn’t call. Looking back I suppose he was just too caught up in his own family things and forgot—He and his family went, but it hurt a lot that I wasn’t invited.

The Congregational Church had a youth group and I went on several outings with them. They were pretty much strangers to me—none were on the baseball team—so I mostly felt like a 5^th wheel.

There was one funny event I can share. We were swimming at a lake (I can’t remember which one) and were having “chicken fights.” These were boy/girl teams. The girls would sit on the boy’s shoulders and try to pull the girl from the shoulders of the other guy. It was mayhem, and fun. 

My teammate, (whose name I cannot remember—forgive me) pulled a girl from someone else’s shoulder. That girl fell, (whose name I do remember but won’t embarrass here) and as she fell her leg slid down my chest and into and through my bathing trunks. I still laugh when I picture how red her face was as she worked to get her leg out of my pants without looking at me. It was quite an introduction—and kinda sexy, too.

So this was how I survived my first summer in Genoa; baseball and Jeff, bulk milk and Bill. Except for sadness and tears when I thought of dad it was pretty good.

Things all went to hell quietly but quickly when school started.

First day of school for the McCalester kids, fall 1961. Karen in the center, Leta on the right.

Genoa’s school covered grades K-8, and I was entering 8^th grade. The only people I knew were my cousin Peggy Kautz and a few kids from the church—none of the players from the baseball team where there because they were all one or two grades above me. 

The teacher, Aenola Schuren, by way of introducing me to the class had me stand as she said, “This is Wray McCalester, he is from Cincinnati where he was in a special program for smart students.” I would rather she had punched me in the gut. It was very embarrassing.  When I started "dating" my first real girl friend, Linda West, she told me that some of the girls called me "The handsome brain from Cincinnati." That made me feel a little better!

Luckily, there were two guys in class I had gotten along well with at church; Rob Schuren (distant relation to Aenola) and Keith Crawford. Rob’s dad, Bud, ran the local grocery and Keith’s dad worked for him, so I wasn’t entirely without allies. But after Aenolia’s intro the other kids probably thought I was a strange bird. What’s worse, they were right.

If you remember from an earlier blog, while I was in 6^th grade the school (or representatives thereof) had wanted me to skip 7^th and 8^th grades and go directly into high school. Mom and dad had nixed that, feeling I would be too out of place. Instead I had entered the college prep program in 7^th grade.

Here lay the problem which soon led me to despise everything about school except sports: I had already learned everything that was to be covered in Genoa’s eighth grade. And I mean everything. I told mom not long after school began and, so, she told me, she tried to get me moved ahead to 9^th grade. The school refused. I suspect they didn’t want some “big city” people telling them how backward they were.

Stuck in a school which couldn’t teach me anything I did what most bored, angry kids would do; I raised hell.

Mom and dad had made what they sincerely believed was the right decision at the time—but neither had anticipated dad’s death and our move to Wisconsin. Had I skipped the grades in Ohio I would have entered 10^th grade in Wisconsin and may have retained some interest in school. Instead I was stuck in a grade that could teach me nothing with a teacher who was known for strictness (some might say meanness) with few allies.

I was a bad enough influence on Rob and Keith that on one of our several trips to the principal’s office Mr. Behrens asked, “Who do you guys think you are, the terrible three?” We immediately adopted it as our “team” name.

Mrs. Schuren had an annoying little bell she would pound when the class was too loud or when she wanted to scold someone, or simply get our attention. Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding it would ring before she would begin her rant. I hated that bell—and while I am certain others did too—I decided to do something about it.

By this time she had moved me to a desk immediately in front of hers to better watch me. While the class was on recess I chewed 3-4 sticks of gum into a gooey ball, went back to the room and packed the gum into the bell. I clued Rob and Keith in, and when recess ended we all started talking, slamming desk lids, etc.

Aenola sprang into action and immediately began pounding on her now silent bell. The more she pounded the madder she got so the more she pounded, etc. Finally she upended the bell and found the gum. She did try to remove the gum, but it’s sogginess must have been revolting and she made a disgusted face and let things be. 

For some strange reason, she sent Rob, Keith and I to the office. (Put your shocked face here.)

The terrible three took our chewing out (Wisconsin, unlike Ohio, didn’t have corporal punishment) and then went back to class. We didn’t hear that damnable bell for at least one day.

By now you may have realized that this entire post has been about me, me, me. You’d be right. What you are reading about is the beginning of my descent into a selfish personal hell that was soon hurtful to everyone around me. But before I go into that in the coming posts I want to catch up with what mom was doing to try and keep things together. After that I'd like to end this one on a positive note.

Mom began looking for work as soon as she had finished things up in Cincinnati. She found a job at International Register Company (IRC). She rode with another woman from town (I think this was Vivian Coan, but I can’t be certain).

The pay was a munificent $1.15/hour—but since it was piecework she could earn $1.65 if she “made rate” plus 50%. The women, and all were women except set-up and maintenance men who made significantly more, had to be careful not to exceed rate + 50% or the rate would be raised. Mom, who had only worked as a waitress, ticket taker and at the games at Coney Island until I was born, now had to transition to factory work.

She was good at the work, which allowed her to make about $3000/year. She still received ADC for us kids and that had been raised to about $60/month/kid. Add that to the $3000 and she made about $5000/year.

The problem was that mom wanted to provide for us as well as dad had been able to before he died and this was impossible. She finally inherited a car in 1963 from my dad’s dad when he died; a 1953 Pontiac, She then obtained her first driving license ever at the age of 46!—But she wanted a house for us kids.

She saved every nickel she could—spending nothing on herself—and managed to put together a down payment on a 100 year old two story just down the street. It's cost was $7200 and her payments were, if I remember correctly, about $71.00/month. The house we were living in was also for sale for about $5000, but she wanted something bigger for us kids. Had she realized how quickly we kids would grow and be gone she would have opted for the smaller, more affordable house.

The house she bought had been owned by an old woman who had painted the entire interior of the house park bench green. Mom wouldn’t even let us see it until she had repainted it. She worked repainting it every night after her factory job. Here I must mention that she received no help from her family. She did it all on her own, all while paying rent on the Zindler house (where we rented) AND making payments on the new place. She was continuously in a state of exhaustion.

Worst of all my sisters and I didn’t care. The house was a great victory for mom and completely unappreciated by us. I was even upset because there was more lawn to mow.

There is much more to tell in this vein, but I would like to end on a positive note. Here it is:

In June of 2011 I came back to visit Genoa. That itself was nothing unusual. I try to come back once or twice a year. But this time was special. It was the 50th anniversary of Jeff’s coming to Grandma’s house to play catch.

Jeff and I, with his wife, sister and others in tow, went to my grandmother’s old house and, for a few minutes, played catch to celebrate our friendship. There are no pictures to mark the event or I certainly would post them here, but it was a wonderful moment. This time I played catch with joy and with an old and treasured friend, not as an angry and lonely child. I thank God for that first, and that 50^th anniversary.

The End of the Begining

Let me step back a bit in time to make a point or two that is necessary to keep this coherent and to tie some things together.

Much of what I remember from the time just before dad died and in the immediate aftermath I see through a fog. Occasionally something will appear sharp and clear, but mostly it seems like a bad dream.

I remember looking at mom and seeing confusion, sorrow and a helpless look that never seemed to leave her. No smiles. No tears; just plodding from one duty to the next like an automaton. I remember nothing about my sisters: not a single thing; and not too much about myself either, except that I was angry.

When the ambulance came on the 28^th to take him for the last time I stood in the hall plastered up against the wall so that I could be close as they carried the stretcher out. He had them stop in front of me and he wheezed what were his final words to me. He said, “You’ll have to be the man of the house now.” Then he squeezed my hand and they took him away.

He had no way of knowing how hard his last words were going to be for me—nor did I. But I will speak of that another time.

One of my clear memories was of our family doctor, A. E. Flagge, on the phone at our house telling the surgeon who had removed dad’s lung that he was not to bill my mother a single cent. There was a bit of an argument which ended when Dr. Flagge told the surgeon that if mom got a bill, he (Dr. Flagge) and any other doctor whom he could influence would never refer another patient to him. Dr. Flagge never asked for a dime from mom after dad was dead, and I don’t know how many house calls he made, but there were a great many.

He would never have lasted in today’s modern medical world. He was completely independent, treated many poor patients for free and never, ever, dunned anyone for money. He was short, bald and almost round. He rarely didn’t have a cigarette hanging from his lips, even in the exam room—where he also kept some sort of parrot to entertain young kids. He was apt to fart at any time and would insist it was simply a natural bodily function for which he refused to apologize. To my family—and I suspect to many more—he was a great man.

The surgeon with whom he had argued, reduced, but did not eliminate the bill. I would have loved to have heard their next conversation.

Two other moments stand out with complete clarity. I tried out for a little league team. It was like attending a cattle call. It was a new team with a great name, the Atoms. They had sharp uniforms with an atom logo on the sleeve.

There had to be no less than fifty kids that showed. The coach got our attention and then began pointing and calling, “Pitchers over there, Catchers over there, Outfielders over there, etc.” I noticed that only one guy ran toward the catcher spot, so I went there, too. That way I knew my odds were pretty good I’d make the team, and I did, as the starting catcher. 

I had never caught before, but I figured I could learn and do it as well as anyone. In our first game I had two or three hits and drove in a couple of runs. I raced home, burst into the house and hurried to the chaise lounge to tell dad; but neither the chaise nor dad were there, and both were gone for good. I think that was the hardest I ever cried.

The other moment happened earlier. A representative from the funeral home came to the house to “make the arrangements” for dad’s funeral. He sat on the couch with his briefcase on the coffee table. Mom sat in a chair to his right and I stood by the couch on his left.

 

The fellow had a stack of pictures of caskets, and he was picking from among them to show mom. One after another he held up,  each one more expensive that the next.

I noticed from where I stood that the prices for the caskets were on the back of the photos. Mom looked lost and more than a little shaken by the casket prices. I reached into his briefcase and took the whole stack of pictures. I then flipped through them and found caskets for about a third of what he had been showing mom. I picked the cheapest one, showed mom, and said, “I like this one.” Mom, relieved of having to make the decision immediately said, “If you like it then that is what we’ll get.” The salesman was visibly angry and snatched the pictures from me, but the decision had been made and he didn’t fleece my mother. Dad had taught me to pay attention pretty well.

There were several important decisions that had to be made. The first was where were we to live, Cincinnati, or in Wisconsin where mom’s family lived. We had taken summer vacations in Wisconsin several times and seeing farms and farm animals were cool to city kids. When mom asked, we all said Wisconsin.

This decision, which I will talk about later, turned out to be a complete catastrophe for me.

The next big decision was mine alone. Lee Douglas, the druggist who had done so much for the kids in the school and the neighborhood came to the apartment with a couple of other men from the church. They made me this offer: They would pay for my tuition, room and board at a military prep school. (I think it was in Kentucky but I really can’t remember) 

They promised if I maintained my grades, they would guarantee an appointment to West Point upon graduation. I suspect the cost would have come solely from Mr. Douglas, but it was a wonderful offer. Later, when I learned appointments would have to have the endorsement of a congressman I realized the influence Mr. Douglas had.

Mom, who simply didn’t want to make any decisions and was probably still in shock, left it up to me. I decided I didn’t want to leave the family and I declined. Was it the wrong decision? I’ll never know. Not many do-overs in life—but it was a wonderful offer all the same.

The plan was to have a funeral in Cincinnati so all mom and dad’s friends could come, and then ship his body to Wisconsin for another service there for all mom’s relatives, etc.

I stood with mom at the side of the casket for the duration of, what we called then in Cincinnati, “the laying out,” or visitation. The first to come as soon as the doors were opened were some of dad’s African American friends. It took courage for them to come to the East End in racist Cincinnati, but they came and gave their condolences to “Mrs. Mac.”

The rest of the day was a never-ending parade of people. Dad’s father and his wife Florence, dad’s sister Laura and her husband, Jim and their two children, Bev and Jenny Jean were there. Mom’s folks would come in Wisconsin.

At the conclusion of the day, after all but family had gone, and we were piling into Laura and Grandpa’s cars, dad’s step-mother, Florence, the one who had driven dad from the house as a child, asked me to go back into the funeral home to get a rose from dad’s casket. I went.

Dad had looked so small in the casket, but when I went back in they were fitting a cardboard brace around his head and rearranging the body for shipment via rail. It was a shock to see and it made me hate Florence all the more. She died three or four years later and mom made me leave the funeral home because I was laughing at her while she lay in the casket. Everyone else thought I’d been overcome with sadness and was crying. Only mom knew the truth. She scolded me, but not too much.

We rode to Wisconsin in Laura’s Cadillac. It was a long trip. I wasn’t allowed to read because it made Laura’s youngest daughter carsick. Go figure.

The crowd at dad’s service wasn’t as big as in Cincinnati; mostly just mom’s relatives and friends of mom from back in the day. I don’t remember much except that it was hot and I was tired. Below is a picture taken the day dad was buried. Not our best day for a photo.

Taken on the day dad was buried in June of 1961

Mom was upset that they had the year of dad’s birth wrong on the temporary marker. It said 1913 rather than 1912. It would be changed later, but I remember she was bothered very much by the error.

We stayed with Grandma and Grandpa. Mom, her own personal hell just beginning, went back to Cincinnati to prepare to move. She brought very little furniture back as what we had wasn’t worth moving. I lost my rock and comic book collections but she did bring my baseball cards.

When she did return she found a small house to rent just three doors down from her mom and dad, and next to her brother Bill and his wife Dorothy. It was so small there was no place for a bed for her, so she slept on the couch. She never once complained. Ever. 

There is still more bad news to come, but I'll have at least one wonderful story to tell. Stay tuned.

Decisions and Disasters

The college prep program I was to enter was available in two junior highs: Walnut Hills and Eastern Hills. As I was from the East End and Walnut Hills was a longer bus ride, I opted for the latter.

Eastern Hills was a modern facility in a nicer area than my home turf. Mom and I went for a look-see at an open house before the school year and were both impressed.

Eastern Hills (razed in 2010)

None of my classmates from McKinley had been accepted into the program (or if they had they attended Walnut Hills) so I knew no one in my class. I suspect this was the case for some others as well. Not too many kids came from the same grade schools. Most of us were on our own.

Since I had attended different schools in 1^st, 2^nd, and 3^rd grades I wasn’t too fazed by the adjustment. Being around dad had prepared me for meeting new people.

The curriculum, although not so rare now, was new and daring then. Along with the usual subjects such as science, English, history, physical education (we called it gym) and shop we had either Latin or Spanish and geometry (with a little algebra thrown in). I chose Latin—a holdover from my 

interest in Rome in 6^th grade.

Below right: the college prepper

I thought all of the teachers to be good, but I had a clear favorite: my history teacher, Mrs. Doepke. She was a bit older, strict, and fair. In the first class she said something to the effect—and I think I am pretty close to quoting her—“If I should ever be so stupid as to ask you a question on a test such as ‘What happened in 1492’ then you are free to respond with an answer such as, ‘a baby was born,’ the sun came up,’ or ‘some people ate beef.’ My questions will be precise and I will require precise answers. If I don’t live up to my part of the bargain you needn’t live up to yours.”

Proof that my respect and love for her was her due came in the final exam of the year. The exam consisted of 100 questions, each with four possible answers. When we were finished we were told to bring the paper to her so she could begin grading immediately. As I stated before, tests have never been difficult for me. I was the first one done. When I handed her the paper she asked, “Have you gone over your answers.” I said I had, which wasn’t true, because I didn’t want to get the lecture I knew would follow.

No sooner had I sat back down than she called the class to attention and said. “Mr. McCalester hurried through his test. I have read his first two answers and they are both incorrect. I suggest the rest of you use more time before turning in your papers.”

Well that was a shock, and embarrassing. I sat very, very still while everyone stared at me. Then, a few minutes later she called the class to attention again and said, “I stopped the test earlier to use Mr. McCalester as an example—a bad example—in front of the class. Now I must apologize. I have finished his test. He scored 98 of 100. Those first two questions were the only ones he had wrong. I am sorry Mr. McCalester. That was very unfair of me.”

That was an even bigger shock. Never had I heard anything like that from a teacher. My 98 proved to be the second highest score in the class; a fellow whose name I believe was Joe Daner, or Doehner scored 99. When the class was dismissed Mrs. Doepke called me to her desk and surprised me once again. She said, “You should have re-checked those answers, Mr. McCalester, you would have beaten Mr. Daner. He isn’t as smart as you are.”

Now you know why I respected and loved her so much. Still do, and though she is no doubt long dead and buried I won’t ever forget her honesty and integrity.

That story is the good news. The bad news was that the sicker dad got the less I cared about school—and the shorter my temper became. I got into a couple of fights and took my swats without complaint—especially since I knew dad not only wouldn’t hear of them, but he wouldn’t be able to do anything about them if he did.

My favorite time was gym. Particularly if we played dodge ball. There was plenty of opportunity to release all that pent up anger by nailing someone with the ball. No matter the game, I was always one of the last, if not the last one standing.

We also had boxing—another great tension reliever—and we had basketball. I had learned to play at the YMCA while attending Boy’s Club and loved it. When tryouts for the school team came around I tried out. The coaches, not knowing any of the new 7^th graders, had us scrimmage in different groups and picked the team one by one from the groups. 

Finally there was just one spot and everyone had either been selected for the team or cut except three of us. The coaches had us begin shooting layups. First two to miss would be eliminated and the last would make the team. I hung on for one round and beat out one guy, but I missed first in the final set. Very disappointing.

The year ended with my grades being C’s and B’s. I had only ever had one C before—in music—and B’s were rare. It wasn’t that the courses were hard or the teachers bad. I just didn’t care. I got A’s in gym, geometry and history, but that was all.

In Cincinnati in those days school was about over by Memorial Day. The weather was good in Cincy—warm even in May—so the baseball games resumed on the McKinley playground after school. About two weeks before school ended and dad died, I was playing in a game. There was a close play at third (my position in that game) and there being no umpires, we made the calls ourselves. I called a fellow out at third. He disagreed.

He was known as a tough kid and came from a family with a host of brothers. He was used to getting his way, and if not getting it, taking it. I wouldn’t back down. Neither would he.

At that age a typical fight usually consisted of shouting, then pushing, then maybe one punch and then wrestling on the ground until the loser said he quit. This was not to be one of those fights.

The kid (I won’t use his name though I know it) told me he would beat me up if he wasn’t safe. I said he was out, period. He shoved me, I shoved him, and then the strangest thing happened. Everything began to move in slow motion. I have heard pro-athletes say when they were on a hot streak that “the game had slowed down for them” and they could see everything well before it happened. This was the first time it happened for me.

After my push he rushed me, I hit him in the head and he dropped. He got back up and I did the same thing. You could see the shock on his face. He fully expected to beat me up. He was the tough guy, not me.

Each time he charged I hit him as hard as I could and he fell. Once I saw a tooth and spittle fly from his mouth—all in slow motion. He was bloodied up by now and the other kids were yelling to him to stay down. It took him a couple of more shots before he ran home crying. I was still so angry I was shaking. The game broke up and I went home. I didn’t tell anyone.

Looking over the left field fence at the playground as it looks today. The fight took place near the far end.

On May 27^th I heard dad say to mom, “Well babe, I made it to our anniversary.” The ambulance came for him on the 28^th and on the 29^th he was dead. The death certificate read that he had lived 48 years, 10 months and 10 days.

Mom was at the hospital when he died. When she came into our apartment she simply said, “Children your daddy’s in heaven now.” I don’t remember after that what anyone else said or did. I just ran into my room and cried.

I’ll stop here for now, but there is more for the next post.