As I write this article, it’s the Monday following the third Sunday of June, 2009. Carol and I are fortunate to have our three children and their families living close enough that we see them on a regular basis. This Fathers’ Day was no exception. We had our traditional family cook-out and, as the “guest of honor,” I received several nice cards and gifts.
My youngest son gave me something different this year, a “fill in the blanks” book titled “A Father’s Legacy: Your Life Story in Your Own Words.” He explained that this was a present for both of us so he and his family would have a keepsake to pass down through the generations. Completing the information in the book appears to be a daunting task, considering it contains nearly 200 pages. However, it’s a job I’m looking forward to because I wish I had one like it from my parents or grandparents.
After everyone departed yesterday, and the pool cover was closed, and the last dish was washed, I began reflecting on my childhood back in Elnora. Being Fathers’ Day, I especially thought about my own Grandfather, Jim Rench, and how much he meant to me. My Grandfather Marion Johnson died in 1930, fourteen years before I was born. He apparently was a fine, religious family man, well known in the area, and quite a successful farmer in his younger days. I’m sorry I never got to meet him.
Although I have special memories of my father, it was my maternal grandparents with whom I spent the most time when I was very young and in the developmental stage of my life. After having polio when I was nearly four years old and being confined to Riley Hospital for over nine months, upon returning home, I stayed with my grandparents, Jim and Alice (Hannah) Rench, every day and night while my parents worked long hours in their restaurant.
My grandmother read stories to me and taught me to read before I was six years old, setting the academic tone and whetting my thirst for knowledge that formed the foundation for the rest of my life. But it was my grandfather who taught me so many things that a boy should know and, during my time with him, he was more of a parent to me than my own father.
James Harrison Rench was born in Waverly, Indiana on August 14, 1877 and apparently moved to Elnora at a very early age. He married my grandmother, Sarah Etta Alice Hannah, in 1902. They had three children who survived, Audrey, Elizabeth (my mother), and William (Bill). I was an only child, and after my cousin, Beverly Ann Rench, passed away at the age of 14, I was also the only grandchild.
My earliest memory of “Dad” (as I called my grandfather) was when I was three years old and he put me down into a post hole he had just finished digging. He walked away from me for a joke, but when he saw I was terrified, he quickly came back and “rescued” me. Thank God he never did anything like that again.
Dad was a farmer most of his life, but he also spent some time working on the railroad. Perhaps it was his railroad stories that led to my love of trains today. I have been a subscriber of Model Railroader magazine for as long as I can remember. Dad used to sit in his favorite chair after supper each night, and in between spitting Beech-Nut tobacco juice in the coffee can near the pot-bellied stove, he would file his big toenail with a wood rasp, an action necessitated by him dropping a railroad “rail” on his foot years earlier. He would tell me about his life on the railroad when he was a member of a “Section Gang” with Lyman Haverstock as his boss.
While I was still learning to walk with my braces and crutches, Dad would pull me downtown nearly every day in my little red wagon to see my parents at the restaurant, and then he would pull me back to his house. One day, rather than going straight home, he took me to one of the two railroad depots in town, loaded the wagon and me into the cab of a big steam engine waiting there, and we rode from the depot to the cheese factory where the engineer stopped the train, and then Dad pulled me home from there. That short train trip remains one of the fondest memories of my childhood.
Dad also contributed to my still current love of music. He would sit on the front porch and sing gospel songs and country music and encourage me to join him. We weren’t very good, but we sure were loud, especially when we sang train songs such as “Casey Jones” and “The Wabash Cannonball.”
And, it was that same front porch that contributed to the final memory of my grandfather. August 23, 1955 was one of the hottest days of the year. Dad wasn’t feeling well, and he spent most of the day lying on the chaise lounge on the porch. The flies were thick as thieves that afternoon, and they were giving him fits. I went into the house and brought out the fly swatter to keep those pesky critters away from him (I hope PETA doesn’t read this), killing several in the process. As it got later in the day, my parents came home from work, having sold their restaurant years before, and said I could go home and watch our new TV.
About an hour later, my father came over to our house and broke the news to me that Dad had just died. He said, “James Emerson, I think he just waited until you left so you wouldn’t be there.” Now I just have my memories, a few pictures, and very little written information.
I’ve been writing my own autobiography for years. With that plus the newspaper articles I’ve penned for the Post, and now the “Legacy” book, my grandkids will have some written reminders to supplement their “real” memories. It would be nice if everyone reading this article could do the same. Family members live and die, but memories last forever. Elnora is the source of many of mine. I’m just glad we don’t have to swat flies that much these days.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
Goodbye "Halo Light," Hello HD
Someone once said that the more things change, the more they remain the same. I don’t think he was talking about technology when he made that statement. In my nearly 65 years that the Lord has allowed me to reside in this wonderful country of ours, I have seen more advancements in science and technology than my parents did in their relatively short lives. My wife never knew my father, Emerson Johnson, since he died about a year before Carol and I met while attending Purdue. However, she has often remarked how my mother, Elizabeth, would be amazed at the thought of personal computers, the internet, cell phones and many of the other innovations that we now take for granted.
Growing up in Elnora as a very young child in the late 1940’s and early 50’s, television was just beginning to come into existence. However, we were not one of the fortunate families to be first on the block with the “boob tube,” so I had to make do by listening to my grandmother’s small white Philco radio. On special occasions, I would go across the street to the Hobson girls’ house and watch some afterschool children’s shows.
Then, one day in 1954, when I was 10 years old my dad said, “Come on James Emerson, let’s go for a ride.” He wouldn’t tell me where we were going, saying it was a “surprise.” We drove from Elnora, went through Odon and then turned north at the Farlen General Store. After we ignored the turnoff leading to the Crane Gate, I was totally lost. We continued on and wound up in the tiny town of Scotland, Indiana. I had never been there and didn’t know what to expect.
I don’t remember the kind of store it was (a hardware store, maybe), but I waited in the car while my dad and mom went inside and a few minutes later came out with a beautiful new Sylvania “Halo Light” television. It was a 21” black and white console TV which is very small by today’s standards, but to me it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The halo light was a gimmick that was short-lived and was advertised to ease the eyestrain associated with watching television.
While researching some information about our old TV, I found an article on the tvlamps.net website which reads in part: “Always looking for a leg up in the technology wars, the television manufacturers were sure to tackle the eyestrain issue themselves. And so it went as the 1950s saw the advent of the Sylvania Halo Light television. This nifty bit of ingenuity consisted of a fluorescent bulb that cast a “halo” of light around the screen, surrounding the picture with ambient light. The Halo Light ads, usually featuring a lovely lass in a golden dress made it clear this new discovery was a must-have. Pictures framed in exciting HALOLIGHT appear larger, sharper and clearer.”
Since TV cable wasn’t even a gleam in its father’s eye in those days, everyone who watched television had to put up an “aerial” which we now call an antenna. So, my dad and my cousin, Kenny Johnson, mounted a long vertical pipe at the south end of our house tall enough to clear the peak of the roof and using a big ladder, placed the huge aerial on top of it. Using “twin-lead” TV wire, one end was secured to the aerial and the other end went into the living room through the window and was screwed to the back of the TV. Since we didn’t have a motor to rotate the aerial, Kenny stayed outside and turned it by hand to get the best signal for the three stations available at the time until my dad told him to stop. Kenny clamped everything down to keep the wind from turning it and we were all set.
As I remember, channel 4 in Bloomington carried the long-defunct DuMont network, channel 7 in Evansville was ABC, and channel 10 in Terre Haute was CBS. The closest NBC station was in Indianapolis, too far for our rudimentary equipment to “pull in.” That didn’t matter. I was in Heaven, finally having a TV like most of our neighbors, even if we were a few years late. Soon, channel 2 in Terre Haute began broadcasting NBC programming and my father also installed a “rotator” on the “aerial” so we could receive the stations more clearly, including one or two from Louisville on nights when the atmospheric conditions were right.
Now we’ve fast forwarded fifty-five years and are entering the all-digital era. Today, June 12, 2009, all of the old-style “analog” televisions have become obsolete unless hooked up to cable, converter boxes, etc. Now it’s the age of high-definition television, known more simply as HDTV. I’m lucky enough to be a bit ahead of the game, having bought my first high-def Sony about four years ago and added a new 46” Samsung HDTV last year. I just wish my dad could have watched the old Friday Night Fights on one of these bad boys.
Growing up in Elnora as a very young child in the late 1940’s and early 50’s, television was just beginning to come into existence. However, we were not one of the fortunate families to be first on the block with the “boob tube,” so I had to make do by listening to my grandmother’s small white Philco radio. On special occasions, I would go across the street to the Hobson girls’ house and watch some afterschool children’s shows.
Then, one day in 1954, when I was 10 years old my dad said, “Come on James Emerson, let’s go for a ride.” He wouldn’t tell me where we were going, saying it was a “surprise.” We drove from Elnora, went through Odon and then turned north at the Farlen General Store. After we ignored the turnoff leading to the Crane Gate, I was totally lost. We continued on and wound up in the tiny town of Scotland, Indiana. I had never been there and didn’t know what to expect.
I don’t remember the kind of store it was (a hardware store, maybe), but I waited in the car while my dad and mom went inside and a few minutes later came out with a beautiful new Sylvania “Halo Light” television. It was a 21” black and white console TV which is very small by today’s standards, but to me it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The halo light was a gimmick that was short-lived and was advertised to ease the eyestrain associated with watching television.
While researching some information about our old TV, I found an article on the tvlamps.net website which reads in part: “Always looking for a leg up in the technology wars, the television manufacturers were sure to tackle the eyestrain issue themselves. And so it went as the 1950s saw the advent of the Sylvania Halo Light television. This nifty bit of ingenuity consisted of a fluorescent bulb that cast a “halo” of light around the screen, surrounding the picture with ambient light. The Halo Light ads, usually featuring a lovely lass in a golden dress made it clear this new discovery was a must-have. Pictures framed in exciting HALOLIGHT appear larger, sharper and clearer.”
Since TV cable wasn’t even a gleam in its father’s eye in those days, everyone who watched television had to put up an “aerial” which we now call an antenna. So, my dad and my cousin, Kenny Johnson, mounted a long vertical pipe at the south end of our house tall enough to clear the peak of the roof and using a big ladder, placed the huge aerial on top of it. Using “twin-lead” TV wire, one end was secured to the aerial and the other end went into the living room through the window and was screwed to the back of the TV. Since we didn’t have a motor to rotate the aerial, Kenny stayed outside and turned it by hand to get the best signal for the three stations available at the time until my dad told him to stop. Kenny clamped everything down to keep the wind from turning it and we were all set.
As I remember, channel 4 in Bloomington carried the long-defunct DuMont network, channel 7 in Evansville was ABC, and channel 10 in Terre Haute was CBS. The closest NBC station was in Indianapolis, too far for our rudimentary equipment to “pull in.” That didn’t matter. I was in Heaven, finally having a TV like most of our neighbors, even if we were a few years late. Soon, channel 2 in Terre Haute began broadcasting NBC programming and my father also installed a “rotator” on the “aerial” so we could receive the stations more clearly, including one or two from Louisville on nights when the atmospheric conditions were right.
Now we’ve fast forwarded fifty-five years and are entering the all-digital era. Today, June 12, 2009, all of the old-style “analog” televisions have become obsolete unless hooked up to cable, converter boxes, etc. Now it’s the age of high-definition television, known more simply as HDTV. I’m lucky enough to be a bit ahead of the game, having bought my first high-def Sony about four years ago and added a new 46” Samsung HDTV last year. I just wish my dad could have watched the old Friday Night Fights on one of these bad boys.
Friday, March 6, 2009
From Elnora to Orlando: Thanks, Lloyd
My wife and I recently returned from an exciting and fun trip to Disney World. It was only my second visit to that vacation Mecca, the first occurring in 1979 when our kids were very young. By the end of the day, I was exhausted from walking around the Magic Kingdom on my leg braces and crutches. Little thought had been given to making the rides handicapped accessible in those days, and I usually waited on a bench in the shade while the rest of the family had all of the fun.
My, how things have changed since that first trip thirty years ago! Although my mobility has declined to the point I must now use a power wheelchair, Disney has modified/designed many of their rides to make them accessible to nearly everyone. Even the Disney bus fleet is 100% accessible with wheelchair lifts on every vehicle. We spent three days in the Magic Kingdom, Epcot, and Animal Kingdom and I was able to ride right along with Carol, our daughter, Kathy, and her two girls. I felt like a kid again, enjoying the attractions and dodging the hundreds of other wheelchairs, scooters, and mobility vehicles zipping around the park.
Things were much different as I grew up with the residual effects of polio in 1950s Elnora. The Americans with Disabilities Act wouldn’t take effect for another four decades. Although I had the advantage of youth on my side and was actually pretty mobile, there were still many things I couldn’t do and many places I couldn’t go.
My biggest problem was with steps and staircases. From schools to business buildings, long staircases with many steps were the rule rather than the exception. Many multi-level buildings didn’t have elevators, and wheelchair cutouts at street curbs were nearly non-existent except maybe near a hospital. I can still remember my mother or father having to carry me up steps in long, narrow stairwells because of the absence of railings for me to be able to help myself.
Even the hallowed halls of learning at Purdue University were anything but accessible. I was extremely fortunate to be mobile enough when I was young not to have to worry too much about such things. However, had I been in a wheelchair in 1961, life would have turned out very differently for me because college would not have been an option.
Fortunately, though, there are dreamers, planners, and people who want to do the right thing to make the world a better place for everyone even if it is just one step at a time. Elnora had a man like that.
Lloyd Hobson lived directly across the street from us on the northeast end of Elnora. He and his wife, LeeAnna, raised three beautiful daughters, Patty, Pam, and Polly. Pam was a year younger than me, Patty a couple of years older, and Polly was about three years younger than Pam. We were all close enough in age that we played together and were all good friends. Before my parents owned a television, I would often go over to the Hobson’s to watch Captain Video and his Video Rangers and other children’s programming.
From as long as I can remember, Lloyd Hobson had a small machine shop in his back yard which later evolved into Basiloid Products. He would sometimes invite me over to see his new tools, once even letting me test out his new wood lathe, patiently showing me how it worked and guiding me through the process of “turning” a shapeless piece of wood into something useful. Once, following his return from a business trip to Los Angeles, he brought me back a genuine Hohner Harmonica which I cherished for years.
Each year, the Daviess County Fair Board gave away a Schwinn bicycle to a lucky boy and girl. Ironically, I won the boy’s bike one summer and since I couldn’t ride it like other kids my age, Lloyd built a stationary stand for it so that I could use it as an exercise bike without fear of toppling over.
However, even with all of these little “random acts of kindness,” the thing I remember most about Lloyd Hobson is the playground equipment he constructed for his girls. He built a huge industrial strength swing set, complete with trapeze. The “slippery-slide” was big enough to be used in a city park. And then there was the tree house.
Built in a big, old mulberry tree in their back yard, the tree house was big enough to hold half the kids in Elnora. As I watched him construct it, I just knew I wouldn’t be able to get up into it and I was very sad at the thought of all the kids up there while I was still down on the ground. However, it’s like Lloyd read my mind, because he asked me if he modified the ladder if I thought I could get up into it.
Because my leg braces locked at the knee and I had to walk “stiff-legged,” Lloyd knew that a regular ladder would be too narrow and the rungs too far apart for me to swing my legs into place. So he built the ladder much wider than normal with rungs close together just for me. When the time came to test it out, I slowly climbed that ladder and made it up into the tree house with very little problem. I think my mom nearly had a heart attack when she saw me.
Unfortunately, I didn’t go up into the tree house as much as I would have liked because although the ladder itself worked perfectly, I had a hard time getting back onto it for the trip down to earth once I was up there. However, in this case, it truly was the thought that counted.
As my family and I waited in the long lines at Disney World a couple of weeks ago, I couldn’t help but think how far the nation has come in making life a little easier for those of us unlucky enough to face serious physical challenges. I also pictured that old tree house and how Lloyd Hobson and his extraordinary vision did his best to help me be “one of the gang.”
Patty Whitaker, Pam Sellers, and Polly Hobson Duros have every right to be proud.
My, how things have changed since that first trip thirty years ago! Although my mobility has declined to the point I must now use a power wheelchair, Disney has modified/designed many of their rides to make them accessible to nearly everyone. Even the Disney bus fleet is 100% accessible with wheelchair lifts on every vehicle. We spent three days in the Magic Kingdom, Epcot, and Animal Kingdom and I was able to ride right along with Carol, our daughter, Kathy, and her two girls. I felt like a kid again, enjoying the attractions and dodging the hundreds of other wheelchairs, scooters, and mobility vehicles zipping around the park.
Things were much different as I grew up with the residual effects of polio in 1950s Elnora. The Americans with Disabilities Act wouldn’t take effect for another four decades. Although I had the advantage of youth on my side and was actually pretty mobile, there were still many things I couldn’t do and many places I couldn’t go.
My biggest problem was with steps and staircases. From schools to business buildings, long staircases with many steps were the rule rather than the exception. Many multi-level buildings didn’t have elevators, and wheelchair cutouts at street curbs were nearly non-existent except maybe near a hospital. I can still remember my mother or father having to carry me up steps in long, narrow stairwells because of the absence of railings for me to be able to help myself.
Even the hallowed halls of learning at Purdue University were anything but accessible. I was extremely fortunate to be mobile enough when I was young not to have to worry too much about such things. However, had I been in a wheelchair in 1961, life would have turned out very differently for me because college would not have been an option.
Fortunately, though, there are dreamers, planners, and people who want to do the right thing to make the world a better place for everyone even if it is just one step at a time. Elnora had a man like that.
Lloyd Hobson lived directly across the street from us on the northeast end of Elnora. He and his wife, LeeAnna, raised three beautiful daughters, Patty, Pam, and Polly. Pam was a year younger than me, Patty a couple of years older, and Polly was about three years younger than Pam. We were all close enough in age that we played together and were all good friends. Before my parents owned a television, I would often go over to the Hobson’s to watch Captain Video and his Video Rangers and other children’s programming.
From as long as I can remember, Lloyd Hobson had a small machine shop in his back yard which later evolved into Basiloid Products. He would sometimes invite me over to see his new tools, once even letting me test out his new wood lathe, patiently showing me how it worked and guiding me through the process of “turning” a shapeless piece of wood into something useful. Once, following his return from a business trip to Los Angeles, he brought me back a genuine Hohner Harmonica which I cherished for years.
Each year, the Daviess County Fair Board gave away a Schwinn bicycle to a lucky boy and girl. Ironically, I won the boy’s bike one summer and since I couldn’t ride it like other kids my age, Lloyd built a stationary stand for it so that I could use it as an exercise bike without fear of toppling over.
However, even with all of these little “random acts of kindness,” the thing I remember most about Lloyd Hobson is the playground equipment he constructed for his girls. He built a huge industrial strength swing set, complete with trapeze. The “slippery-slide” was big enough to be used in a city park. And then there was the tree house.
Built in a big, old mulberry tree in their back yard, the tree house was big enough to hold half the kids in Elnora. As I watched him construct it, I just knew I wouldn’t be able to get up into it and I was very sad at the thought of all the kids up there while I was still down on the ground. However, it’s like Lloyd read my mind, because he asked me if he modified the ladder if I thought I could get up into it.
Because my leg braces locked at the knee and I had to walk “stiff-legged,” Lloyd knew that a regular ladder would be too narrow and the rungs too far apart for me to swing my legs into place. So he built the ladder much wider than normal with rungs close together just for me. When the time came to test it out, I slowly climbed that ladder and made it up into the tree house with very little problem. I think my mom nearly had a heart attack when she saw me.
Unfortunately, I didn’t go up into the tree house as much as I would have liked because although the ladder itself worked perfectly, I had a hard time getting back onto it for the trip down to earth once I was up there. However, in this case, it truly was the thought that counted.
As my family and I waited in the long lines at Disney World a couple of weeks ago, I couldn’t help but think how far the nation has come in making life a little easier for those of us unlucky enough to face serious physical challenges. I also pictured that old tree house and how Lloyd Hobson and his extraordinary vision did his best to help me be “one of the gang.”
Patty Whitaker, Pam Sellers, and Polly Hobson Duros have every right to be proud.
Friday, January 30, 2009
The Day the Music Died
Nearly all of us shelter a few events and their related dates that remain locked into the deepest recesses of our minds for as long as we live, available for recall at a moment’s notice. Some of them are personal such as our wedding date and our children’s birthdates.
Then, there are also those national occurrences which are nearly impossible to forget. We remember the time and exact place where we were when those actions took place or when we first heard of them. Unfortunately, many are disastrous tragedies which have left indelible imprints which we shudder to recall.
For those a bit older than I, December 7, 1941, surely ranks near the top of that list. That Sunday morning, nearly three years before my appearance into this world, “the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan” at the military installation at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. It was truly a “day which will live in infamy.”
More than two decades later, November 22, 1963, on a warm sunny day in Dallas, John F. Kennedy, the 35th President of the United States, was assassinated by Lee Harvey Oswald. I was a sophomore at Purdue and had two classes that Friday afternoon. Since there were no parking places specifically designated for disabled drivers in those days, I always left the dorm early and drove my old 1956 Dodge to campus to look for a convenient spot. As I was sitting in my car outside Stanley Coulter Annex, a news break came on the radio saying the President had been shot. I listened as long as I could, and when I finally forced myself to go into the building, a sign had already been placed on the classroom door saying all classes had been cancelled for the rest of the day.
None of us will ever forget where we were the morning of September 11, 2001, when those two planes toppled the twin towers of the World Trade Center. Another plane hit the Pentagon and a fourth crashed into a lonely field in southern Pennsylvania, killing all on board but perhaps preventing even further loss of life. Employed at Citizens Gas in Indianapolis, I watched in awe as the tragedy unfolded. People packed the auditorium to stare transfixed at the big-screen projection TV broadcasting the horrors. All of our lives changed that day forever.
Some exact dates are easier to pluck from your mind than others. Those harder ones just need a little more coaxing to emerge. It was very easy for me to remember the above examples. This last one took a bit more effort, but once it hit me, a flood of memories took over.
My wife and I own a Goldendoodle “puppy” that is just over a year old. On January 6, we took Jasper for his second annual round of shots at the vet’s office. One of them requires a booster a month later. When Carol wrote this next visit onto the calendar, I looked at the date and knew it had some significance. We have to take him back on Tuesday, February 3, 2009.
In the days following, I stared at that calendar two or three times before it finally hit me – on Tuesday, February 3, 1959, exactly fifty years prior to Jasper’s scheduled follow-up, rock and roll legends Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and J. P. Richardson (the Big Bopper) were tragically killed in a plane crash along with their pilot on a frigid winter night in northern Iowa.
They had been participating in a tour called the “Winter Dance Party” with Dion & the Belmonts and several other famous rockers of the era. The heater on their tour bus had failed and the three doomed stars decided to take a small single-engine plane to their next stop in Minnesota. Although Buddy Holly chartered the plane, two other singers had chances at the remaining seats with Richardson and Valens as the unlucky “winners.”
The Big Bopper wasn’t one originally scheduled to fly with Holly, but he had developed the flu during the tour and asked Waylon Jennings, a future country music star, to give up his seat on the plane; Jennings agreed. When Buddy Holly learned that his pal, Waylon, wasn't going with them, he said, "Well, I hope your old bus freezes up." Jennings responded, "Well, I hope your old plane crashes." It’s been said that this exchange of words, though made in jest, haunted Jennings for the rest of his life.
In February, 1959, I was a 14-year-old sophomore at Elnora High School. Both of my parents arose early each morning and always awakened me just before they left for work so I wouldn’t miss school. This gave me plenty of time to bathe, dress, eat breakfast, and listen to some music before boarding the school bus. That morning, as I switched on the kitchen radio, Buddy Holly was singing “Not Fade Away,” one of his many classics. As the song ended, the DJ mentioned the song was by the “late Buddy Holly.” Since it was about time for the bus, I grabbed my new Zenith transistor radio and took it with me.
By the time we arrived at school, I had confirmed the news none of us wanted to hear. Three of the most popular young American singers were dead. Although he was only twenty-two years of age, Buddy Holly was the most well-known and became the inspiration for many to follow, including the Beatles. It’s impossible to imagine how bright his star would have become if not for that fatal crash. He has been called “the single most creative force in the early history of rock and roll.”
Ritchie Valens was the first Mexican-American singer to make an impact with fans outside of his heritage, having scored hits with, “Donna,” and “La Bamba.” J. P. Richardson was a prolific songwriter as well as having that great baritone voice. My father loved “Chantilly Lace” and often when he’d come into the house, he’d greet my mom with a big, “Hello, Baby, you know what I like.” That always made her smile and me a bit uncomfortable.
Some have pointed to that fateful day as the beginning of the loss of the innocence of youth. Others, including Don McLean in his 1971 song, “American Pie,” have simply called February 3, 1959, “The Day the Music Died.” However, to those of us who remember, their songs and legacies will live on forever.
Then, there are also those national occurrences which are nearly impossible to forget. We remember the time and exact place where we were when those actions took place or when we first heard of them. Unfortunately, many are disastrous tragedies which have left indelible imprints which we shudder to recall.
For those a bit older than I, December 7, 1941, surely ranks near the top of that list. That Sunday morning, nearly three years before my appearance into this world, “the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan” at the military installation at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. It was truly a “day which will live in infamy.”
More than two decades later, November 22, 1963, on a warm sunny day in Dallas, John F. Kennedy, the 35th President of the United States, was assassinated by Lee Harvey Oswald. I was a sophomore at Purdue and had two classes that Friday afternoon. Since there were no parking places specifically designated for disabled drivers in those days, I always left the dorm early and drove my old 1956 Dodge to campus to look for a convenient spot. As I was sitting in my car outside Stanley Coulter Annex, a news break came on the radio saying the President had been shot. I listened as long as I could, and when I finally forced myself to go into the building, a sign had already been placed on the classroom door saying all classes had been cancelled for the rest of the day.
None of us will ever forget where we were the morning of September 11, 2001, when those two planes toppled the twin towers of the World Trade Center. Another plane hit the Pentagon and a fourth crashed into a lonely field in southern Pennsylvania, killing all on board but perhaps preventing even further loss of life. Employed at Citizens Gas in Indianapolis, I watched in awe as the tragedy unfolded. People packed the auditorium to stare transfixed at the big-screen projection TV broadcasting the horrors. All of our lives changed that day forever.
Some exact dates are easier to pluck from your mind than others. Those harder ones just need a little more coaxing to emerge. It was very easy for me to remember the above examples. This last one took a bit more effort, but once it hit me, a flood of memories took over.
My wife and I own a Goldendoodle “puppy” that is just over a year old. On January 6, we took Jasper for his second annual round of shots at the vet’s office. One of them requires a booster a month later. When Carol wrote this next visit onto the calendar, I looked at the date and knew it had some significance. We have to take him back on Tuesday, February 3, 2009.
In the days following, I stared at that calendar two or three times before it finally hit me – on Tuesday, February 3, 1959, exactly fifty years prior to Jasper’s scheduled follow-up, rock and roll legends Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and J. P. Richardson (the Big Bopper) were tragically killed in a plane crash along with their pilot on a frigid winter night in northern Iowa.
They had been participating in a tour called the “Winter Dance Party” with Dion & the Belmonts and several other famous rockers of the era. The heater on their tour bus had failed and the three doomed stars decided to take a small single-engine plane to their next stop in Minnesota. Although Buddy Holly chartered the plane, two other singers had chances at the remaining seats with Richardson and Valens as the unlucky “winners.”
The Big Bopper wasn’t one originally scheduled to fly with Holly, but he had developed the flu during the tour and asked Waylon Jennings, a future country music star, to give up his seat on the plane; Jennings agreed. When Buddy Holly learned that his pal, Waylon, wasn't going with them, he said, "Well, I hope your old bus freezes up." Jennings responded, "Well, I hope your old plane crashes." It’s been said that this exchange of words, though made in jest, haunted Jennings for the rest of his life.
In February, 1959, I was a 14-year-old sophomore at Elnora High School. Both of my parents arose early each morning and always awakened me just before they left for work so I wouldn’t miss school. This gave me plenty of time to bathe, dress, eat breakfast, and listen to some music before boarding the school bus. That morning, as I switched on the kitchen radio, Buddy Holly was singing “Not Fade Away,” one of his many classics. As the song ended, the DJ mentioned the song was by the “late Buddy Holly.” Since it was about time for the bus, I grabbed my new Zenith transistor radio and took it with me.
By the time we arrived at school, I had confirmed the news none of us wanted to hear. Three of the most popular young American singers were dead. Although he was only twenty-two years of age, Buddy Holly was the most well-known and became the inspiration for many to follow, including the Beatles. It’s impossible to imagine how bright his star would have become if not for that fatal crash. He has been called “the single most creative force in the early history of rock and roll.”
Ritchie Valens was the first Mexican-American singer to make an impact with fans outside of his heritage, having scored hits with, “Donna,” and “La Bamba.” J. P. Richardson was a prolific songwriter as well as having that great baritone voice. My father loved “Chantilly Lace” and often when he’d come into the house, he’d greet my mom with a big, “Hello, Baby, you know what I like.” That always made her smile and me a bit uncomfortable.
Some have pointed to that fateful day as the beginning of the loss of the innocence of youth. Others, including Don McLean in his 1971 song, “American Pie,” have simply called February 3, 1959, “The Day the Music Died.” However, to those of us who remember, their songs and legacies will live on forever.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Snakes on a Bus
About two years ago, a movie titled Snakes on a Plane starring the great actor, Samuel L. Jackson, appeared in movie theaters. It was an apparent hit with the younger crowd (to me, that’s anyone under 50), but although it’s been on HBO or Showtime several occasions since, I haven’t bothered to watch it. Maybe I will someday after the paint dries.
Although I haven’t seen the movie, I can’t imagine it being nearly as thrilling or exciting as a similar incident which co-starred a good-sized member of the reptile family when I was a student at Elnora High.
It all started with the morning bus ride to school on a sunny and cold, but not frigid, winter day. I was one of the first students on the bus each morning, and as we picked up the other kids, all wore the requisite outer garments appropriate to the season. However, as a classmate of mine (who shall remain nameless in the interest of continuing confidentiality) climbed the steps to the bus, I noticed that he was clad in a long-sleeved shirt, but was carrying his coat folded up and clutched tightly in front of him, not unlike a Wall Street banker trying to conceal a briefcase full of embezzled cash.
Some of us asked if he was cold, but he dodged the question with the efficiency of a point guard evading a defender just before hitting the game winning jump shot. As we arrived at school and headed to the Study Hall to grab our books and supplies from our desks, I completely forgot the bus scenario and prepared myself for the business of getting ready to start the school day.
Mrs. Humbaugh, the school’s English teacher, was at her normal early morning location, seated at a small table at the south end of the Study Hall. She had a supply of tickets piled on her table and a small money box in which to collect the quarters from the students who wanted to purchase lunch in the school cafeteria.
We had 15 minutes to get our stuff together, buy the last minute lunch tickets, and get ourselves to class. Most of the other kids in grades 7 – 12 were similarly occupied, except for a small group of students clustered around a desk a couple rows to my left and a bit more toward the front of the large room. About the time I looked in their direction, the desk lid was raised, and with the accuracy of an Australian boomerang, a large snake whirled overhead from the group of students straight toward Mrs. Humbaugh. With a shriek that would have made Alfred Hitchcock proud, Mrs. Humbaugh leaped from her seat, knocking over her small table, with coins and cash flying in all directions. From my vantage point, it appeared as if the snake grazed or, at the very least, just missed Mrs. Humbaugh in its spinning flight across the auditorium.
As things quieted down, a magnanimous young man (who just happened to be the same student with the suspicious folded coat on that early morning bus ride) went over and offered his assistance to rid the Study Hall of the offending reptile. The last we saw, the student and the snake were both headed down the hallway and out the door, where the legless creature was presumably allowed to slither to the freedom of its natural habitat.
Days later, another blood-curdling scream emanated from the 2nd floor English room. It seems that when Mrs. Humbaugh reached into her coat pocket near the end of the school day, somehow a tiny garter snake had taken up residence in the same location as her car keys. To my knowledge, nobody was ever punished for either incident.
As Harrison Ford so aptly complained in Raiders of the Lost Ark, “Snakes! Why does it have to be snakes?” I’m sure Mrs. Humbaugh felt the same way.
Although I haven’t seen the movie, I can’t imagine it being nearly as thrilling or exciting as a similar incident which co-starred a good-sized member of the reptile family when I was a student at Elnora High.
It all started with the morning bus ride to school on a sunny and cold, but not frigid, winter day. I was one of the first students on the bus each morning, and as we picked up the other kids, all wore the requisite outer garments appropriate to the season. However, as a classmate of mine (who shall remain nameless in the interest of continuing confidentiality) climbed the steps to the bus, I noticed that he was clad in a long-sleeved shirt, but was carrying his coat folded up and clutched tightly in front of him, not unlike a Wall Street banker trying to conceal a briefcase full of embezzled cash.
Some of us asked if he was cold, but he dodged the question with the efficiency of a point guard evading a defender just before hitting the game winning jump shot. As we arrived at school and headed to the Study Hall to grab our books and supplies from our desks, I completely forgot the bus scenario and prepared myself for the business of getting ready to start the school day.
Mrs. Humbaugh, the school’s English teacher, was at her normal early morning location, seated at a small table at the south end of the Study Hall. She had a supply of tickets piled on her table and a small money box in which to collect the quarters from the students who wanted to purchase lunch in the school cafeteria.
We had 15 minutes to get our stuff together, buy the last minute lunch tickets, and get ourselves to class. Most of the other kids in grades 7 – 12 were similarly occupied, except for a small group of students clustered around a desk a couple rows to my left and a bit more toward the front of the large room. About the time I looked in their direction, the desk lid was raised, and with the accuracy of an Australian boomerang, a large snake whirled overhead from the group of students straight toward Mrs. Humbaugh. With a shriek that would have made Alfred Hitchcock proud, Mrs. Humbaugh leaped from her seat, knocking over her small table, with coins and cash flying in all directions. From my vantage point, it appeared as if the snake grazed or, at the very least, just missed Mrs. Humbaugh in its spinning flight across the auditorium.
As things quieted down, a magnanimous young man (who just happened to be the same student with the suspicious folded coat on that early morning bus ride) went over and offered his assistance to rid the Study Hall of the offending reptile. The last we saw, the student and the snake were both headed down the hallway and out the door, where the legless creature was presumably allowed to slither to the freedom of its natural habitat.
Days later, another blood-curdling scream emanated from the 2nd floor English room. It seems that when Mrs. Humbaugh reached into her coat pocket near the end of the school day, somehow a tiny garter snake had taken up residence in the same location as her car keys. To my knowledge, nobody was ever punished for either incident.
As Harrison Ford so aptly complained in Raiders of the Lost Ark, “Snakes! Why does it have to be snakes?” I’m sure Mrs. Humbaugh felt the same way.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Yes, James Emerson, There is a Santa Claus
Christmas has always been a magical time of the year. Long before people started saying, “Happy Holidays,” the standard greeting was “Merry Christmas.” And, unlike today when stores start getting ready for jolly old St. Nick as soon as the last candle in the jack-o-lantern burns out, when I was a kid growing up in Elnora during the 1950s, the Christmas season didn’t officially start until after Thanksgiving. Then, preparations really shifted into high gear. I couldn’t wait for those exciting December weekends when my mother, Elizabeth Johnson, and I would drive down to Washington to see the elaborate decorations and browse through the gaily decorated stores. My father wasn’t a shopper, so he nearly always stayed home.
First, we would make our usual stop at the J.C. Penney store. Following that, we spent more excruciating time at several other ladies’ wear establishments. Then, after lunch, we finally went to the “fun” stores like Sears, Montgomery Ward and the Washington hardware store so I could unashamedly break the 10th Commandment and covet all of the Lionel electric trains on display at those locations. I have loved trains my whole life. Still do. My grandfather, Jim Rench, worked on the railroad during his youth and told me many stories about his experiences as a member of a train crew. His tales coupled with my imagination whetted my appetite for an out-of-reach gigantic electric train layout.
Those excursions to Washington during the Christmas season were as common to us as a trip to Walmart or the corner grocery is today. I don’t really remember us ever buying much, though. Money was tight and we were far from wealthy, so that fancy Lionel train I wanted so badly was just a far-off dream.
While we were shopping in Washington, my father would usually take the opportunity to head out to the woods and massacre a Charlie Brown Christmas Tree. He nearly always came home with a cedar tree with floppy branches that would barely support the tinsel, let alone the lights and ornaments. Maybe cedars were easier to find than pines, but it was almost embarrassing the way the branches sagged under the weight of the decorations, especially the lighted angel at the top of the tree who leaned like she was weary from supporting her wings.
When I was very young, the Christmas tree was always set up in the front window of the living room at my grandparents’ house since I stayed with them while my parents operated their restaurant. My grandparents had several strings of old Christmas lights, the kind that if one bulb burned out the whole string would expire. They did keep a supply of spare bulbs in the piano bench of all places, so that kept the problem to a minimum.
Most of my grandparents’ lights didn’t match the others. Only a couple of strings were the same. However, my favorites were the one string of bubble lights that “boiled and bubbled” in their long, slender, candle-like bulbs after they warmed up. They must have been well-made because I don’t remember any of them ever burning out. Because of their weight, they were always placed on the sturdier lower branches of the cedar tree, just at my optimal viewing height.
Although Washington was “the place to go” during the Christmas season, the stores and shops in Elnora were just as well-decorated for the holidays. The town leaders did an outstanding job of transforming the business district and the park into a winter wonderland. The nativity scene at the park made it all very special and reminded everyone of the true meaning of Christmas. The preparations were culminated by an outdoor program downtown during which all of the kids in attendance received a bag of goodies including Christmas candy, nuts, and the obligatory orange.
One year, as part of the Christmas program, my parents volunteered for me to recite from memory Clement C. Moore’s 1822 poem, A Visit from St. Nicholas (more commonly called ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas), in front of the folks gathered downtown. Somewhere between naming Santa’s eight tiny reindeer and him landing his sleigh on the roof, I stumbled over the line about “dry leaves and wild hurricanes” as I still do today, but somehow I got through the entire poem with most folks in attendance hopefully not noticing my near-fatal gaff.
I like to remember that this wonderful program was held on Christmas Eve, but I’m not sure that it actually was. In any case, I was getting to the age where I was beginning to doubt the existence of Santa Claus, not necessarily the man himself because I had seen him down at Santa Claus Land. However, I couldn’t believe in his ability to travel the world in one night. So, having confided my suspicions to my grandmother who must have passed them on to “someone else,” I took one last look at the Christmas tree with no presents underneath and went to bed.
That Christmas Eve I was extremely restless and could not fall asleep. I tossed and turned and listened for the arrival of Santa in case he did actually exist. Then, just before or just after I drifted off to sleep, I heard a loud noise on the roof. There was some stomping and the sound of sleigh bells. It was true! Santa was real! He was here! I kept extremely quiet and heard more noise coming from the living room. Then it was quiet again. I tried and tried but couldn’t get to sleep. Suddenly my dad appeared at the bedroom door and asked if I wanted to come into the living room although it was already after midnight.
When I entered the darkened room, only the Christmas tree was lit. Then I saw it! A big, beautiful Lionel “O” Gauge train was puffing smoke and steaming around the Christmas tree pulling its coal tender, four freight cars, and a lighted Lionel Lines caboose. It had enough track to make a large oval and a couple of side tracks with the accompanying switches. I watched in awe as the train disappeared into the tunnel, went behind the other presents now piled under the tree, and reappeared with its headlight blazing and its whistle blowing. My parents, grandparents, my Aunt Audrey and Uncle Kewp from McCordsville, and my Uncle Bill and Aunt Kathryn from Indianapolis were all there to share in my excitement.
Although the train had a tag that said “from Santa Claus,” I found out years later that it was actually a present from my Aunt Audrey and Uncle Kewp (who both physically resembled what Santa and Mrs. Claus must have looked like in their younger years) since my parents could have never afforded such a fine gift. My aunt and uncle never had children and decided to give me that special present. It was so expensive in 1950’s dollars that my mother told me that my aunt and uncle didn’t even buy gifts for each other that Christmas so I could have the train. What a wonderful and thoughtful couple!
My dad and I later mounted the track on a plywood table in the basement of our house and I continued to play with it for many years. To this day, I don’t think I’ve ever been as excited about a Christmas present as I was about that train. When my mother died in 1974, the train table was still down in the basement, the track having rusted from the dampness. However, I still have the nearly 60-year-old train and it remains one of my most cherished possessions.
As for the noise on the roof that Christmas Eve so many years ago, it was my dad and my uncles who climbed a ladder to the house-top to duplicate the sound of Santa’s reindeer hoofs and sleigh bells. It was just enough to make me believe for at least one more year. The 1950’s were such a great time to be a kid.
Clement C. Moore said it so perfectly so many years ago, “Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night!” In these uncertain times, I wish it now more than ever.
First, we would make our usual stop at the J.C. Penney store. Following that, we spent more excruciating time at several other ladies’ wear establishments. Then, after lunch, we finally went to the “fun” stores like Sears, Montgomery Ward and the Washington hardware store so I could unashamedly break the 10th Commandment and covet all of the Lionel electric trains on display at those locations. I have loved trains my whole life. Still do. My grandfather, Jim Rench, worked on the railroad during his youth and told me many stories about his experiences as a member of a train crew. His tales coupled with my imagination whetted my appetite for an out-of-reach gigantic electric train layout.
Those excursions to Washington during the Christmas season were as common to us as a trip to Walmart or the corner grocery is today. I don’t really remember us ever buying much, though. Money was tight and we were far from wealthy, so that fancy Lionel train I wanted so badly was just a far-off dream.
While we were shopping in Washington, my father would usually take the opportunity to head out to the woods and massacre a Charlie Brown Christmas Tree. He nearly always came home with a cedar tree with floppy branches that would barely support the tinsel, let alone the lights and ornaments. Maybe cedars were easier to find than pines, but it was almost embarrassing the way the branches sagged under the weight of the decorations, especially the lighted angel at the top of the tree who leaned like she was weary from supporting her wings.
When I was very young, the Christmas tree was always set up in the front window of the living room at my grandparents’ house since I stayed with them while my parents operated their restaurant. My grandparents had several strings of old Christmas lights, the kind that if one bulb burned out the whole string would expire. They did keep a supply of spare bulbs in the piano bench of all places, so that kept the problem to a minimum.
Most of my grandparents’ lights didn’t match the others. Only a couple of strings were the same. However, my favorites were the one string of bubble lights that “boiled and bubbled” in their long, slender, candle-like bulbs after they warmed up. They must have been well-made because I don’t remember any of them ever burning out. Because of their weight, they were always placed on the sturdier lower branches of the cedar tree, just at my optimal viewing height.
Although Washington was “the place to go” during the Christmas season, the stores and shops in Elnora were just as well-decorated for the holidays. The town leaders did an outstanding job of transforming the business district and the park into a winter wonderland. The nativity scene at the park made it all very special and reminded everyone of the true meaning of Christmas. The preparations were culminated by an outdoor program downtown during which all of the kids in attendance received a bag of goodies including Christmas candy, nuts, and the obligatory orange.
One year, as part of the Christmas program, my parents volunteered for me to recite from memory Clement C. Moore’s 1822 poem, A Visit from St. Nicholas (more commonly called ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas), in front of the folks gathered downtown. Somewhere between naming Santa’s eight tiny reindeer and him landing his sleigh on the roof, I stumbled over the line about “dry leaves and wild hurricanes” as I still do today, but somehow I got through the entire poem with most folks in attendance hopefully not noticing my near-fatal gaff.
I like to remember that this wonderful program was held on Christmas Eve, but I’m not sure that it actually was. In any case, I was getting to the age where I was beginning to doubt the existence of Santa Claus, not necessarily the man himself because I had seen him down at Santa Claus Land. However, I couldn’t believe in his ability to travel the world in one night. So, having confided my suspicions to my grandmother who must have passed them on to “someone else,” I took one last look at the Christmas tree with no presents underneath and went to bed.
That Christmas Eve I was extremely restless and could not fall asleep. I tossed and turned and listened for the arrival of Santa in case he did actually exist. Then, just before or just after I drifted off to sleep, I heard a loud noise on the roof. There was some stomping and the sound of sleigh bells. It was true! Santa was real! He was here! I kept extremely quiet and heard more noise coming from the living room. Then it was quiet again. I tried and tried but couldn’t get to sleep. Suddenly my dad appeared at the bedroom door and asked if I wanted to come into the living room although it was already after midnight.
When I entered the darkened room, only the Christmas tree was lit. Then I saw it! A big, beautiful Lionel “O” Gauge train was puffing smoke and steaming around the Christmas tree pulling its coal tender, four freight cars, and a lighted Lionel Lines caboose. It had enough track to make a large oval and a couple of side tracks with the accompanying switches. I watched in awe as the train disappeared into the tunnel, went behind the other presents now piled under the tree, and reappeared with its headlight blazing and its whistle blowing. My parents, grandparents, my Aunt Audrey and Uncle Kewp from McCordsville, and my Uncle Bill and Aunt Kathryn from Indianapolis were all there to share in my excitement.
Although the train had a tag that said “from Santa Claus,” I found out years later that it was actually a present from my Aunt Audrey and Uncle Kewp (who both physically resembled what Santa and Mrs. Claus must have looked like in their younger years) since my parents could have never afforded such a fine gift. My aunt and uncle never had children and decided to give me that special present. It was so expensive in 1950’s dollars that my mother told me that my aunt and uncle didn’t even buy gifts for each other that Christmas so I could have the train. What a wonderful and thoughtful couple!
My dad and I later mounted the track on a plywood table in the basement of our house and I continued to play with it for many years. To this day, I don’t think I’ve ever been as excited about a Christmas present as I was about that train. When my mother died in 1974, the train table was still down in the basement, the track having rusted from the dampness. However, I still have the nearly 60-year-old train and it remains one of my most cherished possessions.
As for the noise on the roof that Christmas Eve so many years ago, it was my dad and my uncles who climbed a ladder to the house-top to duplicate the sound of Santa’s reindeer hoofs and sleigh bells. It was just enough to make me believe for at least one more year. The 1950’s were such a great time to be a kid.
Clement C. Moore said it so perfectly so many years ago, “Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night!” In these uncertain times, I wish it now more than ever.
Friday, December 5, 2008
The Night the Harlem Magicians Came to Town
The late, great man in black, Johnny Cash, sang about seeing country legend, Hank Williams, in the song, “The Night Hank Williams Came to Town.” During the 1950’s, Elnora had its own celebrities come to town, but they brought basketballs rather than guitars.
It should come as no surprise to us folks in Hoosierland that basketball is king in Indiana during this time of year. This was even truer back in the early to mid-1950’s when there were well over 700 high school teams competing in the state tournament. Unfortunately for the Elnora Owls whose old “cracker box” gymnasium was no longer adequate to host games above the 7th and 8th grade level, all of their “home” games had to be played on the basketball court of the Owls’ greatest rival, the Odon Bulldogs.
The first high school game I ever saw was played by the great 1951 Elnora Owls’ team which reached the finals of the Wabash Valley Tourney that year. Some of the players on that team were Jim Barley, Junior Courtney, Jack Gaultney, Dale Rader, Gordon Scott, Jack Shaffer, and Frank Tomey. One night my dad asked me if I wanted to “go for a ride” with him and we wound up at the Odon gym watching the Owls in action. I remember very little about the game, but the one thing that impressed me the most was the sheer size of the basketball floor. To a six-year-old, it appeared to be absolutely huge.
Although I now had basketball fever, following that winter day in 1951, I saw very few high school games until Elnora finally built its own new gymnasium which was ready for the 1957-58 school year. The gym, with a large stage at the east end of the basketball court, was part of a new addition constructed on the south end of the existing Elnora school building. Also included in the new expansion were concession areas, locker rooms, athletic office, band room, classrooms, machine shop, and rest rooms.
When the new 1,200 seat basketball palace was ready to host its first action, it was announced that the dedication game would be played by none other than the fabulous Marques Haynes, Goose Tatum, and the rest of the Harlem Magicians basketball team. Haynes had been a member of the world famous Harlem Globetrotters, leaving the team in 1953 due to a contract dispute to form his own squad. The Magicians were a carbon copy of the Globetrotters and played the same brand of high energy, comedic basketball. Marques Haynes was known as the best dribbler in basketball and Goose Tatum was the “clown prince” of the Magicians just as Meadowlark Lemon was known as the “clown prince” of the Globetrotters.
The Elnora gym was packed the night the Harlem Magicians came to town to take on their overmatched rivals, a team similar to the Washington Generals who traveled with the Globetrotters. Although I was only a freshman, I was fortunate enough to sit at the scoring table and help record the game’s statistics. I only wish I had kept my program from that game so that my recollection of the events would be clearer in my aging mind. However, two of the highlights of the evening included one of the Magicians drop-kicking the ball into the basket from the mid-court line and, of course, the famous bucket of “water” (which turned out to be confetti) tossed into an unsuspecting crowd near the end of the game.
I’m sure for most of us in attendance, the evening ended all too soon. A few years later, all was forgiven and Marques Haynes rejoined the Globetrotters. He finally retired from basketball for good in 1992 at the age of 66 after 46 years of playing professional basketball. During the peak of his career, he turned down offers from the Philadelphia Warriors and Minneapolis Lakers of the NBA. Marques Haynes is the only member of the Harlem Globetrotters to be elected to the basketball Hall of Fame.
Now that the Owls finally had their own court again, their basketball fortunes improved to the point where wins finally began to outnumber losses within a couple years of opening the new gym. However, no contest at that venue in my limited memory drew as large a crowd as that first night when the Harlem Magicians came to town.
It should come as no surprise to us folks in Hoosierland that basketball is king in Indiana during this time of year. This was even truer back in the early to mid-1950’s when there were well over 700 high school teams competing in the state tournament. Unfortunately for the Elnora Owls whose old “cracker box” gymnasium was no longer adequate to host games above the 7th and 8th grade level, all of their “home” games had to be played on the basketball court of the Owls’ greatest rival, the Odon Bulldogs.
The first high school game I ever saw was played by the great 1951 Elnora Owls’ team which reached the finals of the Wabash Valley Tourney that year. Some of the players on that team were Jim Barley, Junior Courtney, Jack Gaultney, Dale Rader, Gordon Scott, Jack Shaffer, and Frank Tomey. One night my dad asked me if I wanted to “go for a ride” with him and we wound up at the Odon gym watching the Owls in action. I remember very little about the game, but the one thing that impressed me the most was the sheer size of the basketball floor. To a six-year-old, it appeared to be absolutely huge.
Although I now had basketball fever, following that winter day in 1951, I saw very few high school games until Elnora finally built its own new gymnasium which was ready for the 1957-58 school year. The gym, with a large stage at the east end of the basketball court, was part of a new addition constructed on the south end of the existing Elnora school building. Also included in the new expansion were concession areas, locker rooms, athletic office, band room, classrooms, machine shop, and rest rooms.
When the new 1,200 seat basketball palace was ready to host its first action, it was announced that the dedication game would be played by none other than the fabulous Marques Haynes, Goose Tatum, and the rest of the Harlem Magicians basketball team. Haynes had been a member of the world famous Harlem Globetrotters, leaving the team in 1953 due to a contract dispute to form his own squad. The Magicians were a carbon copy of the Globetrotters and played the same brand of high energy, comedic basketball. Marques Haynes was known as the best dribbler in basketball and Goose Tatum was the “clown prince” of the Magicians just as Meadowlark Lemon was known as the “clown prince” of the Globetrotters.
The Elnora gym was packed the night the Harlem Magicians came to town to take on their overmatched rivals, a team similar to the Washington Generals who traveled with the Globetrotters. Although I was only a freshman, I was fortunate enough to sit at the scoring table and help record the game’s statistics. I only wish I had kept my program from that game so that my recollection of the events would be clearer in my aging mind. However, two of the highlights of the evening included one of the Magicians drop-kicking the ball into the basket from the mid-court line and, of course, the famous bucket of “water” (which turned out to be confetti) tossed into an unsuspecting crowd near the end of the game.
I’m sure for most of us in attendance, the evening ended all too soon. A few years later, all was forgiven and Marques Haynes rejoined the Globetrotters. He finally retired from basketball for good in 1992 at the age of 66 after 46 years of playing professional basketball. During the peak of his career, he turned down offers from the Philadelphia Warriors and Minneapolis Lakers of the NBA. Marques Haynes is the only member of the Harlem Globetrotters to be elected to the basketball Hall of Fame.
Now that the Owls finally had their own court again, their basketball fortunes improved to the point where wins finally began to outnumber losses within a couple years of opening the new gym. However, no contest at that venue in my limited memory drew as large a crowd as that first night when the Harlem Magicians came to town.
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