Your First Was Probably Your Worst (Car)

Snap, crackle, pop is a good sound to hear from your bowl of cereal but it’s not so good when your car says it.

I was turning our 1969 Dodge Dart through the intersection when I heard the snap. I continued forward as this crackling or tearing sound came from under the hood. That was quickly followed by a loud pop. The front wheel had snapped off. Technically the rocker arm had rusted and detached from the frame but the end result was the same.

The fire engine red Dart had come to our family through marriage. I brought a beat up 1957 Chevy to the altar and my wife Ann contributed the Dart. Both were our first cars and had nostalgic value despite their mechanical flaws – and there were many mechanical flaws. Neither one, however, would be considered the worst car we ever owned.

That honor belongs to the 1972 Volkswagen 411 that is parked behind the crippled Dart in the photo. The car had several cool features but the gasoline heater was not one of them. Located under the back seat, the heater would burn gasoline and then convert it to heat. Unfortunately it caught fire on a regular basis which required the panicked driver to pull over, flip the rear seat and put out the fire. It gave new meaning to the term hot seat.

The Foundation for Allen Schools recently held a classic car show at the Village of Allen. The event mostly involves people standing around and staring at each other’s cars and talking about car stuff. I took advantage of the captive audience and asked folks to describe the worst car they ever owned. I then posted the same question on Facebook to some friends. Their nominations sound like a who’s who of bad engineering and taste.

“My worst was a 1975 Pinto Wagon. It was mostly Bondo and had 156,000+ miles on it. It ran for 10 minutes after you turned the key off.” – Rich Hardt, Riverton, WY.

“The worst car was my first car. It was a 1952 Dodge Wayfarer that I bought in 1975 for $75. I knew nothing about this at the time, but in 1952 Dodge had what it called a "gyromatic transmission." It had a clutch, but you didn't have to use it. Whenever I would stop, then step on the gas, it would lunge forward in a jerky motion. It was shaped like a football so at least it looked cool.” – Mark Sceurman – Bloomfield,

“My worst car was also my first. It was a 1960 VW bug. It had no A/C, no heat, no radio, no gas gauge, and only 3 of the 4 cylinders worked reliably. It cost me $200 and I was thrilled to have it.” – Barry Lanier, Allen, TX.

“I had a 63 Dodge Dart that ran on quarts (of oil) per mile. It was my first car and I was happy just to have one.” – Dave Barnes, Allen, TX.

“My 1978 Toyota Corolla had an 1,100 cc engine. It was so weak that I had to turn off the AC to climb hills – in Texas!” – Robert Weaver, Allen, TX.

“My worst was my first, and I loved it - a used Renault R8 ($450 in 1975) with a rear engine and front trunk that opened from the windshield end. The manual gearbox was set up for a driver seated on the right hand side of the car, the carburetor frequently got stuck and had to be adjusted by hand and I can't think of how many times I started the car by pushing and popping the clutch.” - Patrice Keegan, Boston, MA.

“The worst for me was an 83 Chevy Citation. It was impossible to drive, had almost no clutch and no power.” – Rod Griffin, Allen, TX.

“I thought my 1981 Renault Fuego looked cool but it was a bad car – a really bad car.” – Keith Taylor, Allen, TX.

Mark Wynn of Princeton said it best when he admitted that “The best thing that ever happened to me was that someone stole my 1973 Chevy Vega. The worst thing that ever happened was that the police found my 73 Vega.”

Squeezing Forty Years Into One Paragraph

It all started on Facebook with a message from someone I hadn’t spoken with in 40 years.

Pat Sharpe-Dunn, a grammar school classmate, sent an electronic “hello” from New Jersey which is more like a “hey” than a “howdy.”

We spent close to an hour that night recalling whatever knowledge we had of classmates from the St. Thomas the Apostle eighth grade Class of 1970.

The class was unique because we were together for six straight years. Even though there were three full classes of kids, the nuns kept us separated for the most part. The result was three groups of about 35 kids traveling through grades 3-8 on parallel tracks.

I was close friends with a handful of kids and had information about another half dozen. Pat had been in touch with an equal number and we swapped information like cold war spies. We discussed important topics like who married whom and where folks lived. The subject then turned to juicier topics such as who liked whom in sixth grade and which nuns were the meanest.

The online conversation motivated us to scan Facebook for other 1970 classmates which then spread out like a big family tree to even more classmates. People I had not thought about in a very long time were now posting messages and sharing photos on my “wall.”

I found that summarizing 40 years of your life into one paragraph for an old acquaintance is like writing your own obituary.

“So what have you been up to?” someone asked me.

“Well,” I responded, “I went to college, got married, moved to Indiana, had kids that are now 17 and 18, moved near Dallas, Texas (it sounds so much better than the suburbs) and now spend a lot of time reading about people on Facebook. That just about sums it up. How about you?”
The online frenzy ultimately led us to plan last weekend’s 40th reunion in our hometown of Bloomfield, NJ. A majority of those who attended were locals although several folks planned trips “home” to match up with the reunion.

As each new person walked in, others in the room quickly attempted to guess who they were. Animated conversations quickly drowned out the music and only the pizzas (pies in the local vernacular) were able to quiet thing down. The talk naturally turned to the people and the pranks that everyone remembered.

I would like to think that Sister Adrian, our principal for those 6 years, would be shocked by the conversation but probably not. Every class claims with pride that they were the worst or the rowdiest even though teachers know better. Can you imagine kids bragging that their class had the highest grades and best behavior? Neither can I.

I don’t think I’m insulting anyone when I say most of us weren’t good friends at the time. We were just classmates who shared a great many childhood experiences and inhaled a large amount of chalk dust.

After last Saturday’s reunion I would revise that statement. I think we were more like siblings who spend years ignoring each other only to realize how much they know and how much they care about each other.

Facebook is buzzing these days with St. Thomas reunion photos. To an outsider, the pictures show a bunch of 50 somethings standing around talking. To those who sat in class and church (and detention) at St. Thomas the Apostle School, it was a memorable trip back in time.

There's More Than Corn In Indiana

Everyone has an opinion about people from New Jersey. Like ‘em or hate ‘em, people from Jersey are hard to ignore.

The same can’t be said for people from Indiana. They seem nice enough and unless you have a grudge with Bobby Knight or the University of Notre Dame, your opinion about the Hoosier State is probably flexible.

Several days after our wedding in 1979, we packed up and moved from the urban northeast to a city surrounded by corn…Muncie, Indiana. I had accepted a job at Ball State University and a change of scenery suited us just fine.

The move left more than a few folks back home confused though. Why would someone move away from the New York City area to Indiana? It sounded more like witness protection than a career opportunity but we had the last laugh. We paid about half price for housing compared to New Jersey and were able to travel for years while they paid their hefty mortgages.

We moved from Muncie to Munster, an Indiana suburb of Chicago for a few years and then settled in Mishawaka, a neighbor to South Bend. Our honeymoon drive to Indiana had lasted for 15 years until Allen ISD came calling.

Our friend Donna from Indiana or Michigan was visiting this past weekend. It’s an either or because she lives in Michigan but works in Indiana. Locals just call it Michiana - seriously. Anyway, the subject of Indiana came up at our graduation party and I challenged folks to tell me what they knew about Indiana.

The list of facts was rather short. We determined that they have a big car race, they used to have Bobby Knight, you drive through it to get somewhere else and no one actually knows what a Hoosier is. All four statements were accurate.

It’s easy to imagine Indiana as a big field of corn bisected with interstate highways and believe me; there is no shortage or corn or highways. Still, during my 15 years as a Hoosier, I came across some interesting facts. For example:

At the height of Michael Jackson’s fame, the state legislature moved to put the Gary, Indiana native’s image on the state license plates. The proposal never passed.

The song Indiana Wants Me was written by R. Dean Taylor, a Toronto, Ontario native. The song Back Home Again In Indiana was written by a Hoosier though – it was James Hanley of Rensselaer. Sung by Jim Nabors, the song kicks off the Indianapolis 500 race each year.
Speaking of “The 500,” did you know that the first long distance car race ever was held in 1911at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. You probably didn’t know that David Letterman was born in Indianapolis. You probably did know that he graduated from Ball State University which is affectionately called “fruit jar tech” because of its roots to the Ball family and Ball jars.
James Dean grew up a few exits north in Marion and John Mellencamp really came from a small town (Seymour).

Basketball is very big in Indiana. The largest high school gym is located in New Castle with a seating capacity of 9,325. Down the road, the Anderson “WigWam” only seats 8,995 fans.
According to www.50states.com, Indiana means, "Land of the Indians" but there are fewer than 8,000 Native Americans living in the state today.

My favorite fact is that the state seal shows a bison leaping in front of a rising sun. A former governor was once asked what the seal represented. “It means you have to get up pretty early in the morning to see any bison in Indiana,” he said.

So the next time you are passing through “The Crossroads of America,” take time to look around and enjoy the scenery. The corn is pretty good too.

Memorial Bricks Have Story To Tell

“How many Germans did you kill in World War II,” I asked my father once.

I was disappointed that the answer was none. In fact, he was pretty sure that he never fired a gun in combat even though he had followed George Patton across North Africa and up through Italy. I
Lt. William J. Carroll was actually a member of the Army signal corps and had responsibility for a small unit that operated radar equipment from the back of a truck.

Lt. Carroll met Lt. Mary J. Lynch, my future mother, in the officer’s mess on a ship somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. He admitted that he had volunteered for watch because he’d get to eat first and more importantly he’d get to eat with the nurses. The plan obviously worked.

Lt. Lynch enlisted in the Army out of nursing school and spent the next year working under extreme conditions in operating rooms in places like Algiers, Palermo and Naples. A family friend observed that my mother saw more action than most GI’s because the nurses were needed most where the fighting was the worst.

“I’d be rich if I had a nickel for every marriage proposal I heard during the war,” she once said.
John A. Brownrigg, an aviation machinist third class and my future father-in-law, enlisted in the Navy in 1944 at the age of 17. He bounced around naval air stations and land bases from late 1944 – 1946 eventually ending up at Orote Point, Guam.

“I showed up looking for my unit and they had shipped out,” he told me one night. “I asked the Marines at the base what I should do and they suggested I look busy so I kept busy.”

The war had ended and the Marines were obviously more fixed on getting home than keeping Navy machinist third class John Brownrigg busy. He shipped home shortly after that.

Besides military service, these three relatives of mine have one more thing in common…they all have an engraved brick placed in their honor at the new Allen Veteran’s Memorial.

The memorial, which is located at Bethany Lakes Park, will be dedicated on Memorial Day starting at 11:30 a.m.

The project was first proposed in 2002 by the Leadership Allen Class XV, according to Larry Nordgaard, a member of the class and also a member of local VFW Post #215.

“We found a lot of people who liked the idea but funding was difficult to find,” he explained. “The CDC (Community Development Corporation) Board first funded the architectural work and later stepped forward with funding for the whole project in 2008.”

The memorial includes five 17’ obelisks representing branches of the Armed Services along with a flagpole, benches and a brick wall. Families may purchase engraved bricks for the wall or the patio surrounding the flagpole.

The Allen Veterans Memorial Committee has sold 21 larger bricks and 47 smaller ones which have been installed for the dedication. Bricks will continue to be sold for installation by Veteran’s Day in November.

“Our purpose is to preserve the memory and honor those who served,” says Nordgaard. “The bricks honor some currently serving in the military and others who served as long ago as World War I.”

There are currently 68 engraved bricks in the Allen Veterans Memorial. There is a story behind every name on those bricks and we appreciate Larry Nordgaard, the Leadership Allen Class #15, the CDC Board and the City of Allen for giving us a place to remember them.

Safety Patrol Boy To The Rescue

“Thanks to you Mr. Carroll, St. Thomas The Apostle Elementary School is a safer place,” said Sr. Adrian, our principal. “Your behavior as a safety patrol boy is a model for our younger students to follow.”

Like Theodore Cleaver, I imagined donning the white belt and ultimately winning the praise of our principal and admiration of my fellow students.
The reality of being a patrol boy didn’t live up to my expectations. I earned the safety belt and had many conversations with Sister Adrian.

Unfortunately they sounded more like this.
“Mr. Carroll, once again you were not at your post. I shouldn’t have to remind you that your post faces the rectory and Monsignor O’Brien could walk through that unattended door at any moment.”
I guess you could say I was easily distracted. After a few months of standing guard in the side stairwell, I had not seen much action. I could boss around a few bus kids who exited my door but I was basically hidden from view each afternoon. School dismissed through the main doors and only the best (principal’s favorite) patrol boys / girls got that assignment.

Speaking of corners, the best assignments were a block or two away from the school at busy intersections. The older kids (girls) always lingered there and you were far enough away from the nuns. Those assignments would be labeled as patronage jobs in today’s vocabulary. The principal probably selected them based on grades, maturity and their knowledge of the Catechism.
The coolest part of the safety patrol gig was the belt and badge. When rolled up, it could be used for a game of catch. Once opened, it could be snapped like a wet towel except the metal clips left a more lasting impression.

The familiar white belt’s history goes back to a British army officer named Sam Browne. Browne was serving as an officer in India in the 19th century and had trouble holding his sword in place after he lost his arm in battle. He created a second belt that held the sword in place as well as his pistol and binoculars. The idea was carried forward by officers on both sides in World War I.
The safety “patrol boys” were created by the American Automobile Association in 1920 “to direct children, not traffic and model good safety practices.” They wore an AAA safety patrol badge with the white Sam Browne belt which was later replaced with orange safety vests.

Like most volunteer assignments, the safety patrol job lost its appeal as the year wore on. The weather turned warm and watching other kids walk home with the girls was probably the distraction Sr. Adrian referred to.

I posted a comment about the safety patrol on our grammar school’s Facebook page this past week. The best response out of many came from a former patrol boy.

“I can’t believe they trusted us,” he said. “I mean, give a 12 year-old a badge and it goes to his head!”

It’s hard to argue with that.

It All Starts With Kindergarten

Graduation is a time to look forward but it is also a time to look backwards. As my son John approaches graduation from Allen High School next week, I can’t help but look back to his first day of school – to the day that Kathy Ellis came into our lives.

Her official title was kindergarten teacher at Vaughan Elementary School but Mrs. Ellis meant more than that to us as we hovered at the door that first day. She was the most important teacher in the world because she had our child in her care. As she had done for hundreds of parents before us, she gave a nod and a knowing smile that meant things would be ok. She was right.

More than thirteen years later, John and Mrs. Ellis are both looking at the end of their school careers in Allen. John is looking ahead to Texas Tech and his kindergarten teacher is looking ahead to retirement.

It is no surprise that Kathy Ellis became a teacher. Her parents, her grandmother and her aunt were all educators. Her husband Zach is a teacher in Plano and both of their sons, Tyler and Jeremy, have chosen teaching careers. She taught kindergarten for 22 years and second grade for another 9 years

“I began teaching right out of college (Stephen F. Austin),” she says. “I then taught kindergarten for 22 years and second grade for another 9 years. I’ve been on a school schedule my entire life.”
Every grade is important but kindergarten is such a unique part of school, according to Ellis. “It’s where children learn how to work with others and figure out how school works. It all begins here.”
“The children are so hungry to learn. They want to please and they are so excited just to be in school,” she adds. “They are so involved in the hands-on play activities that they don’t realize they are learning.”

Teachers use a term called transitions to explain how students wrap up one activity or task and move on to another. In kindergarten, it’s about learning the routines and procedures for things older kids take for granted, says Ellis. Trips to the library, the cafeteria, the bathroom and even the water fountain require planning with a class of five year-olds.
Ellis has enjoyed her time in second grade as well. “The students are more independent and they know the routine. They are still excited about school and are easier to communicate with. They are a pleasure to be with.”

What older kids remember most about kindergarten, according to Ellis, are the special days such as western day and the 100th day and mud pie day and field day. A favorite for many Vaughan students was the wedding day each winter when Mr. Q and Mrs. U got married.
“You just have to love kids to be a successful teacher,” explains Ellis. “You have to enjoy being with them; you have to care about their families and be willing to nurture their learning. It can be a challenge at times but it is so rewarding.”

“Teaching at any level requires a lot of energy and giving. Good teachers pour themselves into their work at school and at home. It’s all about creating great learning experiences for children.”
It’s also about knowing when to give a nod and a knowing smile to some nervous parents.
Best wishes to Mrs. Ellis and all of our Allen ISD family members who will be retiring at the end of this school year.

Remembering The Green Monster

For something so important in my life, it seems hard to believe. I don’t have a single photograph; I don’t know the year it was made or even how I acquired it. But I sure remember my Schwinn Typhoon bicycle.

The green monster as it came to be known was actually my third bicycle but it was the first one I bought with my own money. Using $50 I had received as a confirmation gift, I bought a used green Typhoon from some guy whose kid left for college. It was probably the first “big” purchase I’d ever made.

In car terms, the Schwinn Typhoon was more like a Pontiac while the Roadmaster was more like a Cadillac. Kids that had Tuffy bikes in the 60’s probably drove Plymouths later in life.
Anyway, my bike was a shiny green cruiser with wide chrome fenders, a headlight, fat tires and dual baskets in the rear.

I imagined delivering newspapers or carrying groceries in those big baskets like the kids in the commercials. Instead, they were usually full of baseballs, gloves and bats. Friends also found them useful for hitching rides straddling the rear fender with feet in the baskets.

I am not exaggerating when I say that the green monster changed my life. I could ride across town to visit friends and cruise the park for a pick up ball game. By seventh grade I was also cruising the park for a different reason but that’s a column for another day.

My friend Gary had a black version of the same bicycle and we would take road trips during the summer to exotic locations like Nutley and Montclair (NJ). Our favorite trip that was repeated often led to Garrett Mountain in Clifton. Including a stop at the candy store and a picnic lunch, it took most of the day to get there and back. We figured it was about 20 miles away but MapQuest says it is exactly 4.8 miles one way. The route must have gotten shorter since we were kids.

The green monster was no sports car but its wide tires and heavy frame made it a breeze to drive. It could be easily ridden with a basketball under one arm and even with no hands when necessary. The bike and I also survived a collision with a car (Don’t Tell Mom I Got Hit By a Car, 4-24-08). Luckily I wasn’t riding one of those modern Stingray models.

Somewhere around eighth grade, Gary and I stripped our bikes down to resemble dirt bikes which were just becoming popular. We pulled off the fenders and baskets and gave them new paint jobs. Our reward was a back full of mud every time it rained but at least they didn’t rattle as they rolled down the street.

With a driving age of 17, bicycles were an acceptable form of transportation through most of high school but the old Schwinn had become uncool. I bought a used English racer bike in 10th grade and retired the green monster.

According to Schwinn’s corporate history, over a million bicycles a year were being produced in the 1960’s but only one was called the green monster.