The red bricks of this abandoned one room school a few miles from my home stood in sharp contrast to the season’s first snowfall. Long since closed, this little red brick school once served as the incubator for future lawyers, farmers, housewives, teachers and business owners.
The outhouse on the right also played an important part in the school’s history. Right after World War II, the students gathered in the morning for class, but their usually prompt teacher wasn’t in the building. After several minutes, the oldest student, an eighth grader, went looking for the teacher, and found him sitting in the privy dead.
I always think of that story when I pass by the old Beechvale School. “Little red schoolhouse” is my Photo of the Week.
I’ve loved baseball since I was a kid. That’s a long time, never mind how long.
Baseball was in my DNA. I suppose my father’s love of the game, and that of my grandfather highly influenced me. Dad played baseball in high school. Grandpa Merle played in high school, college, and in summer leagues.
My big brother played sandlot baseball, too. Of course, I wanted to be just like him.
Youth was my golden era for baseball. I was young, innocent, impressionable, enthusiastic, looking for any diversion from either work or school. Baseball was it.
I started playing baseball when I was seven. The coaches put me at second base for very practical reasons. I was small and it was the shortest throw to first base.
As I grew, I played every position on the field. Catcher was my favorite. I could see the entire game unfold before me. Plus, it was the shortest walk to the bench after the inning was over.
When I wasn’t playing, I listened to games. I was in my glory when transistor radios came out. I could listen to the Indians late at night, when we were supposed to be sleeping. And I listened to them when grandpa took us fishing. I liked that kind of leisurely multitasking.
I enjoyed how Jimmy Dudley, then the Indians play-by-play announcer, called the game. He drew me in like I was really there, and several fish happily escaped my baseball daydreaming.
I always wanted to play third base for Cleveland. Ken Keltner, Al Rosen, and Bubba Phillips were my heroes. Max Alvis not so much. My all-time favorite Indian, Lou Klimchock, also played third on occasion, but his main position was second. Mostly, I just liked his name.
I knew baseball statistics. I collected baseball cards. I even chewed that stiff, hard, usually stale, flat piece of bubblegum inside every pack of Topps cards.
I watched what few games were broadcast on television, at first in black and white, and only later in color. Mostly I relied on the alluring voice of Dudley to keep me informed of every pitch.
Our family attended a game or two each year. They were too expensive and too far away. Expressways hadn’t been invented yet.
As I grew from adolescence into adulthood, I continued my love affair with the Indians. I tried to pass that on to my own children, but times have changed, and so have they, for the better of course.
My wife also knows the game well. We attend a few games each year. We hope against hope that the Indians will someday win the World Series.
With the San Francisco Giants recently winning the game’s championship, Major League Baseball is over for 2014. Like any good Cleveland Indians fan will tell you, there’s always next year.
When a friend learned that I was traveling across the border to the Niagara Falls region in Canada, she lightheartedly instructed me not to create any international incidents. She need not have worried.
My wife and I traversed a bridge over the churning Niagara River for peaceful purposes only. We had scheduled a reunion with some Ontario friends. The historic town of Niagara-on-the-Lake served as the point of rendezvous.
As it turned out, it was the ideal spot for our gathering, especially given the historical implications of the town and our connections with our acquaintances. We had known one couple, Ken and Ruth, for years. The other friends, neighbors to Ken and Ruth, we had met only last winter in Fernandina Beach, Florida of all places.
Neva and I immediately hit it off with them. Just like we did with Ken and Ruth, we shared common interests, and enjoyed each other’s company and conversation.
After touring the historic Niagara town and enjoying a lovely lunch, we sat on two benches, men on one, women on the other, just like three old couples would in a park. That’s probably because we were three old couples, and we were in a park.
Old, of course, is a relative term. We were all grandparents, but to hear us cackling on that glorious day, we more likely resembled teenagers. Life has those golden moments you know. When it does, you want to harvest their nurturing bounty.
Sitting under those giant shade trees, we laughed, inquired, listened, observed, and pondered what life had brought us, and would bring us still. It’s what good friends do no matter what nationality.
On the opposite shore stood historic Old Fort Niagara in Youngstown, New York. This particular location had been the scene of many battles since the 18th century. We had a clear view of the impressive fort, and heard muskets fired during a battle reenactment.
Multi-nationalities had claimed these lands and waterways over the centuries. Native Americans, French, English, and Americans had all fought for this once strategic military position.
Our weapon of choice was sarcasm. I blamed the cool, wet summer weather on imaginary Ontario icebergs. My friends returned volleys of witticisms of their own. No injuries resulted from the friendly bantering.
During any visit to the Niagara Falls region, the global attraction to this magnetic place is obvious. We encountered cultural dress, various native languages, and many ethnicities wherever we went.
When we asked a stranger with a Caribbean accent to take photographs of our group, he gladly obliged. I wasn’t surprised. He and his companions were enjoying the same fair weather, agreeable setting and pleasing vistas as us. It was the perfect recipe for an amicable afternoon reunion of international friends all around.
The only significant shots we fired were with our cameras.
I had just finished photographing some early evening scenes along the Lake Erie shore in Lakeside, Ohio, when I came upon this brilliant red barn right next to the Historic Lakeside Hotel. Its beauty stunned me. How the sun highlighted the barn’s red color and white trim also grabbed my attention. I loved how the green leaves of the tree limb intersected and nicely contrasted with the bright red. More than that, my wife and I have vacationed every summer at Lakeside Chautauqua since 1987, and I couldn’t recall ever seeing this barn.
I have thousands of photos from this beautiful gem of a town. The surprise of finding this barn, once seemingly hidden, but revealed by the combination of fresh paint and good timing made it my Photo of the Week.
I stood in the background with my camera capturing the unfolding, tender moments. I did so out of appreciation and gratitude for this gracious, gregarious family.
I had known Betty Findley and her late husband, Bud, for a long time. We lived just blocks away from one another when we were all much younger. Now here we were celebrating her 100th birthday in a different place and century.
Her son, Dave, shared a timeline of his mother’s life with the assembled friends and family. It was ironic that her birth came as World War I, the war to end all wars, began.
If ever there was a peaceable woman, it was Betty. She loved her family, community and church, and expressed that love in faithful graciousness. Betty was and is equally loved and respected in return.
There is a kernel of metaphoric truth in that innocent comparison. If you hit your 100th birthday, you most certainly are a giant. Not too many people live that long and get to see the world change the way Betty has.
In reality, age has a way of humbling you physically. Notwithstanding, Betty may not be a Goliath in stature, but she sure has been by nature. Her son tearfully ticked off her fruitful lifelong achievements.
Betty canned and baked and sewed, and was a favorite room mother in my elementary school days. She made the best heart-shaped sugar cookies a kid could conjure.
The morning of Betty’s birthday bash, I heard another shocking descriptor. The speaker at church called Paul Roth, another senior citizen friend, a rock star. Everyone in attendance chuckled, but nodded their heads in agreement. I think modest Paul enjoyed the flattering hyperbole, too.
The speaker said her two sons referred to him that way out of admiration and reverence. After all, he was the doctor who brought them into the world and treated them for childhood illnesses and bumps and bruises. It was most appropriate that this kind, humble country doctor be elevated to Mick Jagger status.
I concurred with that assessment. Dr. Roth, as he was most commonly addressed, had brought our daughter and son into the world as well. He treated patients of all ages kindly and compassionately, even making house calls. He usually charged less than he should have, too.
Our granddaughter’s literal pronouncement spoke volumes. Persons born early in the 20th Century have experienced major transformations in their lifetime, the wars, the Great Depression, the herculean jumps in communications and transportation, the advances in medicine, and so much more.
To honor these two titans is to also celebrate all other productive individuals of what Tom Brokaw has labeled “The Greatest Generation.” Their work ethic, devotion to family, friends, community and country set the solid foundation for society to advance, as it never had before.
I bet you know genuine giants and rock stars, too. Let’s celebrate their magnanimous contributions to the world while we can.
I made a very revealing, personal discovery today. The 2014 calendar is identical to the 1947 calendar.
I know that’s not earth-shattering news. But it was for me. And it all started with me taking a photo of a blooming catalpa tree yesterday. I remember a story my late father once told me, one I have written about before, and will never forget.
Whenever the catalpa trees bloom in northern Ohio, Father’s Day is near. I had never paid much attention to that until Dad related his moving story.
On Sunday afternoons, my mother’s parents took turns visiting their three married daughters, all whom lived in Canton, Ohio. But on Father’s Day in 1947, Grandma and Grandpa Frith went to each of their daughter’s homes to visit. While sitting on our my parents’ front porch, Dad eyed a blooming tree down the street, and asked my grandfather if he knew what kind of tree it was. Grandpa Frith told Dad that it was a catalpa tree. Some people refer to it as the cigar tree, in reference to the tree’s long, green fruit pods.
The next day Grandpa Frith went to a job site where he was working as an electrician. He had turned off the power to do his electrical repairs when someone came along and turned the power back on. Grandpa Frith was killed instantly.
In retrospect, Dad said Mom, Aunt Gerry and Aunt Vivian were ever so grateful for that last visit they had with their father. They even wondered if it wasn’t simply meant to be.
I was born that December, never having met my grandfather.
Knowing that this Sunday, June 15 is Father’s Day, the exact same day as 67 years ago, seeing that blooming catalpa tree had even more meaning for me than ever before.
Today is Ascension Day, the 40th day after the resurrection of Christ. For the Amish in the Holmes County, Ohio area, Ascension Day is a holiday. Families gather to reflect, visit, share, relax, and just enjoy each others company. Youngsters may go fishing, hiking, biking or play games like volleyball and softball.
Of all the holidays that the Amish celebrate, Ascension Day is the most informal, with no worship service or fasting. It simply is to honor the day that Christ ascended into heaven. Perhaps it’s a lesson from which all of us can learn.
I greatly enjoy the people I meet along life’s journey.
Many of the people I’ll encounter again I’m sure, if only by proximity to where I live or my relationship to them. Others I may never see again, but I’ll certainly remember their kindness and hospitality.
On our recent trip south, my wife and I met several people who graciously shared those two dynamic characteristics. I’d like you to meet just two of them.
Like much of North America, the winter in the southern United States this year has been hard. With the potential of slippery roads ahead, we decided to stop for the night at a motel in Richburg, South Carolina.
After checking in, we walked to a nearby no frills mom and pop restaurant. Only a few tables were occupied when my wife and I arrived. A kind lady draped with a stained apron and holding a wet washcloth invited us to sit wherever we wanted. We chose a table well away from the door where cold air rushed in at every opening.
The official forecast for that area projected black ice on roadways in the South Carolina Piedmont region, where Richburg is located. Hearing that, the restaurant manager had sent the young help home before dark since they were all inexperienced drivers.
A skeleton crew kept the restaurant open. The thinking was they wouldn’t get many evening customers. Most of the day had already been slow.
However, shortly after Neva and I sat down, several other people filed in and the restaurant was soon abuzz with hungry diners. The kind woman, who later introduced herself as Laura, welcomed everyone the same way she had us, with an apologetic invitation to find a seat.
“I’m so sorry,” Laura said in her soft, easy southern drawl. “We’re short staffed since we sent our young help home because of the weather. Please be patient with us.”
Bill, the volunteer greeter at the Rebault Club Inn.Laura was a stately woman in her 50s. She kept repeating the same thing to every new patron who arrived. She cleared, cleaned and waited on every table by herself. She sent the dinner orders to the kitchen and returned to check on every table. With each visit, she kept kindly apologizing.
Yet she and the kitchen staff seemed to work miracles. The food was not only served in a timely manner, it was as delightful as Laura’s hospitality. The baked chicken, black-eyed peas and grits were scrumptious. This woman defined both graciousness and efficiency. I hope all her tips were generous.
Then there was Bill, an octogenarian volunteer guide who greeted us at the door of an out-of-the way national historical site we discovered by accident in Florida. We easily struck up a conversation with Bill as he greeted us as we entered the Rebault Club Inn. Originally from the far southwestern hills of Virginia, we enjoyed hearing his personal story as much as we did touring the beautiful estate.
Bill’s eyes sparkled and his smile grew with each question I asked him. He had come to northern Florida to get away from the harsh winters of the Appalachian Mountains. He was glad he had.
Imagine my surprise when he told us that he had graduated with honors from Ohio University at age 68. When the dean announced his name, he received a standing ovation. Bill repeated the story like the audience was still applauding.
No matter our destination, it’s people like Laura and Bill who really make our travels memorable.
The lawn of the backyard of the Rebault Club Inn, where many weddings are held.
When it comes to winter weather, the younger generations now have something to brag about. They have finally experienced a good old-fashioned winter.
It’s been a long time coming, too. Sure, we’ve had bitter cold snaps, and heavy snows in the past few decades. But nothing has resembled the winters of my youth or those older then me for that matter.
The worst back-to-back winters that I can recall were those of 1976-77 and 1977-78. They were record breaking, unforgettable winters. Once we went from tornado warnings to blizzard warnings in a matter of minutes. Extreme cold followed the blizzard. Those storms brought wide-ranging effects with no exaggeration needed.
Amish children sled riding.We had 22 foot snow drifts behind our house. A front-end loader shoveled the snow out of our driveway. The driver of a semi-tractor trailer truck was buried for days in the cab of his truck. The tip of his radio antenna sticking out of the snow enabled rescuers to find him. Given today’s digital gizmos, do I need to explain what a radio antenna was?
The severe weather closed school for 17 days. Those of you who lived through those fateful winter storms have your own amazing stories.
Of course, I was a young man then, not a youngster. Youth tend to remember the upsides of harsh winters. They leave the negatives for the adults to unravel. I was no different.
When heavy snows hit and extended cold spells settled in when I was a kid, the outdoors was our playground. I’m sure mothers everywhere were grateful for that.
We would bundle up as best we could, layered with jackets, stocking caps, scarves and fur-lined gloves. Off we would go, sledding, ice skating, making snow angels and snowmen, snow forts, and firing volley after volley of snowballs. We never had to worry about running out of ammunition.
We played until we got too cold or too wet or both. We went home, and hung the soaked clothing as close to the furnace as possible where it was likely to dry the quickest. At school, kids’ clothing covered the old steam radiators until the next recess.
Heavy snow.
Winter’s beauty.
Snow play.
Snow angel.
Snowman.
Snowstorm.
All quiet.
Having fun.
Fun finish.
Snow farm.
Snow branches.
Winter sunset.
“Look out!”
Snowball fight.
Winter road.
Old-fashioned winter.
One-room school.
These memories weren’t from one-time storms either. This was the way winter went. It was extremely unusual if snow didn’t cover the ground for a majority of the winter.
This wasn’t true for just my youth. I remember seeing pictures and hearing stories from my parents and grandparents about how difficult their winters had persistently been. I recall seeing pictures of gangs of volunteers clearing the state route in Mt. Hope, Ohio by hand with shovels, not plows. The snow was piled well above their heads.
That hasn’t happened in recent years. In fact, records show that nine out of the last 10 years global records have been set for above average annual temperatures. That did not bode well for a sustained winter anywhere.
For a multitude of climatological reasons, that has all changed this winter. Storm after storm, often following similar tracks, have pelted most of North America, especially areas east of the Rocky Mountains.
Snowplows have worked overtime clearing the roads. Road salt has become a precious commodity.
This winter certainly has been a doozy. My guess is it will leave the kind of lasting impressions on the younger generations like it did for my generation and those previous.
There is one minor problem that I hate to even mention. Winter isn’t over yet. More memories may yet be made.
Amish buggies regularly use the Holmes Co. Trail, even in winter.
Yep, I did it again. Like previous years, I noted daily wacky news throughout this year. So much craziness ensued that I actually had a hard time picking which salaciousness merited mention.
I focused on human-interest stories that didn’t always make the headlines. I think you’ll agree that once again in 2013 truth was stranger than fiction.
Jan. 11 – An elderly man in Lincoln, Nebraska accidently drove his car through the plate glass windows of a pizzeria, and then ordered a pizza.
Feb. 12 – Undercover detectives defused a meth lab discovered in a porta-potty on a golf course near Purcell, Oklahoma.
Feb. 13 – The 52 year-old volunteer greeter at the Heart Attack Grill in Las Vegas died of a heart attack.
March 22 – China and Russia signed nine trade agreements, including one to raise rabbits.
April 16 – Chris Holmes, a noted cake baker in London, England, quit his full-time airport security job by writing his resignation on a cake.
May 3 – Schools in normally cloudy Bellingham, Washington closed for a “sun day” because the weather was unusually sunny.
June 4 – About 100 high school students and their chaperones were kicked off of an AirTran flight from New York City to Atlanta when some of the students refused to sit down and turn off their cell phones.
June 16 – Lonnie Whitener and his 13-year old son both made a hole-in-one on the same hole in the same round on Father’s Day at a golf course in Richmond, Texas.
July 18 – Shortly after being declared the champion of a beer-drinking contest by consuming six liters of brew in Spain, the winner became violently sick and died.
August 8 – A 21-year old Vicksburg, Mississippi man, who had been arrested by police, escaped handcuffed, and then was rescued from the Yazoo Canal as he tried to swim to freedom.
August 9 – An 82 year-old man and his 41 year-old son were found in the Vietnam jungle after fleeing their home 40 years earlier during the Vietnam War.
August 10 – A 73 year-old gun safety instructor in Lancaster, Ohio accidentally shot a student when the handgun he was demonstrating discharged a bullet.
September 17 – A 26 year-old Russian man was charged with shooting his companion over beers after they got into a fight about the deeper meaning of the works of German philosopher Immanuel Kant.
September 23 – A study showed that 49 percent of the Internet links cited since 1996 in 555 decisions by the U.S. Supreme Court didn’t work.
September 25 – A zoo in England banned visitors from wearing any kind of clothing that imitated animal print because it confused the zoo animals.
October 3 – A local bar owner found a treasure trove of Ron Santo memorabilia that the Chicago Cubs say was accidentally discarded in a dumpster.
October 10 – A German man’s marriage got off to a bad start when he drove for two hours after refueling his car, only to realize he had left his bride back at the gas station.
November 12 – A coyote joined the leaders running in the Arizona high school cross-country state championships for 50 meters before dropping out of the race.
December 2 – A stolen prosthetic hand and arm were recovered in a second hand shop in Bournemouth, England.
December 3 – Based on data from 600,000 phone calls, the research firm Marchex Institute found that people in Ohio swore more than any other state.
Roadkill Crossing 
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