Tag Archives: family

Postcards Of My Life #pcoml No. 12, Pedaling my ass.

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Growing up, I always had a bike. Even as the “fat kid,” in retrospect, I was in amazingly good shape. I would ride for miles on beater bikes and I guess my dad decided I needed a nice one when he did a job wiring a commercial building in Ravenna that a bike shop was moving into. (It has since been a gym, grocery store, thrift shop and I believe it is a martial arts studio now. It’s in Blackhorse, near the buy here car lot.) as part of the payment for the job he got me a brand new bike. I had never had a really nice bike, let alone a brand new one, and the Huffy BMX Pro Thunder he got me was the most amazing bike to me. Bright yellow, blue tires (!!!) with proper pads in the proper places. It was this:

Many of the better off financially kids were quick to point out that it wasn’t a “proper” bmx bike like their Mongoose’s and other models, it had a coaster brake and no front brake and was too heavy for proper bmx riding. Did I mention that I was the fat kid? I had little interest in bmx, but absolutely loved the mobility and freedom my bikes afforded me. I would ride 5 miles around town or to Ravenna, or anywhere I wanted, often leaving in the morning and not returning until late in the day. No cell phone, no beeper, just told my parents where I was going, grabbed a couple of bucks for lunch and drinks and was on my way. Did you know that in the 80’s almost everywhere had a water fountain? That deputy sheriff’s would stop for a second to say hi and make sure your folks knew you were 10 miles from home and take your word that you were good on all counts? The freedom of the bicycle, and to be a free kid, was amazing. I never gave much thought to what that bike cost… In my 40’s now, I appreciate the cost of it to my father in having worked to get it… And though he’s gone some 7 years now, I hope he realized that he got his full value out of it as well as a huge return on his investment.

Postcards Of My Life #pcoml No. 4. The house with our initial in the chimney.

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My mother and father were neighborhood kids. My mother’s family lived about a mile down the hill on Rte 213 from my dad’s parents’ house. I didn’t spend nearly the time in my paternal grandparents home as the other, sometime around 1979 or 1980 they sold it and moved permanently to Texas. A couple of things that I remember about it are that it had the letter “H” molded into the chimney. I remember my grandpa had a leather Lazy Boy. I remember my grandmother making us breakfast of saltines with sugar and milk like cereal.

And I remember the wall at the foot of the stairs to the basement. The wall was murderous. It was textured in this brutally sharp texture that you couldn’t touch without getting cut and I remember it would keep you from running down those stairs for fear of touching it. The sample photo isn’t even remotely how sharp it was. That wall had the blood of every person who was ever in the house in it. I am fairly certain that grandma was a witch.

Postcards Of My Life #pcoml No. 3. Lucky Lindy.

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While it would probably have made sense to post this yesterday, on the anniversary of Charles Lindbergh crossing the Atlantic, I already had another post in mind for yesterday.

This photo, along with the newspaper article about the flight, was on my grandmother’s kitchen bulletin board. I have no idea why, to the best of my knowledge neither of my grandparents ever flew in an airplane, let alone had any interest in aviation history. I remember the article was titled “Lucky Lindy.”

My grandparents’ home was filled with small, but important, mementos… A little flower pot on the windowsill that said “Be happy, be gay for tomorrow’s another day,” a butter paddle that was used for spanking with a cartoon laminated to it, a collectable plate with a story about rooster not visiting a hen as often as as he used to… As well as photos of us all and of horses and of my aunt Nancy, who died before I was born.

As I write these little posts I can almost feel neurons shaking off mental dust and making old connections, even if poorly. Hopefully this endeavor will correct some of the losses from brain damage, aging, or both.

Postcards Of My Life #pcoml No. 1. Cooking in the trailer kitchen. 1975ish.

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I have recently come to the realization that I do not have the huge network of connected memories that most people seem to. Different events and experiences in my life have resulted in my memories being fragmented, short and almost like, well, postcards. I know there was much more to my life, #pcoml will be an attempt to document the memories I have left, even if only briefly.

One of my earliest memories is from around 1975-1976. My family lived in a house trailer that was a caretakers home at a park and baseball field on Sixteen Ridge in Richmond, Ohio. I do not remember specifics like what was being cooked, time of the year, or honestly, even if it was my mom or father I was helping. I just remembered standing on a chair helping cook in the kitchen. I have very few even of my “postcards” from life in the trailer in Richmond.

Bob the Bureaucrat Goes To War

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by Jerod J Husvar on Monday, March 28, 2011 at 7:17am ·

I know this guy, let’s call him Bob, and he’s a bureaucrat…  Sits in a comfy government office all day, working on paperwork and dealing with members of the public, many of whom probably hate him for being what he is, by day.  See, the thing is, Bob got his “cushy government job” by having the experience of leadership in the US Military.  It’s easier to work for the government when you already are used to it, and they look for people who used to be military because, well, they’re damned good workers.

 

Bob isn’t all that intimidating to look at… He’s fit, and he keeps himself in shape, to the point that a lot of people who don’t know about his second job probably think he’s some kind of fitness nut.  All the time he’s jogging, or working out, and watches his diet and stays trim and lean.  Because, you see, that’s what the US Military still requires of him.  After many years of active duty, and then a stint in the civilian world, Bob decided to join the reserves to make a difference.  It was a place he understood, and with his degree he got as a civilian, he was officer material when he decided to go back.  You’d never guess that Bob is a very special beast… A Direct Commissioned Officer…  It takes the recommendation of a Congressperson to make it happen… Civilians who have special skills that are critical to sustaining military operations, supporting troops, health and scientific study may receive what are called “direct commissions.” These officers usually occupy leadership positions in the following areas: law, science, medicine, pharmacy, dentistry, nurse corps, intelligence, supply-logistics-transportation, engineering, public affairs, chaplain corps, oceanography, merchant marine affairs, and others.  Bob does so, and is damned proud of it.

 

What Bob does is so important that every person in the his Reserve unit will or has gone to war.  Iraq, Afghanistan, the Sand Box…  And Bob is no different.  He’s about to go over to the other side of the world, into the midst of a war zone, to, well, do his job.  And he’s chomping at the bit to go.  It’s what he’s trained for, it’s what he’s good at, it’s what he loves to do.  He does not go without reservations…  Most of the people who know him aren’t even being told he’s leaving…  You see, feral dogs go after the families that people like Bob leave behind…  The wives, the kids, the families who stay at home, and pray, and are proud of the job men and women like Bob are doing.  They sit for entire deployments praying not to receive a certified letter, or a sedan full of military officers and their family preacher, or to get a call that the man or woman they love has been wounded and is being airlifted out.  And those dogs have sharp teeth, but there are friends and family and loved ones who do their best to keep the family safe so that Bob does not have to worry while he’s half a world away with people all around who just don’t like him because of who he works for, and enforce it with bullets and bombs and other nastiness.

 

Men like Bob are the truest form of patriot.  Bob doesn’t even much care for the current administration, but he doesn’t let that stop him.  These people love what our country represents so much that they are willing to put their butts on the line to keep it intact.  I am damned proud to have known Bob most of our lives, and damned proud to say that I’ll be keeping an eye out for the feral dogs for him.  And I will pray for his safe return every day, so that other people will have the honor of knowing him.  Bob, every person I have known personally who went to war has come home, and I expect you to do the same.  Preferably intact!   Though I can’t name your name, you are appreciated and loved and will be in my prayers every night.  Thank you for what you are about to do.  Most people don’t give a damn, but I do. Good Hunting.