Mike

REFLECTIONS FROM #2 - MIKE

Joanie and Red

In reality, the memories often fairly intelligent children would be more than enough to fill a book entitled "Joanie & Red." Who knows, maybe this exercise in writing and recollection will take us to that end. Whatever the end result, any story, fact or fiction has a beginning.  This one begins with Joanie & Red. They were born in Auburn, NY raised and schooled there, married there and raised the children in that same (the largest) city on the Finger Lakes. Red died there and eventually Joanie will too.

 Theirs is a special relationship and this is a special story. However, I would bet my bottom dollar it is not unique. I can easily catalog a number of other similar families in that same city.

Joan Ann Crawford was born 6/27/30. She was the youngest in a family of six although her brother John James died at the age of two in1923. To me she was "Mom." Not "Mother", not "Ma", not "Mamma". I don't know why. That is just the way it was for me. Her father, "Grandpa John" to me, was a guard at Auburn State Prison. That prison remains one of the most significant sources of employment in Auburn. Her mother Teresa was quite the homemaker but she died in 1950- three years before my time. Grandpa John married Hannah in 1952; she was always "Hannah" to us kids.

Paul James Ringwood-I always just called him "Dad", was born on 9/30/29. His father, Leo Ringwood, was from a group of builders and athletes. His mother, Bernardine Boyle was part of an Auburn Irish family. Her older brother, a well-respected local attorney (Eddie Boyle) once served as the mayor of Auburn. Leo worked at City Hall, Bernie sold fur jackets and coats at Kalet's on State Street. We all referred to them as "Bernie & Leo". Go figure.

Joanie & Red met in high school, went steady but for a few break-ups, and attended the senior prom together. I mention this with pride, given that my wife Marilyn Bratek and I somehow found and followed that same course, high school  senior  prom  sweethearts.  Like me, my parents managed to stay together as a couple despite attending different colleges. They were married the day after Christmas 1951.

 As I think back through the life of my parents and, of course, my own formative years, it is rather remarkable to see how much history at national and international levels weaned its way through the lives of this brood often. The Korean War, Cold War, Berlin Wall, Kennedy election and assassination, Martin Luther King, Civil Rights Movement, the 60 's, Woodstock, The Space Program, landing on the moon, Vietnam, Draft Dodgers, Flag Burnings, Kent State, Campus Unrest, Nixon, Watergate. My reflections always leave me with a sense of wonder that two young adults could guide ten boys & girls through those significant times.  Somehow, they were able to do so.  I know that I never would have been able to do the same. I shudder at the thought.

My Dad was an only child. I suspect he was a bit spoiled like solo children tend to be. On the other hand, to my knowledge, Bernie, Leo, and my father never had a house of their own. They lived well, but in apartments. My Dad had red hair thus the handle. For the life of me I cannot ever recall a time when any of his adult friends referred to him by his first name. Not even my mother. It was always "Red" or "Redhead". As silly as it might sound my memory won't take me back far enough to see that color on his head I remember real red hair on my baby brother Bobby but not my Dad. It had obviously calmed down a bit during my early years and had softened to a yellower sheen, as I became a young adult.

Red was very popular in high school. While he may not have been a straight "A" student, he was well read and very well spoken. In all likelihood, I did not appreciate this until I had married, the summer after my college graduation. It was only during that era of my life that he and I would discuss such matters as jobs, finances, cars, insurance, and all of those other business necessities of life. The major topics of conversation prior to that time involved sports, sports, and sports.

My Dad was quite an athlete. Standing next to him on the golf course months before his untimely death in 1978 you would never suspect such a past. He was a small man and a skinny kid. Of course, today high school kids seem all to be 6'2" and sport size twelve feet. I don't believe that was the case back in the 40' s. In many ways-size included-my Dad and I are quite the same. All that aside, Red was a three-star letterman in baseball, football, and basketball at Auburn High School. He quarterbacked his football team senior year to an undefeated season. A farm team connected to the Boston Red Sox took a look at him. A trophy in his name is awarded annually at Auburn High School to a deserving student athlete.

The bulk, if not all of these facts arise from a medley of sources, those times when my parents and their friends would gather for parties and speak of athletic exploits from the good old days. I would listen intently. Many other details merged into my head as my brother Tom and I would regularly scan through his high school yearbook, scrap book, and newspaper clippings.

Back at that time in our home there were many framed black & white team photos, or photos of the "'starting five" or "the offensive line" ail in three point stances with the backfield behind them. No helmets. Serious young men in shiny clean uniforms wearing high top sneaks or football cleats. There was my Dad, among all those other young men. For years I kept most of those photos and many of the actual varsity letters in my bedroom. They were the major decoration feature. Now I wonder what happened to all of  this memorabilia. Likely beat up, if not destroyed or lost as they passed through the hands of seven typical tough and tumble brothers. In my law office, I continue to keep a black & white 5x7 showing my Dad in uniform (no helmet) positioned to throw a pass. On occasion, much younger staff or law colleagues will gaze at the photo and inquire if it is a photo of me. To my mind, then and now, I never looked much like my Dad. On the other hand, most everyone claims that you can spot a "Ringwood boy" anywhere. I don't dwell long on that thought. I am much more perturbed that they think I date back so far in life.

It's funny. As substantial and complete an athlete that my father was- and I doubt it not for a moment-I never saw him actually compete athletically except on the golf course. He coached my first year of pony league baseball and the Holy Family 8thgrade basketball team when I was off to my first year of high school.  That was it.  We'd play catch in the yard. He would keep an eye on the World Series and Super Bowls that were recreated in our large side yard. He would goof a bit with us as we played basketball off that large white backboard on the garage.

I am certain that he tried to stay with it after marriage but there did not exist time or opportunity. I do have a glimpse of a memory-vivid but brief-of my Dad playing uniformed softball under the lights at the Y-Field playground. This was a substantial playground just down from our first house on Steele Street.  At the far end, there was a pretty green two-story structure. We called it the "clubhouse". This structure overlooked two baseball/softball fields. In the summers, there were fast pitch softball games, I understand it was very high quality.  The players were fully uniformed in local business sponsored attire. I must admit zero memory of my Dad actually on the field engaged in play-but he must have been. What I can see clear as a bell today is the team with my Dad in front charging down from the clubhouse under those bright night-lights.  I was cheering him on while simultaneously shoving popcorn down my mouth.

Dad went off to and graduated from Assumption College in Windsor, Ontario, although there was a brief year of matriculation at Syracuse University (a short ride to Le Moyne). Mom went off to and graduated from Le Moyne College. My Dad enlisted in the Marines. He was in uniform on 12/26/1951 when they married at St. Mary's Church. From the few days of honeymooning in NYC, they traveled south to Camp Le Jeune where Dad completed officer training school. My big sister Nancy had the unique status among the ten of being born other than in Auburn, NY. She arrived to the world on 10/5/52. His service obligation completed, Joanie & Red migrated back to Auburn. He took a sales position with Red Star Express lines and stayed there till he died. My mother stayed at home. It quickly filled with kids.

Joanie was the youngest in her family-everyone's little girl. Shame on me for knowing so little of her life before she went off to Le Moyne College in Syracuse (alma mater of my younger brother David). My excuse, which seems so feeble today in an era when gender distinctions is and should be anathema, is to blame it on that very vice. As a young boy and a young man, the boys had sports, yard work, and opportunity. The girls had cheer leading, housework, and motherhood. From current perspective, it makes me shudder. Back to Joanie.  She was a good looker, with long dark hair. In high school, photos certainly suggest that lipstick-laden lips were a fashion priority.

Recall by my mother, of her younger years suggests a quality life with very little money. I'm told that my mother had the most beautiful clothes. Virtually all of them made by her mother Teresa. They all lived in a pretty little white house on Augustus Street. It was and is a house driven by often. Never have I been inside. I am told that my mother had the most beautiful child's walk-in playhouse in their backyard. On the other hand, I will never forget her poignant recall of begging her own Mom for five cents in order to purchase a soda. She pestered her mother until she was taken aside and quietly told by her mother, "I don't have a nickel".  The memoir will forever raise that lump in my throat.

My Mom was a cheerleader. She was a good student. She acted in the school plays. She worked at some of the local retail stores. As a little girl, she traveled to Philadelphia and visited her older sisters. Her strengths were (and are) many but were not fully realized or appreciated by her children until we became adults and watched her deal with life after Dad.

Mom remains in my minds memory with her ruby red lips, cigarette in hand, looking rather glamorous. Mom is vacuuming the house with a child hugging her leg and standing on her foot. Mom is walking with me from Steel Street to downtown Auburn.  Just the two of us for some shopping. I became the owner of a toy snake that day. My Mom is taking me somewhere during the winter on a bus. I have no recall of our destination or its purpose. We had to transfer. The snow was blowing. I think Nancy was with us. We sat in the back. I felt safe. I was safe. My Mom frosted her hair, tried to play golf, drove us everywhere. She dressed for fancy dinners with Dad. We made a fuss.

Mom was there at Mercy Hospital when my elbow was fractured in football practice. We talked about my first Latin test. She urged Latin. Mom was there with me while I was hospitalized in Syracuse for ear trouble. She took a bus into Syracuse. She sat with me all afternoon. She called a family acquaintance to secure a ride home. From my 3rd floor hospital room I watched outside as my mother waited in the blowing snow for her ride.  She made me feel safe. She made me safe. I wanted to protect her. I did not yet know she had more than sufficient strength to protect herself.

Mom ran this family with power and love from the moment Red left this earth. We owe her everything (or at least a lengthy chapter of her own).

THE KIDS

Nancy, Mike, Patty, Tom, Jack, Teresa, Paul, Dave, Pete, and Bob, I can say those names in three seconds. I think we all can. It just rolls off our lips, the product of answering over and over, the "what are their names" questions, always posed when an acquaintance would hear that I had nine brothers and sisters.

Big families. They were not unusual in Auburn, NY.  It was always busy, boisterous and there seemed to be a never-ending din of conversation. Over time- not too much- that din would rumble up into a crescendo until my Dad would interrupt with a rap of his college ring or a sharp word. Silence. Then we would start again.

Nancy was number one. She got it started. The oldest. The oldest daughter. She was born too early for her personality. She was a tomboy- an athlete. Unfortunately, her options were quite limited-cheerleading, summer golf, and gym class.  In our large side-yard she was much better. She played baseball, football, kickball, tetherball, everything. To this day and every one that will follow, I will enjoy vivid recall, accompanied by a smile of my own, of Nancy prancing out of our house wearing my little league baseball uniform. Without realizing it, she was looking for the options in life, all of which became available to her own daughter Kelly.

Nancy worked her way through Holy Family Grade School. Hers             was the very last high school graduating class from Mount Carmel.    From there she disappeared down to St. Francis College in the beautiful mountains of PA. From time to time I pull the video protected super eight movies taken by Mom & Dad when they delivered their first little baby off to college. There they were--Nancy in her pleated skirt (grey I believe) and knee socks looking all of her 17 years, my Mom looking too young to have a child in college, likely flooded with memories of her years at Le Moyne College in Syracuse, NY, and by Dad clad in salesman suit, everyone's friend and clowning as always for the camera. Dad would die eight years later but within that short blink of time my big sister found her husband Sam, and delivered the first grandchild–little Kelly.

Nancy went on to and through many adventures. They made their way back to Auburn.  A son- Patrick was born. Kelly went on to graduate from Clarkson University. Patrick graduated from the University of New Haven. Nancy is a bank manager in town. She and Sam are golfers.

I will leave my own stories of growing up in this wonderful family to weave their way through the remainder of this book. This takes me to Patricia (Patty). She's number three. Patty was our artist/we are alike in that way. She was theatrical. She danced. She had (has) beautiful blonde hair. For all of those years when we were young Patty was all girl. It makes me laugh with wonder to know the contrast between those days and the more current sight of Patty running the Olympic flame in Rochester and playing adult volleyball. Patty became athletic.

She too worked her way through Holy Family. At Mount Carmel, she was popular. She was a cheerleader. The high school closed its doors on the entire Auburn community when Patty completed her sophomore year. Together we trotted over to the brand new Auburn Comprehensive High School to finish our four-year stint. I wonder if she enjoyed it. Cheerleading wasn't in the cards for her. I think it hurt. A flood alert essentially canceled her high school graduation ceremony. One the other had her talents as an artist flourished to the extent that she found herself at Nazareth College in Rochester, NY an Art History major. She never returned from the Rochester area and that upstate NY community collided nicely with her to the extent that David became her husband; Sheridan became her last name; Matt, Josh, Ben & Nathan became her sons; Sarah became her daughter; Patty collected her Master’s Degree and Patty became an Art Teacher.

My brother Tom (Kareem) arrives at number four. The world would be a much better place were they all to meet and know Tom. He is a very sensitive man. He always was. He is a friendly person and can engage meaningfully with everyone. He always could. Tom is a salesman-as good as they come.

Tom tagged around quite a bit with me. I fear that I did not treat him all too well. He always kept coming back.

Tom carved out his own interest. He loved to fish and play basketball. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar (originally known to us---and the world-as Lew Alcindor) was his idol; thus, the nickname. Tom collected a huge collection of Kareem items, even the "sky hook." I cannot comprehend via math the time spent outside in our driveway playing many various formats of basketball. There was Tom, moving right launching that hook from the corner. Swish. Time for dinner.

Opportunity on the high school basketball courts seemed not to play out fairly for Tom. He talked it over with Dad and walked away. From there he moved his way west to Canisius College. Degree in hand, he turned his attention to sales work in the transportation field.

Tom lives in Skaneateles, NY and works as the best of salesmen for New England Motor Freight. With his wife, Marguerite and children, Tom Jr., Erin & Mark they've made a wonderful life. Tom is that one son who likely thinks of Red every day and models his life after Red as much as possible.      ·

John Leo Ringwood, “Jack”, arrives as number five. He was born 8/1. From arrival, up to this very date, Jack has had the shocking blonde hair. When those in the know think of Jack, I'd bet their two words to describe him would likely smart, swimmer. In large families, there is a tendency to connect up with the brother or sister near your age. From the top it was Nancy, Mike and Patty. Tom and Jack were connected as the next group in line.

Jack had some challenges as a little boy, glasses when young after patching for a lazy eye, crutches for a stint due to a leg ailment.  Actually, it was an infection, dangerously misread as a fracture but fortunately corrected. He made his way past it all and like the rest of the brood, headed off to Holy Family Grade School to start making his mark. Did I say Jack was smart? He was without fanfare, without ceremony. He was just plain smart. While I would sulk home mentally experimenting with excuses to explain why my name was nowhere near the coveted "honor roll", Jack was a lifetime honor roll member. I suggest this explains his choice of Georgetown over Notre Dame, his MBA from the Wharton School and his current CEO position with a privately help group of companies operating out of Philadelphia, PA.

Jack has been steady through life. Such is the personality of swimmers. They do lap after lap. They holler loads of support for teammates from pool side. They have wind to spare. Jack's life begins and ends each day in Haddonfield, NJ where he lives with wife Ceecy and three sons, Ned, David, and Ben. Interestingly enough, his boys are the baseball players. This was not the sport of their Dad, although he tried. My late father-in-law, Andrew Bratek, coached Jack's pony league team. He simultaneously shuddered and laughed recalling Jack at third base with glove extended in an attempt to catch the throw in from center field. The ball, moving at great velocity, whizzes by Jack's head. Dam lazy eye.

Teresa is next in line. Six out of ten. A beautiful little girl, striking teenager, and stunning woman. Her niche was different that those before her. She forged many connections within this family of other boys and girls. Although she did not know it in those early years, nor did we, Teresa was going to be the last daughter. In one setting, the three girls were a group.  During the years on Steel Street, in our first house, the three girls shared a single room upstairs at the back of the house, across the hall from our single bathroom. There were also the Patty & Teresa years at our next address- 124 Owasco St. They were roommates and no doubt Teresa was substantially influenced by her older sister in that setting. Additionally, Teresa and Jack became confidants, a relationship I suspect continues to this very day. On a personal recall, I'd like to believe my little sister & I have always shared a similar bond of comfort.

Strong, dedicated, and successful like her two sisters, in the face of many challenges, little Teresa moved on from Auburn High School, where I am told she did not have such a great time, did two years at Cayuga Community College (now very interesting by hindsight); finished her degree at Nazareth College in Rochester (just like her big sister Patty) and then met Bill.

With Bill, her life has been a very interesting set of local moves be it homes and/or jobs.  In part, having seen my wife do so, little Teresa (now a woman), went out and secured her Masters in Information Studies. She and Bill find themselves settled nicely back in Auburn, NY. They live in the house purchased from my brother & sister-in-law.  Teresa has developed and runs a remarkably well received tutoring program and Cayuga Community College where she is a faculty member. With them are their four children-Emily, Andrew, Maggie and Kevin.

Next on the Ringwood top ten is brother Paul Jr. He takes great pride that he carries his father's name. He has seen fit to share it with his oldest son.

Paul is the world's best friend, the world's best buddy, and the world's best talker. His life unfolds in vivid colors to anyone nearby to see. As a youngster, his contact was his brother next in line--David. For years there was very little distinction between the two. It was "Paul & Dave". For so long they were roommates, teammates, walk home from school mates. They fought with each other. They fought for each other.

Paul brought me so many memories I suspect a book or at least a chapter, solely devoted to the same, would be easy to fill. Hopefully later entries will reveal many of those events.

 Paul(swam)-like his big brother Jack. He worked at Friendly’s to have cash in his pocket.  Jack & David worked at Auburn Golf &  Country Club.  Jack was their leader.

Paul rammed his way through CCCC and then carried out his business degree at St Bonaventure College in Olean, NY. Everyone remembers Paul and he them.

Consider this. It's typical of Paul. The scene is Ireland, 2000, the Ring of Kerry Golf Club. Paul and I are there with six other guys having too much fun golfing. It is our first day of rain. We are gearing up to head out on the course. A group pull in off the course and Paul is heard to say-"Hey,how are you." Sure enough, they were students at St. Bonaventure together, yet you'd think they had been in daily contact since graduation. Not so. They had neither seen each other not had they spoken in all those years. Such is Paul.

After a few start-up jobs, each of which were going to make him a millionaire, he made his way back to Auburn and now lives there with wife Maryellen (Sargent)-an Auburn girl, and their three boys-Paul III, Mitchell, and Ryan.

David Crawford Ringwood is next in line. Number eight. I spent very little time with David when he was young. He was too far down the line in age. So what could I possibly remember? The only way to do so is to work back from the present, a technique I'll need as well with Peter and Bob.

David and his wife Mary (Babiarz ... also from Auburn) is a teacher by profession, practice and education. He always will be. Currently he is responsible for the entire student teacher placement program at his alma mater – Le Moyne College. Prior to that he taught social studies for many years at Corcoran High School in Syracuse, NY. To gauge the quality of a teacher, one must take the course.  None of us have.  None of us will. Then why do we all believe with absolute certainty that David is a fabulous teacher. Surely this family cheering section might well be characterized as prejudiced. Some might say "severely prejudiced". Look to the local newspapers annual high school graduation details. For all the years I recall during David's tenure at Corcoran, he was regularly listed as the favorite or most memorable teacher (even though he was referred to as "Mr.  Ringwood"). In addition, my oldest daughter - Molly - was allowed to sit in at "Mr.

Ringwood's" Social Studies Regents review class Saturday mornings. Without any prompting, she came out of her first session and announced to me "Uncle David is the best teacher I ever had". The classroom yearns for David. I hope he gets back there sooner rather than later.

David is a father of three. Two boys (John and Will). One little girl (Emma). Likely due to our geographical proximity these five Ringwoods have allowed me into their family. I've enjoyed each and every moment and expect there will be many more. It reminds me of the joys, wonders and challenges when I was a young father. My misfiring senses tell me that David and Mary's three children have been around forever yet they are still so young. If I could have my way I'd keep this family of five, young forever.

David is an athlete, a ridiculous Green Bay Packers fan, a reader, a golfer, a snappy dresser, and a good-looking guy. It all seemed to come so naturally (not easily) to him. I view him as "a natural". I've always felt that his "looks" were slightly different than the repeating face of "Ringwood boys". He enjoys an emphasis of Joanie genes.

David moved through grade school and high school without Dad. I was nowhere to be found in his life during those years due to college, my marriage and law school. In that important interval of time a strong bond developed between David and my numerous younger brothers. Together they challenged each other and they protected each other. I listen to their mutual memories with wonder and jealousy.

He is my golfing comrade going back many years. I love his golf swing. I love trying to beat him on the golf course. I loving playing team golf with him and I've never had anything but informative, substantive conversations with him as we travel to and from our many rounds of golf together.

David is "a natural" and if you look closely, you'll see it in every picture where he is present. While the rest of us are doing our best to strike a pose, his display is anything but a pose. The tilt of the head, the easy smile, the comfort in his body and his clothes - a natural.

Peter Ringwood falls in line at number nine. As with my other younger siblings I am sorely lacking in personal, unique historical data about Peter. I am forced to defer to those other younger brother and sisters in order to paint his portrait. For example, I always knew Peter was a wonderful and powerful baseball player. On one occasion many years ago, I drove Mom to see Peter play an all-star game in New Hartford, NY.  How good he was as a pitcher was not fully appreciated by me until I read Bobby' s recall of the "snowball incident" on the paper route.  Peter married Julie. They have two children, Hannah and Hunter-cute as buttons-and live in PA. I've been to their lovely home and hope to visit again soon.

Peter was smart. He received his undergraduate degree from Clarkson University and an MBA from Clemson. His professional career, initially with Cooper Industries, took him to numerous locations on the East Coast. One such location was close enough to Augusta, GA such that it prompted a memorable road trip (with brother Robert) to see "The Masters". He now works with a privately-owned manufacturing company in PA.

Peter is tall.  I don't hold it against him anymore that I do so against my other taller brothers. My wife Marilyn and I remember him best as just a little boy. He and Bobby were kept close to Mom and Dad at my rehearsal dinner and wedding. He and Bobby would visit at my apartment for overnights. He allowed me to play with his "hot wheel" cars. He would show me the new T.V. video game and teach me how to play. My fondest visual of Peter is that cute little angelic looking boy walking amongst the adults outside of Skaneateles Country Club. Nancy and Sam - just married, have driven off.

The guests are all outside around and about the circular drive which surrounds the practice putting green. Peter is happily picking up the just tossed rice and confetti, making it airborne once again. I blink and he is a man.

 Robert Ringwood…Robert…Bob...Bobby…baby brother Bob. He is the youngest, the last one. His position is unique and therefore, I suspect we all enjoy our own special bond with our little red-haired brother. It took time for his legs and feet to grow and develop correctly. He made it. It took time for his speech to dev lop properly. I remember well his slurred "S". He made it. His hair was curly and red, his skin pure white. The girls worked hard to keep that hair long and curly cute. Despite that he made it. In the summer, we tied him to a tree so he would be safe when outside and in the summer, we squeezed him into a skin tight bright, red, speedo like bathing suit. Despite that he made it. All he wanted to do at picnics on Skaneateles Lake was be pushed on the big kid swing set. I obliged, yet urged him to "jump" when the swing reached its apex. He complied. Not unlike his sister Patty on the Y-field swing set, I watched Bobby go airborne, arms and legs flailing. He landed hard and oddly. All bones should have snapped. They did not. He jumped up and ran back to the picnic - a few tears shed. He made it again.

There he is, a little boy wandering in our backyard one winter wearing Mom's famous blue one piece knitted snowsuit. Barely able to move arms or legs it was "A Christmas Story" before it's time. That day the older boys (not me) are roaring around the back of the house in a snowmobile Dad won in a raffle. We have no experience or training on a snowmobile. I'm frozen in fear, certain he is about to be run over. They miss. Bobby makes it again.

In that same blue snowsuit we are all tobogganing on hole #2 at Owasco Country Club. Marilyn is with us. I am driving the station wagon. I'll bet we have 8-10 in our group. To get there we need to locate the wooden bridges in order to cross the creek of water passing the golf hole. The water and the bridges are covered with snow. We locate a bridge, cross without incident, and sled into that recognizable state of outdoor fatigue.  Returning to the car I look up. Ahead of me by ten feet I see Bobby - the blue snowsuit. He is on the bridge. He is alone. He is looking down at the smooth snow off to its side. In a nano second God whispered in my ear, "he's going to step off the side of the bridge and will crack through into cold, fast moving water". I run. It's not easy in the snow. Bobby hops off the side of that wooden bridge. My right hand grabs his right shoulder. At that very moment, his little body plunges waist down in the water. Its dark water. Its swift current running under the bridge can be heard and now seen. Bobby's little white face and blue eyes are looking at me. The current pulls his legs under the bridge. I yank him back on the bridge. Bobby is smiling. My heart is thumping. He made it again (we all went to MacDonald's for burgers and fries).

With the help of Mom and Peter and probably some of his other brothers, he made it through grade school, high school and Cayuga County Community College. From there he made it on his own. BA from SUNY Albany, Masters from University of Wisconsin - Madison, Lobbyist/representative for the New York State Teachers Union, husband to Jen (he lucked out there), father to Colin (he really lucked out there).

59 STEEL STREET

This is our original neighborhood. Like all good neighborhoods, it was more than a house. It was more than home. It was a backyard and all those adjoining back yards on the block, none obstructed by fences. Its beginning was move in day. At that time, the family was barely underway consisting of Joanie, Red, Nancy, Michael & Patty. Its epilogue was earmarked by a fabulous neighborhood party hosted by the Donovans. The Mohan family, who purchased our Steel Street home, were invited. I spent the better part of that party- at age 10 - in the Donovan basement, dancing with Joanne Mohan (one year my senior).

Sandwiched between those two events were, the house, the Y-field, the neighbors, Doan’s Grocery, Mattie Street Dairy Store; safe and comfortable, nothing ostentatious, almost no garages, tree lined streets, sidewalks - some made from slabs of slate, others with poured concrete with the imprint of the paver placed while still setting; this was our first real home. We learned every crack or hole on sidewalk or in street to avoid when walking or riding bikes.

Most of the homes (including ours) were two-story, single family, wooden structures with full attics, full basements and front porches. Picture the scene. It was ours back in the S0's and 60's. Dad would pull into the paved driveway adjacent to our house, driving our only car - the company car available to him in his capacity as a young salesman employed by Red Star Express Lines. The car I recall best was a beauty - a light blue four door Chevy with sleek curved rear wings. Had there been a second vehicle available- for the most part an unheard luxury in this neighborhood- it would have gone unused for many years. Mom had no license until year later. Were this a typical summer day, there would have been activity on the porch and in the back yard. Quite possibly the original kiddie pool would have been out, on and at the far end of the driveway. I remember the pool fondly. My belly remembers it painfully. The contraption was a simple but sturdy steel framed rectangle draped with some type of dark green rubberized vinyl. It could not have been more than ten inches deep once filled by the garden hose. There it stood, resting on a bare asphalt driveway. I can vividly recall actually diving - belly smackers - into that pool, over and over again, my belly slapping down on that vinyl draped square of asphalt. There are pictures!

Were I to return today (and I should) I'm certain the yard is a modest affair. To the eyes of this little boy it was huge. There was a huge tree, likely a maple just past and to the right of the driveway. It was full of squirrels and birds. The picnic table and charcoal grill were always nearby, always shaded so nicely by the tree. As vivid memories go, the great tree provides one or two or three.

One was an initial visit by the Katz family. Nancy Katz -  Aunt TT to us kids - was Joanie's big sister. She, her husband Sam and their children, Ruth and David, lived in Atlantic City, NJ, another locale which would provide for some special vacations. David Katz was reasonably close to me in age so naturally we would spend time together. He was rather excitable and apparently had never before encountered a squirrel. On this visit as we tramped about in the back yard, squirrels were running about high in the branches above. Their sound, hardly noticed by me, startled  David to no end. I explained what these animals were. He seemed not to believe me. The look in his eyes, simultaneous with the sounds of the movements above, made it clear that he feared an attack. As I laughed, he ran screaming back into the house.

That same tree, via an attached 2 X 6 served as one anchor for the clothes line. The clothes line worked very well to hold up Danny Donovan's Army tent, used from time to time for sleep outs. The tree also proved wide enough and strong enough for our big iron school bell. Yes, an honest to goodness school bell. Identical to those bells with frame, pulley system and rope seen up in the roof lines of one room school houses from the past.  Its function at the Ringwood home on Steel Street had no educational purpose. It was our l 950's version of the cell phone_.   When it was time to assemble at home, usually for dinner, someone was directed to "ring the bell", and we did. Its peal could be heard throughout and beyond the block all through the Y-field playground as far as Swift Street. We all knew and understood its meaning as did all the other neighbors. I laugh to picture myself sitting on the playground bench waiting my turn at tether ball, Nancy playing jacks at a nearby picnic table, Patty swinging on the swing set. Consistent with the sound we'd begin our run or bike ride home to the chorus of other playground chums serenading us with ... "Ringwood’s ... it's time for dinner".

In the northeast corner of our yard there was a small wooden storage type structure. We called it "the shed house". Why, I don't know, but there is some vague memory spiking in my head suggesting that it was the place we'd be taken for a whipping when bad. No such event ever took place. The lawn mower and other tools were kept inside. It was not a place for play. It did serve as my one and only test of the jumping attributes associated via television commercials for "P.F. Flyers" - a new brand of canvas sneakers (all sneakers were canvas). In the commercial, a cartoon like figure laced on a pair of P.F. Flyers and promptly jumped over a single-story building. Yes, it's true. I tried. More pain. Then again, I was the same kid taking full repetitive belly dives into ten inches of water on a driveway surface!!

At the southeast corner, there was a tired little swing set. I suspect its presence pre­dated our moved into the house. There were other similar swing sets in most of the adjoining yards. With a huge municipal playground - The Y-Field - just down the street and consuming half of the entire city block, we did not much need a swing set.

My memories of that yard are many and they are vivid. First and foremost is "The Wall".  Famous when built and infamous after we moved (given that it fell over).  The wall was a concrete block/brick structure built completely by my Dad, Red Ringwood. I watched with true fascination as Dad threw himself into this construction project. The cement was mixed at the end of the driveway. A spade shovel pierced the bags of cement powder. The ex-marine dumped the bag into a wheel barrel, mixed in water from the garden hose and stirred the contents into a thick gray mud. Back and forth I'd walk with my Dad to and from the center of the yard where he had laid out this concrete wall dividing our back yard into two distinct sections. It served as the framing for his garden of roses. Under no circumstance could I have been of any help to Dad on this project. No doubt I talked his ear off. No doubt Joanie was busy with a baby or two and probably carrying another. Knowing the satisfaction I feel when completing labor intensive

projects in my own beautiful yard, I choose to source it all back to "the Wall" and my Dad mixing cement, troweling it into place as the concrete blocks were positioned, trimming the top and sidewalks with red brick, digging the flower bed, planting the roses and enjoying their beauty, fragrance and velveteen feel. For us kids the wall was much, much more. A place to traverse across the top, to crouch behind at hide and seek, a spot to

spread towels while we ran through the water sprinkler, a bleacher for spectators while we played football games. I liked "the Wall". It yielded fun for kids and fresh cut roses for Mom. When we heard that it fell over, I laughed. Dad had not sunk it down into the sub­surface. Imagine. It just sat there for years resting on its own weight on level ground.

The house itself was our interior playground. A large window from the living room looked out onto the porch. The front door opened into an open room with an open stairway to the second floor and partially opened ceiling. From the second-floor hallway, you could look down over the rail to that entry room below.

This room from below was particularly useful for tossing things up high. The best device for tossing would be a nylon stocking stuffed with a sock or two. The funnier memory is of the nylon stockings. Apparently, their usefulness as ladies hose was over.  From that point, each nylon had graduated to stocking caps worn each night by the girls, pulled over their heads to hold their curlers in place. Quite the site. Again, there are pictures. These were our pre-histories, well in advance of hairdryers and curling irons. That same two story area is also the site of an evening (actually a few minutes) of terror. One evening Mom and Dad were out, likely entertaining clients. We were being watched by a baby-sitter. I think it was one of the "Duffy" girls from down the street. It might have been one of the "Zentner" girls (wow, they were pretty) from around the block. In any event, Nancy, Patty and I were pulled from our beds and our sleep by visiting boy fiends and girlfriends. They dangled us over the second-floor handrail. We just screamed in fear. It felt like a lifetime. I suspect it was a matter of seconds and while I feared a long drop were they to let me go, in reality it was probably a few feet. Mom and Dad were informed the next day. I have no memory of any repercussions. I wonder if we were believed.

Forward of that open entry area with the stairs, was a hallway to the left of which was the mud room, side door out to the driveway and stairs down into the basement.  Subject to confirmation from Joan, I have the sense that there was a matching servant's stairwell leading down into the kitchen.

During the Ringwood tenure at 59 Steel Street there were two kitchens. Sadly, my memory fails me with details as to the set-up when we first moved in. I believe it was one large room with a modest extension in the back to the right for laundry. All I am certain of is the presence of a back door leading out to the yard. That back door disappeared with the remodeling project.

Joanie and Red " modernized" the kitchen creating a work area divided from the eating area. Cabinets were new as were appliances. Windows for each section lined the wall on the north giving a view of the driveway and our next-door neighbor. (Her house was yellow. It had a beautiful stainedglass window and the roof line on our side grew the largest, longest and most dangerous icicles every winter).

My recall of kitchen activity on Steel Street is also lacking. There must have been many a noisy meal, time talking with Mom and helping with chores. I cannot pull them from the gigabytes of my brain. Hopefully sister Nancy can add some greater color. What I have to offer is limited. At Christmas time, Mom or Dad often seemed to have one of those hard candy wreaths. Attached to the wreath was a small scissors. It hung in the kitchen. During that holiday season and prior to bed there was a trip to the wreath for a sweet. Just one. I preferred the red/white mint. Last recall is during the remodeling project. It seemed as if the carpenters were always there when I woke up. Was I in school?  Was it during the summer? Can't recall.  What does remain are two smells - fresh sawed wood, and tangerines from the lunch box of the builder, Mr Netti. He shared, and I've always loved tangerines on three levels; size, skin and flavor. They were smaller than oranges and fit well in my hand. The tangerine skin was gently adherent to the fruit beneath. It was easy to pierce open without risking puncture into the body of the fruit.  Soon you learned how to peel it off in a single section. Your reward was a circle of fruit wedges easy to divide with a flavor forever special to my taste buds.

From the back of the kitchen to the south side of the house were the remaining two rooms on the first floor - dining room and living room. There were no doors, just wide-open entries. Windows lined the south wall of each room giving us a view of the goings on next door where "The Nodzo's lived. For me the dining room was no more than a pass through to get quickly to the kitchen. The living room was where we spent time in play; spent time watching T.V., spent time ripping open gifts at Christmas, spent time during birthday parties, spent time with friends and relatives. I suspect much of my living room time was spent on the floor. This would explain how and why I remember no details of furnishing other than the rug. It was large, gray rectangle hook-rug.  squares, with lines and shapes in maroon, yellow and blue. I stared at these shapes. Their geometry and repetition intrigued and please me. Could this be why art and architecture seems to be in my blood?

So, what happened in that living room during my tenure? I watched "The Ed Sullivan Show" and recall my parents watching a racy show entitled "Peyton Place". Football was on during winter weekends, golf in the summer. There is my Dad leaping out of his chair as a guy named Arnold Palmer, with knees locked together into his rather unique putting stance, dropped a putt to win again. There I am handing thirty-five cents over to my Dad (he took it too!!) having lost my bet that Jim Brown and the Cleveland Browns would beat the NY Giants.

Tom and I enjoyed playing "astronaut" in that room. I'd be John Glenn, He' d be Scott Carpenter. A comer up to the wall was our space capsule. My father' s folded caps out of his marine uniforms were worn on our heads once in orbit. I favored the tan lined cap leaving the dark scratchy wool cap to Tom. Otherwise, for blast off, football helmets were mandatory. Picture the scene, our backs on the floor, our legs resting up the wall line, towels behind each head, counting down… 10, 9, 8, … to blast-off. Mom must have loved this. All I know is that Tom and I orbited earth more times than any of the real astronauts.

I can see "Hannah", Grandpa John's second wife, sitting in a chair near the living room windows talking to my Mom, her left arm fully extended and being tugged by her husband. He wanted to leave. Hannah just kept talking. I was so amazed that she did not realize that Grandpa John wanted to leave.

I can see the Christmas tree each year loaded with ornaments, many of them paste and paper creations from time and labor at Holy Family School. The tinsel was heavy. Did I hear correctly that this tinsel was actually lead based? All I know is that we saved it for re-use every year. Then there were the gifts. It seemed as if there were hundreds of boxes. I was certain that there could not possibly be a Christmas tree anywhere surrounded by so many mysteries beneath wrapping paper. An entire chapter can and will be devoted to favorite birthday and Christmas gifts. We were very lucky children come Christmas.

Upstairs there were four bedrooms, one rather small, and one bathroom. Did they fill quickly! Naturally Mom and Dad had one. It was at the southeast comer. Mine was in the middle; the girls were at the other end. Tom roomed with me. We had bunk beds.

They were great with individual shelves at each headrest, and a ladder. With regularity, we transformed that bunk bed into a houseboat floating off into many a great afternoon adventure. More often than not my room had a baby crib with a new brother for roommate number three. In this room, I figured out that part of my erector set which involved a motorized elevator (the beginning and end of my engineering career). This same room was the scene of tantrums thrown by me for reasons long lost to recall.  Somehow, my boot (yes, I had cowboy boots) flew into and through my window. The remainder of my day and night was spent alone sitting in the corner.

 The three girls all slept in one room. Amazing! One evening I snuck into their room and hid in the closet. When they were all settled and quietly chatting before sleep came upon them I made my move. Initially I slowly pushed open the door an inch or two. Just enough to be seen and heard. One of the girls went silent in mid-sentence. The others were clearly seized in silence. You know the rest. I jump out, they scream, I laugh, Mom and Dad verbally direct me back to bed.

 The little room was a small bed and another baby crib. This was  Jacks' room. Imagine. All those brains in such a tiny room.

What' s left of our kingdom is attic and basement, both unfinished. There were great plans to convert the attic into living space for all us boys. I was excited. It sounded like a series of planned sleeping areas almost like locker rooms and the rest a huge open shared area. We envisioned full blown football and baseball in that wide-open space. It did not come to be as we moved to the 16 room house on Owasco Street.

THE Y-FIELD

Why have I never asked where the name for this playground came from or what it means. I'd better ask Mom. One thing I know . . . it was a great place to spend time as a young boy. It consumed half of the city block. We used it all year on a daily basis…swings, slides sandboxes, baseball and basketball in the summer; sledding, ice skating (day and night) in the winter; serious team softball under the lights every summer. The place was a safe magnet for kids.

One half of the park, adjacent to the Duffy home was open green space dotted with large trees. On the Mary Street side the trees were more plentiful and provided shade whenever needed. On the Steel Street side the trees were fewer leaving large open green spaces. We made our way to our playground by foot or bike. From the direction of our home as we reached the comer of the park we were greeted by a slender but noticeable dirt path, beaten down years ahead of me. The path sliced a diagonal across this half of the playground and led up to the clubhouse, bike racks and basketball courts. Every day it safely drew us in and safely guided us home.

While they seemed enormous at that time, and they were, this playground had the big swing set (six seats) and the big slide. There was no mulch for soft landings. Rarely were there mothers or fathers around to say "no", only the occasional whistle from the 2-3 playground directors responsible to cover the entire territory.

We swung too high, often standing up. To this day I find myself stopped in my own tracks recalling my sister Patty. We were on the big swings. We were swinging too high. We were standing. Why she fell I'll never know. It was as if she were launched. Her feet and legs moved up. Her head and torso swung back around and under in a perfect back flip. How she managed not to break her neck amazes me to this very day. Of course, Patty was also the one struck by a car at the intersection of Mary Street and Hamilton Ave. I'm told she was airborne at the time as well. The girl knew how to land.

 The big silver metal slide sat majestically perched on a slightly elevated patch of land. It was well anchored into the earth via metal poles angling out from back, middle and front. We found more amusement there than just the thrill of whipping down its silver smooth metal surface. The poles anchoring from the ladder end had to be shimmied up, regularly drawing "the whistle". The ladder had to be climbed more than one at a time also drawing the whistle. Riding two at the same time, or head first assured the whistle.

We laughed and taunted those too scared to climb the ladder to the top. We made greater offending noise toward those so chicken once they reached the top they insisted on climbing down. My favorite big slide ploy was to waxed paper the sliding surface and then convince one of those timid souls to take their first slide down. What a sight. The speed they reached was written in fear across their faces. At the end of the slide they hurtled forward feet hitting ground after unexpected time being airborne and with momentum sending them screaming, falling and tumbling to the  ground. Some would cry. Some would run right back to get in line again. No one was injured and whistles rarely blew.

Further up the path was the area of greatest activity. The steel bike racks were always filled. My red "Monarch" (First Communion gift) fit nicely. I must admit that I yearned in jealousy at those select few "Schwins" fully equipped with speedometers, side mirrors on each side of the handle bars, colored plastic tassels at the butt end of the handle bar grips, front headlights and horn or bell. From the Y-field we first learned about car-pooling as it was very typical to see two or three on a bike. A flat book rack above the rear wheel fender would serve as a seat albeit uncomfortable. If that feature was not available one would sit on the seat and the other would pedal from a standing position. A brave soul would be seen from time to time sitting on the handle bars. Starting was difficult. Once in place and with momentum, the ride was smooth provided there were few turns. The stop was dangerous, a beautiful piece of choreography as bodies dismounted simultaneously. Otherwise, someone fell.

Once the bike was parked, the options were many. Girls played jacks on the forest green picnic tables. Okay, I confess. Not only did I play jacks, I was good. Colored plastic rope was pulled out in arts and crafts to weave "boondoggles", a necklace type of fashion device which at its end held a whistle and or keys. All the directors had one. I could never understand the moves needed to weave the plastic string. A director gave me an extra one. It was white and ended in a very cool corkscrew shape. What did I ever do with it?

We tried tossing horseshoes but they were too heavy and the toss too far. Usually they went unused except for the occasional adults (always men) who would appear and play. I can still conjure the sound of steel striking steel bars, the sound of those men applauding their successful tosses (a ringer, or knocking down a leaner), the verbal jousting, and the walk back and forth till game was complete.

Tetherball was a very popular game in those Y-field days. It was no more than a thick solid metal pole cemented into the ground. At the top, it had a welded hook to which there was affixed rope which at its end anchored into a white (soccer like) ball. At this playground we were still too young to play effectively and certainly we could not compete against the older bigger kids. The tether ball pole was positioned close to a large, large maple tree. Grass had no chance given the shade and pounding of "Keds" sneakers.  It always was great fun to watch the older kids battle and I hoped someday to have their level of skill. The game winner stayed on game after game until defeated. The opponents would sit in order on a forest green painted bench. It was a great stroke of luck for there to be no players. I can recall spying the tetherball unattended and making a beeline to it.

       Nancy and I would battle each other. She was good and        whenever she beat me (at this or any other competition) she was certain to broadcast it loudly and quickly throughout the neighborhood. There were three basketball courts. One was fenced in on three sides. The fences were quite high. I think the court was converted from or also served as a tennis court. The main basketball court was a stone's throw from the clubhouse and a short jog from the water fountain. It was unfenced and it was where the big guys played. They were probably 16-18 years old but seemed like men to me. When they dribbled (one team shirts, the other skins) the ball made beautiful "pings" on the asphalt surface and there was and is no sound more unique than that of a jump shot swishing through the metal netting. That' s correct, metal netting. These guys were good. They played rough and they sweated. Standing behind them at the water fountain - a beautiful large poured concrete bowled structure - I looked forward to my time as such a player: It never happened.

The southern half of the Y-field was bordered by Mary Street, Swift Street and Steel Street. The perimeter was fully bermed creating a 5-10 foot bowl like effect inside of which there were two full sized baseball/softball fields. One field was just down the hill from the forest green two story club house. There was a large wide poured concrete stairway leading down to this field. As kids, we used this field for baseball play regularly. My older next-door neighbor - Marty Nodzo - was crazy about the game. While I wanted to play "war", he would always cook up a baseball game. I think I was mainly one of those warm bodies needed for right field but otherwise too young to compete. What I do know is that this enforced activity turned me into an excellent player in later years. I was also able to observe that Marty Nodzo was a very complete player. He was not  much more than 10-12 years old and had the patience and persistence to teach himself how to switch hit and do so effectively. I was certain that he would be the star on the high school baseball team. To my surprise he never played, not even little league or Babe Ruth.

This ball field also served us very well in the winters. Snow banks were plowed around the perimeter of the in-field and the fire department arrived when the temperature dipped below zero. They flooded the infield and "viola" an instant skating rink was created already equipped with a stairway up to a warm clubhouse for changing into and out of skates. Best of all this entire area of the park was equipped with floodlights for night use. They made for night skating- an event which I had to beg for during the week provided my homework was complete. I loved the atmosphere of it all. The walk from home was not too long. Often with sister Nancy we'd trudge through the snow along that same beaten (but now snow covered) path in the park. The spotlights were visible ahead on what otherwise were ink black nights. My black figure skates (the girls had white) were slung over my shoulder and the snow crunched beneath my feet as I anticipated that wonderful sense of blade hitting ice with momentum followed by the beauty of balance and glide combined. 

What I recall about my skates were that they were, to me brand new (an event unusual in a large family), they had something engraved into the blade Yet I really, really wanted racing skates, the ones with blades longer than the length of the shoe/foot size. The racing blades would arrive later when our skating adventures were transferred to the Hoopes Park Rink, consistent with our move to Owasco Street.

First stop for night skating was at the clubhouse. It was always busy with bodies, some exiting to skate, some entering to warm up. Inside you could almost see and touch the warmth. Benches lined the walls and split the middle. Boots were stuffed underneath. In the corner, there was an old soda cooler, the kind which was waist high, flipped open at the top and had inside metal runners holding the neck of each Pepsi bottle. Ten cents a bottle. On a rare occasion, I had a dime. How an ice-cold Pepsi tasted so good in the dead of winter never failed to amaze me.

We would lace up our skates, clomp out the door, down the steps as others climbed up, reaching the bottom, pressing forward into glide. I loved skating. I was good. Hours were spent day or night chasing each other, racing until the whistle blew (they had skating directors too, wearing bright red hooded nylon jackets labeled with their coveted title, one I hoped for but never realized). We stole girls' caps; we flung ourselves at full speed into the snow banks. We skated forward and backward yet never had a lesson.

When the skating traffic was modest, the director would allow us to draw up jumping areas. This was fun, challenging and surrounded by an interesting bit of choreography. The jump was no more than two parallel snow lines in the ice with a certain width between them. Not unlike the compulsories in professional skating, we would create our jumps by a controlled skate along a straight line. Most weight was kept on the skate away from the line while the lightly weighted skate was held at a slight angle - toe pointed in, heel out. This dance on ice would kick up a very nice little line of snow. Repeat passes would add more snow, make the lines more visible and increase the distance between these lines of snow. Once completed we would take runs attempting to jump across but without breaking the snow lines. Undoubtedly, we were influence by barrel jumping seen from time to time when watching "Wide World of Sports" on television. A skater would glide around the rink seeking the speed needed, a perpendicular angle to the snow line was achieved, squatting position followed and a timed jump attempted. There were many falls, numerous twisted ankles, an occasional minor self-stabbing from the blades and many a bruised coccyx. A successful jump meant hands raised. Otherwise you slid into the snowbank, brushed off the snow (and the pain), and tried again. Our own local "thrill of victory - agony of defeat". I will leave it to sister Nancy to tell the story of me getting knocked unconscious at the rink. She brought me home on a sled. I remember nothing. In the face of all this fun what I thought of most was the chance to have a girlfriend who would skate with me and let me hold her hand, looking cool in my racing blades and

skating director jacket. I got the blades. I did a wee bit of skating years later with Marilyn. No real need for the jacket.

Winter at "The Y" was not limited to skating. There was sledding. The berm around the ball field had its steepest slope close to the clubhouse. This is where all the sledding took place. We worked to get that snow packed down hard and tight. Our sledding tools were simple, a wooden slatted sled with metal runners, or a red saucer, or the bottom of our boots. We'd beg the fire department, when flooding the skating rink, to send a spray of water across our slope. They always obliged. Nothing was better for sledding speed than ice under the rails.

Many an inventive hour was spent on that little slope. We went for distance. We made tight turns with our well-worn sleds. We rode standing. We rode two and three on top. We intentionally crashed. We fired snowballs at sledders, they at us. We crashed into others, especially girls. A few times there were "Christmas Story" moments when someone would take the dare and touch their tongue to the metal framing of their sled. It stuck instantly. They yelled. We laughed. The tongue was usually self-pulled off with a bit of tissue left behind. Otherwise the fool would walk home with tongue and sled still attached or go into the warm club house for a shorter less traumatic wait. We had good winter fun at " The Y".

The far end of this bermed in area was made up of the good ball field. There was no elevated pitcher’s mound. It was flat and big-time softball was played almost every night in the summer. I'm told it was very competitive. The great Monk Curtain pitched there regularly. My memories are quite vivid of softball at that field. In my very early days, Dad played. I can see him and his teammates charging down from the clubhouse under those beautiful bright lights. Crowds were huge. There were substantial bleachers on the first and third base sides - always filled. A tall chain link fence surrounded and backed home plate. This was my favorite spot. My friends and other youngsters would chase down foul balls. They had to be returned. Mainly we enjoyed this as the vantage point from which to observe that pitching motion unique to softball, with the leg slap and subsequent smack of ball either in the catcher's mitt or coming off the timely swung bat. I was taken back that a ball could be thrown (underhand) with such velocity and accuracy. I was more amazed such a pitch could be hit. The well struck ball would fly long and high into the lights. I knew it was too far to ever be caught, yet more often than not, it was.

People watched from the sides - 2 to 3 people deep - when bleachers were filled. They were kept out by a simple fence made up of a single steel cable run through thick wooden white painted posts (likely telephone poles) cut to a 4-5 foot height with the cable buried into the ground out along the right and left field lines. You did not want to run into that cable. Spaced out along the top of the berms were occasional park benches for viewing. Many people watched from the porches of their own homes. My father's parents - Bernie and Leo - did so from their home on Swift Street, the first base side. I really don't think they had much of a view over the bleachers. Oddly, I never got a look. They always waved me away when I tried to invite myself over to watch. Beyond right field on the corner of Mary and Swift in a pretty white stucco home lived my uncle Ed Boyle and his wife Aunt Margaret. He was a successful and well respected local attorney (and ex­ City Mayor). They would pull out folding chairs and watch from their yard

My last memory of softball at that field was in 9th grade. I was watching near third base. A local girl from St. Mary's grade school, then in my freshman class at Mount Carmel High School -Donna Youtt - was also there watching. She was little (so was I). She was cute. I walked her home. I wanted to hold her hand but did not try. I would have liked to give her a kiss but was far too shy to try.

Memories arise from all of our senses. The greatest Y-field memory for me is always associated with smell. The aroma of hot popcorn and peanuts. At every game, behind the backstop and toward the third base side bleachers, a beautiful little antique popcorn/peanut machine was set up and in operation. Oh, the aroma. Nickle a bag for popcorn. I never tried the peanuts.

Years later, our family grown, Dad gone, and Mom living on Mary Street Extension - a stone’s throw or two from the Y-Field - we gathered from time to time and wandered over to play softball. My little brother Peter hit those huge long shots far out into left center field and my littlest brother Bob settled under most of these bombs gathering them in for easy outs. Little did Peter and Bobby know they were transporting me back to earlier wonderful times.