1955-1961 Part 3: Baseball

Posted on August 28, 2020 by Mike

Small-time ball in a big-league town. Continue reading →

Worst logo ever.

Kansas City officially became a big-league town in 1955, when the laughingstock of the American League, the Philadelphia A’s, moved to Kansas City. Arnold Johnson, the owner of Yankee Stadium, had been allowed to purchase the club from the long-time owner of the A’s, Connie Mack. If this seems bizarre, remember that major league baseball is not subject to any antitrust laws. Johnson intended to move the franchise west. He chose the town in which he already owned the stadium, Kansas City.

The people in KC were definitely ready. In the first year the team drew an impressive 1,393,054 fans, more than they ever had in Philadelphia. The team was very bad when it arrived, and over the years it got even worse as Johnson made one deplorable trade after another, mostly with the Yankees. The 1961 world champion Yankees, considered by many to be the most dominant team ever, boasted ten former A’s, including two-time MVP Roger Maris.

The A’s played in Municipal Stadium, the same stadium that had hosted the top Yankee minor-league team, the Blues. My dad had seen Mickey Mantle play there. The parking situation was bad, but no worse than at Fenway. By the time that the team left, the neighborhood was not too good.

This was the very card that I got in trade for my 1954 Mickey Mantle. My dad was aghast.

My dad took me to games every year, or at least nearly every year. When the team arrived, my favorite player was a Puerto Rican named Victor Pellot, who played under the name of Vic Power. He was the A’s first All-Star, unquestionably the best fielder in the league, and a decent hitter as well. I loved the way that he passed the bat from one hand to the other while waiting for the pitch. The A’s ended up trading him to Cleveland to acquire Maris.

When we went to the games, I always bought a program and kept score for both teams. We really got our money’s worth at my very first games, April 23, 1955. The Chicago White Sox edged out the home team 29-6. The gory details are here. At least I got to see Vic Power hit a dinger.

In later years I liked to follow Norm Siebern, Bob Cerv, and Harry “Suitcase” Simpson until they too were traded away.

My dad listened to the A’s games on his transistor radio while he was watering the front lawn on summer evenings. He really despised the team’s announcer Monte Moore, who would never say anything bad about the management. As year after year of frustration mounted, all of Moore’s optimistic talk became almost unbearable for dad. Everybody in KC thought that Arnold Johnson was crooked. If you don’t think so, you should read this list of his transactions with the Yankees.

For the last fifteen games of the disastrous 1964 season Charlie Finley, who had putchased the club after Arnold Johnson died in 1960, hired Betty Caywood to attempt to attract ladies to Moore’s broadcasts. It is definitely wrong to think of her as a dumb blonde. She had a masters degree from Northwestern. However, she had one big problem, which she admitted to her boss, “Charlie, I don’t know the first thing about baseball.”

The A’s stayed in KC for thirteen seasons. They never had a winning record. The worst year was 1964, when they were an appalling 57-105. Their best effort was just two years later, when they finished only twelve games under .500. In their last year in KC, 1967, however, they finished last in the American League. By then Finley was sponsoring all kinds of stupid enticements to try to get people to come to the games—absolutely anything to distract from the team’s abysmal performance.

Over the course of thirteen seasons the A’s tried nine different managers. I don’t think that their primary roblem was the manager.

The most frustrating thing for the long-suffering fans of Kansas City was that by the time that the A’s departed for Oakland in their Kelly green and Finley gold clown suits, the team had amassed a very impressive stable of young players. How could a team that had Reggie Jackson, Rick Munday, Sal Bando, Vida Blue, Bluemoon Odom, Rollie Fingers, Campy Campaneris, and Catfish Hunter have been so awful?

3&2: When I was growing up in suburban Johnson County, KS, there was no Little League. Is that surprising? Well guess what, we did not have McDonald’s either, and no one cared. Just as the local chain Smaks provided people in the KC area with low-priced hamburgers, 3&2 baseball in Johnson County took the place of Little League. The kids in my neck of the woods were (and still are) more than satisfied with 3&2.

This is PART of the current Johnson County 3&2 complex that includes 27 baseball fields!

The organization, which is now called the 3&2 Baseball Club of Johnson County¹, provided an opportunity for young people at all levels to play hardball (with bats made of wood!) in a well-organized and supervised situation. They now even have teams for pre-kindergaten youngsters! My precocious nephew Joey Lisella, who carried a bat around with him on his fourth birthday, would have loved it!

As many games as possible were played at Segner Field, a complex that included a handful of fields complete with lights, grandstands, dugouts, and refreshment stands. I considered this place paradise. I fell in love with it at first site. I could think of nothing that could possibly match the thrill of playing there, and I was right!

My baseball career did not get off to a great start. I began at the lowest level, Midget C. I think that this was after fourth grade, which would be 1958, but I may be off by a year. My team was sponsored by Sunflower Drugs, a local store that still had a soda fountain counter large enough to serve our whole team at once. Midget C teams dressed in ball caps, blue jeans, sneakers, and tee shirts. Our shirts were red and white, with our sponsor’s name prominently displayed.

I suspect that I was allowed onto the team because of the influence of Mr. Wood, who was, I think, one of the coaches. I was a good fielder and one of the fastest runners. However, my arm was weak, and my hitting left a lot to be desired.

We had a good team. We won most of our games. Whenever we prevailed we were transported to Sunflower Drugs to get free ice-cold cherry cokes. We often were ahead by substantial amounts, which let the coach put me in to play. We did not win our league. My recollection is that we lost to the winners because they bunted us to death.

I think that we played at Segner once or twice. Most of our games were at fields at nearby schools. We practiced at Tomahawk School.

One time near the end of the season our team’s entire practice was devoted to a fielding contest. Nine guys took the field. A coach hit ground balls and fly balls. You had to leave the field for a time if you made an error. I stayed on the field longer than anyone else. This was probably the highlight of my season.

In the games that I got to play in I did OK in the field, but I was atrocious in the batter’s box. I actually batted .000. I did get on base a few times with walks, and I even scored a run or two. On every other occasion (except two) I struck out. I never even hit a foul ball.

The first exception was the time that I reached first because of catcher’s interference. When I swung at a pitch my bat grazed the catcher’s mitt. I thought that I had accidentally done something illegal and dangerous, but the umpire firmly told me to take first base, which I gladly did. Who says that you can’t steal first?

After the coaches explained the rule to me, I could not help myself from thinking that the catcher’s mitt just a few feet behind me would be a lot easier to hit than most of those pitches. Nevertheless, I did not try to do it again. I was a Boy Scout and an altar boy, remember.

The other exception was my very last at-bat in that red and white tee shirt. I actually hit a weak fly ball over the first baseman’s head. Unfortunately he had time to take a couple of steps back. He then reached up and caught it. Nevertheless, I was thrilled that I finally had a chance to sprint down the first base line after making contact.

I tried out for Sunflower Drugs the next year, but I did not make the team. I thought that my ignominious baseball career was over, but my parents told me that other teams needed players. I ended up playing with some guys from QHRS on another Midget C team, Bauman’s Red Goose Shoes. You might think that our tee shirts would be at least partially red, but they were actually green and yellow.

By this time I had a season of experience under my belt and a pair of glasses in front of my very myopic eyes. I was just an average player on an average team, but at least I was not a laughingstock at the plate. I got my share of hits, but nothing exciting. I played every position except pitcher and catcher. My favorite positions were first base and second base because neither required a strong arm.

If you are wondering if our sponsor provided treats for us at the shoe store, the answer is no. No cherry Cokes, no free shoes, nothing. In baseball parlance, a goose egg.

In my third and last year I played for the Prairie Village Optimists Club. This was a Midget B team, which meant that we had real baseball uniforms with bloused pants, long socks, and cleats. We would also be playing more of our games at Segner Field.

I started almost every game even though I was not in the official starting lineup. My family did not take on a vacation that summer, but many of the other players did. I played seven positions again, mostly replacing whoever was on vacation at that time.

Our team had was peculiar in one regard. We had two starting pitchers. One of them was probably the best in our league. He was actually too old to play in Midget B, but because he had polio when he was younger, he was granted an extra year of eligibility. Whenever he pitched, we were at least in the game. The problem was that he was totally undependable. The manager, Mr. O’Neil, never knew if he would show up or not.

Our other pitcher was Mr. O’Neil’s son. He could throw strikes, but his velocity was not great, and he had no “stuff”. It was only one step up from batting practice.

With only a game or two remaining we faced the only undefeated team, Bill Cook’s Standard. Our shortstop was on vacation, and I replaced him. I could field grounders well enough, but if I had to move in either direction, the throw to finrst was difficult for me. To avoid putting my rag arm on display, we dispensed with fielding grounders between innings. Instead we just lobbed the ball around around the infield.

Our good pitcher took the mound, and he had a great day. With a couple of innings to play, neither side had scored. I had hardly been tested at shortstop, and I was the lead-off hitter when we took our cuts. I don’t remember to which field I hit the ball, but I got all the way to third base. I never hit a home run in 3&2; this was my best hit ever. I was so psyched.

The guy batting behind me then struck out. The batter after him popped up to an infielder. If either of them had even hit a ground ball, I was primed to race toward home.

Now, however, there were two outs, and I was still stuck on third. I decided to follow the advice of Egbert Sousé and take a chance while I was young. I broke for home on the first pitch. I was hoping for a passed ball or wild pitch, but I was prepared for a hot box. The catcher caught the pitch cleanly. He made a move toward me and then—a moment too soon—he threw the ball past me to the third baseman. I had not yet committed to going back to third. I put on a burst toward the plate, got past the catcher and scored before he could grab the throw back from the third baseman and tag me. We were up 1-0. Incidentally, the next batter made an out. My gamble was a good one, better than Og Oggilby’s.

The other team also scored in their half of the inning. We got two runs in the next inning to take the lead back 3-1. Our pitcher got tired in the last inning. I don’t remember the details, but they somehow had the bases loaded with two out. The batter hit a pop fly into short left field. I raced back as fast as I could. I thrust out my left hand and I nabbed the ball on the far end of my glove’s webbing. The ball looked like a scoop of vanilla ice cream on a cone.

Just then my parents were arriving at the field to take me home. They missed seeing my catch, but they arrived just in time to see my teammates literally carrying me off the field on their shoulders. I have had a few great moments in my life. I am not sure that any topped this one.

1. Johnson County abuts KC KS on the north and KC MO on the east. It now boasts a population of over 600,000—20 percent more than KC MO and five times the size of Hartford.

1955-1961 Part 2: The Neighborhood

Posted on August 23, 2020 by Mike

Life on a short street in Prairie Village, KS. Continue reading →

This is 7717 Maple in 2020. We moved into it in 1955. The house that I remember was much different:

It was light blue.
There was only one garage.
The window to the left of the door was a picture window, not a bay.
The shutters look different. I am not sure that there were any.
The addition on the right is new.
The trees are much larger. I am not even sure that there were any trees in the front.
A maple tree on the right between the houses is gone. It is possible that it grew into the huge tree on the right. It was small and skinny when we left in 1962.
Rooms have been added in the back, too.

Our version of the house contained three small bedrooms, one bathroom, a living room, and a kitchen. There was no basement. It was difficult to entertain company, but it was much more comfortable than the house on Thorp, and it was OURS.

The yard, especially in the back, was steeply sloped. Nall Avenue was at this point quite a bit higher than Maple. The best places to play on our lot were the two side yards, both of which have now pretty much been eliminated by expansions.

I remember an occasion on which my dad and I were playing catch in the backyard. He threw it to me with a lot of loft but not much distance. I ran downhill to catch it, which I did. Unfortunately I my momentum carried me into a corner of our barbecue grill, and it took a small chunk out of the left side of my forehead. It was not that big of a deal. Four or five stitches took care of it. It left a small scar that wrinkles have long since rendered invisible.

Pictured at the right is Maple Street. Nall Avenue on the right is a major street that runs north and south. Tomahawk Road, the street at the top is one of the few streets in the area that is not perfectly straight. To the left (west) it runs to Tomahawk School, which is where Jamie went to kindergarten in 1961-62. At this point it straightens and becomes a north-south street that terminates at 85th. To the right Tomahawk dead-ends at Nall, but at 75th St. it resumes its diagonal route northeast to the Prairie Village shopping center and beyond.

My recollection is that all of the houses on Maple Street were simple ranches. Some had basements, and some did not. The Nall Avenue end of the street was significantly higher than the Tomahawk end. The slope of the street that was south of our house was steep enough for sledding in the winter. The bottom of the cul-de-sac was also lower than the main road, but the slope was not as steep.

Car traffic on Maple was very light. Virtually always the cars entering from Tomahawk or Nall pulled into a driveway. Parking on the street was legal, but people seldom took advantage of this. Kids playing in the street were common. The residents knew to look out for them.

A creek (pronounced “crick” in our neighborhood) ran behind the houses on the west side of Maple. I am not sure of its function. I do not recall finding more than a few inches of water there. It certainly was no barrier to me and my friends if we wanted to go in that direction on foot. Occasionally it was a source of discovery and adventure. I remember that what we called crawdads occasionally appeared.

In 1955 our house was near the southern edge of civilization. A few blocks to the south of us were fields that had been farms only a few years earlier. I remember that while exploring a field I once discovered a mouse nest complete with babies. By the time that we moved the frontier was much farther south.

I inserted house numbers on the above map for all of the other houses on Maple. They may not be the right mailing addresses for some. My purpose was to simplify the references in describing our neighbors, starting with the side on which we lived, the east.

I am not sure who lived in the house labeled 7701. I have a vague recollection that it was an older couple with no kids. I do remember that the house on the Tomahawk side of 7701 did not exist during the period that we lived on Maple. The lot was vacant. I played football there with Don and Steve Wood and a fellow named Tuftadahl who lived on Tomahawk.

The Woods lived in 7703. Don was my age. Steve was one or two years older. They were both athletic and strong. I went down to their house many times through the fifth or sixth grade. I am not sure what happened after that. The family might have moved away.

There was no baseball field within walking distance, but we still spent a lot of summer days involved with the game. I remember many hours spent playing 500 with them. This is a baseball game that involves one player hitting fly balls to the other players. When a player on the receiving end had earned 500 points, he became the hitter.

Our other favorite diversion was hot box, which required three players. Two guys have mitts, and one of them has the ball. The other guy is “in the middle”. He tries to get past one of them. The guys with mitts try to tag him. They can throw the ball back and forth. This process is called a “rundown”. I was good at both aspects of this game, and it contributed to one of the greatest moments of my young life. It is detailed here.

I played on the Sunflower Drugs 3&2 League team with Don. Those adventures are detailed here.

Watching the All-Star Game together in the basement was the highlight of the summer. We all knew all the players from their trading cards.

The Woods were more into army games than cowboys. So, we staged quite a few mock battles with toy guns. I had a pretty realistic double-barreled shotgun that I brought to these engagements. As with the western scenarios the most important thing was to die heroically or at least spectacularly.

In bad weather we played games in their basement. They enjoyed a variation on Monopoly with which I was not previously familiar. The main change to the rules was that if someone rolled doubles, he (there was never a she) was not automatically awarded another turn. Instead, whoever could grab the dice got the free turn. Most of these games ended on a roll of doubles that quickly became a wrestling match over the possession of the dice. I never was involved in any of this grappling, but I did watch in awe when Don and Steve went at it. It usually ended when Mrs. Wood came down and yelled at them.

I don’t remember who lived in 7705. Kim, who rode on the Bluebird with us to QHRS, lived in 7707 or 7709. I don’t remember who lived in 7711, 7713, and 7715. No kids lived in any of those houses.

A family moved into 7719 a few years after we arrived. They had two boys. One was a little older than I was. The other was a little younger than I was. I can picture them, but I can’t remember their names. We played together pretty often, but I only have one really vivid memory. These guys each had a pair of boxing gloves. We had a series of boxing matches. Both of these kids and a few others were there. In the only bout that I was in I hit the other guy quite often, and he hit me almost never. The match was ruled a draw because the other guy “showed that he could take it.” I was upset for a minute or two, but I did not make a scene. Maybe I should say that if I made a scene, I don’t remember the details.

I only had one interaction with the lady who lived in 7721. One winter, probably 1960 or 1961, we had a pretty big snow, close to a foot. She hired me to shovel her walk. I did, but it took me a long time. It was almost dark when I finished. She paid me what we agreed on and added an additional dollar or two. I was grateful enough to remember the incident decades later but not enough to remember her name.

On the west side of the street I never met the occupants of 7702, 7704, or 7706. The Beesons lived in 7708. I think that the father, Bill, was one of our scoutmasters. There were two boys, John, who was one year younger than I was, and Mikey, who was another year younger.

PV Pool. There was no slide when I was there, but there was a regular pool, a diving pool with two or three boards, and a kiddie pool.

They must have moved in in the late fifties. I don’t remember them being around when I played with Don and Steve Wood. I spent a lot of time with John, however, after that. Both of the Beesons were strong swimmers, much better than I was. Since there was no swimming pool in the neighborhood, we must have gone up to Prairie Village Pool together. It was east of us near Shawnee Mission East High School. I did not really like to go there much. I always got cold, and it was embarrassing because my very flat feet left distinctive footprints—like a duck with toes.

I remembered that we played three-on-three football games on the island of the cul-de-sac. It was especially fun in the snow. I don’t remember who the other players were.

I don’t remember who lived in 7710. Michaelene Dunn, who also rode the Bluebird, lived in 7712. I don’t remember who lived in 7714.

7716 was the home of Ed and Ina Leahy. They were older than my parents by quite a bit, but they were probably their best friends, at least in the neighborhood. Ed was retired. He previously sold some kind of agricultural equipment.

One year Ed drove my dad and me to the Kansas State Fair in Hutchinson. It was 210 miles away, but driving west through Kansas you can make pretty good time. The roads are straight, and the traffic is usually light. I was in the back. I got very tired or maybe just bored. I tried to sleep in the car, but I could not get comfortable.

My clearest memory of the fair was when the guy in the dunk tank sang “The Old Grey Mare” when Ed walked by. He was trying to taunt Ed into buying tickets to rent a softball to throw at the target next to him. Hitting it would send him into the tank. Ed didn’t fall for it.

I was not too impressed with the fair. I had no need for a new harvester, but Ed knew a lot of the guys who had exhibits. The rides have never interested me very much. I never liked the scary ones, and the others are just stupid.

My .410 looked a lot like this one. The stock was plastic.

Somehow I had acquired a .410 shotgun. I had fired it at tin cans with Fr. Joe once or twice. Otherwise it remained mounted on my wall. I thought it was cool for it to be there, but I never so much as touched it or let anyone else touch it.

Ed took my dad and me hunting once. It might have been on the Hutchinson trip, but it might have been separate. We drove to a farm somewhere in Kansas to shoot at pheasants after the fields had been harvested. I fired at one at about the same time that someone else did. It came down, but to this day I do not know if I slew the bird, or the other guy did. He had a 12-gauge or a 16, both much more powerful than mine. So, I was probably blameless. I don’t know what happened to the bird’s carcass. I never went hunting again.

The Lotzkars lived in 7718. I think that they moved in a few years after we did. They had two or three kids, the oldest of whom was several years younger than I was.

One year there was a neighborhood picnic and party. I think that the Leahys sponsored it. Someone had a movie camera and showed the result later. I was the oldest kid there. I spent the time showing the Lotzkars how to slide like a ballplayer and climbing the T-shaped clothesline poles.

I babysat for the Lotzkars a few times. I recall that once the parents did not return home until pretty late. I watched Stars and Stripes Forever, the biopic about John Philip Sousa. on the Late Show. I have a low opinion of marches now, but I liked this movie well enough at the time.

Bob and Eleanor Anderson lived at 7720. If they had any kids, they were grown up. I remember my dad talking politics with Bob in the Andersons’ yard in 1960 after Kennedy won the Democratic nomination. My dad opined that the Republicans should have nominated Nelson Rockefeller. Bob replied that the only thing that doing that would prove was that somebody born with a silver spoon in his mouths could bedome president.

One summer day Bob took me to Municipal Stadium for an A’s game—just the two of us. It was a great time. We had very good seats on the first base line. Bob had a foghorn of a voice. Throughout the game he ruthlessly tormented the A’s second baseman, Jerry Lumpe. I did not like Lumpe either for reasons that currently escape me.

Bob’s voice carried so well that people all over the stadium were looking at him. Several ballplayers, including Lumpe, turned their heads in our direction.

I don’t remember the result of the game, but Lumpe went hitless. I think that he made an error in the field, too.

Lumpe was one of those players that the Yankees traded to KC when he seemed to be past his usefulness. To be fair, his best season was 1962, when he hit .301 for the A’s. He was a skinny guy, but he also managed to hit ten home runs that year. His average for the A’s was slightly better than his average for the Yanks. Lumpe died in 2014 at the age of 81.

I think that Bob died before we moved to Leawood. Eleanor continued to live in their house on Maple by herself.

The Wallaces lived across the street from us at 7720. I think that Mr. Wallace’s name was Ken. Her name was Jean. She and my mom were good friends. The Wallaces had three kids: Kenny, Sandy, and Gary. All were younger than I was. Gary was Jamie’s age.

I remember that one day I was for some reason home alone. Jamie must have been with my mom. I did not know where they were, and I got very upset. I think that I was even crying. Jean Wallace saw me and comforted me. A few minutes later our car appeared in the driveway.

Next to the Wallaces in 7722 was the Stivers family. Bill and Marie had two kids, Barbie was Jamie’s age, and Brad was a couple of years younger.

Bill Stivers claimed to have only one vice, fireworks. He bought a lot of fireworks for July 4, and he shot them off well into the night. For some reason this really irritated my dad. The dogs also hated it.

I don’t remember who lived in 7724 and 7726.

My first friend in the area lived in the house on Nall Avenue behind ours (7717). Michael was my age and the oldest son of Wally and Cherie Bortnick.¹ Michael also had a sister Donna who was a couple of years younger. There may have been one or two younger kids, too.

A big twister hit nearby Ruskin Heights in 1957. It killed 44 people

Their house had a basement. Whenever there was a tornado, which seemed to be every Friday in May, we would troop up to the Bortnick’s house (and I do mean up) and congregate in the southwest corner of their basement. This was a blast. The chances of getting hit by one of those midwestern tornadoes was minuscule, and if you did get hit, you were probably a goner no matter what. So, it was a great time to party, and we did.

I also remember that for a short while Wally and Michael and I ran around the Nall-Maple-Tomahawk block once or twice in the morning before school. This was in an era when nobody went jogging. I liked doing it, and it might have influenced my later decision to run regularly.

Michael had a chemistry set in the basement. We used to do half-assed experiments together. I enjoyed messing around with it, but it did nothing to inspire me to study the sciences.

The Bortnicks moved away after a couple of years. However, I think that they stayed in the KC area. Michael joined our class at Rockhurst High in sophomore or junior year and graduated with us.

I don’t know who owned the empty lot south of the Bortnick’s house. No one seemed to claim it. Vacant lots just seemed to exist in those days. That one was probably too small for another house.

A girl named Louise lived in the house north of the Bortnick’s. Her last name escapes me. Her mother threw a birthday party for her, and I was invited. All that I remember about it is that we played pin the tail on the donkey. No donkeys were injured. The paper tails were affixed with scotch tape rather than pins.

1. I was shocked to discover that Donna Bortnick died in 2013, and Wally, Cherie, and Michael had all preceded her. In all, Wally and Cherie had eight children—four boys and four girls.

1955-1961 Part 1: QHRS

Posted on August 19, 2020 by Mike

Early years at Queen of the Holy Rosary School. Continue reading →

After my parents and I moved from Kansas City, KS, to suburban Prairie Village in early 1955, I began attending Queen of the Holy Rosary School (QHRS) in Overland Park. The faculty consisted of Ursuline nuns who lived in a convent behind the school and a few lay teachers, all women. Back in the day my dad and his brothers had been taught by Ursulines. In fact, in 1955 a few of the nuns who taught my dad were at QHRS.

For all the years that I can remember the principal at QHRS was Sr. Dominica. To say that she ran a tight ship is an understatement. As at St. Peter’s, we were all required to attend mass before school. The youngest kids sat closest to the altar. Sufficient space between the students was enforced to accommodate each one’s invisible guardian angel.

Girls at QHRS were required to wear uniforms of plain blue skirts and white blouses. There may have been other requirements. I cannot remember the standards for the boys. I never cared about clothes at all. My mother generally bought pants for me at J.C. Penney. She probably got my shirts there, too.

At the time QHRS had no cafeteria. The students all brought their lunches in paper bags or lunch boxes. We ate at our desks in the classroom. I think that students could buy a small carton of milk for a few cents. Some kids traded food. Mine was always the best; I never traded.

A cafeteria of sorts was installed in one of the expansions, but I don’t remember ever eating lunch there. There certainly was never a kitchen for preparing lunches to sell to students. Students could buy cup-sized containers of milk.

I usually took the bus to school. The driver’s name was Bernardine. Two girls on our street also rode the Bluebird. Their names were Michaelene Dunn and Kim Somebody. They were a couple of years older than I was. Once or twice I used their wisdom and experience as a source for the meaning of taboo words, phrases, and gestures.

I was very happy to join Sr. Mildred’s first-grade class early. Sr. Mildred had actually taught my dad at Holy Name School in KC KS. She was a very nice person; all the kids liked her.

A few weeks after I joined the class I contracted all three common childhood diseases—measles, mumps, and chicken pox—one after the other. I was out of school for at least two weeks. I doubt that I missed as many days during my next seven plus years at QHRS. I remember no great difficulty with my lessons after rejoining my class.

One huge difference between St. Peter’s and QHRS was that at the end of every six-week period Fr. Ryan, the pastor of the parish, personally visited every class, called each student up to stand beside him, and read the grades aloud. If a student’s grades seemed to be slipping, he/she got grilled. I must be remembering this wrong. Fr. Ryan must have skipped some classes or some students. In any case, the effect was terrifying.

In second grade (1965-1966) I was in a combined class of first graders and second graders. The first graders outnumbered us by at least two to one. The teacher who received this unenviable assignment was Sr. Lucy.

Sr. Lucy habitually abandoned our class during the lunch hour, presumably to fix herself a stiff drink or take a sedative. During her absence we were not allowed to cavort or even to speak. One student was assigned the role of monitor. This lucky person was assigned the task of taking down the names of miscreants. After a while this nerve-wracking duty was permanently assigned to me. I must have been rather judicious. I was never depantsed or beaten senseless at recess.

I remember a few episodes from this class. The first one was when someone decided to stage a basketball game at recess between the second-grade boys in our room and the other group of second-grade boys. We only used one basket. There were no substitutions. Everyone played who was there. There was no referee. Only a few of us were able to get the ball up as high as the basket.

The other team had more than twice as many boys as ours. They won the game rather easily. I was still the biggest kid in our class, and I scored all of our points. I don’t know why I remember this pathetic exercise. Maybe it was the first time that I participated in a team event in which someone kept score.

One of the students, whose last name was Martindale, had trouble reading. His parents obviously helped him study the text beforehand. When called upon to read aloud, he would retell the story but he did not use the words of the text. Many of us giggled, but I don’t remember anyone ridiculing him about it.

By the way, we did not use the “Dick and Jane” books that were a staple at the public schools. The protagonists in our books were David and Ann. Every once in a while a lesson involving Catholic principles was included. I remember that their father lost his job at some point. Things like that never happened to Dick and Jane.

We second graders spent a great deal of time preparing for our first communion, which is, or at least was, a very big deal for young Catholics. As part of our preparation Sr. Lucy required us to memorize a list of items from our catechism,¹ which consisted a set of questions and incontestable answers. The first two were:

Fr. Ryan put the host right on the tongue. There was no handoff.

Q: Who made you?
A: God made me.
Q: Why did God make you?
A: God made me to show forth his goodness and to make me happy with him in heaven.

When Sr. Lucy interrogated the second graders (out loud) on the answers that we were required to memorize, I was unable to come up with the complete answer to one of the questions. This distressed me terribly. I had not encountered much failure since dealing with the boxes of letters that hid from me at St. Peter’s; to fail at something so important was devastating. I think that I felt that I had let down my mom, who had quizzed me the night before. Sr. Lucy tried to console me.

I also remember fainting once when we were preparing for first communion. It is the only time that I have fainted in my life, and in the first class section of a flight I once sat next to the one and only Desmond Howard, Michigan’s Heisman Trophy winner and ESPN star.

Before we could receive communion, we had to go to confession, which meant that we had to confront Fr. Ryan one-on-one. Until Fr. Finnerty arrived a year or two later, Fr. Ryan had no assistants. I can’t say that I remember any details. I don’t remember what I admitted to in that first confession, but I certainly did not ask forgiveness for beating up that BAD kid in kindergarten.

My third grade teacher was Mrs. Nolan. There was such an influx of students that we now had two full classrooms of third graders, and wings had been added to the school building to accommodate this.

I was very happy not to be in the other third-grade class, which was taught by the notorious Sr. Veronica. She often made errant children kneel in the hallways. One time she yanked by the ear a boy who was not moving rapidly enough to suit her. The ear tore near the lobe and a large quantity of blood erupted. He was not badly hurt, but he looked like someone took a knife to him.

Decades later I told my dad how mean Sr. Veronica was. He informed me that she had taught at Holy Name when he was a boy. He also told me that her twin sister was much meaner, and everyone was terrified of her. I asked him what became of her, half expecting him to say that a house had landed on her. Remember, this is Kansas; tornadoes were common.

By the third grade most of the boys realized that acting up in class was not worth the punishment, which at QHRS was quick and rather severe. The worst punishment was to be sent to Sr. Dominica’s office, over the door to which was a sign advising those who entered to abandon all hope before they crossed the threshold.

However, many of us came to appreciate that our teacher would occasionally need to leave the classroom for a few minutes. During that interlude we could get away with all kinds of mayhem as long as we were not caught when she returned. In our class the mechanism for this was the “spitball” (or “spitwad” in some dialects), a piece of paper which had been formed into a ball and placed in one’s mouth until it congealed into a spheroid suitable for throwing. A piece of notebook paper could generate two good spitballs. I prided myself on having two or three spitballs concealed and at the ready at all times.

As soon as the teacher left the room an aerial battle pitting the guys in the desks near the door (my team) against the the enemy forces by the windows would ensue. The guys seated in the middle and all the girls occasionally incurred collateral damage. War is not pretty.

My usual strategy was to fire all my missile early and then to switch to using my three-ring binder as a shield. When the teacher returned, the boys still actively engaged in combat sometimes were punished, but I was never caught in the act.

At the end of our last third grade class, Mrs. Nolan announced that she and her husband were moving to Venezuela. Therefore, she would not be teaching at QHRS any more. Everyone was sad.

My memories of fourth, fifth, and sixth grades are sketchy. I only had one teacher per year, but I cannot recall who taught which year. I am pretty sure that I had Sr. Ralph and Sr. Kevin once each. One of the two might have taught me twice. If not, I don’t remember who the other teacher could have been.

In one of these years our whole class received the sacrament of confirmation, the most difficult of all the sacraments to explain to heathens and apostates. It is not a prerequisite for anything, and no additional obligations are entailed. From the perspective of the students there are two salient factors: 1) You are allowed/required to pick a “confirmation name”. 2) The sacrament is administered by the local bishop (in our case the archbishop) himself.

St. Peter's supposed sword is in the Poznań Archdiocesan Museum in Poland. — St. Peter’s supposed sword is in the Poznań Archdiocesan Museum in Poland.

I picked the name Peter to honor St Peter the apostle. So, my official Catholic name is Michael Dennis Peter Wavada. Everyone was required/allowed to choose the name of a saint whom he/she especially admired. Despite the bad memories of the eponymous school in KC KS, I picked Peter. It was mostly because of the dashing way that he had wielded his sword to relieve Malchus of one of his ears.

The appearance of Archbishop Hunkeler in our parish was a very big deal. He was the bishop at the time that our diocese was promoted to being an archdiocese. So, he was the very first Archbishop of KC KS. This is a very important distinction, but I have never been able to figure out exactly why.

The big moment in the ceremony is when the archbishop addresses each candidate individually and slaps her/him on the face. Anyone who runs to his/her parents to get mom to kiss the boo-boo or dad to beat up the archbishop is automatically disqualified. Everyone else is accepted. In our class everyone took the blow like a soldier of Christ, although a few students flinched. Frankly, I think that the archbishop’s right hook did not have as much power as we had heard. He was, after all, in his sixties.

The nuns liked to ask question in class. If you thought that you knew the answer, you raised your hand. The nuns often liked to call on kids who did not know the answer. I remember holding my hand up for so long that I had to support it with the other one. All the time I was saying “S’ter, s’ter” to get her attention. Other kids were doing the same.

English was not my favorite subject, but I loved diagramming sentences. Many students hated it, but it just seemed to come naturally to me.

I was shocked to learn that most of the kids were paid by their parents for A’s and B’s on their report cards. Mine wanted to know what the problem was when I got a B. I never received a C except in music and art. I felt a little cheated by the lack of remuneration, but I did not complain to my parents.

After a few years it was evident that, while I had no difficulty at all with any of the other subjects, I had absolutely zero talent for art. The lack did not bother me. While the teachers droned on about something that I already understood, I often drew battle scenes that involved lots of strafing of stick figures by stick airplanes. I was only marginally better at music, which at QHRS was identified with singing ability.

In fourth grade I could no longer see the blackboard very well. The teacher told my mom that I probably needed glasses. She was definitely right. My first pair had grey plastic frames. By the time that I finished high school my vision was 20-400 in one eye and 20-450 in the other. However, I could see OK with my glasses, and I could read with them or without them.

May and September in Kansas City are hot, and the school had no air conditioning. The teachers opened some windows from the top using a long stick with a hook on it. Flies then invaded the rooms in substantial numbers. I was a ruthless murderer of the interlopers, mostly with my bare hands. I was equally adept with the clapping method and the one-handed grab and squeeze. It grossed out the girls, but no one complained.

A guy in our class, Mike O’Shea, claimed that he had been run over by a truck. He said that he fell down in the street as the truck was speeding toward him. It was too late to get up, and so he positioned himself so that the wheels missed him. By flattening himself he avoided the undercarriage. This was the first time in my life that I disbelieved what someone told me. Who knows? Maybe it did happen.

Even if it did, I could top it. Everyone in the class witnessed the time that I ran over a car.

No, no. It's not really Red Rover unless you play on asphalt. — No, no. You have to play Red Rover on asphalt.

Recess: We had two fifteen-minute recesses, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. We also had thirty minutes to play outdoors after lunch. The lower grades played on the asphalt. The upper grades played on the dirt behind the schools. Popular activities for the boys were Red Rover, dodgeball, beanbag tag, and a self-describing game called Kill the man with the ball. We would have played the usual sports, but there was not enough time to get organized.

The girls mostly jumped rope while singing or played pat-a-cake while singing. Their squandering of precious recess time with such meaningless endeavors was the main reason that I had such a low opinion of them.

Red Rover and kill the man with the ball caused a lot of bruises, scrapes, and torn garments. However, the one time that I got really hurt at recess was while playing beanbag tag. Someone else threw the bag at me when I was running full speed on the asphalt. I neglected to account for a car that was parked there. There was a lot of blood. The wound required nineteen stitches, but they were on the inside of my right cheek. There was no scar, and it healed fast.

I always title this story “The time that I ran over a car.” By the way, I leapt at the last second, and the beanbag missed me. The guy who was “it” had to crawl under the car to get the beanbag.

When we were in the upper grades, and the springtime weather was nice enough, all the boys would sprint to our designated area to play baseball. The play resumed exactly where we had left off at the end of the previous recess, which may have been the previous Friday. Not a second was wasted.

They did not happen often, but fights sometimes broke out at recess. They were usually preceded by an exchange of pushes and exclamations, the most common of which was “Oh, yeah?” When the first punch was thrown, a circle was formed around the contestants. Eventually a nun would come, blow her whistle, and shame the pugilists into ceasing.

I was in my share of fights. The only one that I remember losing was not at school. Michael Bortnick, who lived behind me and was bigger than I was, pinned me down and then beat on me until I said “uncle.” I went to my mom and complained. She said, “Well, if he is bigger and stronger than you, you shouldn’t fight with him.” I was dumbstruck.

I remember my last fight, which was in the fifth grade. My opponent was Tom Guilfoyle. We had been fighting for a few seconds when he threw a haymaker at my face. He missed, and I continued to fight. However, at the moment that his right fist went sailing past my face I made a resolution to stay away from fights. I never came close to getting in another one. Even in my dotage I still avoid verbal arguments.

If we had to stay inside, there were board games and card games for us to play. I remember that in the second grade, I played checkers many evenings and weekends with my dad. I never won a single game. I also played checkers against my classmates at recess, and I never lost.

I remember playing a card game called Authors. I think that when you collected three or four books by the same author, you could win points. It resembled Rummy. By the time that I read any of these books or poems at least I knew what the authors looked like and the names of some of their other works. I think that I eventually read every one of these authors except, of course, Louisa Mae Alcott.

I also seem to remember Chinese checkers. There must have been quite a few other games, but I don’t remember them.

Field Trips: My recollection is that the entire school attended The Ten Commandments and Ben Hur at a big theater. Maybe they limited attendance to the older grades. I got very little out of these movies. Everything but the chariot race bored me. Maybe I was too young; maybe I just don’t like religious movies; maybe I don’t like Charlton Heston.

I don’t remember the year, but my class went to a matinee concert by the Kansas City Philharmonic. I enjoyed that. I also liked our eighth grade field trip to the Natural History Museum at KU.

This wasn’t a field trip, but a small acting company came to our school and put on a melodrama. I thought that it was awful.

1. The most commonly used was A Catechism of Christian Doctrine, Prepared and Enjoined by Order of the Third Council of Baltimore, generally called the Baltimore Catechism. I think that the one that we used was slightly different.

1962-1966 Miscellaneous Part 2: Outside of School

Posted on August 15, 2020 by Mike

Other events Continue reading →

From the front the house looks pretty much the same as in 1962. — From the front 8800 Fairway looks pretty much the same as in 1962, but two bedrooms and a bathroom were added to the back. My parents paid $35,000 in 1962. It is now worth $894,000.

We moved from Prairie Village to Leawood at some point during the summer of 1962. This allowed me to walk to and from Rockhurst High School. My sister Jamie went to first grade at Curé of Ars¹ school, a brand new parish and school that was about 1.3 miles southwest of our house.

Boy Scouts: I was still in my original troop (#295) during the summer of 1962. I went to Camp Nash with that troop during the summer. By the end of the summer I needed only one merit badge to attain the rank of eagle.

I learned from the weekly bulletin at church that a new troop would be forming at Curé of Ars, #395. I signed up as one of the founding members. Most of the fathers running the new troop were former members of St. Ann’s parish in Prairie Village.

One scout in particular, Rob Runnels, was very disappointed to learn that he would not be the first eagle scout in the new troop. He was at least a year behind me.

I finished the requirements at some point in my freshman year. I needed only to go before a Board of Review of three officials from other troops. I don’t know why, but they did not like my attitude. They dressed me down for being, I guess, too flippant. Eventually they approved me after I promised to help someone else achieve the rank. Many guys quit immediately after becoming eagles, but that was never my intention.

I went to Camp Nash in 1963 with Troop 395. I was either Senior Patrol Leader or Junior Assistant Scoutmaster. Rob was the other one.

The neighborhood: Our new house was (and still is) in a very nice neighborhood. All the bedrooms were a little larger than those of our previous dwelling, and we also had a family room, a dining room, a fireplace, a double garage, a basement, a patio, central air conditioning, a patio, and a huge backyard. Oh, yes, it also had an attic fan that my dad insisted on running instead of the air conditioner all night all summer.

My sister quickly made friends with a girl her age name Trudy Shirley, who lived a block south of us. For some reason when Fairway crossed 89th St., the name of the road changed to Meadow Lane, which is the street that Trudy lived on.

Two boys who were one year my junior lived on Fairway. Sal Dasta was, I think, the nephew of Vincent Dasta, who had a construction company in KC and donated a lot of money to Rockhurst High School. He donated so much money that the football stadium was named after him.

Sal did not go to Rockkhurst. He went to Bishop Miege, the same school that my sister attended seven years later. The Dasta family moved at some point while I was in high school. I never spent much time with Sal.

The Cipollas lived in the house on the far right. They also owned the lot that now has a big house with large trees on it.

I spent a lot of time at John Cipolla’s house for all four years that I was in high school. His parents owned the house on the east side of the street on the corner of 89th St. They also owned the vacant lot next door. They had a daughter who was a year or two older (and a decade or two more mature) than I was. Everyone called her Sugar; I don’t know if that was her name or a term of endearment. Here are some of the reasons that I spent a lot of time at John’s house, and he spent virtually none at mine:

A regulation basketball goal on a large driveway with a powerful set of spotlights.
A swimming pool.
An entire vacant lot large enough to play touch football or softball on. It included a backstop.
High-quality balls of all kinds.
An arcade-quality pinball machine.
A set of weights and barbells.
Tumbling mats.

A 9′ perfectly balanced pool table with leather pockets, overhead lighting, a set of excellent cues, and enough room on all sides. It supposedly came from a pool hall.
A half bath in the basement with a sign that said “We don’t swim in your toilet; please don’t pee in our pool.”
A sister with huge gazoingies, but she was seldom around.
A subscription to Playboy. I might have forgotten to mention this one to my parents.

There was also a beautiful set of golf clubs in the garage. They were there the first time that I visited him, and they had not moved a millimeter by my last visit.

John was adopted (and he knew it), but his parents treated him like the Dauphin. He had had polio as a child, but it did not affect him much when I knew him. He was not a great athlete, but he was OK at pretty much everything except sprinting. His parents had put in the swimming pool to help his therapy, and he was a good swimmer.

John's was very similar to the one featured her. — John’s was very similar to the one featured here. He did not play by sense of smell, but he was unbeatable.

Guys were always gathered at the Cipolla house. In bad weather we usually shot pool or played pinball. John was quite good at both of these activities. A guy whose last name was Joyce lived on 89th St. He was the first non-adult I had met who smoked. He was a pretty good shot at pool, almost as good as John. I was not nearly as accurate as they were, but I taught myself how to control the cue ball. I was competitive in everything except nine-ball, and I was quite good at a game that we called “table billiards” that was played with a cue ball and three colored balls.

One of my proudest moments was when some guys whom John knew from school showed up to play touch football. I was one of the last guys chosen, but I scored several touchdowns because I was much better than I looked. As usual, no one guarded me when I went out for a pass.

John and I occasionally went to the mall together. I remember that once he deliberately cut himself on the hand. He then walked into the Christian Science Reading Room and asked the lady at the desk for some MercuroChrome. I don’t know what she said, but he was giggling when he returned.

On another occasion we were going up an escalator together. On his left was another escalator going down—like an X. At the crossing point he reached over to a unsuspecting lady on the down escalator and mussed up her hair. I could not believe he did that. I don’t deny that I probably laughed. There was not much she could do.

John’s dad’s name was Frank “Chips” Cipolla. The family pronounced the last name sih POE lah.I later learned that cipolla means onion in Italian, and it is pronounced chee POE lah. Chips owned Monarch Electric Co. My dad told me that his business was sketchy. Actually, he did not use the word “sketchy”, but I don’t want a severed horse’s head to appear in my bed.

While I was away at college I learned that John had put a loaded shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. I had never seen that shotgun. I wonder what other goodies he had that I never learned about.

During the last year or two of high school another guy my age moved in next door. He went to the other major prep school in the KC area, Pembroke Country Day. Their students were called the Daisies by guys at Rockhurst. I don’t remember the fellow’s name, but he was allergic to grass, and so he stayed inside almost all the time. He was an avid chess player, and he subscribed to chess magazines. Whenever I was around he cajoled me into playing chess with him. He was not very good. Any of the guys in Rockhurst’s chess club would have destroyed him.

Music: I began to become interested in popular music around the eighth grade. By the time that the Beatles arrived in 1964 I had become somewhat obsessed. Like most of my classmates, I listened to Don Armstrong (“DA the DJ”) on WHB nearly every evening.

Unlike my classmates I created my own list, which I called WAVE’s Prime 29, every week. I typed it out and saved them all for years. It was good typing practice, and it paid off any time anyone played “Name it and claim it” and a few decades later when Trivial Pursuit became the rage.

At some point my parents bought me a pool table for Christmas. It was not in the same league as John Cipolla’s. It was only a six-footer, and the top was warped in one corner. Nevertheless, I spent a lot of time in the basement shooting pool and listening to my records. I must have listened to Highway 61 Revisited at least one hundred times.

I listened to some of my mother’s records, too. I liked the French music and the Russian music, but I had no use for her Broadway show tunes. My dad, by the way, had no records. He was tone deaf. The only music he liked was monks chanting.

Sports: I followed all sports. My favorite was football, but it was obvious that my two touchdowns in the eighth grade would probably be the apex of my football career. My parents bought me a backboard and basketball hoop. My granddad helped mount it on the roof over the garage. It wasn’t quite high enough, and the rim broke fairly soon. So, practicing on it was probably counterproductive.

I spent a lot of time in the backyard trying to improve my golf swing. my dad had a copy of Ben Hogan’s book, and I modeled my swing on his. I did not follow his advice on the waggle, which had fallen out of fashion since he retired. I still have the book fifty-five years later.

I never got to be very good at golf. My swing was pretty good, but with my puny build I had to swing very hard to get reasonable distance. Moreover, my pitching and putting were not reliable, to say the least. My vision was not the best either. I had trouble keeping track of the flight of the ball, and, of course, I was very bad at finding it in the rough.

For a handful of years I spent a week during the summer at my uncle’s house in Kelly, KS. Those adventures, including some golf outings on a rather unique course, are described in Part 3.

Vacations: My dad liked to spend his allotted vacation time in, of all places, Cass Lake, MN. I am not sure why. We went there three or four times, and we always stayed in a cabin at the same place. The name of the place was Journey’s End or something like that. We had access to the lake, but we seldom used it. We rented a boat a couple of times, but my dad was not a fisherman, and he did not know how to swim.

Maybe the idea was to escape the heat of Kansas City. My recollection is that the weather was quite good on these trips. Nevertheless, I remember that in Iowa we once stayed in a motel that did not have air conditioning. The manager brought a tiny fan into the room. It did not help. The heat did not bother me; it seldom does. However, the rest of the family suffered.

Instead of water sports my dad and I played golf almost every day. The local course had sand greens like the one in Seneca, KS, that we played on when we visited Fr. Joe in Kelly. We played there a few times, but mostly we drove to other places in the area that had traditional courses.

Perhaps I should mention that my dad was not a good golfer. For one thing he was left handed, but he played golf right-handed, the opposite of Phil Mickelson. He had no power, and his ball always sliced. He was not a bit scientific. It annoyed me when he asked me what he was doing wrong. I wanted to say, “Well, your grip keeps you from snapping your wrist properly. Your stance prevents you from twisting your hips, and you always swing outside-in. You should fix all of those things first.” Instead, I just mumbled “I don’t know.”

His short game was much better than mine, however. So, we kept on playing for years. I don’t know if he enjoyed it. I enjoyed being on a golf course, but I usually ended the round in a bad mood.

Usually we drove up through the center of Iowa to Minnesota, but once we must have taken the western route through Nebraska and South Dakota. At my insistence we stopped at Wall Drug, the biggest tourist trap ever. I wonder what Wall Drug would have done if someone asked a clerk where they kept the aspirin.

We stayed overnight in Rapid City, which I thought was a pretty nice place, mostly because I found a radio station that played rock and roll music. The next day we went to Mount Rushmore. I think that we then drove up to North Dakota before we turned east to my dad’s favorite spot.

More than once we also drove up to Bemidji, where Jamie and I gaped at the huge statues of Paul Bunyan and Babe the blue ox and the singularly unimpressive source of the Mississippi River. Bemidji also had a rather nice golf course.

For the life of me I cannot remember what else Jamie did on these trips.

They take education seriously in the Shawnee Mission school district.

Driving: During the summer of 1964 I took the drivers’ education course at Shawnee Mission East High School.² I walked to the classes. It was the first time since kindergarten that I attended a public school. The rest of the students all knew one another.

At least one of the instructors was a (football, I think) coach at SME. On our first practice drive I was in a car with him and two girls. One of the girls went first. After driving very slowly and carefully for five or ten minutes she came to an abandoned railroad track and proceeded to cross it. The instructor was in the passenger’s seat in front with the window rolled down and his arm hanging out. As we crossed the track he smashed his fist down on the top of the car and announced “We just got hit by a train.”

The girl driving the car was paralyzed with terror. The other girl had to take over the driving while we were still on the track.

I passed the driving test without too much difficulty, and I received the highest score on the written test. It was fun to listen to the other students asking one another who was Wuh-VAH-duh.

I got my driver’s license on my sixteenth birthday. That fall I had a very minor accident in the parking lot of my dentist’s office. I did not do the right thing, and, for the first time in my life I could have (probably should have) gotten in a lot of trouble. However, by that time I had attended mass a truly incredible number of times and I had amassed a large number of prayers and indulgences. My guardian angel looked after me.

Amusements: At some point I learned how to play bridge. I don’t think that they taught me. Who would have been the fourth? I think that I must have read Charles Goren’s book on bridge that was on the bookshelf in the living room. Then I must have played with three of my high school friends a few time, although I have no memory of the specifics. It would be easy to get a foursome at Dan Waters’ house, and I went there several times.

I remember that once John Williams and I went to Worlds of Fun to hear the Shadows of Knight, the group that scored with Gloria. They were awful.

I went to a few movies with other guys from school. The school showed The Mouse that Roared, which was pretty good. I was very impressed by Peter Sellers, and the board game Diplomacy that the diplomats played in Grand Fenwick intrigued me. I discovered that there was a real Diplomacy game and brought it with me to Ann Arbor.

Twice I went to movies by myself. On the yearly Jesuit holiday one year I walked up to the Ward Parkway Mall to watch West Side Story. That was weird; I was the only person in the theater. The other occasion was to see Dr. Strangelove, my favorite move of all time. For some reason I could not persuade anyone to go with me.

The most memorable time of all of these years was when a bunch of us went to the American Royal auditorium in KC KS to see the greatest wrestling card in the recent history of KC. A few preliminary matches (one with midgets!) preceded the two headliners.

In the second-to-last match the North American Tag-Team Champions Bob Geigel and Bob Brown (two local wrestlers) against Dick the Bruiser, the heel of all heels, and Cowboy Bob Ellis, the all-American good guy complete with white cowboy hat. Heels never paired up with pretty boys, and Geigel and Brown always cheated. So, for one night Dick the Bruiser became the world’s ugliest pretty boy. This may have been the only time ever that the Bruiser and the Cowboy teamed up.

Since it was a title match, it was best two falls out of three. The NATTC was a local belt, and so Geigel and Brown had to win the third fall, which they did through some illegal tactic that I don’t remember. They couldn’t let this belt leave the KC area unless Bruiser and Ellis were scheduled to return soon, which was highly unlikely.

What I vividly remember was that during the second fall Bruiser was lying helpless on his back with his head lifted a few inches off the mat. Brown went over to him and tried to push the head down with one foot. It did not budge. Then—I swear this actually happened!—Brown stood on his forehead for a few seconds while Bruiser used his massive shoulder muscles to keep his head off the canvas. Then, of course, Cowboy Bob came to the rescue.

The final match between WWA World Champion Gene Kiniski and local hero the Mongolian stomper was easily the best wrestling match I have ever scene. Kiniski wiped the floor with the Stomper in the first fall. The second fall started the same way, but then the support of the local crowd revived the Stomper, and he pinned the champ. Nobody got too excited. Everyone knew that each guy would

In the third fall the Stomper again overcame early difficulties to gain control. He had Kiniski in an airplane spin, which was the prelude to his finishing moves. The crowd got very excited, but somehow Kiniski’s boot hooked on the top rope causing the Stomper to fall on his back, and Kiniski landed right across his shoulders.

It was the most beautifully choreographed maneuver that I ever saw. 1-2-3 the match was over. Kiniski won, and the crowd was in an uproar.

Food: My mother was a great cook. Her meals were nutritious and delicious. We had my favorite, fried chicken, nearly every week. Dessert was not always provided, but sometimes my mother would bake apple or cherry pies that were to die for. I also admit to consuming a substantial amount of potato chips and cokes.

We seldom went to restaurants. Instead, my dad decided that we would enjoy steak dinners every Saturday nights. If the weather was decent, he would grill them, and I certainly cannot complain about the results.

My parents really provided a wonderful environment for my sister and me. It met or exceeded the lifestyle of wholesome suburban kids on TV.

1. The curé of Ars is better known as St. John Vianney. Curé just means “parish priest”. It always struck me as very strange that whoever came up with the name of the parish in Kansas used the French word for priest but the English word “of”. The Catholic Encyclopedia says that during the last ten years of his life (which ended in 1859) he heard confessions for sixteen to eighteen hours per day. I doubt that many of the twenty thousand who flocked to Ars every year were dancers. J.V. refused absolution to all who engaged in “paganic dancing.”

2. There is a town named Shawnee and a town named Mission. Shawnee Mission is the name of the postal district and educational district that includes those towns, Overland Park, Prairie Village, Leawood, and others. As of 2018 27,648 students attended classes at the district’s five high schools, five middle schools, thirty-four elementary schools, and six instructional centers. Over 400,000 people now live in the district, more than in Wichita, the largest city in Kansas.

1962-1966 Miscellaneous Part 3: Kelly, KS

Posted on August 14, 2020 by Mike

Kelly, KS, the cultural center of Nemaha County. Continue reading →

It was a long haul from our house (lower right) to Kelly, KS.

My dad’s brother, Rev. Vincent Wavada, OSB (known to us as Fr. Joe),¹ was a very interesting person. I first met him when I was in grade school. At the time he was living in Burlington, IA. I am not sure if Burlington was our destination or we were stopping there on a trip to somewhere else. He was a Benedictine monk. Maybe he was living in a monastery there. Since he had a masters degree in economics from the University of Chicago, maybe he was teaching. I don’t know, and I can think of no way of researching this.

During one of my visits there the inside of this stunning church was refurbished.

At some point Fr. Joe was transferred by the abbot to St. Bede’s parish in Kelly, KS. He was certainly there in 1961; he might have arrived a little earlier. St. Bede’s church is by far the most prominent building in Kelly, which in my day was the home of a few hundred German Catholics and one Wavada. Next to the church was the rectory. Behind the rectory were pens for his two hunting dogs, Hans, a German shorthaired pointer, and Mimi, a Brittany Spaniel.

The rectory had two or three bedrooms upstairs. Fr. Joe slept in one, and I stayed in the guest bedroom. Downstairs was a kitchen, a dining room, and an office. His housekeeper for decades was Mrs. Kohake.²

All the roads in Kelly were dirt or gravel. When you encountered another car on a road, you were expected to wave to them, even if you did not know them. The roads were also straight. There is no reason to put a curve in a road in this part of Kansas. The roads ran north-south or east-west.

Downtown Kelly was just a couple of blocks from the church and rectory, but people in Kelly did not use the word “blocks”. I have marked out the downtown area in blue. The only building that I ever went into was the Post Office, which was on the northwest corner. It was also a general store and maybe a gas station. When I was there the largest building across the street was a feed and seed store. There might have been a bank of sorts when I first started going to Kelly. I don’t know what the other buildings were.

When I was there, Kelly had a grade school and a high school, but I am pretty sure that both of them have been closed for quite a few years.

As you may have guessed, just about everyone in Kelly aside from my uncle, the postmistress, and the guy who ran the feed store, was a farmer. The Post office was in operation for a century, but it closed in 1988. Also, just about everyone in Kelly aside from my uncle was German.

My dad, Fr. Joe, and I would often play golf together, usually at the closest course in Seneca. It was quite an experience. There were only nine holes, and there was no clubhouse. Near the first tee was a metal box in which you were supposed to insert your green fees. Right in the middle of the course was an air strip that was marked with out-of bounds stakes. I seem to remember a plane landing there at least once. After landing the occupants of the plane left it on the side of the air strip and walked away. There was nothing resembling an airport.

The most striking feature of the course was the fact that it had perfectly flat sand greens. They were quite small, perhaps 30-50% of the size usually associated with greens. The sand was not deep, and it was oiled. It was nothing like being in a sand trap. Each green was equipped with a rake and a roller. When you got your ball on the green, you used the roller to smooth out the sand from the hole to where your ball was. You then putted on the smoothed-out surface.

It was no more difficult to judge the speed of putts than on a flat grass surface and much easier than on a hilly grass surface. Moreover, this being Kansas, you did not really need to worry much about the putt breaking one way or the other. Three-putting was almost unheard of.

It was, however, quite difficult to make an iron shot stop on the green. There was no “bite”. You had to leave the shot short and hope that the ball bounced or rolled onto the green and then ran out of steam.

The course had no watering system, and in late summer it was similar to playing on asphalt with patches here and there of grass and weeds. Nevertheless, I enjoyed playing here immensely. A few times Fr. Joe and I played during my annual stay. He always had a better score than I did, and that bothered me. I took the game much too seriously.

When Fr. Joe moved to Kelly, he was an avid hunter. However, he soon traded in his rifle or shotgun for a camera. He would take his dogs out to scare up pheasants or quail. I wasn’t even slightly interested in this activity, but I did learn to make a respectable quail call, which sounds like “Bob White”.

We did go fishing together, at least one evening per week. I had my own fishing rod and some lures. Fr. Joe used his fly rod if we were fishing in a farmer’s pond, or a regular rod if we went to the small lake that was nearby. I used to drive him crazy because I could not stop myself from calculating the percentage of bites that we got per cast and the percentage of fish we caught per nibble. We did catch a few. I am pretty sure that I caught at least one. My recollection is that our most common victims were crappie and bluegill. We usually threw the crappies back.

Being an early riser, I usually was up and about a little before Fr. Joe. Once or twice I saw him shave. He used a straight razor, which he kept sharp with a leather strop. I thought that that was really cool.

During the day Fr. Joe was often busy with church stuff. I would watch TV, the antenna of which was capable of receiving two channels, #2 from St. Joseph, MO, and #13 from Topeka, KS. I remember watching lots of game shows. My favorite was Video Village. I also watched the wrestling shows from St. Joe on Saturday morning. This was a particular treat that I could not enjoy at home.

I had no trouble keeping myself occupied. I often pitched golf balls in the side yard. No one cared if I replaced my divots. I would occasionally go for fairly long walks. It was not exactly scenic, but every so often something would catch my attention.

Fr. Joe was an accomplished artist. Unfortunately, at the time I had not the slightest interest in the subject. When he came to visit us, Fr. Joe, my mom, and I would sometimes go to the Nelson Gallery of Art. I can’t say that these were my favorite times.

The three of us also went to a few movies. One was Dr. Zhivago. I complained about the scene at the end, where they are standing on a dam and talking about progress. He explained why this device was necessary from a literary perspective, but I didn’t buy it. The actual dam, by the way, is on the border of Spain and Portugal!

What I did enjoy was talking about books. Fr. Joe had read essentially everything worth reading. At the time I was most entertained by murder mysteries, but I had an open mind. When he came to KC, we always went to at least one bookstore. I think that the thing that he liked the least about living in Kelly was that there were no decent bookstores anywhere in the area. He had probably read more books than the rest of Kelly combined.

I also went to church, at least on Sundays. I was startled by the fact that Fr. Joe was a terrible preacher. I don’t know if he just hated the idea of preaching to people, or if he had never had any training in public speaking. There was no emotion whatever in his presentation, and his delivery was full of verbal stops. This actually shocked me, because 1) my dad was a prize-winning speaker, and 2) until this point it seemed reasonable to conclude that Fr. Joe was good at everything.

Fr. Joe introduced me to the comedy of the Marx Brothers and W.C. Fields. I have watched all of their films, and many of them I have watched multiple times. I have performed Fields’s “You’ve got to take a chance when you’re young” routine from The Bank Dick countless times at the bridge table. It always breaks people up.

One thing that I did not do is listen to music. I did not bring any of my records, and I was not crazy about Fr. Joe’s. I also left my transistor radio at home. There was no hope of picking up a station that played Top 40 songs.

My sister Jamie worshiped Father Joe. For some reason they called each other “Stink”. After I graduated from college and left for the army, she started spending time in the summers in Kelly, as I had. I am not sure how she spent her time there. I seldom saw her until she moved to New England many years later.

1. Fr. Joe died in 1990. His obituary is here.

2. Mrs. Kohake died in 2007. Her obituary is here.

Wavablog

Memoirs, bridge, popes, travel, and other stuff

Monthly Archives: August 2020

1955-1961 Part 3: Baseball

1955-1961 Part 2: The Neighborhood

1955-1961 Part 1: QHRS

1962-1966 Miscellaneous Part 2: Outside of School

1962-1966 Miscellaneous Part 3: Kelly, KS