Turkey Bowl Weapon

Microsoft Word Illustration

by Robert Giles

I remember the day Roy Schwartz moved into our neighborhood. He smiled at us from the back window of his dad’s car, his nose pressed against the glass. His face was red and freckled.

That first afternoon, we invited Roy to play German ball. We gave him the honor of the first at bat. Roy hit a wicked liner so hard it knocked down one of the overhead wires that crossed the street. We scattered in all directions but in fact, there was no danger of electrocution. It was a telephone wire.

Mrs. Sedakis borrowed her neighbor's phone to call the police. A patrolman arrived and put up a road block. In the meantime, someone with more sense called Bell Telephone. A truck arrived and a lineman reattached the wire to the house where it had been knocked loose.

Mrs. Sedakis wanted to put us in Allencrest for knocking her phone out of service, but the police chief ruled it an accident and assured her that she wouldn't get a bill. The lineman concurred. I guess Bell Telephone had so much money it couldn't be bothered.

We reconvened in the Schwartz’s backyard. Roy's mom made us a pitcher of Kool-Aid. We raised a cup to our new friend.

Roy Schwartz was a large boy for his age. He was not only big; he was mature in other ways too. Roy started shaving when he was thirteen and began to develop male pattern baldness at sixteen. I wish I could say that he was a well-rounded person, but Roy had difficulty in school.

What an addition to the neighborhood he was - someone big and strong, yet pliant and eager to please.

We realized right away that Roy gave us a powerful weapon against the “top of the hill” in the annual Thanksgiving Turkey Bowl.

Roy had inherited one of those old-fashioned leather football helmets that fit snug to the head. Unlike the fiberglass ones that made heads appear larger, it seemed to make Roy's head shrink.
Still, Roy cut an impressive figure on the gridiron - heavy shoes, cotton pants, and sleeveless shirt, a giant's body and a small head. 

He reminded us of those rams the medieval armies employed to batter down the castle gates.

Roy was not a fast runner but once he got going, he was relentless. The only way our opponents could stop him was to gang tackle him at the line of scrimmage.

That first year we trounced the “top of the hill” team so badly that the next year they recruited a quarterback from the second-team at Geneva College. The outcome of that game is still under protest.

We weren't creative enough to nickname Roy “The Bus”. We settled on “The Horse”.

He tolerated the nickname as long as it was pronounced with the right inflection. If he detected so much as a hint of ridicule, you were “in for it”. One day Roy grabbed a baseball bat and chased Jimmy Dinnerlein all over Byers' Field. It was a good thing for Jimmy that he was fleet-footed. He could never manage to convey the proper respect when he addressed Roy as “Horse”.

One day Roy bet my brother that he could drink two gallons of water in one sitting. 

Later we found out that drinking too much water too quickly can upset the body’s electrolyte balance and lead to death. We had no knowledge of this when Roy offered his wager. We thought the worst that could happen was that Roy would get a stomach ache and possibly throw up. 

We had two one-gallon jugs from Isaly’s. We kept one in reserve until Roy drained the first, then we handed him the second one.

Roy swallowed the second gallon and won the bet. Roy didn’t get sick or throw up or go into a coma and die. He belched loudly once and had to make a lengthy visit to the bathroom.

Another time we went over to Roy’s house after school to watch television. Roy reached in his pants pocket and couldn’t find his key. His mom was visiting out-of-town. Roy’s dad worked at Westinghouse and didn’t get home until later.

We were locked out. What to do? Roy had a good idea. Why not break in?

Roy pointed to his bedroom window. He could pry it open with his pocket knife, but first we had to boost him onto one of the shutters alongside the lower level window. From there he could clamber onto the roof and jimmy the window. Once he got the window open, it would be a simple matter to climb inside and unlock the door.

We boosted with all our might. Roy was a heavy lift. Finally, he gained a toehold on top of the shutter and grasped the rain gutter for support.

Roy straightened up and put his full weight on the shutter. He reached toward the roof, pocket knife in hand. Suddenly the shutter pulled away beneath him. He grabbed the gutter with his free hand but that gave way too.

Everything crashed onto the porch, the shutter, Roy, the rain gutter, and the break-in tool. All in that order.

The front door of the Schwartz house swung wide. Minutes before, Mr. Schwartz had pulled into the back drive, entered through the garage door, and hurried to investigate the commotion on the front porch. 

Roy’s dad looked like one of those Viking warriors who go berserk. He took Roy by the ear and pulled him into the house. We decided to quietly leave.

For a couple of days, we didn’t see Roy at all. Then we learned through the grapevine that he wasn't allowed to pal with us any more. We were “bad influences”.

Wasn't it Roy's idea to break into the house? Why couldn't Mr. Schwartz use the front door instead of sneaking through the back? Why did they put the blame on us?

It was a good thing that parents never remember anything for longer than a week.Time would heal this breach. 

We laid low. On the eighth day, the heat was off. Roy “The Horse” Schwartz was loose again. 

Steelworker Picnic - Part 3

Courtesy, the Author

by Robert Giles

What a curious thing memory is. All those steelworker picnics and I remember four things. We've covered three of them - Dad making a "Huey" on the turnpike, urban blight in the sticks, and the Wildcat. What is the fourth?

Let's go back to that residential street that led us into Idora Park.

“Dad, stop the car. Are those apples under that tree?”

If they were apples, they were the biggest, yellowest apples I had ever seen. Maybe they were grapefruit. My brother got out of the car and fielded a couple.

He passed them around. They were heavy and solid. Their skins were folded and bumpy like the hide on an elephant’s elbow.

We had never seen anything remotely like them.

“Those are Osage oranges”, Dad said authoritatively. “They’re not really oranges. You can’t eat them.”

“What are they good for?”

“Put one under your bed and it’ll keep away bugs. Grandma used to think so anyway. The tree has to be very strong and flexible to bear all that heavy fruit. That's why Indians made their bows from the wood.”

Dad isn’t around anymore to tell us more. We'll have to make do with a link to Wikipedia - maclura pomifera.

...

Besides the one in Youngstown, the only other Osage orange tree I have ever seen stands on the edge of the Delaware Bay in Battery Park, New Castle DE.  I took the photograph at the top of this article at Battery Park. Some day I hope to see a tree in its natural habitat - the Red River Valley.

Courtesy, the Author

Before then I will have to be content with chucking an "orange" into the Delaware Bay when I visit New Castle DE (pictured on left).

...

I moved my family to New Castle PA (that's Pennsylvania, not Delaware) in 1978 and lived there for ten years. 

My wife and I went scouting before the move. We drove north on Route 18. The same decrepit building I first met in 1956 - 1957 greeted us near Wampum. A light bulb still gleamed in a window.

In the 80s Lawrence County began selling itself as a good location for new business. Corporate representatives visited to weigh the pros and cons of locating there. Naturally, when they saw the Wampum area they were taken aback. 

The crumbling apartments along Route 18 were certainly not representative of the entire county, but what did they say about the effectiveness of county, borough, and township governance?

The at-grade railroad crossing further up the road at Mahoningtown didn't help. Railway crossings may be picturesque, but they are outmoded and accidents do happen. 

Route 18 was then the county's southern link to the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Not exactly modern, is it? This town is a bit of a backwater, don't you think? How about a game of checkers while we wait on the train?

In the early to mid '80s, the "eyesore" at Wampum was finally torn down because it was bad for business.

It had been unfit for human habitation for a very long time before that, as even a child could see.

Take a look for yourself at Lawrence County Memoirs.*


*Jeff Bales, Jr., site creator and author.

Ambridge loved parades! Veterans Day, 1958, was a huge one

Three photos of the Ambridge Veterans Day parade, Beaver Valley Times, November 12, 1958

The caption under the photos reads:

VETERANS DAY PARADE IN AMBRIDGE - Approximately 10,000 persons witnessed American Legion Committee's Veterans Day Parade in Ambridge Tuesday night. Another 3,000 persons participated in the parade to climax a five-day celebration which also included a past-commanders banquet, 40 and 8 parade, memorial services and a Gold Star Mothers banquet. Catholic Daughters of America Drum and Bugle Corps can be seen in the picture on the left and the Baden American Legion Drill Team is in action in the center. The photo on the right shows five youngsters enjoying the proceedings. 

The Ambridge of the past loved parades and had several every year.

In the '50s and '60s, Ambridge had annual parades on Christmas, Flag Day, Labor Day, Loyalty Day, Memorial Day, and Veterans Day.

Ambridge had a parade to celebrate its Golden Jubilee on July 2, 1955. An October 2, 1963, torchlight parade featuring KDKA-TV celebrities Josie Carey and John Reed King promoted the United Fund. To promote savings bonds, a Star Spangled Banner Savings Month parade was held in May of '65 and '66.

Nationality Days opened with a parade. There were Soap Box Derby parades and parades to celebrate the state championships of the Ambridge Junior Legion baseball team on August 22, 1961, and the Ambridge Area High School basketball team on March 20, 1967.

The 1958 Veterans Day parade, on the evening of November 11, was a big one, perhaps Ambridge's largest ever, with approximately 3,000 marchers. The staging area began in Fair Oaks at First Street and Beaver Road, continued into Ambridge at Merchant Street, went down Marshall Alley, then Maplewood Avenue, Second Street, Third Street, and Park Road.

The Beaver Valley Times' list of units in the parade is extensive and included a large number of bands, a sizable contingent of veterans groups, Gold Star Mothers, military units, girls and boy scout troops, fraternal organizations, and police and fire companies.

The parade route, past an estimated 10,000 viewers, went up Merchant Street to 14th Street, made a right turn on 14th Street to Duss Avenue, and then another right to end at the high school in the 800 block of Duss.

Steelworker Picnic - Part 2

Microsoft Word Illustration

by Robert Giles

The sign said Wampum PA – one mile. We were still on Route 18 north. We had crossed into Lawrence County.

“Holy moley." I pointed to a ruin of a building set back about 50 yards from the road at the base of a hill. “That looks like one of those buildings in Europe that were bombed during World War II.”

Perhaps a Panzer Division had come south on Route 18 and annihilated the inhabitants. No, there was evidence of life - washing on a clothes line, a lone bulb lighting an apartment window, smoke drifting from a chimney pipe. There were even children playing baseball in a field.

"There can't be people living there, there just can't be."

“Bobby, people have been living there since I was your age. The building has always been kind of seedy, I guess "dilapidated" is the word for it today. It used to be housing for the cement company up ahead. I don't know who the devil owns it now.”

“What do they do when it rains?”

We came to one of those enclosed conveyor systems that carried stone down from the ridge on the east. It looked like a small covered bridge on stilts - a crazy snaking one built over dry land. It went all the way up into the hills toward Ellwood City.

“Out of sight on that hilltop there’s a limestone quarry and a big steam shovel. The limestone is pulverized before it comes down to the plant on that conveyor."

My mood brightened. The thought of riding a conveyor down the hillside reminded me that we were going to Idora Park. 

Soon we were sitting in Mahoningtown waiting for the train to clear at the railroad crossing. I read the names on the boxcars - Erie Lackawanna, Santa Fe, Burlington Route, Ashtabulah.

“Stop bouncing, Bobby, you’re squashing my knee”, my sister gave me a pinch.

We finally arrived in Youngstown. At the end of a residential street was the amusement park. Idora was then or became known for its horticulture, its antique carousel, and its wooden roller coaster, the Wildcat.

It’s the Wildcat I remember best. I was probably too small to pass the height requirement on that first visit. My first ride on the Wildcat happened a few years later.

There was a long wait in line on picnic days. When we got to the ramp, we had to wait another ten minutes to get on the platform. Then we had to stand until the seats emptied for the next ride. If we were very lucky, we got a seat in the first car with nothing in front but the wind.

Finally it was time to ride. We fastened a lap belt across the width of the car. Then we pulled a metal bar down that held us tight against the seat back. A worker checked each seat to make sure we were ready for takeoff.

Right off the bat we went down a hill, a small one I grant you. But how many roller coasters start with a descent? 

"Duck, Bobby, that overhang will take your head off."

Into a tunnel we went. We might see a thin beam of light through a pinhole or two, but otherwise it was complete darkness. 

From blackness we emerged into bright sunlight. That put a strain on the old eyes, didn't it? 

Before us was an impossible hill. There was a clank as a chain gear engaged. The chain pulled the coaster a foot at a time to the top. It seemed to take forever. At the crest of the hill, time stopped entirely as you stole a glance at the abyss. Down, down, down.

That always gave me the willies.

From the top of the first hill, you were the plaything of Newton's Laws, a marble dropped on a set of rails. The hill gave you enough momentum to take you through the rest of the ride and out onto the platform with a whoosh.

Don't ride a wooden coaster if you're not willing to be jerked around. The Wildcat had four hills, each with steep descents. There was a hairpin turn at the start of the final stretch. The abrupt deceleration when you sailed onto the platform at ride's end gave you a whiplash.

A sign cautioned those with medical conditions not to ride the Wildcat. It was good advice. 

For some people the sound of a a roller coaster is screaming voices and the clatter of wheels. For me it is the clank of the chain engaging on that first steep hill. 

If you want a happy, unguarded expression for a photograph, stand with your camera and wait for your subject to come down from the Wildcat. All shields are down. The danger is over. They're glad to be alive.

(For a moment there, I sounded like there was still a Wildcat to ride ... but the famous Wildcat has gone the way of the saber-tooth and the giant ground sloth.)*
_____

*"Heavily damaged by fire on 4/26/1984. What wasn't destroyed by fire was finally demolished on 7/26/2001." - Roller Coaster Database
Idora Park Today - Google Maps

Steelworker Picnic - Part 1

Microsoft Word Illustration

by Robert Giles

My father and mother once did a Tarzan and Jane routine. 

“I Chuck”, my father said. “I Dora”, my mother replied. Then they embraced and Dad gave Mom a kiss.

Maybe that is why Dad would take us to Idora Park for a picnic even though he scorned Kennywood and Westview.

That was about fifty-five years ago. I will tell you the rest of the story, as well as I can remember it.

My first visit to Idora Park dates back to about 1956 or 1957, somewhere about there. My sister’s friend, Janice, had tickets. Her Dad worked at Spangs.

We packed ourselves into my Dad’s station wagon. Janice brought along one or two friends. There were big kids in all three seats. We small-fry had to sit on laps. We didn’t worry about seat belts in those days.

Air conditioning was still not standard equipment either. Too bad, because it was a very hot day.

The car was so heavily loaded that the shock absorbers complained on every curve.

We went out to Warrendale to get on the turnpike. My Dad got confused. He headed east toward Route 8 instead of west toward Route 18.

“Aren’t we going the wrong way, Chuck?”

Dad was feeling the heat. He hated to be caught in a mistake. He would fix things up if he could. What’s that up ahead? Can it be? Yes, it’s a cut-over for the state police. Cops sat in the middle of the cut-over and chased speeders in either direction.

The cut-over was empty. Dad wasn’t about to let an opportunity like that get away. He slipped across the median. We were off and running in the right direction toward Ohio. Dad's destination was the Beaver Falls interchange - the last one before the state line. Dad calculated that he would get more lenient treatment in his home state, if it came to that.

“Chuck, what are you going to tell the man at the toll booth?”

“We’ll find out when we get there. Could you kids pipe down in the back seat!”

….

“Sir, this is an east-bound ticket. “

“I know, I started out in the wrong direction back at Warrendale. I had to make a “Huey”.

“U-turns are against the law on the Pennsylvania Turnpike.”

My Dad gave his best “Oh, shucks” grin and pleaded ignorance. It was somewhere near 90 degrees out. Horns began to beep. The tollgate was backing up.

The turnpike guy peered into the back of the station wagon. “How many passengers have you got in there?”

Dad pretended he didn't hear the question. “We’re on our way to Idora Park for the Spangs picnic.”

The man in the car behind us put his head out the window and started to yell.

The turnpike guy didn’t know what to do next –  he let out a long deep sigh like a tire going flat.

“OK, you and your gang just get the hell out of here.”

Maybe he saw that we were turning blue in the car from a lack of oxygen. Maybe he was fond of Idora Park. Maybe he had kids of his own.

Maybe it’s true what they say – the worst scofflaws are always the ones who get off. They’re too hard to deal with, especially when traffic is backing up and it’s 90 degrees.

Anyway, Dad handed him a fiver and hit the gas. We were on our way north on Route 18.