Just One More Time

Earlier in the week, one of my daughters represented her high school in track for a final time at the State Class MM Championships. It's been an incredible journey watching both of my girls and their teammates run these past four years. I enjoyed watching them and somehow managed to make nearly every single meet. This was no easy feat considering track meets often began during the middle of the work day.

The advice I gave my daughter as she prepared to step onto the track was for her to run as fast as she could and to leave everything she had on the track.

Now, this is certainly not new advice. In fact, it's a cliche. To tell the truth, the advice is not even inspiring. Who hasn't given some variation of that advice to someone preparing to take the field? I continued, "You will never represent your high school competitively again. I don't care if you come in last place, I've been so proud of you and your sister these past four years that it doesn't matter to me."

Again, there's nothing really awe inspiring about the preceding sentence. What father isn't proud of his sons or daughters.

Sensing that I really hadn't motivated and was actually giving a ho-hum speech, I was reminded of my last truly inspiring speech.

My St. Mary-St. Michael School basketball team had made it to the finals of the Greater New Haven Parochial Athletic League Championship game. We were playing a powerhouse team that we had never beaten, but had always come close.

"Girls, I know you could beat this team. The last time we only lost by five and had a lead going into the fourth quarter." At this juncture of my story, I need to back up and describe the final minute of that game.

Somehow in all the excitement, I had lost track of the score. We were fouling and putting the other team on the line with the hopes of climbing back into the game during the waning moments.

With three seconds left, one of my players hit an unlikely three-point shot and I ran out along the sideline like a lunatic..."Time out, time out, time out," I screamed at the referee as I made the time out signal to him.

The girls came to the sideline and I plotted my strategy. "Girls, as soon as they inbound the ball, you need to foul. You can't let any time go off the clock. If you get a chance to steal the inbound pass you need to kick it out for a game tying three point play. This is our only chance to send it to overtime."

It was at that moment when one of the players said, "Coach, but we're down by five."

I thought for a moment and without missing a beat said, "Well, I got nothing. It's been a great year."

Once again, I was foiled by math.

Anyways, back to my speech.

"We had them the last game and let it slip away. Girls, I'm not going to talk about basketball. You all have the skills to play and win this game. I want you to look at the crowd that has been to all our games. They are your moms and dads. Your uncles and aunts. You have their blood flowing through you and do you know what is common about all of you? You are from the Valley. The Valley of Champions. Everyone knows we turn out the best of everything. We have the best football, basketball, and baseball players. We have the best cheerleaders. We make the best leaders and we are tremendous in all that we do. It is that Valley blood that flows through you that will lead us to victory tonight."

I was on a roll. I could see the intensity in the girl's eyes. Tears were starting to flow down the cheeks and I knew I had them fired up.

The game started and within three minutes we were down 18-2 and it was game over.  So much for motivational speeches.

Back to the present.

I told my daughter that I don't think there's an ex-high school athlete anywhere who wouldn't like to have one more moment on the field, court, diamond, mat, pool, or whatever the sport may have been.

She looked at me and I realized that I had her attention.

I told her that I look back at my life and dream of getting the opportunity to play just one more time.

I realize some of you will think all ex-high school athletes live in the past and dream of "Glory Days." Agreed. Go into any local watering hole on a Friday night or especially around Thanksgiving weekend and you will hear tales of athletic prowess told with such clarity that you would swear the game just ended instead of the thirty, forty, or fifty years that had passed.

However, as I explained to my daughter, I dream of getting the opportunity to play just one more time because I know my dad would be there standing on the sidelines like he did so many times while I was growing up. I know my brother would either be standing right next to him or more likely annoying somebody much bigger than he and then running away when the threat of things getting physical would become very real.

I think of playing that last game with Mark Tucci and Walt Lungarini on the field with me and some of my other departed classmates who would surely be in the crowd.

On the sideline would be coaches DeFilippo, Zuba, and Biondi. Holding the first-down markers would be Joe Daddio and Danny Dege yelling, "C'mon Derby, Baby, Boy."

My daughter responded by saying, "Wow dad, that's really deep."

I smiled as we finished our talk and I prepared to drive her to the field. I watched her run that final lap knowing that one day she'd have her own tales to tell and perhaps in the not-so-distant future she might find herself thinking about getting the opportunity to play just one more time.

A Few Memorable Thanksgivings.

As I'm about to celebrate my 54th Thanksgiving, I thought I'd share several Thanksgiving memories.

Thanksgiving Day 1972.  I'm pretty sure I have the year correct.  Derby played Shelton at Lafayette School.  I remember that it was very cold and if I recall correctly, there was freezing rain falling.  Back in those days, the Derby-Shelton game attracted thousands of people and bleacher seats (especially at Lafayette) were at a premium.  This game stands out because it was the first time I remember my dad getting angry with someone.  He got angry with my brothers and sister plenty of times, but he was generally a very nice person.  I left my seat to go buy a cup of hot chocolate.  As I was returning, a man tried to take my bleacher seat.  My dad confronted him and said, "this seat is saved."  The guy replied, "they don't reserve seats here."  My dad looked the guy in the eye and said, "they do now."  I was proud as I saw the guy walk away sheepishly while my dad stood his ground and welcomed me to stand beside him.  I'm sure Derby won...they always did back then and later the family would have all been fighting over the white meat at the table.

Thanksgiving Day 1979.  I was getting ready to play my final football game for Derby High School.  I had a decent senior year.  In my first varsity start against Branford, I caught 8 passes for a new single game receiving record.  I'm amused to think of how much the game has changed since that time.  If you think of it, Derby football had been around since the early 1900's and through 70 plus years, the receiving record was 7 catches in a game.

Later in the season against Amity, I tied my own single game record of 8 catches.  As we entered the Shelton game, I needed 4 catches to break the all-time single season receiving record held by the great Dave Berey.

We entered the game with a 4-5 record and it looked like we were going to be the first DHS team coached by Lou DeFilippo to have a losing record.  A week earlier we entered the Cheshire game with a 3-5 record.  We had lost to Seymour that year by a score of 64-16 and Cheshire had beaten Seymour.

We ended up beating down Cheshire and headed into the Shelton game with a chance to avoid a losing season.

In a previous blog, I mentioned how Walt Lungarini scored the winning touchdown against Shelton by stepping in front of a pass that was intended for me.  I remember walking from the end zone to the 50-yard line with a double claw (for those of you not familiar with the claw, it was a gesture we used my senior year...we'll leave it at that) that I extended to both sides of the field.  Coach DeFilippo hated "hot dogs" and those who drew attention to themselves rather than the team, but this was the first and last time I ever was caught up in a game moment.

Afterwards, Coach presented me the game ball and I gave a little speech to the underclassmen about never quitting.  Note:  I only caught two passes that day, so the season reception record stood.

Looking back, this was the last Thanksgiving my family was together.  The next year, I was in the Air Force and the year after that, my brother was in the Marine Corps.  A memory of this day is when my father called us to the dinner table.  The table was set with the same familiar green set of china that had been on our table for as long as I can remember.

Dad called at least three times before we all gradually entered the room to sit down for dinner.  We were all seated when my youngest brother, Kevin entered last and sat down in his seat with no shirt and wearing a pair of underwear.  My father said, "what the hell do you think you're doing?"  Kevin answered cluelessly, "what?"  I distinctly remember my father smacking him across the ass and saying, "don't you ever come to my dinner table in your underwear."  Of course, the rest of us laughed as Kevin went scampering off to his room.

After dinner I met with many of my classmates to celebrate our victory.

Thanksgiving Day 1980.  I celebrated the day by attending mass in the chapel of Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi, Mississippi.  I remember being away from my family and a sense of loneliness.

Thanksgiving Day 1981.  The morning began by heading to Storks Tavern to partake in their 25-cent draft beers.  At some point, I painted my face with war paint and headed to the Derby-Shelton game.

I remember waking up that evening and realizing it was still Thanksgiving.  It was soon apparent that I was alone in the house and that I had missed the Thanksgiving meal (undoubtedly I had too much fun in the morning).

This particular Thanksgiving is memorable not only for the pre-game festivities, but also for a Vermont trip.  A bunch of my former classmates were renting a cabin in Vermont and had invited me.  When I awoke from my stupor, I washed my face, looked at the clock and realized I had 15-minutes to get my act together in order to meet my pals.

I gathered my wits about me and grabbed a tooth brush, a jacket and left for Vermont for a 3-day party.  There would be hell to pay for missing the meal and for running off to Vermont without telling anyone, but at 19-years-old, I figured I would deal with the consequences when I returned.

Thanksgiving Day 1982.  I was living in California and celebrated with my grandparents and uncle.

Thanksgiving Day 1984.  I had returned to Connecticut.  My dad was in the best shape of his life.  He was 52 and running 5-miles each day, however, he had developed a cough that had lingered for about two weeks.  He was popping cough drops every few minutes, but nothing seemed to help.

I remember coming to dinner that night and as I looked at him, I was overcome with a sense of dread.  I kept it to myself, but as he coughed during the meal, I felt something was not right.  A week or so later, he went for an x-ray and was told he had terminal lung cancer.  He was diagnosed in December and fought until April when he passed.

Thanksgiving Day 1988.  My mom and I decided to hop on a plane and surprise our California relatives.  We arose early, caught a flight to LA, rented a car, and were at my uncle's dinner table for the Thanksgiving meal.  We hadn't told a soul and it was a great day and weekend.

Thanksgiving Day 1994.  This was the day I proposed to Patsy.  I had purchased an engagement ring and decided I would pop the question after the meal.  Dinner was at her parents home and her family were around the table.

After dinner, I went downstairs to ask her dad for her hand.  Let me set the scene.  Her dad's name is Pasquale.  Pasquale was as tough as his name sounds.  He coached me in Pop Warner football and was a larger than life Derby figure.

The two of us were alone in the basement when I said, "I'd like to ask Patsy to marry me, but out of respect, I'd like to ask you for her hand first."  He replied, "Sure, do you want a beer?"

With his blessing in hand, I decided I would ask Patsy to go for a walk.  The family was laughing and joking and I finally said, "Patsy, do you want to take a walk with me?"  Her response, "What are you crazy?  It's cold and we haven't had dessert."

"Go ahead. Go for a walk," said Pasquale.

Patsy reluctantly left with me and we walked down Derby Neck Road until we got to perhaps the most scenic overlook in Derby.  We were near the barn overlooking McConney's Farm with its view of the Housatonic River below when I finally asked her to marry me.

In the subsequent years, our children and nieces were born, and we've lost many of our beloved family members.  Through it all, we still follow our old traditions (mom still breaks out the green china each year) and we've started our own traditions.

For the past decade, Patsy and I have hosted a Thanksgiving breakfast for our families and friends.  The breakfast is a way for us to get our families and friends together first thing in the morning before everyone goes their own way to dine with their extended families.

On a side note, I'm still waiting for someone to show up at my dinner table shirtless and in their underwear.  When they do, I will be sure to keep alive my dad's tradition of that great '79 Thanksgiving.

The Pickleman thanks you for reading and wishes you all a very Happy Thanksgiving.

Raider Numerology

Today I'm going to let my hair down a bit and give you a glimpse of my dementia.  I'm a fan of numbers.  Not the mathematical numbers that I struggled with as a youth (just ask Ann DiCenso, Norm Mittendorf, or any of my college professors), but football numbers.  Specifically, Derby football numbers.

There was a time that I could name the numbers of all the football players of my era.  It wasn't just me, many of my friends were talented with Derby football numbers.

Any fan of Derby football from my era could name who wore 44...John Pagliaro.  48?  Mike Sullivan.  I could go on and on.

Of course, I've had a fascination with 47, which was my number.  It was also Dave DeRosa's number and the recently departed Frank Zuba's number.  There was a time or two while Frank was alive that the three of us happened to be together.  I would deadpan, "do you realize that at this moment the three greatest number 47's in DHS history are together?"  Of course, the three of us were the only 47's that I knew.  Now that Frank has passed, I suppose that Dave and I are the two greatest living 47's in DHS history, but again I don't know of any other 47's.

This kind of illogical thinking has led me to today's blog.  I'd like to call this Project Raider or Raider Numerology.

I have prepared on Google Sheets a spreadsheet from 1900 - 2019 that contains the numbers 0-99.  I don't believe we've ever had single digit numbers or number 90 or above, but I've included them in the spreadsheet just in case.

There is a tab at the bottom listing the decade.  40's, 50's, 60's, 70's, etc...  Find the decade you are interested in and then find the year and enter the name of the person who wore that jersey.  Keep in mind, I graduated in 1980, but my final year of football was 1979.  Therefore, the years I played would be 1977, 1978, 1979.

Here is the link to the spreadsheet.

http://tinyurl.com/hjvtsgf

You can only view.  If you want permission to edit and add names, please send me a message and I'll give you access to edit.  If we get someone knowledgeable from each decade or break out the old photos, we could get a pretty good list together.  Fill in as many names as possible over the next few weeks and in the end we should have a pretty comprehensive list.

Once we have a comprehensive list, we'll explore the second part of my dementia.

As I get older and celebrate a birthday, I celebrate by entering the Year of the Players' jersey from my era.

Here's an example.  When I turned 44, I entered the Year of the Pags (after John Pagliaro).  When I turned 45, I entered the Year of the Jocko (after Jocko Vielette).  My greatest year was when I turned 47 (Year of the Gerckens), followed by my 48th birthday when I entered the Year of the Berey (after Dave Berey).

Now, I know what you're saying, either, "how the hell did we ever elect this guy to public office" (valid point), or "Hold on a minute, I played with Bob Orchano and to me 48 would be the Year of the Orch."  That's fine.  Your year should correspond with whoever wore that jersey the longest while you played.  Except for the Year of the Pags.  Since his number was retired, anyone who turns 44 enters the Year of the Pags.

This leads to another question that deserves an explanation.  Why the Year of the Person who wore a jersey?  Back in 70's the Super Bowl announcers would try to make arguments that the Chinese New Years had something to do with the eventual Super Bowl winners.  For instance during the Year of the Snake, Ken "Snake" Stabler led the Oakland Raiders to the Super Bowl.  During the Year of the Horse, the Broncos made the Super Bowl.  This theory died out quickly when the Broncos kept getting beat and during the Year of the Dog, the Browns (remember the Dog Pound) fumbled away a chance to go to the Super Bowl.

Anyways, this is my dementia, so these are my rules.  Right now, I am rapidly approaching the Year of the Owney (55 - Owney DiMauro), but I look forward to retirement when I hit the Year of the Batman (63 - Tony Battaglino).  More likely though, I'll probably need to keep working until I reach the Year of the Agim (67 - Agim "Jim" Spataj).  I think we'd all be lucky to live to the Year of the Snowman (78 - John Snow), Year of the Garf (79 - Roy Garofalo) or better yet, Year of the Pierce (88  - Lenny Pierce from my era, or the Year of the Vicidomino for the era before me).

So there you have it.  No great meaning, no great writing style, just a quick blog inviting people to participate in my dementia.

If you'd like to contribute to the spreadsheet, contact me and I'll give you permission to enter data.

In Derby we trust.  :)

RIP Tommy

Tommy Dow passed away a couple days ago.  Tommy had many more family or friends who could talk more eloquently than me about his life.  After all, Tommy wasn't one of my close friends.  Years would pass and then once in a while I would happen to run into him or see him at the mutual home of a friend.  There was a time, however, in the mid-80's when Tommy was one of my genuine local rock-n-roll heroes.

He was the drummer for the band Bad Attitude.  Bad Attitude never made it to the big time, but boy oh boy did their music speak to me.

I came to follow Bad Attitude because I went to school with their bass player, Mark.  Soon, I was going to all their shows and rehearsals.  For several years my pal Joe and I were their unofficial roadies, sound guys, and cameramen.

I say unofficial since there was never any pay, but since we helped them move their equipment, we considered ourselves roadies.  We would put blank cassette tapes into sound boards and capture bootlegs of their live shows.  In our minds, this meant we were sound men.  I would bring a clunky VHS camera with a blinding white light to record their performances.  Of course, the fact that we had a camera made us cameramen/videographers.

A decade ago, Tommy gave Joe a cd he had burned from one of those long forgotten cassette recordings of a live Bad Attitude show.  Joe gave it to me and I converted twenty-eight live BA songs into the mp3 format.  These songs remain a treasured addition to my musical collection and a constant reminder of that time in my life.

I attended Tommy's benefit several months ago and was glad we had a few precious moments together to talk about the old days.

Click on the link to hear a live recording from the mid-80's of the Bad Attitude song, "I'm not Changing."  

http://tinyurl.com/hjd63mr

A sampling of the lyrics include the lines:

I'm not changing anything

I'm not changing a single thing

I look back at the past 30 years and although I swore by those lyrics, upon reflection, I realize I have indeed changed.  I look back at those same 30 years and can state proudly that Tommy kept right on rocking to the bitter end.

Tommy my friend, my rock-n-roll hero from so long ago, you remained true to your craft.  You rocked, you kept your terrific sense of humor, and you fought the good fight.

Thank you.  May your family and friends know that your musical talent and sense of humor spoke to countless people in the region.

Rest in peace, buddy.

Kayaks, Canoes, and Ridiculous Defined?

At the most recent Board of Aldermen (BOA) meeting, a request from the public (who we were elected to serve) denied Derbyites the opportunity to kayak or canoe on the Witek Park Reservoir.

The residents who asked this issue be pursued did everything by the book (even though that book can be frustrating).

The process started months ago with a simple statement, ”I’d like for my wife and I to be able to kayak at Witek Park, but the signs read no boating.”

Despite seeing others on the reservoir illegally paddling with their kayaks, this citizen choose to go through the legislative process so that his concern could be addressed.

He enlisted my help.  Why me?  Well, I'm currently the Chair of the Operations & Procedures subcommittee of the Board of Aldermen.  I placed this item on our agenda and for three months we've been fine tuning the ordinance.  The philosophy?  Keep the ordinance enforceable, yet simple.

At the eleventh hour of last month’s BOA meeting, it was learned that since the reservoir is a body of water within the confines of the State of Connecticut, the Department of Energy and Environmental Protection (DEEP) would need to sign off on our ordinance.  When we first started, we had been told that since it was our reservoir, we could pass whatever ordinance we desired.

Armed with this new information, we tabled the item for a month while we worked with DEEP.   Although summer was slipping away, the resident waited patiently.

After a series of email messages and corrections, we received DEEP’s tentative approval.  All we needed to do was inform them once the ordinance had passed and they would sign off on it.

Our subcommittee met one final time to hash out any further details.  When we were satisfied, we voted unanimously to send the ordinance to the full Board of Alderman with the recommendation to approve.

A brief explanation of the subcommittee process is in order.  At the subcommittee level, ideas, questions, problems, and other issues are discussed and vetted.  The public has the opportunity to be heard and once all of the prior steps have been completed, a vote is taken, and a final recommendation is made to the full Board of Aldermen.  Generally, by the time the issue has reached the full board, it is packaged and ready to be voted upon.

Normally, the process works.  Unfortunately, at this past meeting the process failed the citizens of Derby.

The day of the meeting arrived and the motion to approve was made.  The motion was seconded and it was time for discussion and then the final vote.

During the discussion phase, it became apparent that several aldermen were against the proposal (including one member of the subcommittee who had voted to send it to the full board for approval).

The arguments.

This ordinance didn’t make it clear that the opportunity to canoe and kayak was for Derby residents only.  The following is the first sentence of the proposed ordinance:

The Board of Aldermen of the City of Derby desires to provide a safe and healthy environment for all City of Derby residents wishing to enjoy Witek Park Reservoir.

The city insurance will go up.  No it won’t.  We were provided a letter from the city’s insurance broker that stated the city's insurance premium would not go up as a result of allowing kayaks or canoes at Witek.

I worry about the city's liability.   We have been told over and over again by legal that the city is always liable.  We get sued for slips and falls, debris on roadways, fights in our school system, and plain old stupidity.  If it happens in our city limits, we get sued.  There is no increase in liability.

We don’t want to be overrun with kayakers.  This will not be like the scene in the movie 300 where the Persian flotilla is attacking the coastline of Greece.  You will likely have 3 or 4 kayakers on the reservoir.  Keep in mind this is a small body of water.  The true kayakers, may do it once and realize they’d rather go elsewhere.

We need age restrictions on who can kayak.  It was suggested that a person should be either 18 or get this…21 years of age before being allowed to kayak on this small reservoir.  Despite our city ordinances, if there is a conflict with local ordinances and the State of Connecticut general statutes, the state regulations take priority.  The state allows children as young as 12-16 to operate personal watercraft (but recommends someone 18 or older accompany them).

In fact, the state allows a sixteen-year-old to operate a motorized vessel as long as they hold a permit and are under the supervision of an eighteen-year-old.

A child under the age of 12 who has obtained a Safe Boating Certificate (SBC) or Certificate of Personal Watercraft Operation) CPWO may not operate a vessel with greater than 10 horsepower, unless the youth is accompanied on board by a person at least age 18 who holds a SBC or CPWO.

It is perfectly legal in this state (although frowned upon) for a 12-year-old with a certificate to take out a small motorized boat with an 8 horsepower engine.

A direct question was asked, “So you want the regulations to operate a kayak on the reservoir to be more difficult to obtain than the state requirements?”  “Yes.”

The tougher age restrictions seems silly to me.  A man or woman can enlist in the service and risk being killed while serving their country, but cannot paddle a kayak in this small body of water located in our municipality.

The noise will be a problem.  A citizen who lives on the reservoir complained of the noise of dirt bikes and ATV vehicles running through Witek Park and didn’t want to be distracted by kayakers.  First of all, that's a whole separate discussion about police enforcement.  The splash of a paddle does not compare to the noise of a dirt bike.  In fact, there are relaxation tapes sold that include the soothing sounds of water and water splashing.

The Police Chief wasn't consulted.  Yes, he was.

The vote was actually 4-3 in favor (two members were absent).  In order to pass an ordinance, we needed five votes, so although the vote was in favor, we did not have the fifth vote that was needed.  Perhaps we will raise this again when we have a full board.

Until then, let me leave you with a final thought.  We tried to allow kayaks and canoes for the enjoyment of our citizens who already pay way too much in property taxes and sewage fees.  This effort was all about that couple who tried to do the right thing by patiently going to their representatives to make a change.

Interestingly, at the same meeting, the City of Derby received a Consent Order from the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) for among other things, discharging raw sewage into the Naugatuck and Housatonic Rivers.  The people operating that plant and who are responsible for handling 31 million dollars of the public’s money, didn’t realize that when you discharge into a Connecticut waterway or plan to repair a busted Water Pollution Facility, it might be a good idea to contact the EPA.  The kayak discussion lasted nearly twenty minutes.  There was no discussion on the Consent Order and the woeful performance of our Water Pollution Facility.

The Pickleman wonders…have I adequately defined ridiculous?

Goodbye to the Truck Driving Man

Today I renewed my driver's license.  For the past 25 years, I've held a Commercial Driver's License (CDL).  When I left California in 1991, I needed a job.  I decided to enroll in the All State Tractor-Trailer School.  At that time, they were located in Bridgeport.

How did I decide to become a tractor-trailer driver?

My Uncle John has been a great influence on my life.  "Unc" was born in Scotland but eventually the family moved to Connecticut.

My grandparents and uncle moved to California in the late 60's.

Unc was a high-school football star and went on to be recruited by many colleges in California.  He played for Cypress College and I have held onto a treasured photo of him from the Orange County Register chasing down an opposing player.

It was no surprise that having a football star in the family and growing up in Derby when I did, that I would try to follow in his footsteps.

After my uncle's football career, he bought a big rig and became an owner operator truck driver.

There was something romantic about being a truck driver in those days.  Smokey and the Bandit was the number two movie in the land (behind Star Wars) and in fact, my uncle looked a bit like Burt Reynolds.  We nicknamed him "Uncle Burt."

He was single, traveling the country, and always had either a Corvette or a Porsche in his driveway.

Highlights of our family's childhood were whenever Uncle John would call and say he would be in Connecticut for a few days.  I always had a love of geography and found his tales from the road fascinating.

When I was fourteen, my uncle took me and my brother on a cross country trip in his rig to Los Angeles to visit our grandparents.

The trip was awesome.  Here was a guy who would climb in the cab and at all times be in control of his life.  If he didn't want a load, he would reject it.  If he wanted the truck unloaded, he'd throw some cash the way of the locals and get them to unload the truck for him.  Although being Scottish, I don't think he threw too much money around.  :)  He lived the Southern California lifestyle.  He played golf, he surfed, he shared an apartment with other beachcombers and at fourteen I looked up to him more than he could ever realize.

Fast forward to my time at All State Tractor-Trailer School.

It was tougher than one would think, but in the end I received a certificate for being "Best in Class."  This would be the only time in my scholastic career that I would ever be best of anything.  My buddies joke with me about this honor to this day, but hey...someone has got to be best in class, so why not me?

I was hired shortly thereafter by Werner Enterprises of Omaha, Nebraska.  You can still see their rigs all over the country (baby blue with an arrow on the cab and trailer).

As a new driver, I had to go on the road for two months with trainer drivers.  These trainer drivers earned a little more money per mile to give their advise and to show the newbies how to succeed on the road.  They ensured the new drivers were safe and knew what they were doing before the keys were turned over and the new drivers were allowed to go solo.

When I finally went solo, it was magical.  My hub was Springfield, Ohio and I was given the keys to a new Kenworth with a 53-foot trailer.  I got a kick out of all the CB handles out there.  I remember traveling up the coast from Georgia in a small convoy of Werner drivers to Halifax, Nova Scotia.  I was with Mr. Magic, the Terminator, and Pooh Bear.  Pooh Bear had a boom mike and sounded like the biggest, baddest man you could imagine.  I was surprised when we stopped somewhere along I-95 and saw all five feet of the mighty Pooh step out of his cab.  Me...I thought I had a great CB handle, "Hey, Weenie Wagon (this is what other drivers called Werner trucks), who we got driving that rig up yonder?"  I replied, "You got the Jerkin' Gherkin."  You see, my handle was a play on my last name.  Other truckers didn't care for my handle, in fact, Pooh Bear stated, "You don't mind if I just call you Gerckens?"  I still find people still don't get my sense of humor, but I've always been about getting people to laugh.

One of my first solo trips was a load that had to be delivered to Chicago.  Chicago, as it turns out is a tough location to drive a big rig.  There are so many low bridges (less than the 13' 6" required for most rigs) that they actually had a Chicago Bridge Commission.  A driver needed to call them to be routed through Chicago to ensure they would circumvent any low bridges.  I made my call, wrote down the route and thank God I did.  There were low bridges all around me as I snaked my way through the urban streets.  I got to my location okay, but what they didn't tell me was that I would need to back the wrong way down a two lane one-way street and then perform a blind alley dock parking maneuver.  This meant backing up two to three feet, engaging the brake, getting out of the cab, and walking behind the truck to ensure I didn't hit anything...talk about pressure.

Some say that driving a truck is a lonely life.  I looked at it as an exciting life.  I had family on the East Coast and family on the West Coast.  At Werner we received 3 days off for being three weeks on the road.  I divided my time between Derby and three weeks later, I'd spend my time in LA.  I carried my scuba diving gear in my rig and whenever I was in LA or Florida, I would park the truck and spend some time scuba diving.

I'm a sports fan and would think nothing of grabbing a load that went through Minnesota so that I could see the Vikings play.  Another time, I was in Texas, so I drove to Arlington to see the Rangers play the Red Sox.

The pay...well let's say that you had to drive a lot of miles in order to make any money.  At that time, I was making $.20 per mile.  My best week was leaving Derby and picking up a load in Hartford.  I brought it to Baltimore.  From Baltimore I was sent to Townson, Maryland and needed to bring that load to Pittsburgh.  From Pittsburgh I headed back east to Washington, D.C.  I then secured a load from Virginia to LA.  At some point near Gallup, New Mexico, I ran out of hours and rather than spending my three days in Gallup, I continued on to LA.  Was I wrong?  Absolutely, but there were ways to navigate around the system in those days.

By the end of my driving career, I had driven to every state in the union (except Alaska).  No, I did not drive to Hawaii, but had been there on a couple of vacations.  Alaska remains a sore point for me.  I've been stuck on needing Alaska to say that I've been to all fifty states for two and a half decades.  One day, I'll get there...I hope.

I met my wife (Patsy) while driving.  During one of my three days off in Connecticut, country line dancing was popular.  I know it sounds like a sappy Country-Western song, but me and Patsy were the only single people, so she became my dance partner.  Facing the road alone became increasingly harder and I eventually left the truck driving business.

In the subsequent years, I've held onto my CDL.  I always thought that if times got hard, or if something happened to my job, I could always go back to driving.

Today, I decided that the likelihood of returning to the open road at this stage of my life is probably slim to none, so I downgraded to a regular drivers license.

Part of me will always treasure my days on the road.  I owe my fiercely independent streak to my truck driving career.  It takes independence to roll into a strange town, keep one's own schedule, decide when to eat, shower, use the restroom, wash clothes, etc....  I still look up to my uncle for being a special role model for me.  Mostly, my truck driving days introduced me to my wife which then introduced the world to my beautiful daughters.

So goodbye to the Class A truck driving man, and hello to the Class D Man.

  

Detention

It finally happened.  Brittany received her first detention.  I’m so proud.  I’ve had so many detentions in my life that I can’t remember which one was first.

Since I can’t remember my first detention, maybe some highlights (or lowlights) will aid me as I walk down memory lane.

I received many detentions at St. Mary School.  Most of them were for fighting.  Our playground was a proving ground and the older kids often distracted the yard mothers while we bloodied our noses.

Two things stand out during this period.  My younger brother David was always getting in fights and as a result, I was always in fights.

One day a 6-grader beat the heck out of David (a 4th-grader at the time).  When we got home that night my father was furious with me.  “What did you do while this was going on," he asked.  “I watched," was my response.  I was no dummy.  I was in 5th-grade and the 6th-grader was twice my size.

I remember my dad’s life lesson like it was yesterday, “I don’t care how big or how many, don’t you ever stand back and watch someone lay a hand on your brother ever again. Do you understand?”

My brother heard every word and used this knowledge to his advantage.  Perhaps a week later, David went looking for the same 6th-grader.  He swung at David and I immediately tackled the bully onto the hard asphalt.  I rolled him over and me and David pummeled him into a bloody mess.

My dad came to the school and met with the nuns who were irate with us.  Dad took it all in and used the correct words to appease the nuns.  He yelled at us in the school office and promised the sisters that he would take care of the situation.  It was silent on the ride home from school.  That night, the family went to Carvel’s Ice Cream in Ansonia, and the day's events were never mentioned.

In high school, my first detention was administered to me on the very first day of school.  Since I went to a parochial elementary school, I didn't know too many public school kids.  When it came time to go to lunch I spotted a high school senior who lived on my street.  I sat down next to him.  Soon a group of seniors with one ringleader sat down next to me and started squashing my lunch.  At the time I didn't realize freshman sitting at a senior table was frowned upon.  I flipped my entire lunch tray (milk included) all over the aggressive senior.

I think my next detention was later on during my freshman year.  I got into a fist fight in the hallway after one of Mr. Alu's classes and was led promptly into the principal's office.

My most famous detention occurred during my senior year and was the result of the great 1980 food fight in the cafeteria which resulted in a week of in-school suspension.  Sadly, the movie Animal House was very influential to me during that time of my life.

But I digress.  This blog started out as a story of how proud I am of Brittany.  People say that both my girls look like their mother (which is a good thing).  They are doing well in school and have turned into wonderful young ladies (all traits of their mom).  Patsy, however, never received a detention in her life.  This means, I can finally point to something in my daughters (yes, Ashley received her first detention a week ago) that is exclusively mine.

Let’s not get carried away.  Their detentions were for too many times being tardy at school.  Guess who drives them to school in the morning.

Oh and by the way, Brittany was inducted into the National Honor Society last night.  It looks like the Patsy gene has reestablished dominance.  Yet for one shining moment, dad can claim partial responsibility for the detention, and that has brought a smile upon my face.


Seriously, I'd like to congratulate Brittany.  I couldn’t be more proud of you for this awesome accomplishment.

For those interested, a short video clip of Brittany being inducted.