I didn’t know my dad spoke German, until an awkward evening at our former landlord’s home in Helmstadt, Germany. It was thirty three years ago in August of ’82, and mom and dad were visiting us for the first time. We’d been translating for them throughout the trip, and I had no clue dad spoke any German at all. It turns out he had a few phrases he’d been saving in his back pocket.



….Despite the wine, schnapps, and dancing at the winefest the night before, none of us were suffering.  In fact, we were quite chipper.  We had breakfast at the Gasthaus, and then did some touring around Wurzburg. Later, we checked into the Gashaus near our old house in Helmstadt, and after a bier on the patio, cleaned up for the evening. Fred and Helga, our former landlords, had invited us to dinner at their home.

We arrived at Fred and Helga’s and after hugs and handshakes all round, Cathy gave Helga a bouquet of flowers as is customary in Germany. They invited us inside and offered some of the local wine. We had a wonderful meal with them and went through several additional bottles of wine. After dinner, there was dessert and coffee. And after that, Fred brought out his homemade schnapps. In the States, we think of German schnapps as something that is sweet, and maybe has a hint of cinnamon. Real German schnapps is nothing like that. Think of white lightning – this stuff could peel paint off a wall. When served at the end of the night, it’s typically an indication that the evening is coming to a close.  

So, we had a schnapps, and maybe the men all had a second, when dad suddenly said “I speak German.”   Now Cath and I had been translating for them all night long, just as we had for the whole trip. I said to dad something like “dad, you know you don’t speak German, don’t worry, I don’t mind translating.”   Then he insisted that he spoke German. He turned towards Fred, looked straight at him, and in the calmest, most perfect German said: “Hande hoch!   Kommen Sie hier!”. 

There was nothing but silence in the room. Mom, who didn’t understand German, wanted to know what dad said and what was going on. I said nothing, only that it was time to go. We said our goodbyes, again handshakes and hugs, and got in the car. Then I translated for mom – “Dad said ‘Hande hoch! Kommen Sie hier!’ Which translates to – Hands up! Come here!” Mom was furious at dad, but dad didn’t say much, he only smiled a bit.

For those of you who didn’t know my dad, he was the epitome of a gentleman. At the time, I couldn’t imagine what possessed him to say those words that night. I wanted to think that he meant it as a badly timed joke that didn’t work. Later, it hit me. This story took place in early August of ’82. Almost to the day, thirty nine years earlier in August of ’43, he had been shot three three times by a German in Sicily. In fact, he almost died.  

Maybe he meant it as a joke, maybe it was the wine, or maybe he was flashing back to Sicily or the War in general. I don’t know, and he never did offer an excuse as to why he said those words that night. Sometimes it’s OK to give your dad a little room.



     Not everyone can say they were arrested and interrogated by the Russians, but my wife Cathy can. Somewhere in Moscow, they still have a signed confession from her.

It was the winter of 1989 and Cath and I were stationed in Germany. Baerbel (Barbara in English), a German friend of ours who also worked in a travel agency, suggested that she and Cathy go to Moscow for a short trip. There was an upcoming trip her agency was sponsoring, and they, along with another American friend, Cindy, decided to go.

Cathy spoke with our friend Tim, who had studied in Russia for a few months, about the trip and things to do. He gave her a list of “musts”, and one huge caution:

         “Whatever you do, don’t trade currency on the black market. It is very risky, and is punishable by death. The same thing goes for buying items with foreign currency. Use officially purchased rubles only. Also, trading stuff like blue jeans will get you in trouble”.

Cathy thanked him for the advice, and then she and her two friends promptly packed extra jeans, perfume, American cigarettes, and Deutschmarks “just in case an opportunity presented itself”. They didn’t plan to actively seek out the black market, but if there was a chance, well….. Two days later, they flew from Frankfurt to West Berlin (this was about 9 months before the wall fell), linked up with the 25 other Germans on the trip, and made the connecting flight to Moscow. There, a bus took them to their hotel, where they were required to surrender their passport. Cathy was uncomfortable with that, but had no choice.

They weren’t at the hotel for 10 minutes before someone approached them about trading. Cathy and her friends all quickly turned the man down. That night the tour group had dinner together, and the next day, they all toured the city together in a bus. It was fun, but felt a bit stifling, so they decided to do some things on their own that night.

The following day, rather than board the bus for that day’s tour, they decided to wander the city on their own. They walked, cabbed and took the metro around the city. They started to have more casual meetings with some of the citizens, and that meant they felt emboldened. They bought some stack dolls for a ridiculously low price in Deutschmarks. One of them got an army belt buckle for a pack of cigarettes.  

That night at a restaurant, a waiter approached them – “Paul McCartney? Paul McCartney?” McCartney had recently released an album of old rock and roll songs that was recorded in Russia and only available there. Our friend Howard had specifically asked Cathy to look for it, and if she found it, get a copy or two. She bought three copies from the waiter….. They were on a roll now…

On the way back to the hotel, they met a man who wanted to trade for blue jeans. They arranged for him to come up to their room 5 minutes after they went up. There, Cindy started pulling out jeans and trading with the guy. Barbel and Cathy stayed in the background, where they popped a bottle of champagne and watched their friend Cindy go to work.

They next day, Cathy and Barbel ended up in the Arbat, the central district of Moscow with more of an artsy feel. You could find anything possible to buy. Cathy fell in love with a small painting. Now being a renowned black market trader, she didn’t want to pay the full price. Opportunity presented itself when a young man appeared who wanted to trade money. OK.  Twenty German Marks (about eight dollars at the time) exchanged hands for rubles. 

Just as she paid the man is when it happened. Two men approached her, flashed badges, and placed her under arrest for black marketing. They spoke to her in English, and this is when Cathy got a bit smart. She answered in German “Ich verstehe kein English. Ich bin Deutsch”. (I don’t understand English. I’m German). They persisted in English and she spoke only German. And Cathy and Barbel only spoke German to each other. Finally they took her away to a nearby building, with Barbel accompanying them. 

At the building, the interrogation continued, but only in English. And she continued to maintain she didn’t understand much English. This went on for a couple of hours and then they disappeared for a bit. When they came back, they were dragging the guy who had traded the money with Cathy. He didn’t look particularly happy. That’s when Cathy knew the jig was up. They eventually produced some papers written in Cyrillic, with no translation. She signed them. And as suddenly as it began, it was over. She was released.

Outside, Cathy and Barbel walked quickly away. When they’d gone about a block, Cathy said to Barbel “Do you still have some of the cigarettes”?    Barbel answered “you’re not going to trade again, are you”!? And Cathy answered slowly, “No, I’m going to smoke one”.

The last day of the trip passed without incident. They kept expecting to get stopped at the hotel, or at the airport, but they weren’t. The three made it out safely with their ill gotten gains (e.g. – no official receipts), and you will find the stack dolls, the samovar, the McCartney record, and a few other items scattered around our home. Cathy never did get the little painting….

A couple of weeks ago on a trip to New York, Cathy and I decided to add an overnight visit to West Point. We pulled into the parking lot of the historic Thayer Hotel, which is just outside the main gate. The flashback came as we entered the lobby.

The last time Cathy and I were in the Thayer Hotel together, was the spring of my Plebe year at West Point. Cathy came from Ottawa with my folks for a visit over Plebe-Parent Weekend.  We hadn’t seen each other in months.  We were 18 and 19 at the time, and like any young couple, looking for moments of seclusion (Was that said delicately enough?).

West Point had very strict rules about “Public Display of Affection”, or PDA as we called it, and the rules were pretty straight forward – there will be no PDA. Period.  Done.  No hand holding, no arm over her shoulder, no caressing, and definitely no kissing. You get the idea. Cathy was allowed to link her arm through mine while we were walking, but that was about it. You can bet that the rules were enforced. If caught, you would get demerits, room confinement, or have to march punishment tours.

After a dance one night during the weekend, I escorted Cathy back to the Thayer where she and my folks were staying. We entered the lobby and wandered around. There were signs at the stairs and the elevators: “CADETS NOT PERMITTED BEYOND THIS POINT”. Hmmmm that direction’s no good…   We poked around here and there, and then got lucky. We found a large room where the lights were off, and there were lots of couches and stuffed chairs. Maybe a storage room? Maybe a part of the hotel that was closed up for that period of time? It didn’t matter. It was perfect.

It turns out that we were not the only couple that found the room. You could hear whispers (and other sounds) coming from various corners of the room. Cathy and I found our own corner, where we planned to engage in some private displays of affection. We were there for about ten minutes and making progress on our plan, when all of a sudden the door opened, and the lights turned on. In the door stood the Duty Officer of the Day.

Scrambling to my feet, I looked around the room. There were seven or eight other Plebe couples. More importantly, there were several other doors. I grabbed Cathy’s hand and we ran for the closest one. The other couples were doing the same thing. I’m sure we all looked like rats deserting a ship, or cockroaches scattering when a light comes on. 

I don’t know if the Duty Officer pursued any of the other couples, but I do know he didn’t pursue us. We made our way back to the main lobby, where it seemed like the smart decision was to get out of Dodge, and say good night. I did so pretty quickly, and headed back to my own room….

The flashback was as clear as glass in my mind. While checking in at the hotel, I was thinking about it and chuckling to myself. I started telling Cathy why. I didn’t have to say much before she was laughing as well – she also remembered that night. We got our key and proceeded to the elevator. We were heading to “off limits” territory and looking forward to it.

The alarm went off at 4AM. Shower, coffee, grab my bag, and head out the door. I arrive at our voting location a bit before 5AM. The rest of the team is getting there as well. For this off year dual primary, there are six of us as Election Officers for our district.

We set up the polling place by putting signs out, turning on the computers and voting machines, running the tapes to verify that the machines are working properly, and arranging the privacy booths. As we finish this, our chief gathers us together, and administers the oath of office. At 6AM, Joe goes outside and announces: “This polling place is open”.

Over the course of the day, there is a steady, but slow stream of our fellow citizens arriving to vote. Almost everyone is in a good mood. I see no libtards, wing nuts, repugnuts, cuckservatives, or any of the other derogatory words we use to malign people we don’t agree with politically. What I see are people who are concerned about the direction of our country, no matter which side of the aisle they are on. That seems to be the one thing we all have in common.

At 7PM, we close the poll. We have another hour of taking down the signs, shutting down the computers and tallying the results. For our district, just under 20% of the eligible voters actually voted. This is much higher than a typical primary turnout in an off year election, but much lower than the 75% of us who voted in our district for the last presidential election. I’m happy at the “higher than normal” turnout for this type of primary, but wondering to myself – where is everyone else? We all have a stake in this.

At about 8:30PM, I’m back home. A long day, but one that I enjoy very much. Serving as a voting official is a tiny way to give back to this great country of ours. I just wish more of my fellow citizens would avail themselves of their right to vote.

Turning a home into a house isn’t an easy thing to do. It is bittersweet. My sisters, Roberta and Tanya, and I have had that experience with our mom’s home over the past few weeks – removing 61 years of life, love and laughter, so the house becomes neutral, and ready for the next owners.

The three of us spent a couple of days going through things the week after mom’s funeral, and then I returned to Virginia for a couple of weeks. During my time away, they did a lot of the heavy lifting around the house – getting rid of old clothes, emptying the closets, removing some old items that were of no value, and moving furniture around to improve the look a bit.

When I returned a week ago, we were going over more of mom’s personal items. We went through her hope chest, several small cedar boxes, her jewelry boxes,  and containers of papers and photos. As we were looking through all of them, we found things that were funny, sad, historic, and sometimes, just odd. There were many we had never seen before.

– There was grandpa’s perfect school attendance record from 1907, and mom’s report cards from grade school through high school; 

– Christmas cards from 1949, along with the Christmas card from dad to mom when he gave her the cedar chest in 1948.  

– There was a letter from an Ottawa GI who was in Germany in March of ’45, and hoping the war would soon be over. (He called mom “Toots” in the letter).

– Mom’s garter from her wedding.

– Les Paul and Bing Crosby records from the late 40s or early 50s.  

– Vintage 1950s era naked playing cards (I’m assuming they were dad’s).

– Obituaries of friends and relatives.

– Collected papers, photos, and school stuff from us kids, and all of the grandkids.

– Newspapers from when Kennedy was shot, and Nixon resigned.

– Notes and notebooks from trips, grocery lists, and sometimes just reminders about things around the house.

There was LOTS more, but you get the idea…

We laughed a lot, but also had moments of sadness or pause. For me, finding all the letters from my first year at West Point brought me up short (She’d already given me the penny I’d swallowed). And, silly as it sounds, what do you do with a telephone number (and an actual telephone that still works) that have been in the family since 1956? We made our way through the week, keeping some things, and throwing others away. We slowly removed the soul from the home.

On Sunday of Memorial Day weekend, we had a cookout with the whole family, including kids and grandkids, and our Uncle Don, mom’s last surviving sibling. Before dinner, the grandkids had their own moments of joy and sadness. It was their turn to pick out things they would like to keep as memories of grandma, or just things they could use. And so the clock went, along with knicknacks, Christmas decorations, candy dishes (mom loved M&Ms and jelly beans), some of the furniture and dishes. From the garage, dad’s tools and railroad artifacts, as well as lawn chairs all moved out.

That night, after everyone left, I finished cleaning up and wandered around a bit. It was the same house that I’d known since mom and dad bought it in 1956, and yet it wasn’t. It was all a bit colder, or emptier. Maybe the soul was gone, and it really was just a house, and no longer a home.  

I went to bed, but not really to sleep. Too much emotion…. to many thoughts rattling around my head…. wisps of dreams…. seemingly strange noises from outside….   Finally, I heard the birds starting to chirp in the yard and got up. It wasn’t quite light yet, but it was getting close. I made a pot of coffee and took a quick shower. It was time to get on the road and head to my own home, 750 miles away.




Cathy was driving up the Autobahn at just over 100 mph. It was the 8th of August, 1982. I was a Captain in the Army, and mom and dad had been visiting us in Germany for about 10 days.  We were heading from Stuttgart to Wurzburg to link up with a friend and go to a Weinfest in the small town of Frickenhausen. Ric had been to the fest the night before, and called to tell us we needed to make this one – it was really good. We didn’t want to be late and Cathy covered the 100 miles in about an hour. We parked, walked up to the tent, and  Ric greeted us as we arrived.

          “How’s it going”?

          “Good – how was the fest last night”?  

          “It was crazy – you are going to love it. People were standing on the benches clapping and singing to the music. You couldn’t hear yourself think”!

We introduced Ric to mom and dad, and he retold the story of people dancing, clapping and singing while standing on the benches around the tables.

At that point, mom interjected – “Well, I don’t think I’ll be standing on the benches – not with my bad leg”. We looked at mom, but didn’t say anything. We then entered the festival tent, and joined about 2,000 Germans for the fest. We found a table, and then Ric and I went to get some wein for the five of us.

The night went on, and we had more wine. Somewhere along the way we had brats and other food. The band was in the center of the tent and playing lots of great oompa music and polkas. Cath and I danced a couple of times and everybody was feeling pretty good.

And then it happened. The band shifted gears and broke into Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood”, one of mom and dad’s favorite songs. Dad grabbed mom’s hand to head to the dance floor. Mom resisted only briefly, and then followed dad towards the floor. They got to the main aisle, and it was jammed with people dancing and they couldn’t get any further, so they started dancing there.

If you never saw my folks dance, I have to tell you, they were GREAT dancers. Like many couples who had been together for a long time, they had their own style. Cathy and I use to call the way they danced the ‘Bill and Gen’ – it was a modified boogie-woogie. They were perfect at it when dancing to “In The Mood”.

So, there they were, in the middle of the aisle, doing the ‘Bill and Gen’ dancing to Glenn. A space started forming around them as other nearby couples stopped dancing and started watching them. The space turned into a circle. The circle got bigger. Soon, there was a circle of maybe 20 feet around them, with all of the Germans watching the two dance. But it didn’t stop there. Behind the first circle, the Germans were standing on the benches and formed a second circle around mom and dad. They were in the zone. The band got to that great coda at the end of the tune, and with the third and final repeat of the last stanza, the song finally ended. 

There was a fraction of a a second of silence, and then the crowd went nuts. They were clapping, pointing, stomping and whooping all at the same time. As mom and dad made their way back to the table, the Germans were slapping them on the back, toasting them, and offering them glasses of wein and schnapps. It was a perfect moment. Mom was flushed and smiling. Dad was outright laughing.

Later that night, mom was standing  on the benches with the rest of us. Clapping, singing, and moving her feet in time with the music…..

It was in June of 1947, almost 70 years ago, that mom and dad first met. Mom had just finished her sophomore year in high school and turned 16  in April. She’d just started a regular job as a waitress at Prince Castle, a local hamburger/ice cream joint. Dad was 23. He’d been out of the army since August of 1945, and settled into a job as a driver for Bradford’s laundry.

One day that June, he was at the Prince Castle restaurant picking up laundry, and he met mom. A couple of days later, picking up laundry, he met her again. They talked some, and he asked if he could walk her home from the restaurant that night. She said…..yes.  Mom got off around 11, and dad was waiting outside. Prince Castle was on the west side of town, only a few blocks from where mom lived on Chestnut Street. He walked her home that night. And the next night. And the night after that. They eventually started dating.

Now, dad didn’t know that mom was only 16, and mom wasn’t going to tell him. He assumed she was about to be a senior, or had maybe just graduated from high school. Mom didn’t tell him her real age, because she thought it would scare him off. She kept waiting for her mom (my Grandma) to say something, and she was ready for that – Grandma married my grandpa, when she was 16, and he was 26. Grandma never did bring it up…..;-)

They dated that summer, doing various things around town. And then dad asked mom if she wanted to go to the Illinois State Fair with him. It was downstate, but he had a buddy with a car who was taking his date to the Fair. If mom and dad wanted to, they could double date with them. They’d drive down early in the morning, spend the day at the fair, and come back that night. Mom agreed to go.

August 17, 1947 dawned and they headed to Springfield for the fair. They spent the day looking at the displays, riding the rides, and having a good time in general. Finally, it was time to return and they piled into the car for the long ride home.  

The ride was uneventful to begin with. Then, about half way home someone ran a stop sign on a country road, and T-Boned their car. The impact was violent, and completely flipped the car over onto it’s top . This was, of course, before seatbelts and they were all thrown about, as were their belongings. The four climbed out of the upside down car, and although they were shaken up, miraculously, all appeared to be unhurt. Dad, who would find out later that he had a small fracture in one of his legs, went out to the road to direct traffic around the accident.

Eventually, dad walked back over to mom and the car. Along the way, he found mom’s wallet which was thrown open and laying on the side of the road. Picking it up, he glanced at her driver’s license which was on the top of the wallet. Then he suddenly stopped, looked at mom, and exclaimed “You’re HOW OLD?!?!”

And that was how dad found out mom was only 16. It didn’t stop them from dating though, and they ended up getting married about 2 1/2 years later in May of 1950, a year after she graduated from OHS. Mom and dad remained married for 60 years, until dad passed away in 2010. 

 They outlasted the Prince Castle restaurant by several decades. After the restaurant closed, the building later served as a barbershop and a craft store among other things. Although the building is still there on West Main Street, it’s currently shuttered. I don’t know if it brought any other couples together, but I smile thinking about Bill and Gen meeting there in the summer of ’47.

Mom is mostly laying quietly now. She occasionally makes a movement, or waves a hand, or mouths something. She’s making her final journey. We are here in the room, but she’s making this journey alone.

At 86, she’s lived a full life, and a great life at that. But it doesn’t change the sadness we are feeling right now.  The last two months have been hard on her. The leg injury and weakness; the blood infection; the moves between hospitals, acute care, skilled nursing, and back to the hospital have been tough. Mom’s a fighter, and until five days ago, we were hopeful that she would make a transition to assisted living. Then, she took a turn for the worse and went back to the hospital.  After meeting with the doctor, we had a conversation with her yesterday about where things stood. She was lucid and understood that without heroic measures, her time was very limited. She, and we, all agreed on the course of action.  

At one point in time yesterday, she awoke from a nap. My sisters and I were standing at the end of the bed. She looked at us and said “Well, am I dead yet?”. Then she smiled a small smile to let us in on the joke.

Around 5PM, we had another conversation with mom and said “Mom, later after you finish dinner, and are back in bed, we are going to have dinner and then head to Roberta’s to get some rest ourselves. We’ll plan on seeing you in the morning”. She looked at us and said “Well, I won’t see you. I’ll be gone.” And smiled again…

Today, we arrive back at the hospital this morning and checked in with the nurse. After we left last night, mom went to sleep. She didn’t wake up all night, and hasn’t woken yet today. Like her mother before her, our Grandma Grubaugh, mom seems to be calling her own shots all the way to the end. Just as she predicted, she hasn’t seen us in person today.

She is mostly laying quietly now. She occasionally makes a movement, or waves a hand, or mouths something. She’s making her final journey. We are here in the room with her, comforting each other and letting her know she is not alone………..

………Later that evening, we said our goodbyes to mom. As I kissed her forehead, I whispered to her that we were all doing well, and it was OK to go and join dad. As we left the hospital, Tanya headed to Ottawa, while Cathy and I went with Roberta to her home. We reached her house, had a small dinner, and went to bed.

Just after 3:30AM, my phone rang. I answered it, and went into the kitchen. It was the hospital. Mom passed away peacefully at 3:19. Roberta and Jack came in to the kitchen, as did Cathy and I told all of them, but of course, they already knew. We then called Tanya to let her know. We hugged each other, and we were glad that mom was at peace.

Our dog Carmen also got up with us and was antsy, so I took her out for a brief walk. We were wandering around outside in the dark, and all of a sudden I heard a train whistle in the distance. For those who aren’t aware, dad was a railroad man most of his adult life. The Burlington, Rock Island, Chessie – he worked them all. The whistle sounded again, and I knew things were alright.   Dad had come to pick up mom for the rest of her journey.

********

Mom passed away early on the 28th of April. I wrote the first half of this piece in the hospital room on the last day, when we were sitting with her. The rest was written about a week later. I’ve thought about that train whistle a lot since that night. If I had gone out 5 minutes earlier, or 5 minutes later, I might have missed it. But then again, maybe not.

Please, no sad posts here. Don’t feel sad for her, or for us. She had a wonderful life. If you want to honor her, dance, have a drink, or listen to some jazz. Enjoy life. That’s what she did, and what she would want you to do. It’s later than you think.

My friend Howard was the first Ottawa Glutton.  I’m not sure that he started the Ottawa Gluttons, so much as that he willed them into existence.  As he told me later, “it didn’t require a great deal of proselytizing…”  It was late 1972, or early ’73, and as was often the case, Howard and I were talking about food.

The week before, after church, Howard had gone with his Dad to The Ramada Inn north of town for breakfast.  It turned out the Ramada had an all-you-can-eat breakfast on Sunday mornings for $2.  All-you-can-eat….$2…    is what I heard, and a plan was hatched.   The next Sunday, after church, Howard and I went to the Ramada, and ate all we could.  It was great!

That week at school we mentioned it to some friends, and on Sunday, after church, there were four of us at the buffet, with Tim Stouffer and Danny Munson joining us.   (Due to the church connection, there were a lot of Methodists among the early Gluttons).  We were now on a mission.  The following week, six of us went to the Ramada, and the next week it was eight.  It was probably about then we named ourselves The Ottawa Gluttons.   Much like Arlo Guthrie and Alice’s Restaurant, it became a movement.

Sunday came again, and we were back with 10 or 12 of us.  We started tracking specific food records (125 slices of bacon, as an example) and made a rule that you couldn’t go for a record, until after you had a full plate of food.  We started some awards as well – Most Valuable Glutton, Rookie of the Week, and Most Improved.  Howard bought three small trophies and these were handed out at the end of the meal to the winners.  You had to bring the trophy back the next week, so it could be awarded to the new winner.

We ended up with over 16 of us at a meal one week.  After that, we printed up Ottawa Glutton T-shirts and all of us promptly wore them to high school.  That got more guys wanting to join, and also led to the development of a rival group – The Fat Alberts.  The Fat Alberts challenged us to an eat off at the new Pizza Hut, which had foolishly just announced an all-you-could-eat special.  The big day came, and we met there.  I have no idea how much pizza was eaten in total, but we finally called a draw when there were two guys left – Curt Cechowicz for us, and Wally Jenson for the Fat Alberts.  Both had eaten 23 pieces of pizza.

We crested with over 20 members at the Ramada in March of ’73.  At about the same time, Dale Boisso, one of our members, wrote about us in the High School paper. The title of the article was “Ottawa Gluttons Go Hog Wild”. In the article, he shared some of our records:

 – 125 Slices of Bacon – Curt Cechowicz

 – 77 Silver Dollar Pancakes – Danny Munson 

 – 37 Sausages – Larry Sexton

 – 14 Bowls of Grapefruit – tie between Jack Spicer and Greg Balke

 – 14 Cups of Coffee – Tim Stouffer

 – 2 Bowls of Prunes – Bob Poggi

Back at the Ramada, the waitresses loved us.  On a $2 breakfast, most of us would tip $1 each.  They thought of us as “growing boys”.  The hotel management apparently wasn’t so happy, and called the High School to complain about us.  Here, fate intervened.  It turned out that my mom, Gen Hall, who worked in the front office of OHS, took the call.  The Ramada thought we were an officially sanctioned OHS group.  Mom informed them that we weren’t.   They then complained about how much we were eating.  My mom asked them “Well, aren’t you advertising ‘all you can eat'”?  Well, yes, but they hadn’t expected this.  Mom, God Bless her, basically said she couldn’t help them. They then asked her if she could get a message to the group, and she said she would try.  “Please let them know that the next time they come, we will be seating them in a separate room, and will need to charge them a surcharge for the room”.  Mom said she would try to pass the message on.  She let me know that night.

The message was like waving a red flag in front of a bull.  We called and reserved the room.  I think we had something like 25 guys that week and it was a mad house.  The restaurant could barely keep up with how much food we were eating.  At one point, the chef came out, cleaver in hand, and threatened  “IF YOU DON’T EAT EVERYTHING ON YOUR PLATE, I’M GOING TO CHARGE YOU DOUBLE”!   Staring at the chef, and at each other, we just kept eating.  Needless to say, there was no food left on any plate.  We viewed it, as perhaps, our finest hour….

And then fate intervened again.  A few days later there was a fire at the restaurant.   No one was hurt, but they closed.   Indefinitely.   In fact, they didn’t reopen, at least not that year.   We were always a bit suspicious about the timing of the fire, but nothing ever came of it.

For the Gluttons, It marked our end as well.  With the Ramada gone, we lost our unifying factor.  It was almost the end of the school year, and several of us were graduating and moving on.  Over the years, we did a couple of reunion “dinners”, but by then the calories didn’t burn off so quickly, and Bruce was right – you can’t relive your high school glory days…..

signed//

Max Hall….two time Most Valuable Glutton…

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***Special thanks to Howard Johnson for filling in a couple of holes in the story***

It’s not easy to eat pizza 100 times in one year. I know this because my good friend Howard and I did it 45 years ago in 1972….

We both obtained our driver’s licenses in 1971, and suddenly, there was freedom. That summer, we discovered Sam’s Pizza on the north side of town, and were hooked. Others might go to Bianchi’s in the center of town, or God forbid, the new Pizza Hut, but for us it was always Sam’s. Sam’s opened a place on the south side, nearer our homes, within walking distance, and we’d go there as well.

We were spending a lot of time there, and eating lots of pizza. One night in December of ’71 the idea came up of trying to eat pizza 100 times in 1972, and we both quickly agreed to the challenge. Then, of course, we put a few rules around it. We had to keep track of our eating (date, type of pizza and who with); having only a slice didn’t count – you had to have a good amount of the pizza; and…the pizza only counted if it came from Sam’s. We could eat pizza at other places, but it only counted if it came from Sam’s. So as an example, when the big eat-off took place between The Ottawa Gluttons and The Fat Alberts at Pizza Hut (another story), that pizza didn’t count. 

1972 dawned, and we met at Sam’s on January 1st and split a medium shrimp pizza to start the year, and the competition. At the end of January, I’d had pizza 9 times, which was a just good enough monthly average to get to 100. It probably didn’t help much that I was wrestling at the time, and often cutting weight. February passed, as did March, and I recorded my 25th pizza on March 30th – on track! Pizza with Howard, pizza with other friends, pizza after our church youth group met – there was a lot of eating going on.

April led to May, and May turned into June. Halfway through the year, and my count was 46. I apparently had slacked off a bit by not getting to 50. In July, there were a couple of notable events. On July 2nd, I split a pizza with Cathy Snow, my new girlfriend (and later, my wife) for the first time. We’d started dating on June 15th, and evidently I felt confident enough two weeks later to take her to Sam’s. The other event was that I hit 50 pizzas on July 12th. A good number, but off the pace needed. Even worse, our family went on vacation at the end of the month, so by the end of July, my number was only 55. 

And then came August. Apparently, I decided to get serious, and started eating. In the 14 days between August 3rd and the 16th, I had pizza 10 times. Amazingly, in the course of one week from August 13th to the 19th, I had pizza 8 times in 7 days. I remember that period because I was working at the pool, and rode my bike to Sam’s for dinner every night during my break. I’d call ahead, order the pizza, ride there, wolf it down, and ride back to the pool. The month progressed, and on the 30th of August, the day school started, I had pizza number 73, as Howard and I split a small cheese.

September came and our pace continued. I had pizza 20 times that month, several of them after football games. Something must have worked, as our football team ended 9-0-0 that year, and we were later inducted into our High School’s Hall of Fame. Cathy’s father turned 39 on September 23d. To commemorate the occasion, I had Sam’s make him a pizza with the number 39 spelled out in sausages. I’m not sure her dad was particularly impressed. On September 28th, Howard bought the pizza that night, after he beat me in the election for Class Treasurer. We had a side bet that the winner of the election would have to buy the pizza for the loser. At the end of the month, I had 93 pizzas. The prize was within sight.

On October 1st, Howard reached the goal first – he had his 100th pizza. It was also the last pizza we had at the south side location, as it permanently closed that night, probably not long after Howard’s 100th. Three weeks later, on October 25th, I had my 100th at the north side. Howard was there with me and Joe Evola (the owner’s son) bought the pizza. Somewhere, there’s a picture commemorating the evening, but I can’t find it.

After that, we slowed down a bit, but didn’t stop. On Thanksgiving night, after our family meals, we had a pizza. Our parents were so disgusted, they wouldn’t give us a car to use. We walked the three miles to the Sam’s north location to have our pizza. On Christmas Day, we did the same thing. My final pizza of the year was on New Year’s Eve. I had it for supper before picking Cathy up for a date and it was number 116. I think Howard finished the year at 125 or 126.

You may wonder how I know all of these dates. The fact is, my mom saved everything. Going through one of the boxes of stuff she gave me a few years back, I found the pizza calendar, along with the pizza plate from my 100th. The plate was signed by Joe, Sam, and Howard. It was fun remembering that year, and in looking at the calendar, also remembering all the friends that I had a pizza with. Howard, June, Cathy, Dunny, Spider, Fred, Dale, Ike, Don, Jim, Pam, Lori, Bob, Clayton, Hick, my sisters, and many others. Some have passed on, most are still here, one is my wife, and three of those guys are still among my best friends. 45 years have passed, but I still remember that year, and how good the pizza was.