Children Teach, Children Lead

Children Teach, Children Lead

My niece, Andrea, has stopped smoking recently and is reporting on Facebook that she has reached month number one of no smoking. Smoking cigarettes is a strange thing to do: burning leaves and inhaling the chemicals that result. So much poison and disabling crud in each puff that one would think no one enjoy it, much less smoke enough to become addicted to the nicotine that cigarettes deliver. People smoke for many reasons, but always, in the end, it’s the addiction that drives the habit.

After being a smoker myself for fifteen years, I knew I wanted to quit. Doing so is not an easy thing. I wanted to become a non-smoker. I hated how the cigarette companies seemed to own me. They could make me do strange things, such as go out in the middle of the night in a snow storm just to buy a pack. During the fifteen years I smoked, I quit many times, only to start again after a day or two.

In early 1985, I was in the market for a conversion van. I loved the look and utilitarian nature of a full-size van, especially since I was keeping cars together with duct tape and would enjoy having a newer vehicle. Raising three kids, ages four, five, and six, the van seemed a perfect fit for the family. They could spread out and relax as we traveled to hockey games and tournaments, which was a lot of what we were doing then.

I looked at quite a few vans in February, test driving and comparing features. The best option was a van that we all agreed was the right color and comfort. After pricing the van and working the salesperson for the best deal, I brought home the numbers to cogitate and try to mesh with the budget. But the numbers wouldn’t work.

I told the kids I just couldn’t make the money work, that the van was too much for right now. I thought maybe we could swing it in another year. The kids seemed to listen to what I said, but other than being a little disappointed, none of them said anything. They all looked at each other and went upstairs to their rooms. I remember feeling sad that they were so accepting of our monetary fate, that they so easily turned to their next pursuits. I thought they were more excited about getting the new van.

After 15 minutes or so of unusual quiet from upstairs, about as much time as I took to smoke a cigarette or two, I started to go up to see that they were doing. Suddenly, they were noisily coming down the stair to talk to me, and they were very excited. Josh was carrying his jar of money, which was more full than I remembered it being. They had a plan and wanted to make me part of it.

The way they spoke to me was the most interesting part. They talked in turns. They spoke using plural pronouns, about “us” and “we” and that there could be some sacrifices to get what we all wanted. They said they’d contribute their saved money, which they’d pooled. They said they’d give up their allowance for as long as it took to help the budget include the new van. And they suggested that maybe I could give up something, too.

My cigarette pack was lying on the table next to me. I was amazed when Darren pointed to them and asked, “How much are those costing the budget?” At that time, cigarettes were 95 cents a pack, and I was smoking a pack or two everyday. That made it around $45 every month, around the difference in the budget for getting the van. I’m sure the kids didn’t know that, but the lights came on in my head. I was literally burning the money that could help us get what we wanted.

I could not say no to their plan. We talked about what it would mean to have me stop smoking, that I might be grouchy or even feel sick for a while. They said it would be worth it.

The next day, I signed the papers for the van. We had to wait another day to take delivery. That was March 1, 1985. I stopped smoking that day, a pack with four or five cigarettes sitting on the table for a week after. I never smoked again.

There are so many gains to not smoking. The house smelled better, especially after I had the curtains cleaned and washed the walls. It’s amazing how the smoke gets everywhere and on everything. Quitting was the best thing I’ve ever done.

I’m so happy for Andrea and her success so far in giving up cigarettes. I know how hard it can be. I was grouchy, felt flu symptoms, chewed coffee stirrers until my jaws ached, just to get through the first three or four weeks. By the time I made my first year as a non-smoker, we’d taken the van to California and back, and traveled around Michigan with our sailboat. Such great memories. The kids helped take good care of the van. It was theirs as much as mine, and we kept that van for ten years and 160,000 miles.

My kids taught me one of my greatest lessons: Children can lead. We need only listen to them.

A Gift From an Icon

Fond memories of my childhood are plentiful, but not with regard to my father. My father was a pretty terrible person in many ways. He was angry and violent and it was best to be ignored by him.  My favorite times at home together was when he was reading the newspaper, which he did every weekday evening. He would be totally absorbed and I could even be in the same room with him and feel safe from his anger.

The best times away from home were the once or twice each summer when he would take my older brother and me to a baseball game at Tigers Stadium in Detroit. My father was a baseball fan and I loved baseball, and I especially loved the Tigers. Baseball may have been my only demonstrable connection with my father. It was certainly the only positive connection I remember. He was a St. Louis Cardinals fan, a National League team that only competed with the Tigers if they both made it to the World Series as they would in 1968. Even today, more than 50 years later, I can name the usual starting lineups the Tigers played in ’65 through ‘68.

We would drive from Ann Arbor to Detroit, cruising along Interstate 94, past Metro Airport, past the roads with names I knew only from TV commercials: Merriman, Middle Belt, Telegraph, Southfield, Ford Road. I was a mapper, a person who loved looking at and understanding maps of areas large and small. I would study the map of the route to Detroit, how to get to the ballpark. Growing up in Ann Arbor in the 1960s, Detroit was a magical place for a nine year old. The city was huge and, from the 1930s to the riots of 1967, Detroit continued to be a source of pride for Michiganders. The automobile industry made Detroit relevant back then.

On a trip to a night ballgame in ’66, we parked several blocks from the corner Michigan and Trumbull, at a Teamster’s local parking lot. My father was a Teamster and believed strongly in the union and its purposes. As a family trying to move from lower class to middle class, he understood the power of union wages and benefits when working for $1.80 per hour was real money. I wondered why we didn’t park closer so we could get in the ball park and watch the players warm up Watching batting practice was instructional for me. Seeing the other team warm up gave me a sense of the seriousness of the game. But we were parked near Teamsters Local 299 on Trumbull and parked for free. I was in a hurry to get to the park!

As we passed the union building, where there were a lot of people milling about, my father took us off the route to the stadium and went to talk to the people at the Local. I was not happy, but I knew better than to question what my father was doing. He was laughing and joking with the men there. I rarely saw him laugh and joke, so this was an unusual experience. I remember many of the men were smoking cigars, which I thought smelled pretty bad.

Several men in suits came out of the building and was shaking hands with the men gathered there. Everyone in the parking lot was talking loudly, laughing and joking with one of these men. This man was shaking people’s hands and saying hello to everyone. My brother and I were the only children and the man eventually glad-handed near us. My father shook his hand and introduced my brother and me to the affable Mr. Jimmy Hoffa.

I really wasn’t that interested. I was not aware of who I was meeting. My father introduced him as a great man. I wanted to get to the ballpark. I had to set up my scorecard. I’d never seen my father so animated and happy, though. My curiosity got the better of me and I asked Mr. Hoffa what he did, and he said he was the president of the Teamsters union, my father’s union. He told my father he’d like us to come inside to his office. He said he had something for us.

My dad was in heaven. He felt important. Jimmy Hoffa was the center of attention in the parking lot and he was escorting my dad and his sons into his office in the Teamsters building. The other men in suits followed us in.

Hoffa’s office seemed huge. There were pictures all over the walls of Hoffa with other people, usually smiling, usually posed, some with signatures on them. I didn’t recognize many of them by face, but I knew J. Edgar Hoover’s mug. I knew Richard Nixon’s face. Hoffa was obviously important in some way.

He asked my brother and me to look at what he had for us and brought us to the side of his desk. He opened a drawer and I saw a box of cigars. I was not going to smoke a cigar! Under the cigar box, there were other boxes. He gave of each one of the boxes and we opened them with our father’s encouragement. Inside were watches. The faces of the watches had the Teamsters logo on it. My brother put his on, but the metal band was too large. Hoffa took the watches and handed them to one of the other suited men, instructing him to make the bands smaller. My father told Hoffa that we were on the way to the Tigers game and what good ball players we were. He bragged about us for a few minutes until the man with our watches came back. We put them on. Mine was still too large but I said it was fine. The man had set the watches to the correct time, and I could see we were going to be late for the warm ups.

After we left, we walked the six blocks to the park. I don’t remember much about the game. The watch has long since gone the way of my baseball cards and things. But I do remember meeting Jimmy Hoffa and getting the gift from him, even though I didn’t really care much about it at the time.

Reunion at a Blind Date?

I haven't had many blind dates in my life. I can only remember three, actually. The last one was when I met my wife, so I can recommend them. This story is about the first blind date I had. I think the story can recommend blind dates, too, but for a different reason.

When I was in high school in Ann Arbor (before moving to California), my good friend Chuck (see the previous blog post!) called me on a Thursday with a big problem. He planned to spend the following Saturday evening with a friend named Wendy, but suddenly had an opportunity to go out with a girl he'd been trying to get a date with for some time. He was stuck with two dates.

Chuck asked me to pinch hit for him with Wendy. Wendy and I had never met, so it was a blind date for us. Wendy was, and I imagine still is, a wonderful person with a great sense of humor and a simply honest way about her that makes her one of the most memorable people from my high school years. She was charming, funny, and fun to be with.

So! it sounds as though we had a great "blind date," doesn't it? Well, read on, because I don't remember meeting her that night, even though that became one of the most memorable nights in my life.

Chuck made the arrangements. I was to go to Wendy's house, meet her, and then she and I would go out. At least, I think that's what we were to do. I know I went to her house. I arrived on time, as that was my usual way. I dislike being late, worry about being early, and work hard at being on time.

I found the house, although it was hidden in an alcove backing up to the Arboretum. The house was large, modern, and beautiful. Being a lower-class kid from the near west side of Ann Arbor, I was easily impressed by the wealth of some of the other kids I knew.

I was let in to the large main hallway by Wendy's father, a man who was a tad shorter than I, with incredibly caring eyes that I remember to this day.  I introduced myself and he told me Wendy would be ready soon. He led me to an area where he was reading a newspaper with a television playing a game show. We both sat on the couch together and he returned wordlessly to his reading.

Waiting for a girl to be ready was not new to me, and apparently, it was not new to Wendy's father, either. We both relaxed as I waited. Well, he relaxed. I was nervous. I was always nervous around girls' fathers. I worried what they must be thinking of me, what they thought I was doing there anticipating being with their daughters. I worried they believed I had "R" thoughts about their "G" child. I had my notions about what I wanted to do, although I didn't think the dads would believe in my innocence, "PG" at most. I didn't think they would approve of my long hair, my cheap clothes, or my borrowed cars.

So we waited for Wendy. He read. I pretended to watch the game show, nervous about meeting Wendy, nervous about being in this wonderful house, nervous about sitting quietly next to Wendy's father.

Suddenly I was startled by Wendy's father crumpling the newspaper and looking at me. He held his fingers about 12 inches apart and said, "Say, do you have a scar on your belly about this long." he held his hands higher so I would see the distance.

"Y...Yes," I replied, utterly out of other words. It was an unbelievable question. I had a scar there from a surgery I received 14 years earlier when I was 2 years old.

He smiled at me for a few seconds. Then he said, "I'm the guy who put that scar there."

I was incapable of speech. I sat there just staring. He asked me, "Would you like to hear the story about that scar?"

"Y...Yes! Yes I would!" I knew I had my appendix removed in 1956. I knew I was pretty ill and spent some time in the hospital, but I didn't know much else.

Dr. Winkler told me the tale: How he and another surgeon, named Dr. Camel, were so perplexed by a  young toddler with a stomach ache and high fever. The X-rays were negative for appendicitis as the appendix was normal in size rather than enlarged as it should be if it were inflamed. They kept the boy in the hospital after his third bout with this high fever that seemed to have no cause. After a week in a private room, sleeping in my cowboy boots, and insisting on using a toilet rather than a diaper, my young, very verbal self had a sudden rise from a low-grade fever to a life threatening temperature of 106 degrees with white blood cell counts off the chart. The decision was made to open me up for an exploratory surgery to find what was causing the pain and the fever. The doctors created that 12 inch scar by cutting me navel to back.

Dr. Winkler looked far past me as he explained that my appendix was abscessed, held to regular size despite being horribly inflamed. The appendix actually ruptured on the operating table just before the incision was made. At one point, my parents were told I had not survived. Dr. Winkler and his partner saved me that day. He told me the nuns who ran children's wing at St. Joe's hospital put me in a room where no one had ever died. They felt the good luck of the room would pull me through.

Dr. Winkler told me the case was written up in medical journals as abscessed appendix was a new phenomena, at least as far as saving the patient was concerned. Dr. Winkler was pretty proud of his work then. He remembered many details of a patient from so many years previous. He said it he figured it had to be me sitting on his couch. Same name, same age, same town.

At some point Wendy finally came down. She and I became friends. I was invited to her home many times, occasionally greeting her father with a smile and having the smile returned. He may have seen the often-morose, unsure demeanor of my teenage self. I only remember speaking with him once more but I remember so well what he said.

During that visit, he said to me, "You were really given a gift in August of 1956, the gift of life beyond what maybe could have happened. So many people worked very hard to make sure you had every chance to have a normal life. You take all those people's efforts with you everywhere you go and in everything you do. Please remember one thing: You are worth all we did. We knew it then. We were proud to help you. Be proud to be you."

I hear his voice sometimes still. It's easy to forget the potential of lost children, to think that bad things happen for a reason when a child dies. In this story, Dr. Winkler and his team made something good happen, and I get to make this life a good one. I'd like to think he'd be happy with the life they saved me to live.

The Rick Story

This may be the strangest story I will ever write in this blog. It certainly is the most unbelievable tale I tell. I cannot explain exactly what happened, so I'll try to simply convey the events as I remember them.

In the late 1960s, I was a member of the First Congregational Church of Ann Arbor's youth group called PF, which stood for Pilgrim Fellowship. Our group had some amazing retreats during the three years I belonged there.

Every winter we had a retreat at the University of Michigan Fresh Air Camp on Strawberry Lake in western Washtenaw County. The camp had a large lodge building and several small cabins. On our winter retreats, we all stayed in the lodge, using the kitchen and main rooms for sleeping and eating, as well as doing the programs provided by the youth minister, Ron, as well as his wife and other adults who helped chaperoned the PF group of 31 high school teens. 

As I was leaving my house for one of the retreats to the Fresh Air Camp, I was lugging my sleeping bag and a backpack full of clothes through our kitchen to get to a car waiting for me outside. As I grabbed the kitchen door handle, a tall cupboard above a counter opened, and a large glass tumbler tumbled out, landing on an iced birthday cake on the counter.

Being a not-very-aware teenager, I picked up the glass, looked it over finding no icing on it at all, and returned it to its place in the cupboard. I closed and latched the cupboard and went on my way. I didn’t give it another thought until much later, after the strange happenings at the retreat.

We arrived at the camp happy to see lots of snow. The winter was cruelly cold and snowy, but the camp looked beautiful with its pristine coating of white. We trudged through to put our gear in the lodge and get ready for the events of the afternoon and evening. It all went well.

That night, friends Chuck and Roger and I were not sleeping. All of the boys at the retreat were in one large room in sleeping bags on the floor, while the girls were in another large room with a divider between. Everyone seemed to be sleeping, with the occasional sounds of people using the restroom. The deep snow outside and the stillness inside made for a quiet night.

Chuck, Roger, and I had placed our sleeping bags in a T-shape, with our heads in the junction. We were whispering with our heads together as we snuggled down in our sleeping bags to stay warm. The three of us talked for a long while, but were suddenly interrupted by roaring coming from the basement. The sound is difficult to describe: it sounded like water pipes shaking with air in them, with a distinct roar that was loud enough we could no longer whisper to be heard. We talked to each other at a regular volume, wondering how others continued to sleep with the racket.

Eventually, we grew tired of the noise. We began joking around that maybe it was a ghost trying to talk with us. It turned out I was the only one who knew someone who had died. My good friend Rick died when we were in sixth grade after hitting his head on ice during a pick-up hockey game. He wasn’t wearing a helmet.

Rick was my best friend, first through fifth grade. In our fifth grade year, his father moved his family from Berkley Street near Michigan Stadium to the northwest side of Ann Arbor.  That was sad for me. I counted on his father and Rick to be my surrogate family. They taught me so much over the years.

Rick's father had been my Little League Baseball coach from tee-ball. I enjoyed overnights at their house. We cried together when his mother passed away. We were eight at the time, and it was so hard on Rick and his brother, Brad. His mom had been ill for a long time. His father never seemed happy after that. I felt so badly for them. I tried to help out when I was there, but I think I made Rick feel he wasn't doing all he should when I would do more chores than he would, and with less complaining. I saw that I was less welcome as the last couple of years of their time on Berkley Street.

About a year after the move, Rick was playing ice hockey in a pick-up game at Vets Park when he fell and struck his head on the ice. He walked home, complaining of a headache. Once at home, he began vomiting and was taken to a hospital. He died there from his injury.

Since I was the only one of the three of us that night at the camp who knew someone who had died, we played along with the idea that Rick was making the pipes roar. None of us seriously believed this, but we told Rick to stop the pipes making the noise.

The noise stopped. And we laughed at the coincidence. I said, “Okay, Rick, if it’s really you, start the pipes again.”

Immediately the pipes began again. We tried to laugh, but it was difficult. We suddenly weren’t so sure, were a little nervous, even.

We asked Rick a few more times to turn the pipes on and off. Each time the noise complied. None of us were frightened, but we just kept trying to make sense out of what really was unbelievable.

Eventually, we came up with a code of that allowed us to ask yes or no questions. Throughout all of time we spent asking the impossible to answer improbably, we didn’t really believe what was happening was real.

Our questioning revealed that Rick was there to warn someone at the retreat. That was as much as we could discern. We were tired, and didn’t believe what we were doing anyway. With one last request of my friend that he leave the pipes off, all three of us went to sleep.

At breakfast in the morning, we related the story to the PF members. No one believed us, not surprisingly. What was surprising was that they all claimed they didn’t hear the pipes making any noise, even though many admitted they were awake at different times during the night. Chuck, Roger, and I were not believed by anyone.

After cleaning up the mess from the meal, I went to the basement of the lodge to find the pipes. The basement ceiling was finished, so there were no pipes to be found. I wandered around the basement for a while, trying to make sense of the night before, eventually dismissing it to imagination and coincidence. I left and went to join Chuck. We brought our skates and were going down to the lake to try them out.

The water was 100 yards or so down hill from the lodge. Chuck and I trudged to the lake carrying our skates. The cold was stiff with a bit of wind, yet the day was sunny. The breeze had cleared parts of the lake giving us some areas to glide around. Chuck was first on the ice. I laced up my skates and joined him. As soon as I hit the ice, I started some long stokes to catch up to my friend. It felt good to skate, to move in the sunshine.

Then I suddenly stopped, spraying snow from digging my blades into the ice. The pipes were roaring again! The sound was soft, but unmistakable. Chuck and I could hear it all the way down the hill to the lake. We looked at each other, frozen in disbelief.

Then we heard the ice cracking beneath our feet. Bubbles under the ice were moving. We took off for the shore as fast as we could skate. As soon as we were clear of the ice, the sound from the pipes stopped.

We put our boots back on and clambered up the hill back to the lodge. Inside, out of breath, we started relating the story to the others. They looked at us as though we were crazy. They all said they heard nothing, even Roger said the pipes made no noise that they heard.

I’d heard enough. I went again to the basement to look for, well, for something that would explain what was happening. The ceilings were covered, as I said before. There was nothing to see, nothing to do.

I found a small corkboard with thumb tacks on it on a wall about half way down the hall. I stood there playing with the tacks, eventually making the outline of Rick’s initials, RS. I fumbled around with the tacks until I heard people in the room above calling me to join the group. It was time for our final PF activity before departing.

I walked up the stairs and joined the others sitting in a circle. I was the last one to join the group. Ron began the exercise. Part way through Ron’s explanation, the pipes began to roar, louder than ever, and this time everyone heard them. Ron tried to talk over them, but the louder he spoke, the louder the pipes roared until finally, Ron gave up. He shouted over the pipes that we should pack up and get ready to leave the Fresh Air Camp.

I ran downstairs hoping I could find the source of the noise before it stopped. As soon as I hit the basement floor, the pipes were silent.

I looked down the hall. Halfway down, just below the corkboard, I could see tacks on the floor. I walked to them. When I got there, I looked at the board. There, in small letters, were my initials, TT, made with tacks. On the floor were thirteen tacks. I counted them as I picked them up and placed them back on the board.

I don’t claim to understand what happened. I don’t think I believe it myself. I can only say that all that I wrote is what happened that weekend at Fresh Air Camp on Strawberry Lake. A couple of days after the weekend, I recalled the incident with the cake on the counter as I was leaving for that retreat. It seemed to fit with the rest of the unexplainable events.

I never drew any conclusions from the events. Was there really a spirit? Was it Rick’s? Was he trying to warn us that the ice was dangerous? Why didn’t others hear the noise until the end? What did it all mean? Did it mean anything?

Draw your own conclusions. I’d love to hear them!

The Mysterious Ken

Imagine, if you will: The small town of Ann Arbor, Michigan, in the summer of 1965. Rain clouds which had been prominent for days were finally moving off to the east. Sunshine was sure to finally peek though and warm and dry the town. Two West Side neighbor boys, eight-year-old Jeff and my eleven year-old-self were finally released from their homes to play outside after four days of uninterrupted rainy weather. It was was some time after eight in the morning. Most adults, including our parents, were at work. We were bored already, as there was not much to do with all the puddles and mud. But it was better than being at home. My older brother and sister bullied me. I didn't like being at home.

The near west side of Ann Arbor was not the yuppie haven in 1965 it is now. The houses were old and looked it. The streets were tar and gravel compilations. The yards were small and not particularly well kept. Jeff and I were playing on Third Street, trying to see how big a splash in a large puddle we could make with whatever rocks and pieces of concrete we could find. We were bored, indeed!

A man from a house across the street from our puddle fun walked right up to us.

With his head cocked to the right and funny smirk on his face, he said, "Is this all you boys have to do today?"

In 1965, kids did not stand up to adults in the ways they often do today. We weren't sure how to respond. Neither of our fathers were men we'd say anything to if we could avoid them, but when we could not, we made sure the conversation went the best way it could to avoid trouble. This man was talking to us and seemed to need an answer.

"Well, sir," I said with practiced deference, "We really don't have anything else to do."

"Got any friends?", the stranger asked.

I was trying to figure out where this was going, how to be respectful and still not ignore the smirk he seemed to be trying subtly to hide. He was no threat. I sensed there was something good natured about him. I didn't always trust my senses, though, not being very human at age eleven. I became even more careful, having learned not to trust adults to be on my side. Somehow this man was different than anyone I'd ever known before. He was more like a teacher, except he was nicer. He didn't seem to have any pretense, nothing to hide besides his smirk which seemed to hide nothing more than an idea.

"Sure we do. We have friends." I was wondering where this was going as his smirk became a full-blown smile.

"I wonder, since you have friends and all, if you could round up enough, with baseball gloves, to meet me at the playground a few blocks from here. The one with the big hill. Do you know it?" He was practically laughing at us.

"I know it. It's called The Big Playground. It's part of our school's playground."

"Well then! Gather up some friends, as many as you can. Have them bring their gloves and whatever else. We'll meet at the playground and play some ball."

Jeff spoke at last, "I don't have a ball glove or anything."

"Don't worry about that, we'll have enough equipment. By the way, my name is Ken," and he reached his hand out to us to shake. Jeff and I were both well mannered enough to shake his hand and tell him our names. As I shook his hand, I finally looked at his face. He was tall, blond with very short hair; not long like many adults his age in Ann Arbor wore. He looked to be around 25-years-old, although I didn't really know how to tell ages well then. To me he was young, but old.

Ken left us standing there as he strode back to the house across the Third Street. He shouted over his shoulder at us, "We'll meet at the park at 1:00. Will that give you two enough time to get your friends together?"

I looked at Jeff. I had no idea where we'd get enough kids to make a baseball group. Most of the other kids on our block were girls. But I shouted, "Sure. We'll get enough kids."

After he went in the house, Jeff looked afraid. He told me he wouldn't be able to go to the park. He wasn't allowed. That left me on my own with a few hours to find some kids to play ball. I didn't want Ken to think I didn't have many friends. I wanted to impress him if I could.

I went all over the neighborhood, as far as Seventh and Washington to Willard's house. He wasn't a friend because he was a little older and kind of mean, but he'd do. I knew he liked to play ball. I went to Colin's house. He was pretty overweight and didn't play outside much because he was teased so much, but I needed bodies. I went all the way to Almendinger Park, stopping at every house I knew had a boy at our school old enough to catch a ball and hold a bat. I finally rounded up eleven kids who agreed to come to the park, including the big Cebulski brothers who lived right by The Big Playground.

Most  of the kids didn't have any equipment, but I was looking for kids, not ball players. I was worried they wouldn't really come to the park since we weren't really friends. We were more like acquaintances who went to school together. They didn't really know me, nor I them.

We all met at the park, coming from different directions. The sun was in full splendor, just as promised, and the sandy ball diamond was already heating up. Ken came to the park, driving down the pavement that led from Liberty Street, and parked his van behind the backstop. He looked at me, and then looked at the other ten kids of all ages sizes and colors.

"Terry, you do have a lot of friends! This will be fun!" The sun seemed to make me warm inside as well as out. I was excited to see what was going to happen.

He opened the doors of his van and had us take ball gloves and bats from the back. He had several of each. He also had a bag with softballs in it. I'd never had much use for softballs before. They were big and besides, I only played baseball, not softball.

I must had said something about the balls because Ken said, "These are easier to hit. And that's what we're going to focus on today. All of you take the field. Just go anywhere. Except you, Terry. You're batting first."

I was nervous. I wanted to impress him. I was a pretty good hitter on my Little League team, but this seemed different. He took the pitcher's mound and lobbed the balls underhanded. I hit a few, missed a few, and he encouraged me to try different stances, to get really comfortable. I was imitating my favorite pro ball players, not being me. Once I got comfortable in my stance, I started hitting the ball with more regularity.

I don't remember much else about that day except two things that really struck me. The first was that Ken noticed Colin wanted to be the catcher all the time. Colin was a slow runner and didn't want to be in the field. Ken coaxed him to play first base a little. Ken had a gentle demeanor that matched Colin's shyness and fear of trying new things. Willard tried to tease Colin, but whenever he did, Ken asked Willard what he would do differently if he were Colin. When Colin had trouble hitting the ball at first, Willard made some comment. Ken made sure Willard was next. But rather than making Willard look bad, he used Willard's ability to coach Colin. He showed Willard how to teach Colin to hit. It wasn't long on that first day that Colin was using his size to his advantage, hitting the ball so far, we had to really hustle to get the ball in before he made it around the bases, even with his slow trot. Ken never chastised Willard, just showed him he could be an example of what to do. I don't remember Willard ever teasing again.

The second thing I remember was that after we'd played for a few hours and kids starting going home, Ken said to everyone, "Can we play again tomorrow, maybe with more kids?" We all said we would try to get others for the next day.

And the next day we played again. Ken brought the gear and we added more kids. Ken worked with each of us on fielding as new kids learned to hit. He taught us how to catch ground balls, how to make pivots for double plays, and how to use what we already could do best to our advantage. I watched Ken closely that second day, seeing how calm and patient he was with each player, no matter their strengths and weaknesses. He never made the instruction about him, never took a turn at bat or in the field. He was making sure we were improving. He instructed using other kids as examples as he'd done with Willard the day previous. Pretty soon, we were all teaching as well as learning. Ken was always positive and kind. He was so different to me from my understanding of what a man should be.

We played for hours. Then another car came down the paved ramp from Liberty Street. A woman got out of the car. It was Ken's wife. She brought Kool-Aid to drink and apples and oranges to eat. We all took a break and enjoyed quenching our thirsts and having a snack. Ken was so pleased with his wife. I got the feeling he didn't know she was coming. Ken was enjoying the treat as much as the rest of us. He must have thanked his wife fifty times for bring us the drinks and food. She seemed so happy to help, so happy to be there with us. They seemed so easy together, like people on television rather than the adults I knew.

After Ken's wife left, we played another hour. Ken told us he would like to meet us the next day.

That day, we played a modified game. Ken would stop us in the middle of a play and help us learn what to do. We learned about strategy, about when to take an extra base, and when to be thinking about alternatives in the field, such as hitting the cut-off and communicating to each other as we made choices during a play. We learned about bunting, covering the bases in special situations, and more. Again Ken had those who already knew teach those of us who did not. We really came to like each other, to appreciate each other. Colin showed us how to use our weight to get more power in our swings as he learned how himself. Everyone contributed.

We were all excited about the fourth day as we knew we were ready to play a game for real. We had enough players now to field two teams if we shared catchers and pitchers, meaning each team would both catch and pitch when their team was at bat. The field was so much louder now as people were encouraging each other, helping each other remember what to do as situations evolved during the game. A short time after we began, Ken told us he had to leave, but we were welcome to use the equipment he brought as long as I returned it to his porch at his house at the end of the day.

We played for hours! Just the kids, playing and helping each other and learning more as we went along. At the end of the day, some of the players helped me take the bats, gloves and ball bag to Ken's porch. He was home and thanked us for bringing back the gear and following through as we said we would.

Ken joined us one more time. He came to the park, got us started, and left again with the same provision that I bring the equipment to his porch.

We did. But when we got there, there was no one home. We left the stuff on the porch.

The next day, I went to Ken's house to see if he was joining us. The equipment was right where I'd left it. I rang the bell but no one answered. I looked in the front window. The house was empty. No furniture, no cars in the driveway, no signs that anyone lived there.

We never saw Ken again. I remember feeling so empty, as though I'd lost a best friend. I think the others felt the same way. They kept asking me to check the house, to find out what happened. After all, Ken was my friend. I tried, but I never found out where he went or what happened. He and his wife had vanished.

We played ball that whole summer and the next. I continued to round up kids from the neighborhood to get more players (no experience necessary). Nearly everyday I checked the house on Third Street across from Jeff's house and that drive way where the puddle was. He never came back. We used the equipment, eventually parcelling it out to kids who needed it.

I made it my mission to keep the group playing ball. It wasn't so much that I wanted them to have fun and learn. It was to have a place to go that was safe and fun for me.

Ken left us such a legacy. We played together, teaching new kids along the way. We learned how to help each other. A few years later I began playing baseball during summer days at Almendinger Park with older kids. Some of The Big Playground kids also joined in. We weren't accepted by the older kids right away. One had only one arm. One had a poorly repaired cleft palate. They teased each other in what seemed like cruel ways. We all played together bringing Ken's wisdom, asking the older kids to help us learn. Eventually they got it. They saw they could teach, they could learn. We all became leaders. The teasing stopped as we all learned to appreciate each other: Ken's legacy.

The Big Playground is still there off of Fifth Street between Jefferson and Liberty. I wonder if kids still play ball there in the summers?

As an adult, I coached baseball and hockey. I tried to use Ken's way to teach, but was never as good at it as he was. The older I get, the more I understand about leading by letting, leading by showing examples. I found in that summer with Ken that I could be a leader just by getting others to share a purpose, to learn to lead at what they do best, to help each other.

Nearly fifty years have gone by, but every summer after a few days of rain, I think of Jeff and that puddle. I think of Ken and his gentle way of teaching. I reflect on what he taught me and how he helped me become more human. He let me lead, as he let everyone lead. We all saw new potential in ourselves and each other.