Honor My Father

By Clint Nye

Honor My Father is a true story of how college men came to the US Navy as reservists, instructed by the officers from Annapolis, and teamed together. It brings their many personal stories of interactions with my dad (Air Defense Commander), serving on two destroyers (USS Bancroft & USS Goodrich) with the naming of their actual crew members. My story honors these silent, humble heroes.
Thirty Benson-class destroyers were built from 1938 to 1943 and were the most vulnerable in the sea, protecting the fleet. The officers and crews earned 174 Battle Star Citations, one Presidential Citation and two Navy Unit Commendations posthumously.
The last section of my true story about Dad, Comedy of Adolescence; describes how as a new professor, working on his Ph.D. this writer entered his teenage years while the two of us moved from the city of Chicago to the small town of Athens, Ohio. After his war experiences, he experienced nothing like the big guns going off in his ear until the hard pounding drums from my new rock and roll band!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jul 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645755074

Clint Nye

Clint Nye has over 35 years of experience in public sector and private corporate employment. Recently, he was on the DOJ Team for GIS enterprise solutions and sales to federal law enforcement: DEA, ATF, USMS, U.S. Courts, U.S. Attorney's Office. He is also assigned recently to the National State and Local Public Safety Team as an Industry Solutions Specialist for law enforcement. He has represented several major corporations in sales of IT technology to the public sector. Clint served full-time law enforcement for 18 years, certified in the state of Florida for 25 years in excellent standing. LE duties began at the City of Miami Police Department assigned as a Patrol Officer, Field Training Supervisor, SWAT Team Sgt., Investigator - Strategic Intelligence Unit, Acting Commanding Officer to the Assistant Chief of Administration for Judicial Services. He also served the Broward County Sheriff's Office as a Deputy Sheriff, Staff Commander Management Analysis Division, Commander for Special Projects and Facilities. Direct report to the Sheriff and Chief Deputy for Administration. He has over 60 police service commendations, coupled with corporate awards supporting public safety nationally. His experience as a working cop in the streets of Miami and Broward County Florida during the major drug wars, Mariel boatlift invasion and police 'river cops' corruption investigations. This experience is being written about for the future publication of 'GOP,' Generation of Pigs, influenced by the hatred towards us, and the commendations hard working honest cops received. My brothers and sisters are in blue, gray, and brown police uniforms all wear badges whom we honor. I support military forces of our country serving around the world as 'Defenders.'

Book preview

Ritual

About The Author

   Chairman, President of NYETECH.NET LLC.

A Technology Consultancy for Public Safety Agencies

A former VP, Director, and Regional Sales Leader in the sales of technology systems for Law Enforcement and Federal D.O.J. agencies representing major corporations.

Clint Nye has over 35 years of experience in public sector and private corporate employment. Recently, he was on the DOJ Team for GIS enterprise solutions and sales to federal law enforcement: DEA, ATF, USMS, U.S. Courts, U.S. Attorney’s Office. He is also assigned recently to the National State and Local Public Safety Team as an Industry Solutions Specialist for law enforcement. He has represented several major corporations in sales of IT technology to the public sector.

Clint served full-time law enforcement for 18 years, certified in the state of Florida for 25 years in excellent standing. LE duties began at the City of Miami Police Department assigned as a Patrol Officer, Field Training Supervisor, SWAT Team Sgt., Investigator – Strategic Intelligence Unit, Acting Commanding Officer to the Assistant Chief of Administration for Judicial Services.

He also served the Broward County Sheriff’s Office as a Deputy Sheriff, Staff Commander Management Analysis Division, Commander for Special Projects and Facilities. Direct report to the Sheriff and Chief Deputy for Administration.

He has over 60 police service commendations, coupled with corporate awards supporting public safety nationally. His experience as a working cop in the streets of Miami and Broward County Florida during the major drug wars, Mariel boatlift invasion and police ‘river cops’ corruption investigations. This experience is being written about for the future publication of ‘GOP,’ Generation of Pigs, influenced by the hatred towards us, and the commendations hard working honest cops received.

My brothers and sisters are in blue, gray, and brown police uniforms all wear badges whom we honor.

I support military forces of our country serving around the world as ‘Defenders.’

In 2009, the author attended, after his father’s passing, the WW II Pacific Theatre reunion and got a tour of a newer Destroyer USS, The Sullivans. Later that day, they all went to a memorial roll call at church on base. His father’s name and rank were read as were others in honor of their service. The Navy Skipper was outstanding and gave the best time he could with his crew and tour. The USS Goodrich name has been transferred from the destroyer fleet and now carries the name on the submarine fleet.

Dedication

In dedication and honor of all the college men who came to the U.S. Navy as ‘reservists,’ instructed by the officers from Annapolis, teaming together with the objectives to defeat the enemy.

This is coupled with their personal stories and the interactions I’ve had with my dad (Lt. Richard Nye, U.S.N.R.—Air Defense Commander), serving on two Destroyers (U.S.S. Bancroft and U.S.S. Goodrich). Plus, there is the documenting and naming of their actual crewmembers within this book.

Thank you all for your participation and sacrifice.

My story honors all our dads—never to be forgotten, humble heroes.

During WWII, 30 Benson-class destroyers were built from 1938 to 1943 and were the most vulnerable in the sea, protecting their fleet. The officers and crews earned 174 Battle Star Citations, one Presidential Citation, and two Navy Unit Commendations, posthumously.

Copyright Information ©

Clint Nye (2019)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

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Publisher’s cataloguing in publishing data

Nye, Clint

Honor My Father

ISBN 9781645754770 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781645368762 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781645755074 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019934479

The main category of the book — BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Military

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

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New York, NY 10005

USA

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15 Palmer Street, Athens, Ohio, 2008. The house the author lived in with his father from 1964 to 1967. Today, it is missing a few big oak trees in the front. Upstairs was the space they occupied. During the river flooding days, the author had chained their boat to the front porch.

Author’s Note

The Greatest Generation Gone Forever – What do we do now?

This is a compassionate and honorable effort to tell the story about my dad and his time on the planet. It is the passing of the generation’s torch from ‘the greatest generation’ to the ‘boomer generation.’ I honor my dad and the men of his Harvard class of 1942, as well as his Dartmouth Navy Ensign class which he joined prior to entering the war and serving on two destroyers: the U.S.S. Bancroft and the Goody (U.S.S. Goodrich).

This is a compelling story of a kid growing up in the Depression Era, with strong religious beliefs instilled within him by his mother. It is also a passionate story of my growing up with the ‘nicest man’ and ‘the smartest man’ I have ever known in the mid-1960s. This story evolves to the time of my adolescence; at the same time, Dad was teaching college and working towards his Ph.D. in Economics. Dad’s tremendous sense of humor, bestowed upon me during this period, could only bring impossible conditions for him!

The two of us arrived in Athens, Ohio—the home of Ohio University in 1964. We moved into a hundred-year-old white house on Palmer Street. The rent was $25.00 per month. My interests were girls, rock ‘n’ roll, and playing the drums! Prior to this adolescent journey of the 1960s (written in Section IV: ‘The Palmer Street Chronicles’), ‘The Comedy of Adolescence’ is the true story of a humble, typical American hero from the roots of the ‘greatest generation of Americans’ who will never walk upon planet earth again.

From his personal records of accomplishments and his self-deprecating sense of humor, this man wore many ‘Badges of Honor’: H.S. Grad, BA Ohio University, MBA Harvard, Lt. U.S.N.R., Ph.D. Ohio University, Professor, Corporate Executive Sears, Business Manager University of Cincinnati, Director Business School at Mt. St. Joseph’s College, Cincinnati; Deacon, Mason, husband, volunteer, and friend.

The most important title he wore, for me, was simply that of ‘Dad.’

Dr. Richard P. Nye, a ‘Liberal in Education’ but a ‘Conservative in Business.’

Herein lie lessons I learned about religious convictions, investments and the economy, the world at war and politics of the country in the 1960s to today. Most of which I have carried with me throughout my life.

Imagine your life from childhood to adulthood: sitting at family dinners and gatherings throughout all the passing years, collecting and telling stories, euphemisms, truths, untruths, and bad jokes; bestowing your political and satirical humor, mostly to irritate and—or—inspire others. Then, one day, it all abruptly ends. Your loving King at the table is gone.

My story will describe how through a life of seemingly impossible conditions of ‘the Great Depression,’ World War II, family and corporate life, the nicest man I had ever known remained positive and self-assured. He maintained confidence in himself; a mindset humble about all related conditions throughout his life. Father’s faith in prayer was undeniable, and so was his belief in God. He placed himself above no one and discussed very little of the tragedies of war. His medals were kept in a small box in the basement. It seemed most men of the ‘greatest generation of Americans’ did the same.

Dad’s interpersonal achievements are places I will strive in my life to equal. I know deep down inside I never will. For ‘greatness’ in the eyes of others is awarded by the written description of a lifetime of records. This writing will freeze in time forever, a true story about Dad’s life and the time we all had with him. It will be like a digital recording, never to be erased throughout all of time.

Dedication

Special Dedication

Many of us in life will remain unidentifiable, insignificant, and non-imposing to others. We are famous for absolutely nothing. In past years, living in obscurity was the general rule and not the exception. Those past years taught us to be humble but polite. Know your place in society as well as your job and responsibility toward others. Maintain your strengths through a sound moral code and a religious upbringing. Always consider others before yourself. Self-promotion and boasting was a job for self-centered elites and not typically hard-working people.

Out of the Depression Era in the American society was born a class of people known as the ‘Greatest Generation.’ Many authors have written in detail about some of these famous and not-so-famous folks. They will all soon die and be nearly extinct in our current lifetime, should you be of ‘Baby Boomer’ age.

The author not only honors his own dad, but also many of the fathers and graduates of the Harvard Business School class of 1942 and the first Naval Reserve Training class at Dartmouth in the same year. The latter includes great college men of that time in our history from universities throughout the United States who took the reins of not only the U.S. Navy Reserves during World War II, but also participated in the building of new American companies that grew and expanded the economic depth and opportunities throughout America.

For those of us who have fathers from this era and time, please look for their names in the lists of attendees with the same type of education and navy training that the author’s father received. These men from graduate schools and colleges from across America provided the ‘key’ leadership that redefined our great country after WWII.

Your job after reading this book is to also do your best to tell the stories of your fathers or grandfathers from this generation of great Americans to the younger generations. They must learn (from information outside of this writing) and understand that for any of us to achieve a new sound footing in business, education, and world leadership, we must visit the past and identify every major significant event that kept our country as the world’s peacekeeper. This includes economic leadership created from the minds and efforts of these men, ‘The Greatest Generation of Americans’ in the history of the world.

These men as well as the women who supported them are, in stature, parallel to our founding fathers.

Dedication I.

This book is dedicated to Dad’s wife, Barbara, and to all the members of her family who have known Dad and his side of the family for all his years. Dad loved Barbara more than anything in the world, and we all felt his love and passion for her right till his death. May God bless you all.

Dedication II.

Dad, I hope you are not too upset over some of the nonsense in this book! I know I must deal with you later, regarding this (mostly about me, not you)! Thanks again for being the gracious, humble, humorous, and smartest leader of this family. May God bless you.

Dedication III.

To my wife, Linda, and our daughter, Kirsten. You had no idea I was busy writing about my dad and when you found out, you gave me your support and encouragement. This meant more to me than anything in the world during the time of Dad’s passing. I know there were doubts about getting this all completed, but you stuck with me. My daughter and her younger generation can learn from the history in this book.

Dedication IV.

To my brother, David. Now you understand all the questions I asked about us growing up with Dad! You taught me how to ride my first bike, fight my first fight, bang my first drum, shoot my first gun, and ride my first motorcycle. You also rescued me on numerous occasions throughout life, whether I needed to be or not! No one on this planet has a brother like you and thanks. Your loyalty is as strong as Dad’s. That is all I can say.

Dedication V.

This book is also dedicated to all the men who were part of Dad’s life at Harvard, Dartmouth, and the United States Navy, all serving on the U.S.S. Bancroft and the U.S.S. Goodrich (Goody), as well as his student friends at Ohio University. I found it impossible to talk about my dad’s achievements without honoring all of you in your service and dedication to society and our country. I do not believe that this high level of service and dedication to the building of our great country and protecting it will ever occur again in my lifetime. I believe a moral right is justified no matter what anyone thinks or says.

Thank you, Dad, and all your partners and teammates in life.

Dedication VI.

To Peter and Kent and many others—my old high school friends. We found each other, bonded, and it turned out to be for life, after all. We are all alive and well, and that is amazing. I do believe all of us should thank God for that. The three of us being together again will be a great and wonderful happening. Due to our bonding during adolescence—including all our crazy and fun behavior—our stories became a story within this one for sure. And since I created you all as fictional characters, I totally take the blame on all the shenanigans and situations I created. They are of my imagination.

Dedication VII.

To my old band, ‘the SCEPTRES’—alive and/or deceased. It truly was the best times of youth, great fun making music. You guys were the best and it was a privilege for me to bang drums for you. (A dedication to Norm Orcutt, who we called ‘Porky.’ He played the electric piano and served in Vietnam, which is written within this book.) The real band members know who they are as I did not want to impose upon anyone as all the embarrassing situations in this book were mostly my fault! Except for Porky, your names are fictional within this book.

Prologue

The core story of this book is about my dad and me living at 15 Palmer Street for nearly three years, during the peak of my adolescence. It is just one of probably hundreds of stories of individuals, families, and students, who may have occupied 15 Palmer St. over the past 40 years or so.

It is also about two very close friends I made as a teenager that influenced nearly every day of my life in this college-town. I will also attempt to honor friends from the past that are still alive or deceased. It is also about my rock ‘n’ roll band: The SCEPTRES. I was the drummer.

More importantly, this writing is a recollection of my life with Dad while he was alive on the planet. This timeline covers post-Depression era of the late 1930s to modern day. The transitions of American life through this period as well as each significant moment in time will never occur or repeat, ever in a lifetime.

Yesterday is history. Today is life. Tomorrow is the future.

Two important events occurred within my life to create the circumstances and my attempt to write this true story about our lives together, with the two of us ending up in the mid-1960s in the old house at 15 Palmer St.

First was a call from my cousin, Alan, who lives in Mansfield, Ohio, and who is a retired school teacher from Mansfield high school. His reason for calling was to discuss current happenings at 15 Palmer Street. Alan informed me that his daughter, a student at Ohio State, had driven down to Athens, Ohio, to meet with friends now attending Ohio University. She advised her dad that she was standing in front of 15 Palmer St. and presently was attending an affair the students called ‘Palmer Fest.’ This call took place in the spring of 2008.

Alan’s call came to me in Orlando where I have lived and worked professionally for the past 15 years; in the conversation that ensued he stated, Shari called and was at 15 Palmer St. at an event the students call Palmer Fest.

Alan explained that apparently once or twice a year, in the spring and again in the fall, the students block off Palmer St. from end to end, bring in beer kegs and have live rock ‘n’ roll bands playing all weekend. She said she called since for her entire life she heard stories about her dad (Alan), her Uncle Clint (me), and her great uncle ‘Dick’ (my dad); during the years my dad and I lived at this address and my cousin Alan attended college at Ohio University.

There will be more details later as to why Dad and I were living there in the mid-1960s.

The second event occurred on October 11, 2008. This is the day my father passed away at the age of 91.This day, I faced my own mortality coupled with all the life’s responsibilities placed upon my shoulders, with no escape route and no way around this reality.

On this day, I lost the nicest man and the most genuine person I have ever known in my life (I realize these statements may sound prejudiced because most of us always put our parents above all in life). However, this statement has been made by anyone who has ever known him, worked with him, or just talked to him. He never put himself above anyone and could carry on a conversation with the mechanic, janitor, or union worker, just as effectively as he spoke with a president of a university, or the Governor.

Throughout this writing, I will set the stage chronology as I reveal more information about this incredible, humble, and low profile of a man; what his greatness was, and how these traits were developed within his personality.

My writing will describe the memory from the first person perspective, like a flashback searching the mind for humorous descriptions and events. Then I will describe it in a story-fashion the early times of my life. A period from his Depression era, high school days, through to college at Ohio University and Harvard Business School, this includes his Naval Training at Dartmouth for the United States Navy Reserve Officers. His Naval service, assignments, and duties on two destroyers in the Pacific during WW II, are an important part of this story.

This writing is an emotional outpouring, but its purpose is to describe the progress from humble beginnings growing up in the depression in Ohio to success and love which settled in his life.

My compelling passion and internal emotions drive me to accomplish the goal to write in honor of Dad: Honor My Father. This may become the most important purpose of my life.

I will endeavor my memory and senses in efforts to describe my father’s tremendous sense of humor, his eccentric behaviors, tolerances, and openness. In our family, like yours, we have mentally archived very serious, funny, or hysterical stories that will be told for generations.

The lives of Dad and me at 15 Palmer St. in 1964 turned out to be the best years of my youth. I did not understand this until he left this world for a better place.

Section I

    October 11, 2008

Yesterday is history. Today is life. Tomorrow is the future.

Chapter 1

Today – October 11, 2008, Nelsonville, Ohio

Funerals are never happy events. However, this was a beautiful 80-degree day with lots of sunshine. The fall colors were in bloom. The hills surrounding the property created a beautiful backdrop as did the forest surrounding us. The grass was perfectly green and trimmed. Every headstone looked fresh and well taken care of. Many flowers had been placed on numerous headstones, which we observed while driving in. There were also some big, shady oak trees scattered throughout the property. These trees were well over a 100 years old.

It seemed our vehicle was the first to arrive. We noticed a tent with chairs. David, my brother, parked the car on the side of the road, pulling onto the grass. The tent was dark blue in color, had a carpet over the grass, and two lines of chairs. Dad’s casket was closed.

My brother, Linda (my wife), and I exited the rental car and approached the tent. About 20 personal family and friends came (I must note that at the age of 91 and over, my dad outlived nearly everyone he was close to in his age bracket, as well as even the younger folks who passed away years ago). Linda and I held hands tightly as I could not get out any words. But today, David and I told some of the funniest stories we remembered about Dad and everyone laughed. I was not sure how toward the end of the funeral I would say my personal goodbye to him, and I became very emotional. I searched in my mind for the correct words to say. I wanted to express the right words on behalf of our family, and his wife of 41 years: Barbara. Dad passed away in her arms and that is the way they both wanted it to happen.

There are many things you would like to say, but the author finds himself not able to verbalize the appropriate emotion into intelligent words. The loss of someone you love clouds your brain with so much emotion that you hardly remember the event until a few days later.

The one thing I do remember is the moment a relative, John (a cousin to Barbara’s family), had earlier today driven my stepmother down from Cincinnati to attend father’s funeral.

John placed a ring in my hand. I sensed right away it was Dad’s college ring from Harvard University. It was a request I had made a while back to Barbara. My dad did not have a fancy Rolex to pass on, or a model train collection. I was grateful for this gesture. It meant more to me than anything material or monetary that he may pass on to my brother and me.

A few years earlier, Dad had given my brother, David, a Japanese Garand rifle and a bayonet that he brought back from Japan. Dad did not like to tell the real story behind it, but we knew the truth. It came from a captured Japanese infantryman on the beach, near where his naval task force landings took place in 1944 (there will be more on this experience later and how it affected him). But for now, his Harvard ring was in my possession.

I knew in my mind I would wear it often. It would be my spiritual and religious connection to him; forever, until I die. Every moment while I write this story, his ring remains on my finger.

An American flag as designated by the President of the United States for all veterans was draped over Dad’s casket. Linda previously ordered a flower arrangement for the top of the casket. I brought a picture of Dad, taken while at Harvard University B. School, and placed it on the flowers. This was to honor his life as a young man and a reminder to us that all of us will come to our time in destiny. He went in peace with the Lord as his Father.

After most folks, including David, made their respects at the closed casket and while folks were walking away, I went over and placed the picture in my hand. I leaned over his casket, with the picture in my right hand, positioning it about where his head was below. With uncontrolled emotion and tears, I simply thanked him for everything that was positive in my life. Speaking in a very low voice, I told him he had given me a tough assignment. He had set the bar very high as a human being. I would have to continue working hard every day of my life to even acquire half his depth of character and richness in personality; qualities within his moral internal development and naturally projected throughout his life.

Yes, this was a sad day because of his passing, but damn it. Why did he give me this new impossible challenge? Life’s difficult assignment of living on may imperil me with emptiness. Facing diversity and loss, loving, achieving, never giving up or accepting complete failure; I ask myself over and over, Where do I go from here?

My friend and mentor is no longer here for me to talk to, and that my fellow readers is the pain of this tragedy (not the tragedy of Dad’s death as we did expect it at some point), but the tragedy of leaving me here on the planet with the assignment to carry on. I’m a baby boomer, how will I carry on? You see how this day and this situation just tossed everything at you all at once! (Those of you who have gone through this already completely understand.)

In the middle of the time of the greatest transfer of wealth from the ‘greatest generation’ to the ‘boomers,’ the government sat back while the entire economy collapsed. If this occurred right after WWII, Ike would have declared these as acts of treason. That is my opinion. Fortunately, Dad missed this event. He would not be able to believe it.

I finally walked away from the casket and Linda took my hand. She asked me if I was going to be okay.

This is really a tough day. We lost a genuine, kind-hearted, intelligent individual with a great sense of humor, who in some way was able to do all the right things.

How did he do it? How did he pull off this thing we call life on the planet so smoothly with all the turmoil and troubles he faced within our world and country? I do not know if I am up to this challenge of carrying on. How can I make sure this man’s life and purpose are noted in this microsecond of a lifetime? How can I thank him and his wife, Barbara, for all they have done and endured throughout my brother’s life and mine?

How can I thank him for his service to his country, in some way that also honors every WWII veteran still hanging in there today? The fathers of baby boomers have made the greatest sacrifices of any generation in our lifetime. Whether it was WWII, Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, or any other conflicts around the world, including today—the service of our fathers must always be honored. In my mind, I am always thanking authors James Bradley (including the motion picture adaption directed by Clint Eastwood for Flags of My Fathers) and Tom Brokaw, author of The Greatest Generation. Both books I have previously given to Dad.

I always thought in my mind how could I honor my dad in a personal way. I soon realized I would not need the extensive research of the official Naval Archives Office for more personal stories as told by my father. He had given me a lifetime of positive communication and friendship. Through his conversations and the following quote about his participation in the war, I learned a valuable lesson in life. We were just a bunch of college men, accountants, business majors, teachers, science majors, industrialists, public servants that took the call when the navy told us they needed to rebuild and staff war ships, going to the Pacific Fleet Command, headquartered in San Francisco. We were regular guys with no special military skills. We had to learn and drill practice everything in a short period. As new Ensigns, Lt. (j.g.) U.S.N.R. we then traveled to our assigned ships and eventually engaged the enemy.

The lesson I learned was that these reservists who distinguish themselves with personal bravery and courage would become our heroes. Many of these reservists, who performed competently and responsibly throughout most of their careers, made a solid contribution, of which became the ‘backbone’ of the United States Navy. It was no small feat in the eyes of a ‘Skipper,’ or the navy, to win this distinction.

Chapter 2

Thanking Dad – Thanks, Dad

While my dad was alive and in good health, I made sure I thanked him personally for his time in the navy, and all the Saturday morning ‘naval inspection procedures’ we went through, which as kids simply taught us to clean up our room! I made sure I told him I loved him.

One day more recently, at his home, sitting in his comfortable den, speaking in an unselfish manner, he said to me, I wish I had done more for you and David.

When he said this, nearly a year before his passing, I was shocked by his words. My God, I thought, this man has done everything for us. What impression did we display which caused him to feel that he needed to have done more? I passionately responded as I grabbed his knee, speaking softly to him.

We are all just happy to have you still talking to us.

In our minds, he is still the ‘great psychological foundation’ that we leaned on. Dad did his best to stay current on world issues and the lives of family members.

A few years earlier, Dad had given me all his navy medals, documents, and certificates. I retrieved a great picture of him on the bridge of the destroyer and had it framed with his medals. I also framed his certificates and presented them to him on an earlier visit to his home. His eyes filled up immensely and he told us all how grateful he was that we put this together. I found out that day that a simple show of respect and honor meant more to him than anything. His appreciation was evident in his emotion. He became a little teary-eyed, but with a smile on his face.

I guess I will just have to find a way to put this all in writing, in hopes our story will help other folks in their own way; in similar times to cope with these circumstances. My thoughts continue to this day, of my dad’s unselfishness in nearly everything he did. He always had great respect for anyone he met. Well, I thought to myself, maybe I can put some of his good teachings and sense of humor in writing one day.

After the Funeral – Same Day

While leaving the cemetery, I thought of my boyhood pals: Kent and Peter. Peter’s family was originally from Nelsonville, which is a very small town, just north of Ohio University in Athens. I wondered if his mom or dad were buried here. I scanned the markers and headstones as we drove out. I was always asked by my dad if I ever found Peter and Kent. I lost track of Peter in 1975 and Kent a few years earlier. Dad had always mentioned that you should look them up and see how they are doing (a challenging task as they probably lived good lives, have families, and great success). I thought, Why bother these guys?

Kent and I went to separate colleges; he went to Auburn and I went to FIU in Miami. The last I heard from Peter, AKA Toby, he was driving an 18-wheeler, and then he disappeared. This task of looking up my old adolescent friends seemed a low priority. The thought of finding them did remain in the back of my mind.

Let’s face it. We have met and known hundreds of good people in our churches, communities, and professional life. What the hell is significant about looking up a couple of guys you were best friends with as teenagers 40 plus years past, may I ask? For all I know, they are dead. But if they are alive, did they go through similar life experiences like I did? Did their parents die? How did they handle it? If they made it to retirement, where the heck are they?

Chapter 3

The Tour – Athens and Ohio University

Back in the car with Linda and David, I talked about some of the times we had growing up in Athens. It was a beautiful day, and Alan’s daughter, Shari, recommended an outdoor Grille on Court St. in Athens, just across from the Armory for lunch. On the short drive to Athens, I heard the song Old Days Are Coming Back to Me on the car radio. Emotion filled my eyes. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I had to turn this music down on the car radio.

But first there was unfinished business. I drove the rental car directly to 15 Palmer St. in Athens. This street is made up of 60 to 100-year-old German-style row houses. The original house was built in 1900. Most of the beautiful 100-year-old oak trees were trimmed down to nearly nothing. It was no longer a shaded street. The street still had the same old bricks popping up. It appeared from signs in the windows, that most of the homes were purchased by the university and turned into student housing. OU had grown in unprecedented rates and housing was always an issue. Students doubled or tripled up in these houses while in college; one of the reasons Shari decided to go to Ohio State. She kind of broke family tradition by doing this, but all is well as she has always been a top honors student and we are proud of her accomplishments.

I exited the rental car and walked over to the porch of this old, white house. It was still divided into two apartments: upstairs and downstairs, just like when my dad and I lived there. I asked Linda to take a couple of pictures all the time telling stories of this place she refused to believe! I can say categorically that everything I told her (you will read later) was the truth and was about the PhD Professor Richard P. Nye, who lived there with me, my dad.

I got back in the vehicle and drove David and Linda around the university, passed my old high school, then proceeded driving out to the football stadium and back up the main street named Court Street.

I stopped several times like a tourist and took several pictures with my digital camera, up and down Court Street. Down toward the end of this street was an old Armory building. Across from the Armory was the Grille. Perfect. We pulled in to park. I handed Linda the digital camera and walked across the street and stood in front of the Armory. She took a couple of pictures. Then we had a mid-afternoon lunch and I told more stories about Dad, Alan, and me, while at OU, including a story about the importance of the Armory.

Linda was always a good listener, was careful not to cut me off in conversation or offend me, but she finally stated, "This looks exactly like the courthouse in Back to the Future movie."

And that is when I told her that the history is similar.

For my life in the 60s, rock ‘n’ roll was invented right here for me in that Armory; the very first weekend I moved to this town.

I flashed back in my mind to be able to give a colorful explanation to Linda and David. You might say this flashback was like the movie. But I did not have to produce a modified DeLorean or a high charge of electricity. I was internally wired for this very true story.

But let’s go back for a minute in conversation, to further explain the circumstances of me moving to Athens in the 1960s.

With the summer ending of 1963, several years after my birth, Mother divorced my dad. I had made a failed attempt to be a public-school student in the Chicago high school system. This is totally another story of which I will hit on lightly, as the details would cause one to write another book. Prior to high school, I had attended a military academy in the Chicago suburbs for grades five through eight.

(The military school story would be more of an autobiographical accounting and I will not get hung up on all the details of my life at this school. However, I wanted to go to military school as it helped me with the separation of my mom and dad.)

Also, I had a neighborhood friend who went to military school and I liked his uniform! His school had horseback riding, basketball, baseball, and football in a well-organized and somewhat strict learning environment.

Coming out of a well-disciplined military school system and placed in the public high school in the city of Chicago near where my mom lived just did not work out. This school was gang-ridden and all the black, white Nazis and gang member Hispanic kids had switchblade knives, zip guns, and dart guns. These gang members also had high-powered BB gun rifles and would shoot the girls in the legs as they walked home from school. As you walked past them, you would hear the zip of the shot and see the blood start to boil on top of the skin of their legs. It was gross!

This school had some of the first settled Cuban refugees, of which the federal government wanted in Chicago and not Miami for some reason. These Cuban kids attempted to befriend the Puerto Ricans. The black kids hated the Puerto Ricans. The Puerto Ricans hated everybody, or so it seemed. The Cuban kids did not know who they were supposed to hate. The white kids kind of protected them.

No teacher of any class I took in this high school could control their class. Entering each classroom, your first challenge was to find a seat. If you did not get to find a seat, the teacher ordered you out of the class and you were put in an overage class. It was a constant battle fighting for a seat. This was a miserable existence for any student. Particularly for a new freshman, and his few close friends.

In the dead of winter, the swim coaches made you go to the pool naked! The water was barely 60 degrees and these homos were getting a kick out of watching dozens of naked boys in adolescence doing laps for PE. That whole system was disgusting and perverted. And swimming was one of my favorite sports along with baseball. I could not do either in the Chicago school system!

Earlier, back in military school, I had learned to play the drums in the drum and bugle corps. I did this for four years. In the summers at home, David gave me his old drum set and I started to make friends, which allowed me to get-together at their homes and play jazz and big band swing. I loved music and the drums at this stage of my life. It was my passion, my soul, and my creative outlet. I would try to learn and be the best I could possibly be—I have the same mindset now. I am done with the swimming crap!

One More Side Story, Prior to Zapping You to the Armory

After the high school classes in Chicago, I took formal drum lessons from a legendary drummer who spent a career with a Dixieland jazz band called ‘The Vagabonds.’ They did all the major TV shows at the time, including Ed Sullivan’s Sunday night show. He taught me the techniques of swing and Dixieland. One occasion, he allowed me to stay and practice in his shop until he closed. He encouraged me, and told me I was a natural and to always keep up my talents. His name was Leonard Levitt. I do not know if he is still around, but I thank him for the time that he spent with me in his shop.

Lenny, as I called him, on one occasion casually informed me of many great well-known drummers who were coming to town. One day, he told me that Joe Morello of the Dave Brubeck Quartet was coming to the Lyon & Healy music building on Saturday for a private drum clinic. It is an hour with him by invitation only. Joe Morello was the only percussionist I have ever seen perform a left-hand, continuous, rapid drum role at such intensity that good drummers could not perform with both hands continuously. The clinic was $50.00. No kid could afford this. Only well-paid, experienced jazz-drummers would attend. Lenny gave me his pass to this clinic.

The Saturday of the clinic, I grabbed my drumsticks and headed to the north-side ‘L’ station in Rodgers Park for the ride downtown. The car was empty. With my transistor radio and earplug in my ear, I drummed on every seat, pole, window, and panel on the train ride downtown. I remember at one of the stops some colored kids got on the train. They stared me down. I did not know if they were going to rob me or what. In this day and time (1962), it was not unusual for poor kids to make you give up your money. They would intimidate you or maybe push you down in your seat. They just needed money. If they were in your age-group, they rarely hurt you. This I learned from experience. I always had a couple of dollars to give up.

I kept drumming on the windows and the metal seat rails. Finally, they started drumming with their hands and followed along with me. It got loud in there and at another stop, people getting on quickly moved to another car! I do not know what songs I was drumming to—listening to my transistor radio via the earpiece—but the colored kids kept right up with me by banging the backs of the seats, stomping their feet, and slapping their knees. It sounded loud, somewhere in beats of jungle drums and Dixieland. The train went down into the subway and stopped at Jackson Street. I thought I would get off here and walk to the building. The colored kids stayed in their car; they were going to the south-side.

The most impressive part of Joe Morello’s clinic that day for us ‘rich and privilege kids’ and other adult drummers attending was how respectful he treated everyone; answering all their questions while demonstrating his famous techniques. He graciously performed every type of rhythm, style, hard play mini solos, brushes, and soft play for us that day.

He addressed our group, and I remember to this day his advice, Always play within your talents and learn to play softly with technique.

I was thinking to myself, Wait a minute, I want to play loudly, drum solos, stripper music, Dixie-land jazz, and rock and roll. How the hell will I ever play softly? Just to answer these questions, accompanying him was a pianist that started playing some of the progressive jazz his quartet played. He told us, If you guys practice with a piano or organ, and learn the different techniques of soft play, then swing and all the rest will come naturally. I was anticipating him performing a partial solo from Take Five and/or Pick-up Sticks.

Joe continued with an incredible demonstration with the brushes. I had hardly even used them up to then. I would have to really practice this. I need to buy a pair of brushes before I leave, I concluded to myself.

During this time living in Chicago, I had met Ray. He was a good-looking kid, with slicked-back blond hair and blue eyes. He had a great attitude about music and practiced with friends. Ray had a piano in his basement and he played progressive jazz. He was a genius that had total memory recall and would hear any song once and, within minutes, work out the entire song on the piano or electric organ. We played everything from Ray Charles, Louis Armstrong, and every famous blues-jazz headliner of the day. Ray taught me how to play softly and I learned everything; listening to drummers like Joe Morello, Buddy Rich, Dave Black, Philly Jo Jones and other great drummers’ skills and techniques.

I did not play much rock and roll in practicing. Now rock was still developing for me, and there was not much depth to any of those songs for drumming anyway. If I was going to learn how to play the drums properly, I was going to have to focus on Joe Morello and Dave Black. Maybe practice some Art Blakey’s and Louie Bellson’s styles and techniques. But for now, I was going to learn everything I could to be able to play, big band, with jazz and blues being my favorite.

During high school, Ray learned from his mother that she had cancer. Attending school daily, he had to learn to cope with her illness and impending death. Ray’s mother loved him more than the world. She also loved all his friends. Ray was disheartened. He put his pain and soul into his music. He learned from his dad and they counted the days and made every moment with her the best they could. Even then at the house, she always told us to play if in the basement if we liked. His house was in a great location right off the beach in the north side of Chicago.

I remember his mom as a wonderful lady. I always thought to myself, How could I live with the fact of losing a parent while young and in high school? How would I be able to cope and carry on?

During this period, my big, late-night vice was to stay up and watch The Tonight Show with Steve Allen and then Johnny Carson. Whenever Johnny was playing the drums, he usually had Buddy Rich on to play as well. This was my new drug of life. It was the burning desire and passion that drove me to make my life complete as a kid. Even then, I loved it and appreciated it more than I would publicly admit. When I was playing the drums, there were no problems, just adrenalin. Ending a session was a feeling of total satisfaction and accomplishment.

At the Grille, across from the Armory, biting into a chicken sandwich I began to tell David and Linda the story.

Chapter 4

Flash to 1964 – Saturday at the Armory

It is my first Saturday night as a ‘townie’—as we were called by the OU college students. I knew no one. The Armory was having a typical Saturday night hip-hop dance, and the band playing was the RAMCHARGERS. Now, this is the set up you have seen over and over in Happy Days or other movies about the 60s.

But this is my story, and it describes what actually occurred:

As I entered the Armory, it appeared this was high school-related folks and not college students. I was dressed in my typical Chicago-style clothes for a Saturday night out. I had tight, gray slacks, beatle boots with a zipper, and a black sweater over my black shirt. My hair was slicked back and I was better looking than Elvis or any other rock and roll star you could ever meet—in my mind anyway! I started dancing with a couple of girls who came over and introduced themselves, and they observed that I obviously was new to Athens.

With the RAMCHARGERS playing loud—late 1950s and 60s popular rock and roll song—I could barely hear anything they said to me. As we were dancing, some local bubba boys from the fat and dumb gang came over, and started cursing at me and calling me a hood and other names I won’t repeat. This altercation eventually went outside where they did throw a few punches and pushed me (I was very skinny, so pushing me could easily knock me down—which they did)!

But I had learned something from my Chicago high school and brought my switchblade knife with me. I pulled it out, hit the button, and waved this chrome device in their faces and told them to leave me alone. I told them I was here to dance and hear the band. The two girls and a crowd gathered. The RAMCHARGERS had stopped playing and came outside for a break. They saw the commotion going on and told the bubba boys who they knew from the high school to back off and let the new kid walk back in. The two band members confronted the bubba boys by standing in their faces and staring at them.

A band member who stood out in view was tall, with dark hair, and he came over and began speaking to me, My name is Daniel. Don’t worry, these guys are townies that live out in the county on farms and play football. (Daniel was tall and thin, about 18 to 20 years old or so I thought at the time. He had shorter black hair and good looks. He appeared to oversee the band.)

I offered a handshake. I am Clint from Chicago, and I just moved down to Athens to live with my dad.

Daniel seemed cordial and asked, So will you be in high school or going to OU?

Ahhhm. Well, the high school first, then I am going to OU.

I mentioned to Daniel that I really liked his band and that I played the drums. He turned around and asked me, What kind of drums do you play?

I answered hesitantly, Ohh, ahh… well pretty much anything, but I’m trained in jazz and Dixie land styles.

Are you serious? Can you play rock and roll, or the hip stuff of today?

Oh, hell yeah, I told him. Rock and roll very much, so, ah, no problem. (I am 15-years-old and I let them assume I was 17 or older.)

Daniel kind of shook his head and turned to walk in the side door of the Armory and over to the area where the band was set up. They played another set. Daniel was talking to some of the guys and it appeared they were talking about me. After a couple more songs, they stopped playing. Daniel announced that they would have to cut it early. I found out later that their drummer named Ryan had to leave early due to a family commitment. The crowd started booing that the dance would end earlier than expected.

Daniel and another guy named Rob came over and Daniel introduced Rob, their lead singer, to me (Rob had the build of an athlete, about six feet tall, blondish, lighter brown hair, and great looks that the girls wanted in a lead singer. He had a real passionate voice. A little raspy in nature and seemed able to sing every song as good, if not better than the original 45 RPM vinyl record). Rob looked over toward me.

I like your clothes, man. You’re a city guy, right? he asked. Again, a little intimidated to say the least, I answered him with a one-word answer.

Chicago.

Daniel, thinking I am spooked and probably going to hit the door and leave, began to plug in his bass guitar and gestured with his hand pointing to me to get on the drums.

I walked over and shook my head. No way.

I would never play anyone’s drums without explicit permission.

The band started playing and Daniel began talking louder, directly to me. Look, our drummer had to leave, and his name is Ryan, he said it’s okay for you to sit in.

What the hell are you going to play? I was now raising my voice at him and he yelled back over the music.

Some Beach Boys, Big Bopper, Buddy Holley, Elvis, and some England crap!

In my mind, I did not know any of these guys but Elvis. But I never practiced drums to Elvis’ songs, and I thought the Big Bopper and the entire Cavalcade of Stars went down in a plane crash and I didn’t know any of their songs. This was not good. I was about to make an idiot of myself. I thought to myself, Any Ray Charles, Brubeck Quartet, swing, Dixieland—not going to happen here!

Daniel and Rob were yelling. Get on the drums, drummer boy!

Finally, they turned around and while playing some instrumental, they asked me at the same time. Can you play wipe out?

Great, I thought, I had just been practicing this beat as it caught my attention as one of the few rock and roll songs that started with the drums. I nodded in the affirmative and hit the sticks.

I knew the song was on the flip side of The Surfaris’ Surfer Joe, which was recorded in 1962. The drums were supposed to be the wipe-out sound of a surfboard with the board breaking up.

The band played several songs and toward the end of the set, Daniel and Rob asked me to do a solo. I commenced a rhythm into one of Buddy Rich’s stripper solo beats that build and build as you go through it and everyone came back into the Armory and yelled, cheered, and clapped. I was apparently doing okay for this crowd. They had never heard the beats of Dave Black and Buddy Rich in person. I thought in my tuned-up mind that maybe this town would be okay and that I will make some friends here. The RAMCHARGER’S drummer, Ryan, had no similar talent. A mistake, as he found out later. The solo was too good and blew drummer Ryan out of the water.

(My great drumming became an issue I had to deal with later at the school, and will be explained when we get back to 1964 and stay there a while.)

I (the author) will also follow up with another incredible coincidence about their drummer, Ryan, and myself many years later, working in the same profession in different states for over 20 years!

Rock and Roll was invented for me that night at the Armory. I thought, Gee, rock and roll is easy drumming!

Leaving that night, the band members came over and congratulated me on the play. They said collectively that the crowd really got into my solo. Rob spoke first.

Are you going to the high school on Monday? Because we need to meet at lunch and talk. We think you should be, like, our backup drummer or something.

I thanked them all. Adrenalin filled the body with total satisfaction. I really looked forward to meeting them.

Flash-Forward to Today at the Grille

After I told this part of his story, Linda and David seemed somewhat interested. I also felt it was surreal in that here I was today, all these years later, telling them about that time in my life and how important it was to me; even with the interference from the bubba boys. I then began to tell them about the time we got under the bank in town, with David and Linda laughing about this statement.

Really, I will show you where we got in under the bridge through the manhole covers!

They are now laughing so hard. They both asked me at the same time, What the heck were you doing under the street under the bank?

That’s where the money was!

Continuing the Tour

After lunch, I continued the tour around Athens. I know how these family nostalgia tours go: everyone hears the same stories repeatedly. Linda, my wonderful wife, had heard many of these stories, but, like most condescending spouses, assumed I was incorporating my sense of humor and making most of them up. Like telling her, I made toast with a coat hanger.

You’re an idiot! she yelled.

One thing did become clearer to her as we went on the tour was that the previous descriptions of life in Athens were now being painted in living color as she was now on the scene of many of my youthful adolescent beginnings, and stories only boys can tell and laugh about when they get older. (My 14-year-old daughter will not be allowed to read this entire book!)

I drove back through Palmer St. again, without stopping, and made a right on Mills to go up the hill to the street where the church was. I stopped by a ‘No Parking’ sign on Mills and continued talking to Linda and David as we drove to Mills.

That No Parking sign is where I chained the row boat so we could use it again after school!

They both responded with a cocky, What?!

I drove up the street to the Presbyterian Church, where Dad and I attended most Sundays. My friends, their families and fathers also attended this church on occasion, as did the entire board or brass that ran OU. To frame this picture: the president and high educators all attended this church.

David took a couple of pictures of Linda and me in front of the church. The doors were all locked so I could not walk in. David and Linda walked back to the car, ordering me, Let’s go!

I was still jiggling and attempting to open all the front doors.

For me, this was a moment that just automatically brought me closer to Dad. The very funny story of what happened in church one Sunday must wait until we get back to the 1964–1966 chapters.

Chapter 5

A Few Years Prior to Funeral Day

There were over the years many happy and fun times at my dad’s and Barbara’s home on Livingston Rd. in Cincinnati. My brother, David, and I talk often about all the family members, girlfriends, wives, and siblings that were brought to the house on the holidays. As you can imagine, David and I brought many of them. Dad had a kind respect for us on our tour of life through our own ups and downs. We are no different; we have had many of life’s hard times and troubles come to us. But one of Dad’s greatest attributes was that he never questioned or criticized us in a direct manner. He would listen to us and celebrate our successes and provide empathy at some of our shortcomings.

Listening was the most important consult I received from Dad. It meant that he understood the issues, and throughout many conversations over the years, he would throw in a simple question that might take another hour or so to answer. But when we were done and had our last beer on the deck of his beautiful home in the woods, we usually had answered our own questions. This is a tremendous asset; a value you do not realize until it is gone.

Dad was getting older now, the six acres and home were a little much. He had groundhog issues, which were potentially going to collapse the barn! (Later in his life, at a Harvard Reunion, he had to submit a note on what he was doing in retirement.) The information submitted would be published with his picture in the 50th reunion edition. I will copy it word-for-word right here. I couldn’t believe it when I read it! Word-for-word as written in the following three paragraphs (in his eccentric style and