Unpacked Memories

By Jim Moeller

Jim Moeller, the author of Unpacked Memories, believes that within each of us is a host of lifetime memories. These memories, if not passed on to the kids and grandkids, will eventually die.

Taken from over 6000 entries into his diaries and journals, are stories from his childhood up to the present day. They include an account of his kidney donation to a person he had never met. Other stories cover his 40 plus years in a 12-Step program and his days of flying jets on and off aircraft carriers.

Each of the stories helped to mold Jim into who he became.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098374778

Book preview

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1 Introduction

Hidden inside most of us is an abundance of memories. They may be from childhood, everyday life, or as recent as yesterday.

Often when I’m with family or friends, these memories start to emerge. Although often hidden within our minds, these stories, both happy and sad, finally have permission to make their way out.

I’m disappointed that I didn’t listen more closely to my parents’ and grandparents’ stories. And now, gone are the people who may have known many of the stories, so unanswered questions will remain unanswered. I guess I, like so many others, are so focused on the future that we ignore the stories from the past that accompanied us to this moment.

I have a book on my shelf written by a local woman from my Ohio community during the 1800s. She kept notes and drew pictures of what life was like for her in that area and at that time. I don’t know if she ever intended to publish her work, but over one hundred years later, the local Historical Society unpacked her diaries and drawings creating an enlightening book.

Our lives may not seem important to others, but that may change in a generation or two. Recently I traced the Moeller family back to 1786, but clues of their lives ended there. Imagine if they had kept a diary of their lives.

I remember my grandchildren’s laughter as I told them numerous stories of my childhood.

Since the days of sitting around the dinner table and sharing stories seem to have vanished, the writing preserves them. One day these stories will be significant to family members still unborn.

My forty years of writing memories was never my idea. Struggling with alcoholism, I ended up in treatment. My counselor, Wendy, sensing I was hiding from painful thoughts, ordered me to delve into my feelings with pen and paper. Somehow she knew my writing would be more honest than my spoken words.

I fought her each day, but she won. Later I discovered that I had actually won. Since then I have written over 6000 memories, thoughts, and reflections.

One evening some of these memories were unpacked with my son’s mother- and father-in-law. Finally, Dave turned to his wife, Susie, and said, Susie, I don’t believe we vetted this family enough before we allowed our daughter to marry into it.

What follows are some of the many memories that I borrowed from my countless notebooks I had packed away.

Each of the selections, in some way, influenced who I am today.

I hope you enjoy them,

Jim Moeller

2

When I was young, transportation in my small town of Maria Stein, Ohio, comprised of walking, hitchhiking, or biking. Hoping to get a free ride in a vehicle was seldom an option since most families only had one car.

Even though young, I was a good worker so my grandparents enjoyed having the extra labor available on their Saint Sebastian, Ohio, farm. But at age seven, driving me back and forth at the beginning or end of a day caused problems.

One day hearing my parents talk about driving me to the farm, I said, I could ride my bike to the farm. No one argued.

In reflection, here was a young boy who could barely read, taking a bicycle adventure to another part of the world. Sure, lifestyles were different then. No one in our tiny community worried about safety, robbers, or kidnapping. We just went about our business.

It was only six miles between Maria Stein and the Saint Sebastian farm, but it may as well been a hundred-mile trip for a seven-year-old. Planning to stay for a few days, I packed my clothes while mom packed food for the journey. I guess she and I did not check the GPS for the trip length because I had enough food for three days.

So, at 8:00 a.m., I jumped on my bike. I soon found that it did not take days or even hours to reach my destination. I was there in 30 minutes!

Until the State of Ohio deemed that I was safe to drive a car, I must have made that bike ride a thousand times. I took every possible route and even counted how many revolutions I made with the pedals. Eventually I knew every inch of State Route 119, State Route 716, State Route 274, Clune-Stucke Road, Homan Road, Goettemoeller Road, Harrison Road, and Sebastian Road.

The freedom and independence given to me at such a young age allowed me to grow up quickly and become responsible for my actions. It taught me about life.

That’s quite a bit for a seven-year-old.

-Story from the 1950s

3

I often tell people that I went to a public school, but many of my teachers were Catholic nuns. Back then the most educated people in our area were often the nuns who resided at a Convent in Maria Stein.

Life was pretty simple. We rode the bus to school, exited the bus, brought our books and lunch into the classroom, and went to the church across the street for mass before school started. This was not unusual with 100% of the community being Catholic.

On one particular day, our bus was running late because of icy roads. So when the bus driver dropped us off at school we had to hurry to get our books into the classroom and then rush to church.

Running and then slipping on the icy sidewalk, I lost my balance and from behind wiped out one of the elderly nuns. While bracing the fall with her arm, she came down on me, with her paperwork flying. Another teacher helped her up implying she may have broken her arm.

I then went on to church with only one thought: What will they do to me? I had received discipline for being a bit of a troublemaker, so I did not know what the penalty might be for breaking a nun’s arm.

At a minimum, I was sure they would sentence me to the classroom during recess for the rest of my school life. Maybe suspended? Maybe banned from school for life? As the mass continued, the potential penalty continued to grow within my mind.

I felt terrible all day. To make matters worse, when I arrived home mom and dad already knew of the incident. It’s all over I thought. But, as dad talked to me he seemed to understand it was an accident.

The next day my teacher talked to me about what happened, telling me there was no one to blame.

When the casted nun came back to school, I nervously apologized for what had happened.

And what lessons did I learn because of this incident? Few. Within a few days, I was in trouble again.

-Story from the 1950s

4

Growing up in Maria Stein, Ohio, we had a close-knit group of guys. There was Nick, Joe, Paul, Dick, Don, and me. There were others, but the six of us were a team.

The term fake news did not exist in those days, so we believed everything we heard or saw on TV. Paul received a Superman outfit as a gift, so when he wore it we all knew he had the ability to fly. On his first attempt, he did. Paul flew from the top of his eight-foot swing-set/sliding board directly into the ground.

Somewhere in that episode, we learned that we should not believe everything seen on TV.

Paul was the catcher, and I was a pitcher on our high school baseball team. My best pitch was a fastball, and when it hit Paul’s glove, it popped. Paul would often ice his hand between innings and again after the game to keep it from swelling to a size larger than the glove. I will never know how he did it game after game with a catcher’s mitt whose padding was a single layer.

During the 1960 Summer Olympic games we held our own version. With Dick’s dad owning a masonry business, their backyard was a perfect location for digging a jumping pit and filling it with the masonry sand. Stringing his yellow masonry tape, we created a hundred-yard track for the running events. With all the kids in town invited, we ran events closely matching the actual events.

At the end of the day when Dick’s dad arrived home and saw what we had done, the 1960 Maria Stein Olympics came to an abrupt end with no closing ceremony.

Joe was our football kicker with fantastic ability. At age ten he could kick field goals from over 30 yards. We always felt he could have played in the NFL.

Don, a year older than the rest of us, was our best engineer. Spring in Ohio was a great time to fly kites, but Don felt we could do more than the normal. He invented a kite that was over six feet across and at least eight feet in height. Knowing that regular string would not be strong enough, Don secured a ball of baler twine. He also estimated that the tail would have to be at least 50 feet long to maintain the kite’s balance. Don also felt the wind push on the kite, the size of a barn door, would be too much for us to hold. To compensate, he would tie one end of the string to the kite and the other end to a post cemented into the ground. We waited nearly a week until Don decreed that the wind was strong enough to lift the kite. Stretching the string out, it covered several hundred yards and numerous backyards. Two people held the kite, and several of us grabbed the twine. With Don’s go, we started running as we pulled the twine. A few moments later, this Boeing 747 of kites rose as the wind grabbed hold of it. It continued to rise until the string was as tight as a guitar string.

And then, even with superior engineering, the force of the wind covering the entire surface of the kite was stronger than the cemented post. Out of the ground it came, even with two of us trying to stop it. As the kite pulled the pole across a yard or two, it started descending and eventually reached the ground.

I don’t remember how many more flights the kite made, but Don was the Wright Brother of Maria Stein aviation.

Nick lived on a farm with part of the barn available for a basketball court. So no matter how much snow outside, every Sunday afternoon, we had an indoor court. Enough kids always showed up that we could have several teams.

Nick’s family had an old Nash Rambler car, and Nick had a set of keys. No, we were far from being old enough to drive, but that did not stop us from operating the Nash in the farm fields. Nick would often put the car into a broad slide, with dirt flying everywhere. How we kept from rolling the Nash, I will never know.

We were in heaven with indoor basketball and a car that made all of us feel like we were in a car race.

And then, in the middle of the excitement, we would hear Nick’s mom say, Anyone hungry? Nick came from a large family, so cooking for a group of kids was no big deal. And it was great eating!

And what happens after this crazy group grew up? Nick and Joe became school principals, and Paul, a CPA, Dick, a writer in New York, and Don created a large plumbing company. But in those days, we didn’t live for the future; we lived for the day.

-Story from the 1950s

5

Growing up in Ohio often meant the summer days were sometimes horribly hot and humid. Since air-conditioning was only a dream, we learned to live without it. Fortunately, in the neighboring town of New Bremen was a large swimming pool. When mom or Aunt Lillian drove us to the pool, we might have ten kids in the car, but the drive was considered normal.

However, when Aunt Alvina drove, it was a different story. Lillian and mom had cars with automatic transmissions, but Aunt Alvina drove their black and white 1953 Chevy with a straight stick.

Anyone who has driven a vehicle with a straight stick knows that one starts in first gear and eases the clutch while slowly increasing the gas. Aunt Alvina did not believe in going from first to second to third gear, so we always started in third gear.

With all of us in the car, the transmission in third gear, Aunt Alvina would push the gas pedal to the floor. Then quickly taking her foot off the clutch, the vehicle shot out of the gate like a bronco. Being packed like sardines prevented most of us from being tossed around the car.

The vehicle would shoot forward and then start to stall. Then jerk forward again, followed by a stall. Before we could get to 30 mph, we could have easily mixed a milkshake.

Years later, I became a military pilot flying jets off of an aircraft carrier. One day, sitting on the deck, engines at full power and the catapult preparing to throw me off the ship’s front, Aunt Alvina and her 53 Chevy came to mind. As I launched, I smiled.

Those sure were great days! Even when we were bouncing around the car, we laughed, and Aunt Alvina laughed right along with us. I don’t know if she knew how much fun her rides were, but I suspect she did.

-Story from the 1950s

6

I was one of the luckiest kids in the world. My entire family liked to fish, especially my two grandfathers. I don’t think they ever went fishing without inviting me along.

Whether we were at Montezuma Creek fishing for catfish or Grand Lake St. Mary’s fishing for crappies, I couldn’t get enough of it.

I later learned that both my grandparents used fishing for their time of prayer and meditation. When with them, we did not talk. We fished.

I remember one adventure onto Grand Lake St. Mary’s with dad, Cousin David, Uncle Henry, and me. We were on a small boat out around what they called the oil derrick. Suddenly the corks on all four lines disappeared. Each of us pulled in a fish, unhooked it, and quickly got the lines back into the water. And as fast as we could get the line into the water, we caught another fish. For about an hour, the fish attacking our lines were relentless.

And then as quickly as it started, it ended. Counting later, we had 314 crappies, each double the size of my hand. With only a single bucket to hold the overabundance of fish, it overflowed.

I think back to the hundreds of times I went fishing, often counting the fish on the one hand. It did not matter. Fishing was the excuse we used to be together surrounded by the quiet of nature. Few things could soothe the mind and feed the soul like a pole, fishing line, and a hook.

-Story from the 1950s

7

Maria Stein, Ohio, is a small town. Going east to west, it is about two miles long with no stoplights or stop signs. When growing up, our town had a doctor’s office, shoe cobbler, insurance office (started by my grandpa), hardware store, grocery store, car repair, grain elevator, school, church, relic chapel, legion hall, post office, barbershop, and three bars.

Later in life, the three bars knew me best, but Budde’s Barbershop saw me the most when I was young. The barbershop was small with one elderly barber, Bill Budde. Unfortunately, Bill typically saw me twice each time my mom sent me for a haircut.

Let me explain. When I arrived at the barbershop, I would explain to Bill that I wanted a combed-over haircut. What I didn’t tell Bill was that mom wanted me to have a buzz.

Bill would listen to me and do my hair the way I explained. After the haircut, I would structure my ball cap so mom would not see the combed-over hair.

Try as I might, she would somehow find me and force me to remove my cap. As soon as she saw the hair, it was back on my bicycle and off to see Bill again.

Reflecting, I suspect she wanted to keep me from becoming one of those long-haired troublemakers with leather jackets.

She found out later that I would be a troublemaker, long hair or not.

-Story from the 1950s

8

Recently, a magazine representative asked me to write an essay about something I excelled in as a child. It