The Life and Loves of a Buckeye Boxer Named Dick

By Richard J. Stemple

He has had his share of the good, the bad, and the ugly side of life. But it was through this circle of life that he has learned to value and appreciate everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 9, 2010
• ISBN: 9781456800833

Book preview

THE EARLY YEARS

BORN ON SEPTEMBER 5, 1937, at o-dark-thirty, I was the first child of Jack Carl and Veronica Elizabeth Stemple. Soon thereafter, I was baptized Richard John Stemple. I acquired the nickname Dick sometime after that, although I don’t recall exactly when. I can’t recall being known as anything else until I began school. The memory of my early childhood isn’t too clear on most of the happenings. I do, however, recall certain events as if they transpired yesterday. Sometime prior to my sixth birthday, we moved from an apartment on Bancroft Street to 516 Plymouth Street in East Toledo. I think what prompted the move was that it put my dad closer to his work. Five events stand out in my memory while we resided at that address, although I wouldn’t bet on their sequence. I recall my brother, Bill, being born or at least becoming aware of his existence. He is four years my junior. I recall Mom and I being worried that Dad would be drafted into the army. As it turned out, he was rated 4F due to his crossed left eye. I remember almost being expelled from the first grade for pulling the chair out from under the girl sitting in front of me when she stood up to respond to a question. I was taken to the closet and got the ruler treatment, and I then had a letter sent home to my parents. I didn’t do that again!

One of my playmates, who lived just down the alley from us, had a German shepherd in his yard which I was deathly afraid of. I was at his home one time around supper time and began to leave as I had entered via the front door. My friend’s dad was home and suggested I leave through the backyard as it was a shorter distance. I tried to tell him I preferred the other way without sounding like the coward I was but to no avail. As I left the back porch, the dog came for me, and I ran. Before I could reach the gate, it bit me on the ankle, and as I fell, it got me in the back of my leg. The man pulled him off me, carried me home, and explained to my folks what happened. Both he and my dad mentioned that the dog had probably smelled the fear I had of it and reacted accordingly (i.e., there was a reason for that fear). I got a rabies shot and a lesson in fear management.

Later in life, I would help train police dogs to attack for the Riverside Police Department in Southern California. The last item that comes to mind is during that period there was a problem I had with my appetite. For some reason, the only thing I would consume were eggnogs made with a raw egg, some milk, sugar, and a dash of vanilla flavoring. Dad took me to the doctor (Mom couldn’t drive) and explained his concern. The doctor told him not to worry and to continue making me eggnogs and that I would eventually obtain a normal appetite. When I did get one (I’m not sure it was normal), I think Dad was sorry.

The summer preceding my seventh birthday, we moved to 4135 Lewis Avenue in the West End of Toledo. It was here I would reside until I went to college (briefly), the Air Force, and subsequently, California. It was a two-story home with a front porch, a small front yard, a fair-sized backyard with grapevines, and a garage that had seen better days with an alley running the length of the block behind it. It had three bedrooms upstairs along with a bathroom and three closets. There was an attic that I don’t remember us ever using. It had a three-quarter basement with a storage area accessible via a crawl space, where Mom would store her canned tomatoes, peaches, pears, and other goodies. Dad tore down the garage before it fell down. He had the driveway blacktopped (it had been dirt) for a distance that would accommodate at least three cars. It also had a coal bin close to the furnace that was accessible from the driveway. During my residence there, a portion of the backyard was used for a victory garden. The remainder was used for horseshoe pits and a miniature golf course with sunken tin cans serving for the holes. Of course, it contained a swing set with a slide at one time where Dad had me doing chin-ups, but I’m getting ahead of myself. One of the nicest things I remember about our home was the terrific neighbors we had, not just next to us, but for a few houses in both directions and across the street, adjacent to the VFW (Veterans of Foreign Wars) hall.

The Morgans lived just north of us and had a dog. Mr. Morgan was a foreman for a construction company. He even got me a job during the summer of my sophomore year, but I was allergic to jennite (an oil which protects blacktop driveways) and had to give up that job when I broke out with a rash over my whole upper body. Actually, I wound up red leading eave troughs of new homes, repairing leaking basements, and replacing cracked underground tiles. Speaking of jobs, I don’t ever remember being without one when I wasn’t boxing or playing football from the time I was twelve. I spent one summer caddying for a gambler at the private golf course in Sylvania. He played Monday through Friday which gave me the weekends off. He also gave me some lessons in golf. I played as well then as I did when I was playing twice a week in California (but that’s another story). Our neighbor to the immediate south (Mr. Anstead) worked in the stockroom at Willys-Overland, which manufactured jeeps. He was an alcoholic but had such knowledge of the stock in the warehouse the company looked the other way when he drank. Our neighbor, two doors south, had been a cook aboard a Coast Guard Cutter during WWII and prepared some awesome dishes for our weekend backyard parties during the summer months when we and neighbors would take turns cooking. His wife was from Greece and made some great pastries! We always looked forward to their turn to cook, but I digress.

Brother Bill was only two when we moved and still just a lovable baby. It seemed the years passed quickly, and he turned into the biggest pest I had ever known. I would be doing my homework or reading the paper, and he would distract me by throwing things at me or hitting me or the paper. I did my best to ignore him, but he would continue until I would chase him. At this juncture, he would begin to squeal and cry out, Dick’s picking on me! These episodes would continue until they got Mom’s attention. Of course, she would visualize the mean big brother picking on his poor little brother and I would be punished. This usually meant the fly swatter, which was made from wire (similar in width to a coat hanger) with a mesh end that frequently came off as she wielded it. This didn’t stop her, and she never missed a beat while applying the metal portion to my bottom and legs. Needless to say, these episodes did little to endear my brother to me! I recall one particular time this occurred! Bill took off running through the kitchen, past the screen and porch doors, trying to slam them shut as he did, down the steps and across the Ansteads’ backyard toward the alley. Trash pickup day was the following day, and they had discarded a broken rocking chair to be picked up. As Bill ran by it, he tipped it with his hand. I was just a few steps behind him at the time and could not avoid it. I tried to jump over it but caught it with my legs. Down I went! Bill had run some distance down the alley before he realized I was no longer chasing him and stopped. I was still sprawled out on the ground. Despite some sore legs, I visualized how stupid I must look and burst out laughing! It took him a little while to realize I was no longer mad, but he finally returned, and we went back to the house with my arm around him. Mom wasn’t sure what to make of this, but I eventually told her the details. We actually had a peace treaty in effect for a time after this.

I didn’t realize it during my pre-teen years, but my family had been ostracized by my mom’s family (the Schmitts). This was because my dad was Lutheran and they were