Gary Who?

By Gerald S. Preston

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 18, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462804252

Gerald S. Preston

Gerry Preston and his wife, Bonnie, live in Ohio with their two cats, Stuart and Phoebe. After years of thinking about his past adventures, Gerry decided to put them in print for everyone else to enjoy. Travel through Gerry’s experiences, see his view on life, and enjoy some laughs along the way. Everyone has led an interesting life; this book should help you remember yours and laugh at the memories.

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Copyright © 2008 by Gerald S. Preston.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Preface

Chapter 1 Life Starts

Chapter 2 Relatives

Chapter 3 Early Years

Chapter 4 Music Career

Chapter 5 Summers Off From School

Chapter 6 Fishing And Hunting

Chapter 7 Good And Bad Influences

Chapter 8 High School

Chapter 9 The Theater

Chapter 10 More Summer Fun

Chapter 11 Winters In Minnesota

Chapter 12 The Military Years

Chapter 13 Some Interesting Jobs

Chapter 14 Vehicles I’ve Owned

Chapter 15 Family Life

DEDICATION

I dedicate this book to my wife, Bonnie; my daughter, Heather;

and my son, Bill. Without them, life would not be as much fun.

PREFACE

Hi, welcome to my life. It is just an everyday life, one that I have lived like everyone else. I should explain the title, Gary Who. My mother chose to name me Gerald with a G, and my nickname is Gerry. Most Jerrys are with a J. Now, because of this, I have spent most of my life being called Gary, because of that darned G. Therefore, that is why the title is Gary Who, because I always reply to Gary. Life is kind of like taking a trip; for some of us it is a long road, and for some of us it is short and sweet. On this trip of life, there are many turns and steep hills. Some of us do not see all the road signs and make wrong turns. For others it is a straight road with no signs at all. The vehicle we use greatly varies on this road. Some of us drive big high-powered luxury cars; for others, it is a fast shiny sports car. Then, there are the folks who are driving a big old truck, which is hauling a lot of baggage. In addition, let’s not forget the rest of us that are mashing the gas pedal on that old, rusty, smoking junker. All of us have one destination; it just varies how fast we get there and which road we take. This trip through this life happens in different ways. Sometimes this trip is almost unbearable; sometimes it makes you very angry. For a lot of us it is not that bad; hindsight is always twenty-twenty. Looking back at the past becomes darned funny. I will try to take you back through my life, sliding around turns, up and down hills, and driving through some humor along the way. Remember that this is my view of how I remember it, and I hope you will find this interesting and funny and make you say I have been there!

CHAPTER 1

Life Starts

Life started for me in 1945, born in a hospital in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Now my first big problem with life starts here. It seems that we have no say in this process at all. I think that God could have at least asked our opinion about some things. That is not part of the divine plan. Anyway, my birth parents were of Polish descent and so it seems did not get along. After being stuck with my grandfather, child services decided he was too old and unable to care for me. I was removed from the house and placed in an orphanage. This happened when I was about three years of age. Now it is amazing what your memory chooses to retain or bury. My memory of this event is restricted to holding on to my grandfather’s pants leg and crying and asking why me. There is no recollection of my time spent in the orphanage. How many couples looked me over for adoption, I have no idea. Somewhere along the line, a couple came along and decided that I would do. After being transferred to an orphanage in the southern part of the state, this couple took possession of me.

This is where the second problem comes in. Again, nobody checked with me to see if I liked this couple. So on we go with life; I guess I should describe this couple to you and start referring to them as Mom and Dad. My very first memory of them is being in some store and having ticked Dad off and I was getting my butt beat. I have no idea what the offense was, but that makes a fine first memory, huh? Over the years, I think I have figured out some of what made them tick. This knowledge comes from their actions and things I heard over the years.

There was a TV show called All in the Family back in the ’70s. The couple whom the show was about was named Edith and Archie Bunker. Now if you know this show, know that Edith was a dingbat who whined a lot and had a voice that made you cringe. Archie was a grouchy guy who disagreed with most things, had his prejudices, and did things his way. Now imagine my shock upon seeing this show for the first time. It was like being at home all over. Mom was so much like Edith it was scary. Dad and Archie could have been brothers. So with keeping this in mind, picture how they thought and made decisions and what my everyday life was like.

Getting back to the adoption, there was a reason why they decided to adopt. This was the fact that Mom was under the opinion that she could not get pregnant for some medical reason. Therefore, Mom insisted upon adopting. Dad, on the other hand, was not so hot on the idea. Back then, there was a stigma attached to this; you did this in secret. They quit their jobs and moved to the city where the orphanage was located. They rented a house there, and Dad got a job in that city. They lived there about a year and then moved, not back to their old home and friends but to another city about halfway in between. Again, they were starting all over again at a new job, house, and friends. They sure went through a lot to keep adopting a secret. There is no doubt in my mind that Dad was pushed into this. Every married man who wants kids wants a son who looks like him and acts like him. None of these things was in place for him; he was stuck with somebody else’s kid.

I guess that at this point I should say that I probably sound bitter and unappreciative of things that were done for me. This is not the case. The basics were there, and I feel that they tried to do their best. I mean, they made sure that I had plenty to eat, and I had a home to live in. They kept me clothed and made sure that I got schooling and religion in my life. We went on vacations, traveled to see relatives, and just did the general things that other families do. So to the critics out there, I am very thankful for everything I had. Now remember, they adopted because Mom couldn’t have kids. Imagine how Dad felt when a year or so into this, Mom becomes pregnant. Along comes a baby girl who is theirs; all of the effort they went through to adopt was a mistake. I imagine that Dad was upset, to say the least, having to adopt which was not his idea, and now was really stuck with someone else’s kid. Unfortunately, in the adopting game, returns and trade-ins are not accepted. So every time he looked at me, it pissed him off. As life went on, I was to find out that nothing I did would ever please him. To make things worse, I was a sickly kid with asthma; and with no drugs to make this better, I would never be a big tough guy or a great sports star. Back when they adopted, the screening probably didn’t involve much psychological probing. Their profile fit requirements, and it was a done deal. Mom was Polish, and that fit my Polish background. You don’t get any more Polish than she was. Dad was from Missouri and displayed all of the traits attributed to that part of the country. I mean that Missouri is the Show-Me State. Well, you could show him repeatedly and he still did not believe it. Therefore, this in my opinion makes for one perfect Edith and Archie Bunker couple. This is what makes up the foundation of the rest of my life. Moreover, in your mind it should explain many things as we move along.

They bought a two-story house. This was a good-sized place to me anyway. It had a stucco type of siding, something that took the skin off your knuckles right now when you got too close while riding your bike. It had two bedrooms on the main floor, and a kitchen, a dining room, a living room, and a bath. There was a huge upstairs that was used for storage. Dad eventually turned that into a two-bedroom apartment that he rented out. Memories of this time are somewhat cloudy. I remember some things, but the rest is lost somewhere. We had a small backyard that Dad tripled in size by buying some land from the gas station on the corner.

This small Texaco gas station was on the corner, then there was a two-story building that was a bar with living quarters above it. Our house was next. The gas station’s lot ran behind our place, and that is how Dad increased our yard size. The bar next door, besides selling the usual bar items, also sold bread, milk, pop, and Popsicles. As I got older, it was a never-ending magnet for the kids in the neighborhood to be in there. All you had to do was walk right in to get a Popsicle or something else. The first thing you did was jump right up on the barstool as if you were somebody and wait to be served. The people who owned this place, in my memory, were always grouchy and snarling something at you. So when you climbed up on a barstool, they were right on you yelling about being on the stools. As kids, this was always a challenge to get on the stool before the lady owner saw you. I imagine that she hated us kids coming in there, and it probably was a legal thing about kids being in there to start with. The owners had two children of their own, and they were about as easy to get along with as their parents were. On the other side of us were the Kluges; they were a much older couple who had two boys who were out of school already and never did figure into the picture much. Beyond their house was the Pattersons’ house. It was the corner house on the block. The Pattersons had three kids: Jane, who was my age; Terry, who was a year younger than I was and my best friend; and Bill, who was the youngest. He was a year younger than Terry.

I guess I should drop back and fill in the few memories that I have before I go any further. One of those happened I would guess when I was six years old. I was a Hopalong Cassidy fan like many other kids at that time and listened to him on the radio. For Christmas that year, my parents bought me the whole outfit. I happened to have a picture of it. It was my pride and joy; everything was there, the hat, shirt, vest, pants, books, and double-holster gun set. I also remember it had the pocketknife that Dad took away and hid it until I got older. (You know, we never found that knife.) I wore the outfit every chance I got, as any kid would. Along came the incident. Mom and Dad had to go somewhere, and I was left with a babysitter. I insisted on wearing the outfit and wanted to show it off to the kids around the block. Dad, who was always quick to anger, told me that I was not to leave the yard until they got back. Of course, I didn’t see it that way, and after they left I strutted in all my Hoppy glory and went to show it off anyway. The next thing I remember there was Dad pulling me into the car. To say the least, he was pissed. After we got home, I got a good spanking, Dad took the Hoppy outfit away, and I never saw it again. I often, over the years, wondered what he did with it; he never would talk about it.

I remember when my sister, Mary, was born. It was a scary and confusing time for me. If I ever felt I wasn’t wanted, this sure was one of those times. It all seems like a blur now, but for me then I was confused and lonely. Dad was what you would call a strict disciplinarian who believes in corporal punishment. If I did anything wrong or in his mind broke some rule, I got the spanking. Now these spankings were not some symbolic effort. They were very painful. He laid it on good. I remember asking if we could talk about it, you know, plead my case; he would say sure, and after I was done, I got my butt beat anyway. It seemed that everything I did got me in trouble with him. I was never allowed to stand up for myself. As soon as I uttered something, he was on me. One of the things that forms your personality is self-pride and being able to make yourself heard. If you are squashed down in every form of growth, life becomes one long battle that you never win.

Our house had a full basement, and Dad had a small workshop down there. This is where the spankings would take place; he had a couple of paddles hanging on the wall, and in the true democratic sense, I was required to pick one. You cannot imagine the fear that is coursing through your very soul at the very knowledge of the coming punishment, but then having to pick the instrument of torture. As long as I lived at home, the best time of the day was when the door closed behind him when he went to work. By late afternoon, I was beginning to feel sick because he would be home soon. The worry would set in. What had I done wrong today? What would Mom be telling on me about now? How long after he got home would I get my next punishment? It is hard to become invisible every day; it makes for a long and scary childhood. Therefore, with much said, the foundation for the rest of my life is laid down, kind of shaky.

CHAPTER 2

Relatives

I would say we traveled up to Minneapolis to see Mom’s sister probably twice a month. They, in turn, would come to see us about once a month. It always seemed that it took forever to get to their house. Mom’s sister was a lot like her; they shared the same personality traits. Her name was Irene, and her husband’s name was Emil. Emil was a big German guy whom I always got a charge out of. Now you did not want to upset him because, nephew or not, he was coming after you to administer a butt whipping. He had this hearty laugh and a good sense of humor. They had four kids: a daughter, Pauline, who was a couple of years younger than me; a son, Emil Junior, who was younger than Pauline; a younger daughter, Christine; and a younger son, Jimmy. When we would go to see them, I spent most of my time playing with Junior. We lived in a town named Rochester, and they lived in Minneapolis. They are about fifty miles apart, and we made trips up there regularly.

Mom also had a brother named Art. Uncle Art is a religious, a brother in the Catholic faith. Uncle Art was probably the greatest person I have ever known. Nothing made him angry, and he laughed all the time. So when you were around him, you just felt good. Then there was my mom’s aunt. She was about the same age as Mom. Her name was Louise. Aunt Louise was a nice person. She was divorced and had a son, David. Growing up, David, being older than me by a bit, was my hero.

There are other relatives on Mom’s side, too many to mention. I didn’t have contact with most of them. However, I must mention Aunt Alvina and Uncle Ed. They always reminded me of the nursery rhyme Jack Sprat. Aunt Alvina was an imposing large woman who did everything loud. She ate her share at the table, talked loud, and was in her glory playing cards. She was a dominant presence in their household. Uncle Ed was a small skinny guy who talked softly, laughed a lot, and ate his peas one at a time. So I guess that fills in the important relatives at this point.

As I said before, Emil Junior and I did just about everything together. We would play in the basement, outside, or upstairs in his room. Mostly the idea was to be out of the adults’ view.

One thing about Mom and her sister, Irene, being Polish, is that they were awesome cooks. When they set a table, the table was loaded. I always wondered why everyone did not weigh hundreds of pounds. After we would arrive, my first thing to do was to see what new toys Junior had obtained since my last visit. We would spend hours upstairs playing with cars, trucks, and anything we could use to design our imaginary cities. As usual, this would last until either we tangled with each other or one of the other kids invaded our space. If these arguments resulted in one of the little ones screaming down the steps, then there was hell to pay. Uncle Emil, as I said before, was easygoing; but when he had enough, you were in trouble. I remember him pounding up the stairs bellowing at the top of his lungs, in a combination of German and English. It was a bilingual tornado that would make you wish you were someplace else in the universe at that moment.

After any big meal, dishes would be done and table cleared, and it was time to play cards. Usually other aunts and uncles might be there, and they would all crowd around Irene’s big table. They played a game called 500 Rummy, I think a game that had all kinds of different rules. Of course, all adult members of the family were experts at this game. I remember trying this game after I was older and just couldn’t understand it. This card game was the game because they always played it. It involved a lot of loud talking, yelling, and pounding on the table. Bidding was an art in this game, and it seemed to me after two or three cards had been played, everyone knew what you held in your hand. God forbid that you played the wrong card because everyone was screaming at you for that stupid move. So seeing how most of us kids got yelled at enough already, learning to play this card game was not on the top of our list to learn. I would guess it has probably died out; most of the older people have passed on and took that particular game with them. We stuck to less violent card games like pinochle or canasta.

We were Catholic, and there used to be a lot of pomp and circumstance to going to church. If I got caught up in a giggling fit or chose to poke at my sister, not only was I going to hell for goofing around in church, the seat of my pants would get a taste of that hellfire later. Therefore, it was always a challenge to get one of my cousins into this position without involving myself. Then sit there and give them the big smile when the adults were not looking. Of course, when I was on the receiving end and being smiled at, it was not funny at all. Nevertheless, all that irreverence made the service go by quicker and was worth a little risk. The bishop of our diocese was based in the cathedral in St. Paul, which is Minneapolis’s twin city. That is why they are called Twin Cities. They are right together; it just looks like one big city. Anyway, Mom decided that we should go to the cathedral for mass. I remember Dad grumbling, but fine, he would do it once.