Happy Birthday, Denny! A Few Poems about Our Childhood

Today is my brother Denny's Birthday--Happy Birthday, Den! To honor his birthday, a few poems about our crazy childhood:

“Seventy-Seven Sunset Strip (Snap! Snap!)”

We’d all sit there on the davenport

A Friday night in my black-and-white childhood:

Mom, me, Denny, Mary Ellen, Kevin, Baby Jimmy.

Dad was gone, working the hated 2^nd Trick.

“Bobby, go down to the Deli and buy us some cokes,” Mom said.

She hunted up a buck of change

Then Denny and I would jump on our bikes

And get the goods.

When we got home, Mary Ellen would say,

“Bobby, make us some fudge again!”

This was my calling, and I couldn’t refuse:

Cocoa, cups and cups of sugar,

Milk, a dash of salt, a teaspoon of vanilla . . . .

Seventy-Seven Sunset Strip graced the TV

(the one Dad found on a Farringdon treelawn on trash day

And fixed by replacing the plug).

We heard the song begin, Ed “Kookie” Byrnes and Connie Stevens,

Grabbed our belts to make the snap snap:

“Seventy-Seven Sunset Strip (Snap! Snap!)”—

We’d sing it over and over and over.

Then Denny would holler out, “Kookie, Kookie,

Lend me your comb.

Kookie, Kookie? (Snap! Snap!)”

Denny liked Kookie –reminded him of bad boys,

Like Elvis or Jerry Lee Lewis

Or himself!

The fudge mixture began to perk and boil

And I would stir and stir then

Drop a bit into a cup of cold water,

Waiting for it to form a soft ball.

It took forever, the watched pot, but finally it was ready,

And we started the stirring, each kid taking a turn.

We added the vanilla and a stick of butter

(This, the health food of our childhoods!)

Then beat that mixture mercilessly

With the wooden spoon till our arms ached

Until finally, voila!

It was suddenly fudge!

And we had to pour and scrape it in a hurry

Into the buttered pan.

What kind of mother lets her 5 kids spend Friday night

Drinking coke, eating fudge, and watching Kookie Byrnes?

My Mom, that beautiful 36-year-old lady.

Sometimes, as we watched our show,

She’d let us brush her long auburn hair,

And we, her brood of children,

All so in love with her,

Would sing as we brushed,

“Kookie, Kookie, lend me your comb,

Kookie, Kookie? (Snap! Snap!).”

 [ Robert M. Coughlin / March 4, 2004]

A Poem on the Drowning of Walter J. Zylowski (July 19, 1964)

Pray for Us Now and at the Hour

July 19^th, 1964, a beautiful summer Sunday in Euclid, Ohio,

Clear skies, sun shining, mid 80s and humid,

A Lake Erie day if there ever was one!

I had a ballgame that day at Memorial Park—

Playing the Euclid Admirals (we expected to get creamed!).

Dad off to Eastlake to take care of Grandma.

The Indians in New York, facing the great Whitey Ford.

Our secret weapon Luis Tiant with his Vaseline ball,

His sandpaper ball, his hesitation pitch, his endless trickery.

Our neighbor Walter Zylowski was taking his son Buster swimming

Right down the street off East 267^th. Frank Mondok and his kids

And Walter’s daughter Jackie were going too, aching for the cool lake.

Walter’s other son Kenny had a big day planned, an outing to Geauga Lake Park

With his cousins and Auntie Vicki. The little lake, the ancient wooden

Roller coasters—cotton candy heaven.

Lake Erie was calm and the water peaceful.

The Mondok kids and Jackie played on the beach, Buster skipping stones

On the flat Lake. Walter was diving off the old, half-sunken pier.

And then it was as if the music stopped, the world stopped.

Where was Walter? Where did he go?

Where did he go?

Maybe 10 frantic minutes later, Denny and Buster spotted him,

Floating in 7 feet of water, just 30 feet off the shore.

With Frank, they swam out and dragged him in.

Back on the beach, Walter, his red hair in a wild swirl,

His normally ruddy skin a shocking blue,

Did not move, did not breathe. No pulse, no nothing.

Buster and Frank started artificial respiration; someone ran up the hillside

To call the police. Denny and Jackie and the Mondok kids

Knelt on the beach and prayed the Hail Mary.

The words were automatic--we said the rosary every night of our lives--

But this time, the final lines,

“Pray for us sinners, now

And at the hour of our death”

This time the lines were real.

[Bob Coughlin / September 9, 2013]

Driving Home From Willoughby, 1959

After Thanksgiving Dinner at Gramma and Grampa’s,

Dad, Uncle Jack, and Grampa located a davenport or bed

For a half-hour’s nap, hypnotized by the turkey, the full belly, the beer.

Denny and Bobby went out to the field between the Sullivan’s and Coughlin’s,

Climbed the wild black cherry, while Mary Ellen and Kev

Played in the piles of silver and sugar maple leaves.

Mom carried Baby Jimmy on her hip, talked with Gramma,

Dried the dishes.

And then, around 7, we hopped into the old Ford,

Mom and Dad in front, 3 kids on the back seat, Kev on the hump,

And Jim stuffed up on the shelf by the rear window

(no seat belts, no rules in those days!).

We’d start the long drive home down Lakeshore Boulevard

Saying the rosary, Bobby leading the prayers,

The Joyful Mysteries, 5 decades of Hail Mary’s,

Sprinkled with Our Father’s, Glory Be’s, and the Apostles Creed.

And when we finished (and we were the fastest rosary sayers on the planet!),

We’d sing every song we knew, full-throated:

“Anchors Away My Boys,” to “Row Row Row Your Boat,” in rounds,

To “She’s My Darling She’s My Daisy, She’s Cross-eyed, She’s Crazy.”

And then, after a bit of silent driving, we’d turn south down East 266 Street and home:

By now Jimmy, Kevin, Mary Ellen asleep,

Denny and Bobby groggy,

Mom and Dad spent and quietly happy.

 [Robert M. Coughlin / Thanksgiving 2008]

October in Willoughby, 1958

the two sugar maples
glisten in the crisp pure sunlight

efflorescence of yellow, orange, red
against the cloudless blue sky:
Hayes Avenue looks like heaven

Grampa rakes the leaves into a grand pile:
Denny, Mary Ellen, Bobby play king of the hill,
somersault, stuff leaves into flannel shirts

the radio is omnipresent
blaring out the Browns struggle against the Giants,
Jimmy Brown against Sam Huff

Grampa lights the pile of leaves,
a fragrance that will linger in memory
until death

Gramma calls out for dinner:
roast beef, mashed potatoes, green peas

again

(Bob Coughlin / October 18, 1991)

Baseball in Euclid in the 1950s and 1960s

Though I was born in Willoughby, I grew up in Euclid, Ohio--from age 3 until I left home and moved to Cincinnati at age 22. Euclid was a sports-crazed town--at least that was my perspective on it. And I was baseball crazy. Beginning around 1957 I spent my summer days playing baseball at the local playground, which everyone called "Mudville"--later to be officially called "Willow Playground." Mudville was down Farringdon Avenue at E.272nd Street, about a quarter mile away. I always ran to and from my house to Mudville, passing the homes of many playmates and fellow ballplayers. Moving down Farringdon, there were the homes of Buster and Kenny Zylowski, Chuckie Lintern, Bernard and Paul Dembek, Clay Lutsch, Frankie Andrulis, Mike Sikora, and Pat Mueller.

Mike Sikora became a well-known realtor in Mentor. Buster moved out to the state of Washington, Kenny to Florida, and I don't know about the rest. Mike Sikora was older than us, maybe 4 years I would guess. I have one hilarious memory of him getting bopped on the head by a high fly ball. The ball hit him square on the top of his head and bounced straight up, higher than the telephone wires. I also remember Mike playing in the local softball league--a ferociously competitive league usually dominated by the guys from Gary Avenue.

While watching the baseball playoffs these past few weeks I thought of Bernard Dembek. Bernard was also a few years older than us, but I did play ball with him. He had a straight overhand pitch and he could throw very hard. Bernard did not give up many hits. His arm motion was unique and scared hitters half to death. His brother Paul didn't pitch as often, as I remember, and didn't have that straight overhand motion (but, if I remember correctly, Big Paul could hit the ball a mile).

One of the greatest players on Farringdon was Clay Lutsch. He usually played shortstop and was a tremendous fielder and hitter. He had a buddy who lived on Shirley Avenue, David Kaprosy, who also was a terrific baseball player--good hands, strong arm, good hitter. Dave Kaprosy had hands twice as big as my own. I believe he is now a lawyer somewhere around Moreland Hills. So many successful people came out of this humble Euclid neighborhood!

Frankie Andrulis lived across the street from Clay. He was a couple years younger than us, but also a good ballplayer. He was tall and thin, and had an older brother even taller. Even his sister was tall; they were all good athletes.

At the very end of Farringdon lived Patrick Mueller. Talk about tall--I think Pat ended up being the drum major for Ohio State's band. I played baseball with Pat for many years and went to high school with him. I believe his father was a Cleveland detective. No idea where Pat is today.

These were some of the ballplayers that lived on Farringdon. Each street had a gang of ballplayers--Zeman Ave., Shirley Ave., Drakefield, Gary, Biardale. Many names come to mind: Jay Niedermeyer, Jim Allsip, Gary Czyzynski, Dale Kovatch, my brother Denny, Frank Calabro, John George and his brothers, the Lynch boys, Tony Severino (maybe the greatest athlete of all of them), Gary King. Wish all the names would come to me!

Names from Long Ago

This week I saw the name Patricia Q. Breitenbach in the Cleveland Plain Dealer obits. As I read through the obituary I realized that Patricia was the mother of Kathy Breitenbach, who was in a class with me at Notre Dame/St. Mary's College. Kathy, whose last name now is Sarnacki, was in a French class with me. I remember talking with her after class one day around 1968 or '69 and we discovered we were both from Greater Cleveland: me from Euclid and Kathy from Pepper Pike. Mrs. Breitenbach died at age 88; she had a large family and is survived by many children, grandchildren, and even a great grandchild. This was a successful life; may she rest in the peace of the Lord.

The other day I was thinking about my Euclid neighbors when I was a kid, back in the 1950's and 1960's, especially the kids around my age: Brian D. Cox, Alan Lane, Howard and David Packer, Walter (Buster) Zylowski, Chucky Lintern (I bet the last time he was called "Chucky" Dave Garroway was the host of the Today show!), and a few others. I have totally lost contact with all these guys. I wonder where they are, how their lives have gone.

The fall weather also caused me to think of Ron Valenti (Valente?), another person I haven't heard from in forever. He would come over to my house (from his home on Elinore Avenue, near Forest Park Junior High), and we would play football on Farringdon Avenue. Ron was an "immigrant" to Euclid from Warrensville. Wonder whatever happened to him?

Thinking about the Melonheads of Kirtland/Chardon

Lately, as the winds of autumn howl and the bitter rain falls, as the maple leaves turn red and orange, my mind turns toward thoughts of the Melonheads that roam the deep woods along the Kirtland-Chardon border, where Lake County meets Geauga County, Ohio. I know, friend, that you've been thinking about this too. About these perverse, terrible, and unfortunate monsters, created by Dr. Crowe's despicable experiments, condemned to roam forever the forested hills and ravines of this part of Northeast Ohio.

Yes, friend, I know that you've gone looking for them too (as I first did as a teenager in 1964, with Gary Czyzynski, Jay Neidermeyer, Buster Zylowski, and other Euclid friends from the St. William's-Upson School neighborhood). What we saw was too terrible to reveal back then; in fact, I can barely write about it now.

I can't bring myself to tell you exactly where to look; it would disturb the peace of those unhappy, melon-headed souls and the few normal residents of the area. I wish I could dissuade you from looking. If you don't find them, you will be disappointed; if you do find them, you will have to carry this terror in your heart until you too feel the cold clay of the grave. The Melonheads are nothing to fool with. Not everyone comes back from searching for them. Others come back, but irreparably damaged by their new and terrible knowledge.

Take care, my friend.

p.s. I have 2 other posts on the Melonheads: one from October 30, 2010; and one from October 27, 2009 (that one with photos)

Baseball, Family, and Jesus: Coughlin's of 1960's

The above photo, scanned and sent to me by my brother Kevin, shows what life was like in my house and in my neighborhood in the early 1960's. Top left and clockwise, Buster Zylowski, Denny Coughlin, Kevin Coughlin, Jackie Zylowski, Mary Ellen Coughlin, and fine baseball player, Bobby Coughlin. The Sacred Heart of Jesus looks over it all. Tag-team wrestling probably broke out right after this photo was taken.

Strawberry Lane Adventure, 1963

The cold winter of 1962-63 was a great one for misadventures. In late January, on the coldest day in Cleveland history, Denny and I took our little brothers, Kev, about 6 years old at the time, and Jim, about 4, on a long walk that took us over the I-90/ Rt.2 "Euclid Spur," which was then under construction, over to a cheap-arse discount store called "Fairway Discount Department Store," on Lakeland Boulevard. Well we discovered that you shouldn't be taking out a four-year-old and a six-year-old on such a long walk when it's 18 below zero. Dad had to rescue his little ones, Jim and Kev, and the older brothers, Bobby and Denny, who should have known better.

Not long after that, Denny, Buster Zylowski, Kenny Z, and I walked the new freeway-under-construction from behind Forest Park Junior High up to SOM Center Road, then south on SOM to North Chagrin Reservation, Strawberry Lake Pond to be exact. The route we took was about 7 to 9 miles in length, and we walked that distance through the ice and snow. When we got to Strawberry Lane we skated on the pond and when tired of that went over to the shelter house. It must have been Buster's idea (with help from Denny!) to build a fire--a big fire. We set our rubberized shoe-boots near the fire to dry out. It wasn't long before we could smell the rubber burning and melting. The shoes were pretty much ruined by the tremendous heat of the roaring fire. A guy in the shelter house offered to drive us back to Euclid, saving us from a 2 1/2 hour walk in melted boots.

When we finally got home, Dad wasn't there. When it got dark he jumped into his car and headed to Strawberry Lane to find us. When he got there, the Willoughby Hills Fire Department seemed to be working at the pond around a hole in the ice. My Dad's heart sunk as he thought the firemen were retrieving his sons' bodies from under the ice. Dad approached the firemen and asked them what was going on. No, they were not there to retrieve bodies that had fallen through the ice. They were adding a layer of fresh water on top of the ice to smoothe it out. Relieved, Dad jumped back into his car and headed home--hoping his boys had made it back.

When he got home, Dad was both happy and angry at the same time. Happy to see us alive; angry that we had caused him so much grief. Such was my dad's life with four boys!

Frozen Lake Erie

This morning I drove by beautiful Lake Erie, one of the world's largest lakes (either 11th, 12th, or 13th largest in the world--there's a legitimate debate over this). Lake Erie cover 10,000 square miles, an astonishing size; and right now almost every inch of the big lake is frozen. It certainly looks like you could walk from Mentor, Ohio, to Erieau, Ontario, some 48 miles--if you were crazy, had warm boots and gloves, and maybe a flask of Jameson in your back pocket.

My brother Denny, Buster and Kenny Zylowski, and I tried this many years ago (around 1963). We only got about a mile off the beach at E. 260th in Euclid when a helicopter started hovering overhead. The pilot's hand gestures strongly suggested that we head back to shore--so we eventually did that, but not before trying to chop a hole in the ice with a hand hatchet and doing a little fishing (by the way, the ice was at least 2 feet thick; and we didn't get one bite). So we ambled back to the shore, where we saw two Euclid policemen waving their hands at us.

When we got back to shore one policeman told us, "Don't you guys know? There's a law against walking out on the ice." Now I'm 99.99% sure there was no law against ice walking or ice fishing. Now we did range in age from 11(Kenny Z.) to 14 (me and Buster Z.), and the policeman had a right to worry about our safety. He asked us, "Do your mothers know where you are?" I answered, "I think they know." We gave Mom somewhat misleading info on where we would be ("about a mile from the lake shore near E. 260th"--we didn't tell her it would be a mile out on the ice). I also told the policeman that if there was indeed such a law, it was not a just law. Because according to one of my teacher's at St. Joe's, a law is not just or valid if it has never been "promulgated." I imagine the policeman wanted to slap me right there when the word "promulgated" slipped out of my mouth. Heck, I would have slapped me! Anyway, we complied with their requests and headed back home, with our hatchet, our tackle box, and no fish for the effort.

I have loved Lake Erie all my life. I love it while out on my boat in the summer; swimming at Headlands or East Harbor; eating and drinking at Put-in-Bay--and even standing by the icy lake in February at Mentor Beach Park. Geez, if I had warmer boots and gloves and a drop of Jameson's . . . .

Mudville/Willow Playground --Euclid, Ohio (2)

I'll never remember all the guys who played ball--for hours a day, almost every day of the summer-- at Mudville/Willow Playground. I remember running down there early in the morning. Running home for lunch, then back to Mudville to play more ball. A short supper break, then back to Mudville to play baseball until dark. As I think about it, it doesn't seem possible. But what is certainly true is that we spent an incredible number of hours playing ball at Willow Playground. We became very at ease around baseballs, gloves, bats. Very skilled, very adept, very natural players.

More Players.

One of the greatest hitters I remember was Tony Severino, from Briardale Avenue. He once hit a ball over the fence, across Willow Drive, and on to the roof of one of the F&S homes. Tony could hit like this from a very young age. I thought sure he would become a great major league player. He did make a career in sports. After Cathedral Latin High School, Tony played football for Kansas State University. I believe he became a great football coach for a Jesuit Catholic high school in the Kansas City area. [I've found out some things about Tony: he is a teacher and football coach at Rockhurst High School, a Jesuit prep school in Kansas City, Mo. Tony has held that position since 1983 and is the winningest coach in school history. His teams have won many state championships (7, I think). As of 2007, his winning percentage was around 80%. He is in the Missouri Coaches Hall of Fame. In 2000 Tony was named USA Today's coach of the year. Pretty good career for a Euclid boy!].

There was another group of guys from Briardale Avenue: John George, Fred George, Frank Calabro Jr. (and his Dad at times), the Lynch brothers (Danny, Pat, John, et al.), and so many more.

Of course my brother Denny ("Little Cogs") was always part of the scene, as was Buster Zylowski and Kenny Zylowski. There were the Andrulis boys, the Paul and Bernard Bednar, even Mike Sikora at times (Mike was a bit older than we were). This neighborhood was a paradise for kids!

Winter of 1976-77 in Cincinnati

I'm pretty sure that the winter of 1977-78 was the snowiest in Cincinnati's history, culminating with the great blizzard of January 26, 1978 (see the previous blog entry). The coldest winter was the year before, the winter of 1976-77. I was living that year in a drafty old apartment on Hollister Street, not far from Vine Street (my rent was $40 a month, and worth every penny!), in the Corryville/Clifton neighborhood. I had a gas space-heater that kept the apartment a toasty 50 degrees on cold days.On the coldest days I tried to stay as many hours as possible at the University of Cincinnati, where I was studying for a masters degree in education. When I came back to my chilly apartment, I often got into a sleeping bed in an attempt to keep warm.

One night, on one of the coldest, snowiest days of that winter, Timmy Jenkins arrived in town, having hitchhiked from Winona, Minnesota. Tim is now a terrific old-timey fiddler and dance caller. Back then he was still mostly playing the harmonica and learning how to play the fiddle. It was always great fun when Tim was in town. Tim had attended Cotter High School in Winona with Kenny Przybylski. Both these guys were legends in our circle of friends.

One day that winter, January 18, 1977, the temperature in Cincinnati hit 25 below zero, the coldest temperature I had ever experienced. It's odd that me, a boy from Northeast Ohio, would experience the coldest weather way down south in Cincinnati, but that is what happened. I went for a walk that day trying to get a feel for that temperature. It was definitely different! I noticed how my exhaled breath resulted in ice on my mustache and beard. And I noticed the effect on my nose, ears, and cheeks. Twenty-five below zero is scary!

In January or February of 1977, the Ohio River froze over around Cincinnati--a very rare circumstance. This led many hundreds of people to walk across the river between Cincinnati and Northern Kentucky--what struck me as a dangerous and foolish trick with all the river currents moving below the river ice. Of course I have done many many such foolish things myself, including walking a mile out onto a frozen Lake Erie--off East 260th in Euclid-- around 1962-63. I did this with my brother Denny and my friend Buster Zylowski and his brother Kenny Z. (more on that adventure some day).

[There was an article, with photograph, from the Cincinnati Enquirer of Sunday, December 31, 2000 entitled "Don't look for river to freeze over soon" that talks about people walking across the frozen Ohio in January/February of 1977. Try the following link for the story: http://www.enquirer.com/editions/2000/12/31/loc_dont_look_for_river.html]