A Poem about Mentor Headlands in the Summer of 1964

Lucky (Stones) at Mentor Headlands (1964)

Got my driver’s license a week after June 11th,

borrowed Dad’s ‘59 Pontiac Catalina, big as an ocean liner,

and headed down Lake Shore Boulevard to Headlands.

The drive in mid June is wonderful, windows down,

“Cathy’s Clown” blaring from WIXY 1260,

Everly Brother’s in their perfect blood harmony.

My brother Denny and my buddies are singing raucously along.

We think we’re big deals, going into junior year of high school,

hormones boiling, but a Catholic straightjacket firmly over everything.

We get to Corduroy Road, then north past the Marsh

and east to the park. Hundreds, maybe thousands of cars

parked there, the hottest day of the year.

We hit the broad beach, burning like coals,

and hot-foot it across the sand towards the lake.

Half-naked bodies everywhere. We’re not in Catholic school any more!

The smell the wonderful smell everywhere, sweat and tanning lotion,

coconut, Coppertone, and towels cheek to jowl on the sand.

Transistor radios, tuned to WIXY and WHK, “color radio,” whatever that means!

We run into the lake, and the contrast with the sand is astonishing!

The lake is freezing cold, the sand too hot! But we are 16

and don’t give a good goddamn. We are 16,

Walk the beach toward the Fairport Lighthouse,

pick up luckystones and polished beach glass,

wish the impossible, that we could get lucky,

with the beautiful girls sunning on the beach!

The music is changing this year, Gerry and the Pacemakers,

Peter and Gordon, “Love Me Do,” side by side

with “Chapel of Love” and “Girl from Ipanema.”

Headlands is no Ipanema, Mentor no Rio de Janeiro,

but we are 16, Kings of the Beach, and happy to be here!

[Bob Coughlin / April 3, 2014]

A Memory of Christmas 1960--Euclid, Ohio

Christmas Eve of 1960--I was 12 years old, in 7th grade at St. William's School in Euclid, Ohio. In my mind, that year, plus or minus a year or two, was the end of the Medieval Era. I know history books wouldn't give such a late date for that, but in my life, the life of my family and Church, that is around the time the Medieval Era ended. Catholic masses were still in Latin; all Catholics went to church every Sunday; all Catholics abstained from meat on Fridays; we were deathly afraid of mortal sin and the possibility of spending eternity in hell. So there were many, many negative things in the atmosphere.

On the positive side, for us Irish-Catholics at least, John F. Kennedy had been elected president, Pope John XXIII was pope, and had convened the Second Vatican Council, which threw open the windows of the Church and began a desperately needed reform.

Though we didn't know it at the time, we in the United States, and the whole world, were on the cusp of change, a very new and different world--in some ways better and in some ways worse.

On Christmas Eve, around 9:30 PM, I walked from my home on East 266 Street to St. William's for Midnight Mass. As a choir boy, I had to arrive early, in Sr. Muriel's classroom on the first floor of the old building. There we did our last practice and received instructions from Sister. She was a bit tense that night, anticipating the big moment.

Shortly before midnight we lined up in the hallway and processed, in the dark, into St. William's old church (which is now a gym and bingo hall). The church was packed to the rafters, and many people stood in the aisles and in the back. Fr. John Fleming and his con-celebrants processed in, led by altar boys holding up the processional cross. We moved to the choir loft, packed in there like sardines, along with the organist and the smaller men's choir. Then, for the next hour or so, we sang gorgeous songs, in English and in Latin, music that would make the angels weep. Gloria in Excelsis Deo! "When blossoms flowered 'mid the snow" (Gesu Bambino); Venite adoremus! O come let us adore him!

And then it was over. The boys processed, very tired by now, back to the classroom; we put on our coats, and headed for home. It was snowing, and I walked the mile home by myself, in the quiet snow, at 1:30 in the morning. It was peaceful and beautiful.

The next morning, I woke about 7:30 and we opened our presents. That year I got a pair of baseball spikes as my main present. We didn't get many presents--there were five kids, and very little money to go around. Right around 8:30 AM I arrived back at Church to sing the 9:30 high mass. There was less mystery than at midnight, but the mass and songs were beautiful.

Around 11 AM I was back home. With my brothers, Denny, Kevin, and Jimmy, and my sister Mary Ellen, we played with our Christmas presents. Later Dad took us to the North Chagrin Metro Park at Squires Castle, where we went sled riding (even one-year-old Jimmy went).

The world was about to change. Around the corner was JFK's assassination, the Vietnam War, the age of transistors and then computers. On the positive side, the Civil Rights Movement, the Women's Movement, the Anti-War movement. The Church would change significantly, then slip back into old ways. The Great Mandela of Time.

Margaret Ann--Born 91 Years Ago Today

All Souls Cemetery, Chardon

My mother, Margaret Ann, was born in Cleveland on November 10, 1923. She was born to Jack FitzPatrick and Margaret Ann Sullivan, the youngest of six kids. I believe her first home was in the Euclid Beach area, either on Grovewood Avenue or E. 169th Street. Later the family  moved to Tarrymore Road, right off Neff, a stone's throw from Lake Erie. My Mom was baptized at St. Jerome's and attended school at Holy Cross in Euclid. Later, she attended Villa Angela Academy, where she was apparently kicked out of school. Then briefly to Collinwood High School and then Notre Dame Academy, on Ansel Road in Cleveland. Mom loved the Notre Dame nuns.

Mom had a sister named Julia (called "Dudie" because the kids couldn't pronounce "Julia"). She was considerably older, but ended up my Mom's best friend. She had wonderful brothers, Al, Fenton (Skip), and the twins, Dick and Don. They took good care of her because her mother died young and was sick for years before her death in 1940; and her father was very busy with his work at New York Central Railroad. And I believe he was a binge drinker. I don't think he was very involved in my Mom's life. In a strange way, Mom was a kind of orphan, raised more by siblings and relatives than parents. Somehow, she got a lot of wonderful things from these people, because she became a sweet, funny, warm person, who created a good family. We (and that includes people way outside the immediate family) are still experiencing the ripples of her goodness.

Mom married my Dad, Robert P. Coughlin, in 1947. I was born ten months later. Two years later came Denny; then in 1953, Mary Ellen; then Kevin, and finally Jim. Five children, seventeen grandchildren, and many great grandchildren.

I still deeply love my Mom. Miss her. Carry her goodness with me always.

Dad and Mom, August 1947, Willoughby, Ohio

Part of Mom's Brood (with 2 neighbor kids). I am in front. 1959?

Mom, with Susie Brock. Circa 1957.

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)

May 20, 1956. St. William's Church. Euclid, Ohio--First Communion

Fifty-eight years ago today, I made my First Holy Communion at St. William's Church in Euclid, Ohio. The church was on East 260th Street, about 1/3 of a mile south of Lake Erie. These were the years when the World War II vets had their families, and thus the baby boom. So there were lots of us making our First Communion. Here's a wild guess on the numbers: 200-250. I was among the shortest of the kids in my class and I was paired up with Randy Wohlgemuth, 4th in line. Our pastor was Fr. John Fleming, a man gruff on the outside, with a heart of gold and great goodness about him (when my Dad was periodically unemployed, Fr. Fleming paid our utility bills!). The boys wore white shirts and ties (I probably had a clip-on bow-tie). The girls were dressed like brides, with white dresses, white gloves, and a lace veil over their heads. The image would have made the angels weep. I was 7 years old, a month short of my 8th birthday. Everybody was about that age, 7 or 8. This was the halcyon era for children in Euclid, and really all over America. We were very carefully prepared for First Communion by the Ursuline nuns and lay teachers of St. William's. One of the nuns who prepared me was Sr. Ruth Marie Behrend. I have recently come into contact with her nephew, Tim Behrend, who lives in Indonesia and has seen my blog. I believe Sr. Ruth Marie lives at the Ursuline Mother House in Pepper Pike, Ohio. My second grade teacher was Mrs. Bartrum (Bartroom?). I am grateful for these nuns and teachers.

I can't remember too many details of that mass. It must have been a solemn high mass, with glorious singing (most of it in Latin). That was in the pre-Vatican II era, so the congregation didn't participate much. Interaction between the celebrant and the altar boys would have been in Latin. The Gloria and Credo would have been sung in Latin, as would the Preface, the Sanctus, and the Agnus Dei.

I was terrified when I approached the altar rail at communion time. The thought of the living Jesus coming into my mouth in the form of unleavened bread was almost as much as I could take. I thought I would faint or die or maybe rise up into the air (no kidding!). I'm sure other kids were also confused, and in some cases scared. My cousin Tommy Fitzpatrick (who died in Vietnam 13 years later) didn't (or couldn't) swallow the host that day.

After the Communion we had a family party (all our friends were actually relatives, so we were related to everyone at the party). My grandparents and aunts and uncles came to our little house on East 266 Street, and as they arrived, they gave me a card. Inside was a dollar, sometimes two. At the end of the party, I counted up all my loot. I had $18, more money than I had ever seen. At the party the kids drank "Little Toms" and played baseball in the yard. The adults drank beer (a little wine was also available--Tommy and I sampled it), smoked their cigarettes, laughed and told stories.

That was my big day, 58 years ago today. The happiest day of my life.

May 1958--Denny's First Communion. Euclid, Ohio.

The photo above was taken two years later, at my brother Denny's First Communion. The same folks would have been at my First Communion on May 20, 1956. Some of the people shown above: Jerry Fitzpatrick, Kay Coughlin, Grandma Cora Coughlin, Bill Coughlin, Bernice Coughlin Potter, Bill Brock, Grampa Connie Coughlin, Howard Classen, Jack Coughlin, Catherine Fitzpatrick, Maggie Brock, Julia Fitzpatrick Brock. Denny Coughlin is in front of Grampa Coughlin. Jill Potter Charske is in front of Grandma Cora. Annie Potter Anderson is obscured, just to the right of Denny Coughlin. I think Sheila Fitzpatrick is the woman in front, kneeling down. Jeannie Coughlin Struna might be in front of Kay Coughlin and just to the right of Jerry Fitzpatrick

How Did Vietnam Protesters Treat Soldiers Who Fought in Vietnam?

This is my last response to my niece Rachel Sanders, who is doing a college project on the Vietnam War. I'm not sure I ever want to write on this topic again (though I am grateful that Rachel asked me about all this).

A point I want to make very clear and unambiguous: The soldiers who fought in Vietnam were our friends, our brothers, our cousins, our classmates. We did not hate them. We loved them, admired their courage, were even grateful, in a way, for their service. 

There were very few differences between them and us. We never spit on the returning soldiers, we never jeered them. Despite what has been said over and over--I never saw saw any of this. Perhaps it happened somewhere, but I never saw it. I loved my cousin Tommy Fitzpatrick, killed in the war. I loved and admired my Notre Dame classmate Steve Shields, killed in the war. I loved my brother Denny, who was in the Navy in the Vietnam theatre. I enjoyed hearing Euclid firefighter Mike Walsh's Vietnam stories. Same for Charlie Celizic. These were our family members and friends. We did not hate them.

Some of the soldiers who came back from Vietnam joined our protest. There was an organization called "Vietnam Vets Against the War." One of the great men in the United States, Secretary of State John Kerry, was both a Vietnam hero and a protester against the war.

John Kerry

[Thanks for this opportunity, Rachel, to remember. I do feel a little beat up now by the process of recalling so many painful things. And like I said, I think I am done, maybe forever, writing on this topic.]

At Penitentiary Glenn, Lake Metroparks

Moi, at the edge of the deep ravine, Penitentiary Glenn Metropark

[The inscription, partially visible above, states, "Within ourselves there is a deep place at whose edge we may sit and dream." - Lehrman.]

Well, this is indeed a deep ravine, And right now the creek running through it is chock full of ice. Gigantic icicles creep down the cliffs of this gully. When I first saw this area the locals (my cousins Jerry and Mickey Coughlin and their friends) called it “Penitentiary Gully,” explaining if you ever fell into the gully, you wouldn't be able to get out--as if you were in a penitentiary. That's the story, and I'm sticking to it.

I came very close to getting arrested here once, around 1964 or 1965. I had borrowed my Dad's little sports car, a jerry-rigged mish-mash of a car, called an "Innocenti." My buddy Jed Korthals and I drove out to Kirtland to look at the ruins of the old Halle mansion, right along this creek in the gully. We parked on Booth Road, I believe, and walked down to the ruins of the mansion (the ruined house was still standing at that time). We walked through the place and then tried crossing a broken-down suspension bridge that crossed the creek. The floorboards of the bridge were gone and all we had to step on were cross-beams, each about 4 feet away from the next beam. And then four feet away again, and so on (hard to explain this--wish I could draw a picture here!). In the middle of this broken-down bridge, I was stung by many hornets. But there was no way to hurry off the bridge. I was just going to have to suffer through the stings. While I was in the middle of the bridge, I heard the horn of the Innocenti honking, over and over. Jed and I finally got off the bridge then ran to the car. There, 2 people were on horses, with several kids around the car, trying to let air out of the tires.

When I confronted these people, one woman on the horse said to me, "What are you doing here? You're trespassing!"

I responded, "We just wanted to look at the Halle mansion that my cousins told me about."

"Where are you boys from?" she asked.

"Euclid."

"Ah, it was Euclid boys that burned down this mansion! I've called the Sheriff. He'll be here soon.

Well, this wasn't good news. Besides our trespassing, I happened to have what looked like a gun in the car. It was just a starter's pistol that my brother Denny and I used when practicing our track and field skills. But it looked like a real gun.

After waiting a very long time, with the sheriff not arriving, the lady on horseback said to us, "You boys stay here until the sheriff comes. I have to get back to the house. Then she and her friend left, as did the children. Soon as they left, Jed and I were gone in a flash. We escaped. No trespassing. No possession of a firearm. Just a good story to tell.

Linda Sanders-Coughlin

A Perfect Sunday Morning in Cleveland, Ohio

1. First, attend the outdoor Sunday mass at the Shrine of Our Lady of Lourdes in Euclid.
2. After mass, ride your bike in the Euclid Creek Metropark. Dip your feet into the clear waters of the creek and gaze upon the great shale cliff above the Welch Woods picnic area.
3. Then head up Nottingham road to East 185th Street, stopping at Buettner's Bakery.
4. Take your sweet rolls and coffee to Wildwood Park on Lake Erie.

You've had a perfect summer morning!

Grotto at Lourdes Shrine

Euclid Creek

Denny Coughlin used to hang from these tree roots!

Wildwood Marina on Lake Erie

Jet ski heading out to the Big Lake

Happy Birthday to Jimmy Fenton Coughlin!

My brother Jim chose to be born in the absolute depths of winter 54 years ago today. I can't locate the weather data for that day--but it probably was brutally cold. Cleveland's record cold temperature was on Jim's birthday in 1994, -20 degrees (the high was -3!). When Jim was days over 4 years old, January 24, 1963, Denny and I took him and his 7-year-old brother Kevin for a long long walk, down East 272nd in Euclid, then over the I-90-Rt. 2 Wickliffe spur (which was still under construction), to Fairway Discount Depatrment Store--a cheap-ass department store on Lakeland Boulevard in Euclid. At that point we got scared that we were going to kill Jimmy (and Kevin too!) if we walked them back home. So we begged a dime and called my Dad and asked him to pick us up. That day 50 years ago, the low temperature was -19 and the high was 1. In 1985 on January 20th, the high was -5 and the low was -18.

To sum up, Jim's birthday is usually the darkest  snowiest, most miserable day of the year. And Jim always brings his great humor, kindness, and goodness to light up and warm up the day!

National Public Lands Day--Hope You Celebrated!

This past Saturday, September 29th, was National Public Lands Day in America.I hope you celebrated.

Our country is in part full of fences and gates that you and I cannot cross. The city where I grew up, Euclid, Ohio, had almost no public access to Lake Erie (Of course, as kids, my brother Denny and I made our own access, going everywhere we damned pleased, swimming wherever we liked). Our home had such a tiny yard (about one tenth of an acre) that we went on family picnics all the time to  the Cleveland Metroparks--that was my first encounter with public lands, the common good, the common wealth of America. This is where we could play baseball, enjoy the woods, breathe the fresh air.

A New York Times opinion piece ("The Geography of Nope," by Timothy Egan, published September 27, 2012) says America has thousands of square miles of national park, national forest, and Bureau of Land Management lands--about the size of Italy. Add to that our beloved state and local parks, and we have something more precious than gold. Politicians, industrialists, and businessmen--keep your hands off these shared national treasures!

Egan makes a point that these public lands are not guaranteed safe. These lands could be bought, sold, or industrialized. And he mentions certain immediate threats to these lands (locate the article here: New York Times article on public lands in the USA).

I am very grateful for these public lands. For those near me: Cleveland Metroparks, Lake County Metroparks, Geauga  County Metroparks, Cuyahoga Valley National Park; and those far away (like Glacier National Park and the Bob Marshall Wilderness, which I visited this past summer). These lands are our common wealth.

Bobby, Denny, and Mary Ellen, circa 1954

The Coughlin kids, circa 1954: Bobby at age 6, Denny age 4, Mary Ellen, age 1. Euclid, Ohio. Thanks to Kevin for the photo.

Denny and I Trick Our Dad

"Don't Try this at Home!"

Dad sat at the dinette table, staring into his coffee in silence. Every day, after 9 hours at the Fisher Body factory, he sat there in perfect quietude, looking over the Plain Dealer.

Denny and I had a bright idea that summer afternoon in 1958. Let's make a dummy out of Denny's pants, shoes, and shirt, and hang it so that the feet are at Dad's eye level, just within his peripheral vision, as he sits there with his coffee and paper. "Let's see what he does," Denny said.

So we got to work, attaching sneakers to the pants' bottoms, stuffing the legs with paper, stuffing a shirt, then dangling this brilliant invention just within Dad's field of vision.

We were jigging this dummy up and down when suddenly we heard feet pounding on the stairs. In a flash Dad was standing behind us as we continued jigging the dummy. His face was red, eyes wide open. He was wheezing badly.

"What the hell are you doing?" he yelled.

We were speechless, dumbstruck. Finally I blurted out, "We were making a joke on you, Dad."

Dad unbuckled his belt, pulled it off . . . and taught us a painful lesson about scaring your Dad half to death.#

Happy Birthday, Denny Coughlin!

Happy Birthday to my brother Denny, my partner in crime (well--mostly mischief, not so many crimes) from childhood to adulthood.

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]

Notre Dame Football (ND vs.Navy); Naval Academy in Annapolis

This past weekend, my brother Kevin and I traveled to Annapolis and Baltimore to watch the Notre Dame-Navy football game. The game was held in the Baltimore Ravens stadium, rather than at the Naval Academy stadium, but Kevin and I stayed in Annapolis, a few miles from the old town and the Naval Academy.

The game was fun and the fans were in high spirits (some were just high from alcoholic drinks!). There was a good-spirited and fun rivalry between the ND fans and the Naval Academy fans. We sat in the top deck, nosebleed seats, what seemed to be hundreds of feet above the playing field (in reality it probably wasn't that high, but it felt that way to me). We were surrounded by interesting people: to Kev's right was a retired Navy commander; in front of Kev was an active-duty Lieutenant Colonel in the army, currently working at the Pentagon. To my right were team physicians for the Baltimore Orioles. And directly in front of me were ND fans who were very very drunk.

A few minutes into the 4th quarter, with ND leading by 20 points, it began to rain, so Kev and I ran for the exits. It was an incredible drenching rain and we got totally soaked. I got so wet that my cell phone was ruined (and it was in my zipped coat pocket!). We ran the mile or so to our parked car and got out of town, avoiding a huge traffic jam. When we found the game on the radio, we were stunned to learn that Navy had scored 2 touchdowns and recovered 2 onside kicks. And they were driving, with time dwindling down, for the winning score. Well Navy fell short, and Notre Dame got out of town with a narrow victory.

Kev and I enjoyed walking around the old town of Annapolis. It is a very beautiful and interesting place, a harbor town (mostly smaller boats) where slaves were imported during that terrible era. It is now the capital of Maryland, with lots of state buildings, an interesting old college, St. John's, and wonderful shops, restaurants, and pubs. Many of the street names reflect pre-Revolutionary days when this colony belonged to England (Prince George Street; King George Street). Surprisingly, there were many Irish pubs in town and Kev and I managed to check some of them out. In one of the pubs, there was a Lake Erie College pennant on the wall--a surprising piece of our home because that college is in Painesville, Ohio.

On Saturday morning, before the football game, Kev and I walked onto the Naval Academy grounds. The campus is beautiful but was very quiet because most of the 4000 midshipmen (both men and women) had been bussed to Baltimore for the game (about 100 buses!). We walked through one of the academic buildings, got a cup of coffee in a converted fieldhouse (now used temporarily as a dining hall), then went to the visitors' center. A highlight of our little tour was a visit to the Naval Academy Chapel, used for Catholic and Protestant services. It is a spectacular structure with a round dome like St. Peter's. It felt pretty "Catholic" to me in that there were holy water fonts at the entrance. There is a crypt below the chapel containing the remains of John Paul Jones, and in the chapel itself there is a pew that is roped off and empty in memory of those missing in action and prisoners of war. All in all, it was an impressive place.

Being on the Naval Academy grounds made me think of my Dad, a sailor in World War II, and my brother Denny, a sailor during the Vietnam era. I myself almost was a Navy man, joining Navy ROTC at Notre Dame. I was in it for only about a week before I figured out that with my Freshman schedule at Notre Dame, I couldn't possibly handle the intense demands of NROTC. So I approached the commander of the unit and asked him if it would be possible to get out of the program--and he allowed me to get out. Probably a good decision both for the Navy and for me, but who knows how different my life might have been if I had remained in that program.

Despite my misgivings about the Vietnam War and the military, I still love the Navy and admire the midshipmen, officers, and enlisted men and women. It really almost seems in my blood.

One little memory: when I was in grade school, St. William's in Euclid, I used to draw pictures of ships and pictures of sea battles. My ships always had a central mast with a crow's nest where the signalman stood. That's where my Dad, Robert P. Coughlin, stood for four years during the war in the South Pacific. I'd draw myself in that crow's nest, with the signal flags in my hands.

Salute to Veterans

Today let's honor our Veterans. I think especially of three friends who died in Vietnam: my cousin Tommy Fitzpatrick of Euclid, Ohio, who died in Vietnam in 1969; Steve Shields, my classmate from Notre Dame and Innsbruck, Austria, who died in Vietnam in 1972; and Buddy Chasser, a classmate at St. William's and St. Joe's and Euclid, Ohio resident, who died in Vietnam in 1967.

And we honor family members who served in the military during war time:

--Denny Coughlin, my brother, Navy man who served aboard ship off Vietnam in the early 1970's;
--Robert P. Coughlin, my Dad, Navy man who served in the South Pacific during World War II (he was a signalman aboard small ships, the wooden SC, and the steel-hulled PC;
--Arthur J. Sanders, my father-in-law, a Navy mechanic who served in the South Pacific in World War II;
--my Uncles Dick and Don Fitzpatrick; Bill, Connie (Fran), and Jack Coughlin; and Bill Brock, who served in World War II.
--And finally, to Michelle Zaremba, my niece, who served just recently in the 2nd Iraq War and won two Purple Hearts. Michelle has just published a book about her service in Iraq called Wheels on Fire. Check www.amazon.com or www.borders.com for the book.

And to all Veterans, we thank you and honor your service!