Good Living In
West Frankfort No. 23 Fall 2014
Showcasing the People, Places and Pride of West Frankfort, Illinois
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West Frankfort No. 23 Fall 2014
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Good Living In
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Publisher’s Letter
W
hat was that noise? Oh I guess it was the sound of summer whizzing by. It seems like last week I was writing the last publisher’s letter and joking about possibly not publishing another magazine because we might win the lottery. Right. Well Hello again. Here we are. We kind of felt like we did hit it lucky in this edition of the magazine. Stories, good stories, came at us so fast that we didn’t have room for all of them. We honestly didn’t have room for all the advertisers who wanted a space. Everyone didn’t get in, but we have you down for next time. We are forever grateful for your support. I first read Aaron Hopkins’ blog of his family’s summer trek to Hawaii on Facebook. Not a lot of things make me laugh out loud, but I thoroughly enjoyed the stories of his two year old son’s ways of enhancing every adventure. It’s delightful, and I am so glad he rewrote it for all of us to share. We welcome back a couple of our favorite writers. Sherri Murphy does what she does best. At our request, she reminds us of just how good living in West Frankfort is. Gary Marx, our favorite professional journalist, gives us another humorous and touching glimpse into his childhood. We always feel that his inclusion in the magazine just makes us better. I got my chance to reminisce thanks to Grandparents Day. I think we should buy the Collinsville Catsup Bottle to adorn the center of Strand Park. Maybe I’ll get the referendum on the next ballot. Mike has a fascinating account of the Broy family and the athletic talent with which they are blessed. And we couldn’t pass up another wonderful story of courage, determination, and lessons in life from a wounded warrior, Jared Bullock. God bless him and the thousands of others like him. Speaking of military families, take special note of our cover. I think of it as Beauty and the Beasts. Morgan Smith Crabtree has come home to West Frankfort to wait with her family while her husband, Tim, is deployed with the Marines in the Middle East. She and Bailey and Louie (also pictured) will wait it out here until Tim ends his service commitment and joins them in West Frankfort. If it’s in your nature to do so, please say a prayer for Tim and all of our troops defending America.
Gail Rissi Thomas, Publisher Good Living in
West Frankfort No. 23 Fall 2014 3
PLEASE SUPPORT OUR ADVERTISERS THEY MAKE THIS MAGAZINE POSSIBLE Aaron Hopkins, Attorney ....................... pg. 8 All American Hearing .............................. pg. 31 Baldwin Piano .......................................... pg. 4 Banterra Bank .......................................... pg. 25 Browning Clark Automotive ................... pg. 13 Calico Country Sew & Vac ..................... pg. 14 Dr. Stephen Ponton, Foot Clinic ........... pg. 7 Dr. Toni Young-Norman, Orthodontist..pg. 15 E. R. Brown Furniture ....................... pg. 14 Frankfort Area Historical Museum ..... Back Gandy’s Auto Body Shop ..................... pg. 28 G. L. Williams Real Estate ...................... pg. 12 Heights Market ........................................ pg. 16 Herron Chiropractic ............................. pg. 30 Howell Insurance ...................................... pg. 9 iVapor Shop .............................................. pg. 6 J & S Professional Pharmacy ..................... pg. 2 Johnson Real Estate ................................. pg. 27 Lance Brown, Attorney .............................. pg. 21 McCollom Real Estate ............................. pg. 17 McCord’s Market ..................................... pg. 29 McDonald’s ................................................ pg. 29 Mike Riva, Attorney ...................................pg. 19 Nolen Chiropractic ................................... pg. 12 Parker-Reedy Funeral Home ................... pg. 27 People’s National Bank ............................. pg. 12 Ramey Insurance ....................................... pg. 21 ReMax Realty ........................................... pg. 9 Sandy’s Flowers & Gifts ............................ pg. 4 Severin Garden Center .............................. pg. 23 Southern Illinois Bank ............................. pg. 9 State Farm Insurance, Paul Lawrence... pg. 12 Stone Funeral Home ............................... pg. 14 Stotlar-Herrin Lumber ........................... pg. 7 Union Funeral Home ................................ pg. 13 Weeks Chevy-Buick-GMC ...................... pg. 30 WF Chamber of Commerce ...................... pg. 10 Your Heart’s Desire ..................................pg. 9
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Good Living in
West Frankfort No. 23 Fall 2014
Good Living In
West Frankfort
No.23 Fall 2014
Table of Contents
6
6 10
A collection of old baseball cards stirs memories for Gary Marx and his cousin, Tommy.
10
18
It’s back-to-school for kids, which means it’s time to write “What I Did On My Summer Vacation”. With his pregnant wife and 2-year old son in tow, Aaron Hopkins shares his vacation in Hawaii.
18
There are many talented families in West Frankfort. We learn about the Broys, who had three of their clan play professional baseball for the St. Louis Cardinals.
22
Southern Illinois firefighters lead the fight to come to the aid of Jared Bullock, a veteran who lost an arm and a leg in Afghanistan.
22
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26
Grandparents are a special breed and they helped us all create memories that will last forever. Gail salutes all grandparents with a story about a rather large catsup bottle.
28 28 Good Living in West Frankfort is a magazine about the people, places and pride of West Frankfort. Our goal is to showcase interesting, unique and previously unpublished stories about the citizens, events and places in our community in a positive manner. Good Living in West Frankfort provides businesses the choice to advertise in a high-quality full-color venue at affordable prices. This magazine is free to our readers because of those advertisers.
No portion of this publication, including photos and advertisements, may be reproduced in any manner without the expressed consent of Good Life Publications . ©2014 Morgan Crabtree waits with bulldogs Bailey and Louie for her Marine husband Tim to return home from his duty in the Middle East. Hoo-Rah! Photo by Michael A. Thomas
It is easy to let little things bother us: traffic jams, long lines at the checkout or the weather when it gets a bit too warm. Sherri Murphy reminds us that we really are living the good life in West Frankfort.
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West Frankfort A production of Good Life Publications 309 East Oak Street West Frankfort, IL 62896 (618) 937-2019
E-mail Contact: GoodLifePublications@Gmail.com Good Living in
West Frankfort No. 23 Fall 2014
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But collecting cards wasn’t just about the cards. It was the whole experience. It was about the bike ride and the ritual of walking up to the counter and waiting for Joe to put his palms on the glass and give me one of those looks, “How many today, kid?” It was about sliding my finger inside the wrapper and carefully cracking the seal. It was about the smell of the gum, sweet and rich, a smell that hooked me from the very first pack. Yeah, bubble gum was the gateway drug for me.
I
was 10 years old when I started collecting baseball cards. That’s when I was allowed to ride my bike beyond the block and I could pedal down to Al & Joe’s, the corner store about a mile away. They always had a box of cards on the counter in the summer.
Back then, a pack of cards would run you five cents, and I’d plunk down a quarter — a significant chunk of my allowance — and I’d pick five packs of cards. Then I’d go outside and open them one by one, hoping to find Willie Mays or Sandy Koufax and not some bum I already had. There was a sense of anticipation with every pack. It was the thrill of the unknown.
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Good Living in
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A lot of kids used to toss their cards into a drawer or in the trash at the end of the year. If you were a Cub fan that happened in June or July. But I couldn’t do that. I saved them all year. I’d pull them out from under my bed in winter and I’d organize them in different ways — by team or by rank, some category I’d invented. And as I looked at them I’d remember … that game, that hit, that bus ride, that time the foul ball almost bounced my way… And I saved them from year to year and filled a few shoeboxes. I never threw any of them away, even after I quit buying new ones. At some point, while I was in college, I thought about selling them all. The collection might be worth a buck or two. I might be able to pay off that loan, buy a new car, win the girl, find happiness. But I never tested the market. Seemed sacrilegious somehow. I still have those cards. They’re in a box on a shelf downstairs, and I stumbled upon them the other day while pretending to clean the basement. I was surprised to find them again. And I was even more surprised to find that they still possessed a bit of magic. I recall a day when I was about 12 or so and my Aunt Eleanor came over to see Mom. They were sisters, and Aunt El lived only a few blocks away, so they’d get together a few times a week to play Scrabble. Well, this day she brought a stack of old baseball cards with her. Her son, my cousin Tommy, didn’t want them any more. He had other
things on his mind. There weren’t many cards in the stack, and they were all in pretty bad shape. They were beat up and bent, and part of the facing was gone on some because they’d been taped down and torn out of a scrapbook or whatever. Many had been written on with a ballpoint pen … “OUT” was scrawled on some, and a line was drawn through the team name if a player had been traded. They didn’t fit with the rest of my collection. They were oddballs. Not only was their condition different, they felt different, too. They weren’t mine. But there was something about them that I couldn’t throw away. I didn’t know it at the time, but the reason I saved them had nothing to do with baseball. My cousin Tommy was about six years older than me. And he was cool. He slicked his hair back, and he was into cars and girls. He was so cool he rolled up the sleeve of his T-shirt to hold his Camels. Plus, and this was the best thing, he had that smirk, the same one Brando had. Or James Dean. It was always there, a sort of half smile, cocky and full of attitude. Yeah, Tommy was cool. I remember another day — I was even younger, maybe 8 — and we were all going to the beach. It was Mom and Aunt El, my brother Al and me, and Tommy was supposed to go. That’s what the plan was, anyway. But when it was time to go, Tommy wasn’t there. I was really bummed because it wasn’t every day you got to go to the lake with Tommy. Heck, I had never been to the lake with Tommy. Aunt El didn’t know where he was, and she wasn’t happy with him; I could tell. We were getting ready to go anyway, and she turned around to tell me in the back seat of the car that Tommy had just forgotten to be home on time, and I shouldn’t feel bad. It never occurred to me that Tommy, a teenager, might not want to go to the lake with his mother and his aunt and two little cousins. So we headed off to the lake without him, and we’d driven about a block when I spotted him crouching between two parked cars. “There’s Tommy!” I screamed. Mom hit the brakes. “Where?!” I pointed, and Aunt El jumped out and dragged him to the car by his ear. We went to the lake, and Tommy swam with us. He played shark and threw us into the air, and we all squealed and laughed. Then we all got into a rowboat and went exploring along the shore. It was awesome. I thought Tommy had a great time, too. But who knows. It wasn’t until years later that I realized what Good Living in
West Frankfort No. 23 Fall 2014
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I’d ask him why he ever thought Scotch tape was a good idea. And what was he thinking when he took a ballpoint pen to Jackie Robinson’s card?
I’d done to him. I’d blown his cover. I’d ratted him out. Tommy ended up being a little too cool. He dropped out of high school and got a girl pregnant, not necessarily in that order, but he was 16 years old when both of those things happened. The marriage didn’t last, and neither did his second. He moved away, and the whole family kind of lost touch with him.
I’ve seen him only a couple of times since then: once at my dad’s funeral, and once at his mother’s. He stood apart. He seemed sad, but it wasn’t mourning I saw in him. It was a different kind of sadness. Deeper. Unspoken. I doubt our paths will ever cross again. There just isn’t that many more people left to die. But I wonder what we might talk about if we ever did meet. Maybe we’d talk about baseball and those old cards. Maybe I’d ask him why he ever thought Scotch
tape was a good idea. And what was he thinking when he took a ballpoint pen to Jackie Robinson’s card? But maybe I wouldn’t talk about that at all. Maybe I’d just apologize for pointing a finger at him that one time. In a way, people are like baseball cards. Not all of them grow up in protective plastic, and some aren’t treated very well. Some cards live rough lives. Yet it’s hard to let any of them go.
Aaron M. Hopkins
Attorney and Counselor at Law GENERAL PRACTICE 402 East Main Street • West Frankfort, IL 62896 DUI Family Law Criminal Law 14 Years Experience Driverʼs License Reinstatement
618.932.3900 fax: 618.937.3182
hoplaw1@gmail.com www.aaronhopkinslaw.com
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How I Spent My Summer Vacation By Aaron Hopkins
F
The following is my “Log” from our 14 days to and from paradise. I hope you all enjoy, and I hope my record of experiences motivate you to go on your own family adventure, with a 2-year old and a pregnant woman, like I did.
or those of you who do not know me, I own a small private practice law office here in West Frankfort that I have operated since 2006. Before that I was busy putting 1/3 of my old classmates in prison as an Assistant State’s Attorney at the Franklin County State Attorney’s Office.
Day 1 We’ve taken to the skies and landed in the Phoenix Desert on our way to the islands. Local tribes are friendly, but screamingly demand $20 for Wi-Fi, and the boy grows restless, as we’ve run out of “Little Einstein” episodes to watch on his ipad. My domestic life partner has not slept for two days and I fear hallucinations are imminent if rest or a Starbucks isn’t found soon. I, however, remain fully confident that our journey
This summer, on May 16th, 2014, my beautiful, talented, and hot wife, Amanda, and Julian, my 2-year old prodigy progeny, embarked on an adventure across the globe to the small Pacific island of Maui, Hawaii. We had only our nine trunk suitcases, three carry-on bags, two global-coverage cell phones, and unlimited credit to safeguard us, but we took on the danger nevertheless.
to civilize the outland islanders will be a success. Away we speed from the desolate desert sands of this American Empire. We now cross a desert of ocean until we reach our destination: the great frontier Island of Maui, Hawaii, the farthest outpost of the Empire. What do we bring with us you might ask? We bring righteous Midwest culture to blemish these savage outlanders. Upon approach the Wife has already declared to the Hawaiian Department of Agriculture that we are smuggling two apples, three oranges, and two bags of Gummy Bears. We’ll let the boy take the blame for them. His English is still remedial and he wouldn’t have the skills to rat us out.
Ph. (618) 932-2181 Fax (618) 932-6330 201 East Nolen Street • West Frankfort, IL 62896 www.westfrankfort-il.com
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Turbulence! My god, in this modern age have we not conquered this aerial bull ride? The attendants force us all to our seats like we’re preparing for a German air raid. It has rudely interrupted the in-flight movie. How can I be expected to concentrate on the rising death toll of 9-year olds during the 75th “Hunger Games” if I’m worrying about the safety of my fellow passengers? The boy is thankfully sleeping through it. Wife, however, is about to expel her $20 airplane sandwich. Why is turkey so expensive at 30,000 feet? I carry on, immune to such suffering and readying myself for the controlled decent of this blasted aircraft. We’re almost there! I can smell the beaches now, over the congested body odor of my fellow passengers that is. LANDFALL! Alas we have traversed the great Pacific and landed in paradise. We have traveled in time five hours to get here. We are tired and short on provisions. None in my company can—by nature or nurture—stomach strong drink. So perhaps the sunrise will look better once we get some sleep. Goodnight for now, and for tomorrow, let the games begin! Day 2 Rested and quartered, the pilgrims prepare for their adventure. Into this Pacific Mecca we stride, a pale minority amongst the bronze masses. I’m wearing “barefoot shoes”, New Balance Minimus’ to be specific. Flip-flops—although appropriate in this tropical climate—are ineffective against a 2-year old determined to escape his parental Bastille. The boy runs randomly as though escaping a bad date. Where is he going anyway? What is his end game? To market we go first. Overpriced imports and underrated domestics shall be our future. The boy continues to find wonder in everything. Wife showed him how the birds in the open-air restaurant would nibble on the bread offerings we had discarded onto the floor. He promptly threw a whole pancake at one. That’s, my boy! Don’t waste time with small arms fire. Use the nuclear option! Day 3 Witnessing your child’s first is always exciting. Seeing the boy’s first steps, his first words, and now, his first trip to the ocean beach. Not just any beach mind you, but a beach with a view that Sports Illustrated wouldn’t shoot on because the view would distract the viewer from looking
Most shops so far are what you’d expect: $30 T-shirts that were probably printed at Silkworm. So be it, I bought two for me, and a $60 dollar dress that could have passed for something on sale at “Deb” for Wife. Nevertheless, we’re taking it all in, taking what we want and spitting the rest out. We are the manifestations of “True Americans”; you know the type, bad neighbors but good people.
“He walked to the edge, where the abyss meets the shoreline, stood for a moment like a conquering hero, promptly turned around, said, “I’m going home”, and walked back to the pool.” --A. Hopkins on his son’s first trip to the ocean beach
at their kale fed models. The boy took the beach like the 1st Division on Omaha. He walked to the edge, where the abyss meets the shoreline, stood for a moment like a conquering hero, promptly turned around, said, “I’m going home”, and walked back to the pool. And who can blame him? What are we, uncivilized beasts? Just steps away there are manmade waterfalls and water slides sans this infernal, abrasive, sticky and unholy sand. There you will find salvation. There you will find peace. I mean, he’s 35 pounds and 2 years old, what does he need with the infinite that a water slide doesn’t give him? Wife and I will conform and take the boy back to the waterfall he’s grown to love more than a trip to Grandma’s house. Later, shopping for more stuff I don’t need. Hording! The American contribution to world culture. May they never find a cure! Tonight, on Front Street, a homeless Bohemian sketched the boy’s picture. Suddenly, with “tax” and stolen tip, the formal portraiture cost big daddy a Benjamin. No worries, it will look great in our basement until he turns 12 and makes us take it down, or burns it in a questionable and uninsured form of performance art. The boy also learned to swim today, assisted via unflattering “swimmys” that hopefully won’t be the subject of future therapy sessions. Jet lag is finally gone and normal rest hours await! Day 4 Shaved Hawaiian Ice. You’ve perhaps heard of this local “delicacy”. They are basically Tropical Snows you pay $10 a pop for. Don’t get me wrong, they are good, but they are nothing to start a new religion over.
Dinner tonight was “Gerard’s Restaurant”. It was French in style, in that it was delicious, rich, portions the size of a small cat food container. I thought the Polynesian people were large mammals like Jody Hopkins’s kids. I am not prone to gluttony; nevertheless, the beast within must be satisfied. The final act of the meal made up for the first in the form of the “Hula Pie”. Imagine if you will, a piece of ice cream cake that should come with a side of insulin as an insurance policy. My hands still won’t stop shaking. The local mall was the next point of interest. Unlike Front Street in Lahaina, there were no thieving Bohemians, only pearl and Croc traders. To Wife’s dismay, I bought two pair of the latter rather than any of the former. No worries, one pair of Crocs was for her. The boy slept through most of it. His Aquarius adventures today left him physically destroyed. This means of course he’ll be up all night. Thank goodness for cough syrup. (Bad joke, stop looking for the D.C.F.S. hotline number!) Day 5 The Sugar Train. An old relic of local indentured servitude in Lahaina, resurrected
“We were carrying enough to invade the Philippines. How many sand buckets does the boy need anyway?” --A. Hopkins at the Baby Beach Good Living in
West Frankfort No. 23 Fall 2014 11
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for the joy of tourist children. The ride was supposed to be 90 minutes long. The attention span of my 2-year old? 20 minutes, tops. We did get the added benefit, however, of watching the engineer plow head on into a 4-wheel John Deer whilst traveling through the Lahaina golf course, a poor match-up in any contest. Train beats all. All terrestrial anyway. Dude shouldn’t have been wearing headphones. There are trains about for God’s sake! No worries, no one was hurt. Then, my favorite vacation activity, naps, followed by family beach pictures by “Frank”. The photographer wasn’t skilled with children. Why would he be, he said he’d only been doing it for 14 years. Everyone knows it takes at least 14 1/2 years to perfect a craft. I think he’d been smoking the local herbs. I have no articulable facts to support this theory; he just looked hungry and kept calling me “Sport”.
Day 7 Feeding my gym addiction today, I decided the resort’s “fitness room” was too remedial for my Herculean needs. There weights only went up to 50lbs, and I need 55lbs to break a sweat. Plus, they don’t have a Pilates class for me to make fun of. “Island Fitness” was just down the road and, keeping with local pricing, was only $50 an hour. The gym was great otherwise, except for the music that was all 80s, just as old as the equipment.
Later we drove an hour around Mt. Puu Kukui to go to another open-air mall. I love the open-air concept. Nothing makes you want to spend money at Macy’s more than when you’re dealing with an 85-degree sweat or risking a lightning strike. The mall had something for everyone: an indoor train for the boy, shopping for Wife, and a movie theater for big Danno here. Godzilla, however, was a poor choice. Not that it was a bad movie, it was, but that’s not the point. When a movie shows a family’s Hawaiian vacation being drowned by 3000 ft monster,
That’s all for now. The boy needs a bath. Should be easy, unless he insists on wearing his “Swimmies”. Day 6 The locals have a secluded spot on West Maui known only as “The Baby Beach”. It’s “secluded” because it’s awfully hard to get there. And, when you do finally find the blasted place, there’s no parking. Double whammy! Wife, the boy, and I trekked tens of blocks from our car’s resting place to the only ingress that didn’t have a “Never mind the dog, Beware of Owner” sign out front. In our youths and without the companionship of a two-year old, Wife and I would have most likely hopped those fences and the owners be damned. But without “Mr. Sticky”—as I’m now fond of calling him—we would’ve had no need of the baby beach in the first place. We’d have been drunk at the adult beach like everybody else. My advices if you go, pack light. We were carrying enough to invade the Philippines. How many sand buckets does the boy need anyway?
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The beach was calm and the waters shallow, hence its welcoming attributes for toddlers. One complaint, it was almost too safe; it took away the boys fear of nature. Within minutes he was hedging out into the surf like Jenny was giving a speech at the other side by the Lincoln Memorial. (Forrest Gump, anyone? JENNY!) Good Living in
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Top row l-r: Alan Mitchell, Kyle Householder, Roger Frailey, Andy Brown, Sloan Brown, Kyle Brown, Matt Brown. Bottom row l-r.: Marilyn Glenn, Nola Denham, Terri Brown, Jane Brown, Molly Brown, Cathy Wilce
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Good Living in
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it makes you start to rethink renting the condo on the first floor. Tonight we “decided” on take out. We “decided” because the boy was deprived of a nap, and under those conditions, public appearances are risky. The Exorcist is a good reference here. Boy’s got an arm on him though under those conditions. He once chucked a chicken strip 30 feet at “Bellas” and swished it into some unsuspecting ladies purse. A “gentleman” would have told her what his son had done. Being a “gentleman” in my line of work, however, is bad for business. Plus, I saved her a doggie bag. Day 8 The local has everything for the person with too much money, and no idea how to spend it. Yes dear, we truly need that $5000 Wooden Mermaid sculpture. It would look great over the fireplace, and an interesting story for later when we have to explain why we can’t pay for the boy’s college. Wife isn’t in that category of course. Her tastes are more towards earthy dresses and pearls. At least those you can wear, or sell later on the black market for a profit. The food was good there though. I’m still in opposition, however, to these people’s aversion to air conditioning. Yes it’s a dry 90 degrees, but this old Navy wool T-shirt doesn’t breathe you bastards, now get me more ice!
don’t mind waiting two hours for a table and only getting 80% of what you ask for. Two-year olds react very well to these sorts of delays. At one point I think he started swearing to the waiter in Japanese. The few words of dishonor in that language that I had learned in college didn’t seem to be getting any type of reaction. I think they only take you seriously if you have a sword in your hand. In the end though, I thought the Maki rolls were delicious. However, after two hours I would have said that about a Big Mac. Day 10 Steven Tyler of Aerosmith (not Steven Tyler of West Frankfort, who is by the way also a Righteous Dude) has made the humble
Picture Yourself...
The island has a popular tourist attraction known as “The Road to Hona”. The route is in actuality a number of attractions on the way to the village of Hona, including black volcanic beaches, waterfalls, hiking trails, and great places to hide a dead body. The road to the road to Hona is just as interesting in my opinion. On the right you have a vast Pacific Ocean, flanked by two mysterious Islands in the distance. These are namely, Moloka’l and Lanai. Both are uninhabited as apparently the U.S. military used both as firing ranges. On the left you have the mountains of Puu Kukui; green, numerous, thick with vegetation and progressive wind turbines. With motorists paying more attention to the view than to the car in front of them, I’m surprised there are not more wrecks along the path. Then there are the numerous [expletive deleted] scooter drivers that think they own the roads. Where do they think they are, Italy? The only eyesore is the dirty hippies living in trees along the way. I’m not saying they are homeless, just really dedicated surfers. You can tell by the Hurley tents they all use. Day 9 A Swap meet’s a Swap meet, except on Maui. Nowhere else can you buy Chinese goods sold by Japanese people with Hawaiian themes. Proud to report we successfully negotiated the discounted purchases of two necklaces, a picture frame, a quilt and five bracelets. Four are mine. (I’m going through a brief Johnny Depp phase).Then, on to the Maui Aquarium. Most people need the day to absorb this well-rounded and inclusive database of aquatic specimens. Not us. We did the express tour, the one that was headed by our 2-year old and consisted of “Hey look a fish, and anuder fish and anuder fish... hey! Der’s a big fish”. It was fascinating and saved us $6 off the headphone rental to hear the long and boring tour version. Dinner was at “Sansai’s”, which is a great restaurant if you
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West Frankfort No. 23 Fall 2014 15
island of Maui his home. Wife, having an unhealthy infatuation with the old Skeksis since she was a child, decided we were going to find his lair, scale his almost assuredly 10 foot privacy fence made of baby’s fingernails, and take him as our hostage. As it’s been some time since I’ve been to jail, I thought what better way to continue my anthropological studies of this island culture than to see how they treat their prisoners, as our plan would almost assuredly fail, and we would find ourselves detained in some non-Mayberry kind of way. The island town of Makena was our destination where we would put our plans into motion. Luckily, there was a mall there, so we decided to do more shopping rather than risk incarceration kidnapping an old rock and roll star. For dinner, Wife, the boy and I put on our best pressed and dressed and headed out to Front Street to rehabilitate last night’s disaster. The plan was for a 5-star dinner with an ocean view. The plan went to hell however when the boy fell asleep in the back seat on the way and eating in front of a cationic 2 year old is against the law in this state. So it was take out from “Cheeseburger in Paradise” for us. The burgers were Paradise. They inspired me to see if Steven Tyler would be interested in selling chicken wings with me here in Maui. Apparently all you need is a name to sell anything. Day 11 The layout of this resort, and this location generally, offers much for the traveler who may not wish to venture far once they’ve arrived. A full Hawaiian experience can be had, just feet away from your door, and it would not be wasted one. There are manmade waterfalls, water slides, and a view of the ocean that is truly awe-inspiring. As the vacation, and our patience, is winding down, we elected to remain mostly at home. However, at times excitement can be waiting just outside your door. The boy had yet to try the water slide, a trial of bravery and skill for such a small boy to be sure. Height requirement, 42 inches, and we were just under the mark. Nevertheless, the slide overseer seemed less than Draconian in the enforcement of this requirement. He appeared to be more interested in the view of sparsely clad coeds. Therefore, I asked my fully competent
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and informed infant child if he desired to tackle this feat of childhood prowess, to which he happily exclaimed, “Want to go down water slide”. Taking this statement as an expression of his heartfelt desire and his free will to choose his own fate, I acquiesced. I say all this in a feeble attempt to exculpate my actions. I was not going to force my will upon the boy. His choices would be his own. Unlike the previous family history of one Hon. Terrence J. Hopkins, who compelled me to waste my summers playing baseball, I was going to let the boy be the author of his own destiny. Actually, I loved baseball. However, compared to most that bore the Hopkins name, I was terrible at it. Anyway, down the slide he went, tossing and turning down this ferocious water serpent. I went down just seconds behind him. As we reached the bottom I reached out and grabbed him just before his head went under. He absolutely loved it, and quickly said, “Go again.” To which I complied. The second trip however, was not so textbook. The boy’s inner gyroscope must have gone haywire, leaving him tossing and turning like a poorly coordinated break-dancer. Wife would later testify to me of the look of horror she saw within his eyes. I better start saving for long years of therapy now, along with college. Day 12 Wife and I enjoy eating out when we can. Who doesn’t? A quiet night out without
Julian, Amanda and Aaron Hopkins enjoy one of Hawaii’s open-air restaurants.
going through the labor of cooking and cleaning up the mess is a weekly reward we enjoy giving ourselves. A daily one now that we’re on Vacation in an area with such wonderful restaurants. With the boy, however, eating out is always an interesting experience. When we were dating, we were both guilty on occasion of directing criticism towards young parents who “dared bring that screaming kid in here.” We have found, however, that within this universe, karma exists with a vengeance. Last night we ate at “Gerards”. Very nice, elegant, five star, with lots of expensive stuff to break. With the boy as our dinner companion, it was a recipe for pure chaos. We did everything we have learned through trial and error to minimize risk. Step one, make sure the boy has a good nap first. CHECK! Step two, make sure electronic devices are charged for possible distraction
if need arises. CHECK! (What did you people do before Steve Jobs invented istuff? I know, utilize Grandma!) Step three; keep a washcloth soaked with Diethyl Ether in a zip lock bag just in case things really got hairy. CHECK! (Don’t judge, Wife saw it in Parenthood Magazine, North Korean edition) So there we were, in a packed room filled with judgmental Godzillas poised to inflict upon us every parent’s nightmare, Judgment! Judgment on us as parents. As human beings. As Americans. So we dove in, waited, ate our dinner in peace.... and nothing happened. We had to use the Ipad to keep him from climbing the walls, but the ether was locked away, unnecessary for tonight, thank the universe. But tonight he refused to eat and tried to walk around the restaurant, reminiscent of his Grandfather, and say hello to everyone like he was running for the Hawaiian State Senate. Things don’t always go as planned, but if they did, what a boring existence this all would be. Day 13 We planned a vacation to a place abundant with fresh fish, and just days after we paid for the condo we found out Wife was going to have our second baby. This is how our universe works. Now neither one of us can drink here Ha! Ha! I can still eat the fish though, and I have! The due date of the new baby does seem a bit ominous, 12/13/14. No need to look for the mark of the beast when he/she is born though. Those who’ve had children this century know that due dates
mean nothing. The boy was early after we discovered in a late ultrasound that he had attained the mass of a small sun. If Wife could have held off for two more weeks she could have had him on my birthday. I think it was so selfish that she didn’t. I mean, have baby on my birthday and break a Guinness record for world’s largest baby. That’s a twofer! Anyway, back to business, the Sunrise Cafe this morning is my only thing to report. Imagine Harbaugh’s Cafe’ in Carbondale, only by the beach and your food is served to you by Polynesian dude that keeps calling you “Bra”.... “You all good Bra? Need anything Bra?” Food was the best we’ve had so far, at least for breakfast. I’m truly falling in love with a cuisine they have here called “Polynesian Sausage”. I have no idea what it’s made of; I only hope it doesn’t make you glow in the dark because I’ve eaten a boatload of it. Day 14 No log tonight, I’m going home. I’ll have 10 hours in a plane tomorrow to write my final thoughts. Wish the Four of us a safe flight.
After 10, anyplace can feel like a prison, especially if there are mountains on one side and an ocean on the other. Good God! Why must there be a 20% mark up on everything? Why are there so many “Only Flush Paper Down Toilet” signs here? If I heard Israel “IZ” Kamakawiwo’ole’s version of “Over the Rainbow” one more time I was going to do a “Joe vs. The Volcano”. I’m tired of everybody offering me Free “Hula Pies. Would we all be forced into the surf or be made to live in one-room apartments if you made the parking spaces just two inches wider? Where the heck did all the freaking chickens come from? Guys, the over use of the “Hawaiian Shirts” has become a sick cliché. Magnum PI ran it into the ground in the 80s There, it is all off my chest. The above notwithstanding, we had wonderful time, and we are going to go back some day. I hope you’ve enjoyed my thoughts on our adventure “abroad”.
Day 15 Back Home: Jet lag is like being hung over for three days, only without the guilt. Epilogue: With the island outpost at our backs and the Wife and my progeny safe on mainland soil high upon our dominant post here at Hopkins Hollow, West Frankfort, Illinois, let me share my final thoughts. Fourteen days is too long anywhere, even in paradise.
THE END
Good Living in
West Frankfort No. 23 Fall 2014 17
The
Broys of Summer
BASEBALL IS IN THEIR BLOOD
By Michael A. Thomas
photo provided
T Dan Broy, Jr. spent three seasons in the St. Louis Cardinals baseball organization.
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alent seems to run in families. A family with one outstanding musician will often boast a number of other talented vocalists or instrumentalists spanning several generations. Cooks, seamstresses and even dairy farmers with locally famous reputations are numerous under one family name. A study of West Frankfort yearbooks will quickly reveal. athletic talent also runs in West Frankfort families, The Broy family of West Frankfort is synonymous with baseball, and, in-
credibly, three of them from this community reached a professional level playing baseball in the St. Louis Cardinals organization. Dan Broy, Jr. Dan Broy Jr. signed with the Cardinals in 1946 when he was 21 years old. He was married to his wife Leada and they had two children, Sally and Danny. Sally was Dan’s stepdaughter. Her father and Dan's cousin; Robert Chance, had died in a coal mine accident near Taylorville when Leada was only three months pregnant with Sally.
While Dan was getting dressed in the locker room and before he was taken to the General Manager's office to be signed, a Cardinals official escorted Leada to the GM's office to meet the Cardinals General Manger Bill Walsingham and the Cardinals head scout Joe Mathis. While Leada spoke to the two men she waited for Dan and Pete Mondino to meet her there. On the way up to the office Pete told Dan that the Cardinals were going to sign him and that they might be able to get more money if he lied about his age. He told Dan to tell the general manager and head scout that he was only 20 years old instead of 21. Since the scout got a certain percentage of money for any players that they helped get signed, Pete had a vested interest in the deal. When the pair walked into the GM's office, Leada was already sitting there. She had no clue that Walsingham was a powerful person in major league baseball. He told Dan that they were going to sign him and then started asking him questions. One of the first Walsingham asked was, "how old are you, Dan?" Remembering what Pete Mondino had told him, Dan falsely answered, "Sir, I just turned 20 years old." Leada, quickly said, "Junior, what's wrong with you? You know you're not 20. You're 21.” Dan turned beet red, and said, "That's right, I forgot." The Pete Mondino plan about Dan's age failed because Pete and Dan neglected to fill Leada in on their little white lie. But Dan still signed a contract. The left-handed hitting first baseman was sent to their Class B team in Allentown, Pennsylvania. Growing up during the Great Depression, Dan had not traveled much. He took the train to Allentown where he was assigned a roommate by the name of Johnny Klippstein, who was also making his first big trip away
from home. But the similarities between the two ended there. Johnny was 18, single, and from a middle-class Jewish family in Chicago. Dan was from the economically depressed rural coalfields of southern Illinois, 21, and married with two kids. Despite their differences, the two became best friends, and Dan took the younger player under his wing, even showing him how to write a check and pay bills. Johnny Klippstein went on to have a very successful 18-year major league baseball career with several teams from 1950-67, mainly as a relief pitcher. He won a World Series with the Los Angeles Dodgers in 1959 and had an even more significant role with the Minnesota Twins when they won the American League pennant in 1965. He never forgot Dan helping him early in his career, and they stayed in touch for years.
photo provided
In March of 1946, Pete Mondino, a parttime Cardinals scout from West Frankfort, took Dan to a tryout at Sportsman's Park in St. Louis. Leada went along to the tryout. Close to 100 young men were at the tryout. After watching Dan smoothly take ground balls at first base and then watching him hit four balls onto the right field pavilion roof during batting practice, they signed him to a pro contract. He was the only player at the tryout that was signed that day.
Dan showed promise at Allentown, and the Cardinals rewarded him by moving him up in 1947 to Class A at Winston -Salem, North Carolina. The 1988 movie, Bull Durham, starring Kevin Costner, was filmed at the old Durham Stadium, which was home to the Durham Bulls, one of Winston-Salem’s opponents. When the movie came out and Dan watched it, he excitedly called his children to tell them, "Hey, you have to watch the movie Bull Durham! I played in that stadium for the Winston-Salem Cardinals in 1947."
their Class AA affiliate in Houston, Texas. His manager at Houston was Johnny Keane, who would later manage the Cardinals 1964 World Series championship team. Keane was a great teacher of the game, and Dan later remarked he learned more about baseball and life than he did from any other coach or manager that he ever had.
Dan’s final year with the Cardinals was at
A serious coal mining accident in the win-
Nagging injuries suffered durring WWII kept Charles Broy from extending his professional baseball career.
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Charles Broy Charles Broy first played pro ball for the St. Louis Browns Class D affiliate in the Kitty League at Mayfield, Kentucky in 1938. At 19 years old, Charles was signed to play at Mayfield by former Major League player Bennie Tate. But Charles career with Mayfield only lasted a few weeks. One Sunday, several Broy family members overloaded an old vehicle and went to Mayfield to see Charles pitch. It was the first time they had seen him play, and Charles did not disappoint them, pitching a nine inning complete game 2-1 victory. After the game, he went over to see his family members and—after a few hugs and congratulations—threw his glove and spikes into the car and jumped in. "I'm so homesick I can't stand it any longer,” explained Charles to his bewildered family. “I'm going home right now. Let's get out of here before they stop me." Nine years later Charles would get another chance to play pro baseball with the Cardinals Class D affiliate team here in West Frankfort. Charles had a good year in 1947 and began the season with the team in 1948. After just a few weeks of that season, his career ended because of foot and leg problems that were attributed to acquiring trench foot while fighting in the Battle of the Bulge during World War II. One of Charles' teammates on the West Frankfort Cardinals 1948 team was MLB Hall of Fame manager Earl Weaver, who led the Baltimore Orioles to the World Series title in 1970. Charles worked as the Street Superintendent for the city of West Frankfort for several years. He also coached youth baseball for several years. He lived in West Frankfort his entire life and passed away in 1988. Dennis (Dink) Broy In the spring of 1973 while attending an SIU baseball game, Dink’s dad, Dan Broy Jr., ran into Joe Mathis, the Cardinals head scout who had signed Dan in 1946. Dan told Mathis that his son, Dink had been home for four years after serving two tours
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of duty in Vietnam. Dink was now 25 years old, but he was a very good left-handed hitting shortstop and that if given a chance he could play pro ball. Mr. Mathis arranged a tryout for Dink the next week at Busch Stadium in St. Louis. After watching him smoothly take ground balls at shortstop and then hitting a few into the right fields seats during batting practice, the Cardinals signed Dink to a pro contract. He got to meet several of the Cardinals players on that 1973 team, including Tim McCarver. McCarver had been a member of the three Cardinals’ World Series teams in the 1960's, but he was traded to the Philadelphia Phillies before the 1970 season. With his career was winding down, the Cardinals had re-acquired him as a backup catcher. As he approached Dink, McCarver had a strange look on his face and said, "Hi, young man, I hear that you just got signed to a pro contract and that you're a Vietnam veteran." "Yes sir, Mr. McCarver that's true." McCarver then said, "Well, before I shake your hand and congratulate you, I have a question for you. I saw you taking batting practice, and you have a really good stroke. My question is this. Are you a left handed hitting catcher like me? If so, I'm not sure if I want to shake your hand or not." Then with a big smile on his face McCarver said, "You may be taking my job." Dink replied, "No sir, Mr. McCarver. I'm a left handed hitting shortstop." McCarver wiped his brow, started laughing loudly and replied, "Good, I'll shake your hand." He congratulated Dink for signing a pro contract and thanked Dink for serving our country in Vietnam. It was one of the few times during the 1970's or since then that anyone sincerely thanked him for serving in Vietnam Dink played one year for the Cardinals Rookie League team in Sarasota, Florida, but his pro career ended because of a shoulder injury. His manager at Sarasota was former Cardinals great Kenny Boyer. Boyer's assistant coach at Sarasota was Lee Thomas who had a long major league playing career. He would go on to be the General Manager of the Philadelphia Phillies from 1988-97. Like Dan and Charles before him, Dink coached youth baseball for several years.
photo provided
ter of 1948 ended Dan’s pro career. He left the mines and worked as a truck driver for Bonifield Brothers Trucking for 30 years. He also coached youth baseball for several years and lived the rest of his life in West Frankfort where he passed away in 1997.
A clipping from the West Frankfort Daily American shows Dennis “Dink” Broy. Dink spent one year playing for the Cardinals Rookie League team in Sarasota, FL.
He also served as the commander of the West Frankfort VFW for several years. He worked 22 years for the Illinois Dept. of Corrections and is now retired and living in Orient, IL. Broy baseball talent didn’t stop then. The family boasts of three others who played baseball for Frankfort Community High School who then went on to play college baseball: Davy Broy, Bobby Broy and Steve Broy. It’s a good bet that the family baseball legacy will continue in future years. After all, it’s in their blood.
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Duty Determination Devotion After Suffering the Loss of Two Limbs in Afghanistan Jared Bullock Faces His New Life With Optimism
photo provided
Jared Bullock poses with his wife, Jesica and 4-year old son, Aidan.
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“I just accepted it from the beginning. It’s another challenge. We always know it is a possibility. We just go on. That’s how we’re taught. That’s what we do.”
--Jared Bullock on returning from Afghanistan as a double amputee
S
By Gail Rissi Thomas omething exciting happened to Jared and Jesica Bullock on Saturday, September 13 at the SIU Saluki Football game at McAndrew Stadium in Carbondale. Jon Alexander, representing the Association of Illinois Federation of Firefighters Wounded Warrior Program in the area south of Springfield, presented Bullock with the keys to a new Jeep Cherokee. The vehicle, given with honor, gratitude, and loyalty from the firefighters, was not earned easily by Bullock. In fact, the Jeep will be outfitted with a mechanical adaption so that he will be alble to drive it easily in spite of the fact that his right arm and leg have been amputated.
Jared Bullock was deployed in Special Forces in Afghanistan. Shortly after this picture was taken, Bullock and two comrades were riding in an ATV when they drove over an IED killing one soldier and wounding Bullock and the other soldier.
First Sgt. Special Forces Bullock was serving in Afghanastan last November 13, when the ATV that he and two of his army buddies were riding in hit a pressure-plate IED. Jared and another soldier were seriously injured and a third died in the explosion.
photo provided
“I was flown to a base hospital at Kandahar,” Bullock says. That’s where I underwent the first surgery and closing of wounds. I was unconscious for two days. When I was stable enough, I was flown to Germany where I was held for five days Good Living in
West Frankfort No. 23 Fall 2014 23
before being sent back to the United States. “ For Bullock’s wife, the former Jesica Castrale of West Frankfort, it was the kind of nightmare that a military wife expects every day of her life, even if she never really believes it will happen.
“I had cried all night in my sleep the night before,” she says, “and had just a terrible day at work. I didn’t know why, but it was almost as if I already knew that something had happened. I was always afraid something would happen to him, but I never imagined it that way. In my mind I never thought it would be getting a phone call saying he had been injured. I think I always thought there would be a knock at the door by uniformed military men telling me he was killed in action. I guess because that’s what you hear about all the time. I was young when we got married,” Jesica added, “but I knew it would be hard. We both did. I also knew that all he ever wanted was to be a Green Beret.”
photo provided
“It’s strange,” Jesica explains. “I got a call with the news at about 11 o’clock that night.” A registered nurse who worked at the time at a hospital in Florida where the couple lived, Jesica had experienced an unexplainable feeling of doom leading up to that phone call.
Jared pauses with his son, Aidan, while testing his new prosethic leg on a track at San Antonio, TX.
are three requirements for a vet- often the result of fundraising from eran to receive an adapted vehicle various locals throughout the state. from the Associated Firefighters / “Sometimes we might have funds Wounded Warrior Program. “First, on hand, but no veteran in our area he must be from Illinois. Secondly, is in need right at the time. On the he must be an amputee, and finally, other hand, we might have a woundJesica was told that she should be he must have on standby to fly to Germany when been wounded Bullock could be transferred there. in a recent war, SEVERIN “Jared’s mom and his brother, my such as Iraq or GARDEN CENTER, INC son Aidan and I all flew to Germany Afghanistan” LANDSCAPING together and stayed there with him TREES • SHRUBS • EVERGREENS until he was stable enough to make The effort to proSHRUB TRIMMING • SPRAYING “CALL THE PROFESSIONALS” vide a wounded the flight home,” she says. DALE & PEGGY SEVERIN warrior with a 721 NORTH GARDNER STREET P HONE: (618) 932-3017 WEST FRANKFORT, IL 62896 According to Jon Alexander, there new vehicle is 24
Good Living in
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ed warrior in need of a vehicle, but it will take a while to come up with the funds. We help each other out from one local to another,” Alexander explained. “It really is a team effort, with firefighters working together to meet the need.” Businesses from both Metropolis and West Frankfort also contributed to providing the jeep for Bullock.
of support. The whole thing came tantly perhaps, the admiration of his together beautifully.” wife. “We can’t say ‘Thank You’ enough,” Jesica says. “The car is “Do you know Jared? Alexander nice of course, but it’s not just all asks. “He is tough. I’m telling you about the car. It’s about the love, he is a stud, an amazing guy. He the friendships and the support that is scheduled to be taking part in a has come to Jared and to both of us. ‘Tough Mudder,’ with a friend of We know a lot of amputees here in his. If you don’t know what that San Antonio, and believe me, Jared is, Google it. It is an unbelievable has made this an easy journey. He obstacle course. I can’t imagine do- has made it so easy for me to travel ing it, let alone with one leg and one this road beside him. That isn’t always the case, and I am so grateful arm.” to him for that.” At the time of publication, Jared was still receiving therapy several times Bullock is a hometown hero in Mea day. His attitude and his deter- tropolis. That is his hometown and mination is obvious when he talks he belongs to them. His wife, the about what has brought him through daughter of Larry and Phyllis Casthis ordeal. “I just accepted it from trale is a West Frankfort girl, which the beginning,” Bullock says. “It’s means he also belongs to us. But he another challenge. We always know made an enormous sacrifice protectit is a possibility. We just go on. ing all of us, serving our country. That’s how we’re taught. That’s We belong to him. what we do.”
“I can not possibly tell you how the people in West Frankfort responded to helping Jared,” Alexander said. “Weeks in both West Frankfort and Benton was the major sponsor of this event. They were instrumental in making this work from beginning to end. They helped bring in other businesses and get other groups involved. Banterra Bank, Three Angels Broadcasting, Krogers, the Saluki AFFI Warrior Program—which is 100% volunteers—all played important parts in support, both financial and moral. Over 75 firefighters from Southern Illinois marched in Bullock’s stoicism has earned full gear for 10-12 miles with Jarod him not only the praise of all who down in Metropolis just as a show know him well, but most impor-
Ed. note: For updates on this story go to
Prayers for Jared Bullock “OurHometown HERO”
Good Living in
West Frankfort No. 23 Fall 2014 25
Grandparent’s Day
was created by Grandparents
trips to Collinsville nearly every weekend when I was a young child. A trip to Collinsville was a trip to Grandma’s house with all the sights, sounds and smells that were encompassed there just as rich today as they were in the 1950’s. It meant mismatched tables pushed together to hold the weight of platters of Italian chicken, savory tender beef roasts, gnocci, ravioli, or spaghetti and fresh hot homemade bread at every evening meal. It meant mulberry cobblers made from berries we picked ourselves down in the ravine that had nurtured my grandfather’s vineyards in the 20s and 30s. It meant playing with cousins from mid morning until dusk and walking to Joe’s on sultry summer days for fudgesicles that melted and ran down our arms before we ever arrived back home. But I digress. The catsup bottle. That catsup bottle was special. It was the sign that our 100-mile trip was over and we had arrived, signaling the beginning of a treasured adventure.
Assunta “Grandma Susie” Tontodonati Catalina sings while cooking a batch of tomatoes into some form of Italian delicacy.
photo provided by Tim Rissi
remember it well, and it is entangled with memories of my grandmother, Assunta ’ve always been one of those people Tontodonati Catalina, better known to who felt like holidays like Secretary’s most as Grandma Susie. Day, Sweetest Day, and Grandparents’ Day are trumped up Madison Avenue It was a news article that caught my attempts to tug at our heartstrings and our attention last week. The Brooks Catsup pockets. I’m probably right about that. Bottle is up for sale. Touted as the world’s Hallmark may be the one who benefits largest catsup bottle, the 170 foot tall water the most and it isn’t from the warm fuzzy tower was saved from demolition and feelings. But I have to admit, something restored as a landmark in 1995. The 70 caught my attention the other day that foot tall bottle with a 25-foot base sits atop stirred up a whole raft of memories about 100-foot tall steel legs. In its functional grandparents and what an important part days it held 100,000 gallons of water. It is named on the National Register of Historic they can play in our lives. Places as a prime example of Roadside Do you remember the towering Brooks Americana. Catsup Bottle in Collinsville Illinois that has stood at the site of the old Brooks Although impressive facts, none of that Catsup Factory on Route 159 since 1949? meant anything to me as a child. What Yes, this year it is as old as I am, and if it it did mean was that we had arrived. were a person, instead of an icon, it too Collinsville was the hometown of both could begin drawing Medicare. Well I my mother and my father, and that meant
When Grandma Susie was a bride, probably before children, she worked at the Brooks Factory. That must be when it became known to everyone as Grandma’s Catsup Shop. Well maybe not everyone, but as for the five of us in that 1955 Pontiac,
By Gail Rissi Thomas
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photo: Rte. 66 News
I
“There’s Grandma’s Catsup Shop, Catsup Shop ...” (World’s Largers Catsup Bottle, Collinsville, Illinois.)
the first glimpse of the catsup bottle against the blue sky awarded the bragging rights and the privilege of starting the song, sung at the top of our lungs. “There is Grandma’s Catsup Shop, catsup shop, catsup shop. There is Grandma’s Catsup Shop right in front of us.” And as we rolled past it, we continued, “There is Grandma’s Catsup Shop, catsup shop, catsup shop, There is Grandma’s Catsup Shop right beside us.” Finally, “There is Grandma’s Catsup Shop, catsup shop, catsup shop, There is Grandma’s Catsup Shop right behind us.” My brother, it seems, was often the first spotter. Now that I am smarter, I think maybe because he was older, and smarter, only back then, and knew from the surroundings that we were getting close, starting the song before I could ever catch sight of it, although I think I was watching for it ever since we passed Pinckneyville. Grandma used to tell us a few stories about the days as a Brooks employee. Something about walking to work in the snow? I don’t know. They lived a long way from there. I remember a story that made us gasp. As the tomatoes rolled down a shoot for grading, they sometimes went too fast for workers to grab and discard the bad ones. She told us of little garden snakes and similar little critters sliding by into the grinder. I doubt if quality control had reached its peak in the early 1930s, but those were the stories I liked the best. So that’s kind of a long way around the tomato bush to say that maybe Grandparents day isn’t just a trumped up commercial event. It can bring back a lot of wonderful memories. And if I had $500,000 I could buy a 170-foot catsup bottle and put it in our back yard, right next to the swimming pool.
“There’s nothing like them,” grandparents are fond of saying. Proud grandfather Tom Woolard is no exception as he holds his grandson, Rowan Woolard.
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Graphic by Michael A. Thomas
Possibly the most important reason to stop complaining is that is serves as a black cloud, blocking the sunshine-- often, when we are up to our ears in complaints, we fail to see the beauty of the gifts around us.
By Sherri Murphy
W
e see them coming a mile away. Often, we'll change directions just to avoid them. They are powerful-- they can actually change the atmosphere in the room the moment they open their mouths, sucking up the fresh air as quickly as a vacuum removing crumbs from the carpet. They are known as complainers. To be fair, we all complain from time to time. We are creatures of habit, so complaining about the government, taxes, the rising cost of gas, the weather, Mondays, our weight, traffic, etc., can become second nature because it seems as if it is expected from those around us. We mindlessly offer our negative comments about things that don’t affect us at all: a baseball player's salary, an actor's movie performance, a star's love life, their opinions, their past‌you
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West Frankfort No. 23 Fall 2014
name it. If we know about it, we have an opinion on it. And it's usually a negative one, and thus begins the vicious cycle of complaining. Complaining seems to fill the empty awkwardness of an otherwise boring conversation. Often, we find new "friends" as we share the same gloomy proclamations and connect on a level we find vindicating. "If someone else agrees, I must be on to something!" So what's so harmful about complaining? It's not like we're causing the problems, just offering our bleak commentary on problems others have created. Well, complaining is comfortable. Often, it becomes too comfortable. It's non-committal. It condemns. It goes nowhere. It has no plans for improvement...much like a bad boyfriend who was dumped long ago for the same reasons.
Many may differ on the appreciation of the seasons. Autumn is my favorite time of the year. I get excited just thinking about the cooler, crisper air, football games, hayrides, the gorgeous shades of the changing colors of the leaves, raking those leaves, pumpkins, apples, baking, soups. Some, on the other hand, can't enjoy the fall because they only view it as the pre-curser to the dreaded, approaching winter. There is nothing wrong with preferring one season over another. We have every right to voice our opinion. But the more we voice those negative opinions, the more we actually create an negative atmosphere and fail to enjoy the moment of the beautiful season and all it has to offer. We become ungrateful. That's the hook of complaining. Its partnerin-crime is ungratefulness. Both of those cloaks look good on no one. It's best to remove them as soon as identified. Sometimes I will hear my own words and cringe, when I sense how ungrateful I sound when I complain about the wait being too long in line at a fast-food place where I just wanted an ice cream cone. My 7-minute wait is inexcusable! This is supposed to be FASTfood, right? My time is valuable! But before I dare to complain to the poor girl working at the window, I remember my time in Haiti when I witnessed desperate people who were lined up to receive a small bowl of food for the day to sustain their LIFE-- not a rich dessert to top off an already devoured meal (or a meal that I probably could not
finish and gave the leftovers to the neighbor's dog). I want to complain about road construction that slows my pace and makes my daily commute hard to manage, but as I begin to open my mouth, I'm reminded again of other areas wrecked by earthquakes, flood waters, landslides, hurricanes, and war zones. Their daily existence is often a battle. But those living in those communities
community. Are we ever satisfied? And when we are satisfied, even if it is only momentarily, are we as quick to offer praise? Do we share the good news with others at rapid speed with the same enthusiasm as we share our negative reports? If we want to know just how "good we have it", just listen to what we are complaining about. A sobering thought, really.
holding our tongues when it is not necessary to speak the negative. Or with every complaint that slips off our tongue, we vow to add a line of thankfulness for something. ANYTHING! It's not impossible. And of course, sometimes a complaint (to the proper person or dept. who can actually solve the problem) is warranted.
“...those living in war zones would only dare to dream of a day when SLOW TRAFFIC / ROAD CONSTRUCTION AHEAD is the worst news they would hear.” are normally much more grateful for the little things and would only dare to dream of a day when "SLOW TRAFFIC/ROAD CONSTRUCTION AHEAD" is the worst news they would hear. It's not necessary for us to travel to a thirdworld country to be brought back to the reality of how VERY GOOD we have it. For those of us with a Facebook account, a morning trip through the news feed should do the trick. Prayer requests from parents who have a child dying of cancer should be enough to shut our mouths when we are tempted to complain because we just cleaned the carpet and our healthy, active, small child just ran inside the door with muddy feet and "ruined” our carpet...and our day!
Our words are so very powerful. We can use them to build up (a person, an idea, a group, etc.) or tear down and destroy. Often, we don't realize what we bring into a room-- how we can change the atmosphere. Complaints are often knee-jerk reactions, and we mean no harm. It's just a bad habit. Habits are quickly formed, and we can begin forming new habits just as quickly--like
But we need to choose our words wisely. Although "the squeaky wheel gets the grease"--we also "catch more flies with honey". And honey is so much more pleasant than grease, especially when eating our words. So quitcherbellyachin. Move the dark cloud, and let the sun shine in! I think you'll be surprised at what you've been missing!
We complain of growing older, while others are hanging on for dear life. We complain of our time on the phone dealing with insurance companies—which provide us a just-in-case protection unaffordable to the very poor. Complaints of teachers, coaches, pastors, and other leaders become all too easy as we sit and point and direct from the outside looking in--rarely stopping to say a simple "thank-you" for their time, effort and attempt at making things better for a
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