Road Apples of Memory Lane
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You can never go back...except for deliveries
Today I got to visit an old neighbourhood I once lived in. When I first moved to the US in 1980, my parents rented a house for two years, before buying a home. Just around the corner from that house, was my first delivery of the day! Three yards of topsoil. Now, the apartment I live in is only about twenty minutes away. But I have no reason to visit the area. Nobody I know lives there anymore. There I am driving a big truck down a street I lived on 24 years ago. Driving a dump truck filled with dirt, no less. Certainly not the dreams of a 17 year old back in '82. Anyways, a lady greets me as I pull up in front of her house. I have her sign the invoice, there's some friendly banter about the weather and directions where she wants the load dumped. The lady returns to her gardening. I dump the load and leave. On many of my deliveries, the customer will ask me about my English accent and other related personal questions. But this lady was probably too focused on the work to her front lawn for such idle chatter with a delivery man. I was just itching to mention I once lived around the corner. I used to deliver newspapers to the house she lives in too...in what seems a lifetime ago. |
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Gym without class
Fall of 1980. My first gym class in America was touch football, softball and soccer. I signed up for this class strictly for the soccer. I found out fairly quickly, the school had absolutely no soccer field. My skills at softball were at best, non-existant. I was in fact known as the "bunt king" due to my lack of bat swinging power. My saving grace was, I could run like the wind. A bunt and a mad dash to first, nine times out of ten i was safe. One time, when everyone in the outfield moved in for my "bunt", I swung that bat for all it was worth. The ball sailed out into right field, over the heads of the disbelieving outfielders, yours truly got a triple out of that one. Many team-mates were cheering. The next batter hit a high flyer deep. Unfortunately, I wasn't aware of (or understood) the 'tagging up' rule and ran home to score, while my team-mates were telling me to go back. I ended up being out, and an idiot to boot. Touch football was fun. Trouble was ...I had absolutely no idea how to play. The premise was you had four downs to get a first down. This took a little while to sink in. I was a bit confused when you got a first down on the second down and you couldn't carry over the third and fourth down, as you hadn't used them yet. Catching the ball took some practice. In fact no-one would throw me the ball for the longest time. Eventually, i'd be standing all by myself because I had no clue and would catch a pass thrown at me, and would leg it to the end zone for the score. I actually caught several "touchdown passes". Not bad for a limey, huh? Soccer was a disappointment, as they had no soccer field. Embaressed in softball and football , I had to teach them all a lesson in ...line soccer. When it rained, it was line soccer. Two teams, one on either side of the gym, lined up like soldiers against the wall (the goal) three players at a time from each side would try to score. Needless to say, I made up for my softball/football shortcomings. I was the Pele of line soccer. The gym teacher noticed my talents, seems he prefered me to be a laughing stock,so he would put me on the losing side, AFTER I scored the goals for the winning side. He was a stereotypical short overweight football/wrestling coach you'd see in 1980's America and didn't seem to like me much . I still got an 'A' for my efforts(everyone gets an 'A' in gym class). |
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School daze in America. Part three
I must admit the last part of my first day in an American school is a bit hazy at best. It's been 25 years, so much has been forgotten. It was either English or US History that was my first class after lunch. But either way, it doesn't matter much. US History, I figured 200 years... this won't take long. LOL Actually, I enjoyed this class. It was nice to find out the John Wayne movies were not very accurate in the historical sense. Mr Petro was a splendid teacher. He explained about dictators. He told us HE was the dictator of the class. I raised my hand and said in humour "yes Mr Petro, and a big DICKtator you are". A cheap laugh, but the class thought it was funny coming out of a "limey's" mouth. He always enjoyed a bit of fun in his class, so he didn't hold any grudges. I got a B+ in US history for the semester. Thanks Mr Petro, you big dictator you.  English class was well, English and of course a bit on the boring side. The teacher was a wonderful lady called Mrs Jones. She was probably in her early to mid-thirties and she took a shine to me (an English kid in an American English class, big surprise there). Mrs Jones was also responsible for my overnight "fame", which for a few weeks by high school standards, made me a bit of a celebrity. More about that later. When in England and the teacher was female, those who used to raise their hands would call out "Miss...Miss" to get the teacher's attention. I tried this on Mrs Jones by habit, only to be told sternly,"I'm married, it's Mrs". That never stopped me calling her "Miss", I think she just gave up in the end. One of my most embarressing high school moments happened during English class. For some reason (which I don't recall) we were instructed to write in pencil. The pencil I was using had an eraser on it's top. Unfortunately for me it had been worn down, beyond the metal collar that held it in place. After making an error on my in-class assignment, I needed to erase and correct my mistake. I decided to ask in a loud voice, my classmates for some assistance. Very innocently, like I did many times in my classes in England, I yelled out "someone got a rubber I can borrow?" Well, the whole class just burst out in hysterical laughter. Poor Mrs Jones was in shock and borderline laughter herself, at such a request. I just sat there, not understanding the humour my question had brought to the class. It was explained to me, by a fellow student that a "rubber" was an American slang term for a condom. I left that classroom a bit red-faced to say the least. I made sure to use the term "eraser" for the rest of my school years. Mrs Jones never liked my spelling. I would always use the English spelling for many words. She would point out I must use the correct American versions. My point of saying "it's not American class, it's English class, and I'M English" seemed to fall on deaf ears. Her red pen of "correction" worked overtime on the papers I turned in. My final grade for this class was a "B". Not bad, considering the year before I could only pull a "C" in England for the same. Now back to my brief celebrity. Mrs Jones mentioned me to the school newspaper. Needless to say it was a matter of time before I was dragged out of a class(I thought I was in trouble for something) and had to report to the newspaper editor for an "interview". After answering some questions and getting my picture taken, I left thinking nothing of it. A few days later, my picture and accompanying article was on the front page of the school newspaper. For three weeks I was the most popular person in school. My lunch periods were a bombardment of questions and requests to say things in a cockney London accent. I ate lunch surrounded by more than a dozen giggling young ladies everyday! It was a good time to be British...God save the freakin' Queen! But alas, all good things come to an end eventually. After the hubbub of celebrity, I found some friends out of the chaos. I never sat alone for lunch again. The last class of my first day was softball/touch football/soccer. There's a story in itself to tell on this one. But that's a story for another day. |
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Rainbow...I must have missed this episode
Like many youngster's in England during the '70's. I fondly remember a children's show called Rainbow. It's intended audience was supposed to be pre-schoolers, but I remember watching it on those days I was home sick from school.(show started in 1972, when I was seven). The main cast featured Geoffrey who kept everything together and wore some unusual sweaters. Bungle the Bear(a man in a tatty bear suit) who was a bit of an idiot and wouldn't stop asking stupid questions. George the Hippo, a pink soft spoken hand puppet that was as bright as a candle. Then there was Zippy, a weird looking, loud mouthed hand puppet that had a zipper for a mouth. When he wouldn't keep quiet, Bungle would zip his mouth closed. Why Zippy didn't use his only hand to "unzip" himself, was strangely not something I pondered on much, when I was seven/eight. Now, I'm sure many of my British readers have probably seen the "naughty" sketch before. But I figured my US friends might enjoy it. This sketch was full of double entendres and done as a joke by the cast, so of course, it never aired. You can watch it or download (5MB) Here |
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Where the fuck is...Cleveland, Ohio?
When my parents decided to move to the US, I had no idea where I was moving to. I was told by my father not to mention "we're moving" to the neighbours, but I let everyone at school know I was moving to the USA. I had absolutely no clue where Cleveland was, other than it was in a state called "Ohio". During geography class one day (in England), we went to the school library and had to locate various cities around the world for the assignment of the day. I grabbed an atlas, and basically said "screw the assignment" and located Cleveland, Ohio. I proudly pointed out to my classmates, where I would be calling home, in a few months. My geography teacher, Mr.Kelly*(who, looked like a poor man's Elton John), did not seem very impressed, when I told him that I was leaving the country and he can shove his geography. Mr Kelly was a short, balding creature who passed himself off as a teacher(he should've got cast in Pink Floyd's "The Wall"). It was "his way" or the highway. He was the only teacher EVER to give homework over the summer vacation, because he knew you'd have to take his next geography class in September. I recall one time right before a two week teachers strike, he gave us a ten page essay to write for his class, just to give us "something to do" in our "strike time" off. Up until my last day in school, Mr. Kelly hounded me, he never believed I was emigrating. The last thing I remember him saying was "I'll see you monday...as usual". My response, oh...Mr Kelly, you're moving to Cleveland too?" I'd bet you all the money in the world, Mr Kelly as a geography teacher, couldn't have found Cleveland, Ohio on a map within twenty minutes if his life depended on it. Mr.Kelly. You're still short and still bald and probably at retirement age by now. But I have lived in Cleveland, Ohio, USA, for twenty five years. I guess I get the last laugh... you piece of shit bastard! Come on over and visit. I know my size thirteen boot will fit up your arse! :P *Real name used here...as I don't give a rat's behind. Alperton High School 1977-80. |
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School daze in America. Part two
After growing up in the Alperton/Wembley area of London, amongst the many cultures, that make up a great city. I was more than surprised to find that the southern suburb of Cleveland my family had moved to, was, almost completely white. There was just one black student at the school I attended, and to my best recollection no asian students. This was though, a very ethnic East European area, with a large Polish community. Things have changed a bit since 1980, with a growing Indian, Middle Eastern and African American population, as many of the aged Eastern Europeans have passed on. It is refreshing and in my opinion, a good thing to see different cultures moving into the neighbourhood. Unfortunately, not everyone I have met in my time in suburban Cleveland, would agree with my enthusiasm. I would hope the majority of people in the Cleveland area feel as I do, but there's always a few bigots in every neighbourhood. The reason for the above paragraphs was to give you a feel of the area I had moved to (and still call home), and maybe to understand how foreign I really felt when I first arrived. Ok, time to continue the story... I left homeroom and headed to my first class, Electricity. This was a required class for those wishing to take electrical related trade or "vocational" classes the following year. I found the correct classroom (another one of them out of the way, hard to find rooms) in the vocational wing of the school. I barely made it to class on time and ended up sitting near the front, shit! In came our instructor, Mr Lewis. In a class and school full of white students, my first teacher was ironically, an African American. I had only seen black Americans on television, mostly the US cop shows when I lived in England. So this was a pleasant surprise. He was well spoken and an excellent teacher. Little did I know, I would run into him a number of times at the department store I worked at, after my High School days were over. I always enjoyed our brief conversations, while he was doing a bit of shopping. Mr. Lewis, a tip of the Jackal's hat to you, sir. After Electricity class, it was off to badly "sprechen" some Deutsch. Finally an easy classroom to locate. As I had taken a year of German in England, this was an easy choice for my "language" requirement, considering the three years of French under my belt hadn't got me any further than asking where the bathroom was. To be honest, at this point in my life, I'd be walking with a large load in my drawers should I ever make it to France. German class was a bit advanced, as many of the students had German heritage and were breezing through. I spent most of my time in this class looking at the pretty girls. I did meet several people in German class who became my friends as the year went by. The most I can remember is some silly song the teacher would have us sing. It was called "Schnitzelbank", there would be a few schoolboy chuckles when we got to the "dicke frau" part. My teacher was generous enough to give me a "C" as my final grade. Ich bin solch ein dummes Bumsen. Off to my third period class, Technical Math. Another classroom that was simple to find. I was expecting some sort of a brain trust in this subject. I was somewhat disappointed to find many a Led Zeppelin and Blue Oyster Cult tee-shirt wearing crowd. Now I look back, it reminded me of VW buses and pot smoking. Mr.Hand from "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" should have been the teaching this class. Our instructor, Mr.Schuemaker was strict but fair. I found out he didn't like any form of swearing. I once said 'Damn' and got 25 press(push)-ups, which you had to do in front of everybody. I got an "A" in this subject (math, not press-ups). It's lunchtime! Off to the cafeteria. I was used to the slop I ate in England and wasn't expecting any better. Well, I entered those doors and discovered a never ending supply of fast food. French fries, hot dogs, hamburgers and pizza!! Not the finest grub by American fast food standards, but it beat the hell out of English school dinners. Even the fruit cups were good! And when I thought it couldn't get any better, my eyes fell upon the mighty vending machines. Just feeding these large, brightly lit machines with a few American coins and the sugar rush was on. Faux cream-filled snack cakes, candy bars and even ice cream sandwiches!! Did I die,and go to school lunch heaven somewhere after leaving Tech.Math? I had to pinch myself to make sure I was still alive. It wasn't long before I had vacated my pockets of small change, the sugar high was all systems go. I thoroughly enjoyed school lunch that day, I didn't even notice I was sitting all by myself, with no friend in the world. Unbeknownst to me, lunchtime was going to be far from lonely, over the next couple of weeks. To be continued... |
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Repair shop memories...buggy at best
From 1987-93 I worked for a company that ran a chain of TV/electronic repair shops. I was store manager and technician at one of these stores. Customers would bring their broken equipment to the shop closest to them. Then the majority of the units were sent to the main office for diagnosing and repair. Video cameras went to a different shop, and all microwave ovens and stereo speakers would come to mine. When it came to microwave ovens, there were sometimes, little surprises awaiting me underneath that sheet metal housing, of everyone's favourite warmer-upper. Large amounts of crumbs getting through the top vents was very common and no big deal. Brushing them out was simple enough. But the large families of "nocturnal insects" was another story. When I say nocturnal insects I mean cockroaches. Had to be delicate and PC when it came to our customers, don't ya know. There was a small percentage of "suspect" ovens. Generally they had a bit of a smell to them and weren't kept particularly clean. I swear, some had more grease on the outside of them than the inside. I'd pop the top off of some of these, to discover a small city of roaches, all scattering for cover. These appliances would be buttoned back up, placed in a large garbage bag and sent back unrepaired. Some of the little buggers would manage to escape from the Microwave Motel they had been inhabiting and discover the world that is, my repair shop. I'd spend the next day or two, hammer in hand, boots on feet, squishing and stomping the invaders. A customer came in one day, during one of my exterminating campaigns and put his TV on the counter. One of those "nocturnal insects" got brave and reached the counter top. Wham! My quick reflexes hammered the little fucker into roach pizza. "What was that!!" The customer exclaimed. "Er...just a spider," I replied. *Might not want to read the next bit if you just ate* Some customer microwaves were just plain disgusting. The unit would reek of cockroach shit. There would be squashed roaches between the door and the oven cavity walls, between the hinges and even just laying in the oven cavity itself (the area you put your food). It would sometimes just put me off my lunch, I tell ya! For anyone who has cockroaches in their house. I'll wager dollars to doughnuts you've got yourself a Microwave Motel all of your very own. Better check that coffee next time you warm it up.  Tip: An inexpensive way to kill roaches (other than my trusty hammer). Use an empty Windex or 409 spray bottle and fill it with 90% Isopropyl (rubbing) alcohol. |
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