I spent most of my life in education -- 13 years of it in Batavia: kindergarten at Washington School, first to eighth grade at St. Mary's on Woodrow Road (for first and second grade, we were in the basement of Notre Dame High School because the elementary school was being built), and four years at Notre Dame on Union Street. 

My three-years younger brother Dan spent part of his elementary years at St. Joseph's on Summit Street and then graduated from Notre Dame.

Lastly, my 11-years younger brother Jim went to elementary at John Kennedy on Vine Street, Batavia Middle School on Ross Street and then Batavia High on State Street. 

So, between the three of us, we had a bunch of Batavia schools covered.

After high school, I went on to St. John Fisher College in Rochester for five years ( I had an illness as a junior which required an extra year). Upon graduation, I spent one year teaching sixth grade at St. Peter and Paul School in Rochester, and then after spending three years out of education, I taught fifth and sixth grades for the next 32 years at three different elementary schools in the Rochester City School District. 

If I'm doing my math correctly, that's 51 years either being taught or doing the teaching, although any good teacher will tell you that you never stop learning. There's a lot you can learn from your students, too.

Everyone reading this article spent some amount of time in school. In Batavia, if you were Catholic, depending on where you lived, you could choose between St. Mary's or St. Joseph's on the north side or St. Anthony's (heavily Italian) or Sacred Heart (heavily Polish) on the south side for elementary school. 

Today, only St. Joseph's is still operating. 

Then it was likely on to Notre Dame for high school.

If you went to public school, it was Pringle, Lincoln, East Washington, Jackson, Brooklyn, Robert Morris, or John Kennedy Elementary.

Today, Jackson and John Kennedy are still operating, and Robert Morris has reopened partially. 

Then it was on to the Middle School and Batavia High, which has been on State Street since 1961.

What did all these kids in all these schools have in common? Well, if it was between the 1950s and the early 2000s, they were using the same “technology” that I did in my student and teaching career. And the thing all of those who are still around have to realize is that almost all of those classroom tools we relied on to help us learn are gone, probably never to return. My intent in this article is to take a nostalgic look at the classroom equipment of days gone by.

Seemingly forever, the blackboard, or chalkboard as it was also known, was a main point of use in every classroom. I have to admit I made full use of mine right up until my retirement in 2006. In fact, I used it so much that some days I would go home looking like I spent the day working in a gypsum mine. 

My former students will still remember being called up to the blackboard two or three at a time to work out math problems. 

Most teachers had a job chart where each week students were assigned a task. One of those was to clean the erasers at the end of the day. They would either go outside and clap them together, causing a dust storm that looked like Oklahoma in the 1930s, or later on, there was a machine to run them through. Another job was to wash the boards at the end of the day, but I was such a stickler I would do them again after they left.

As time passed, whiteboards with dry-erase markers became the norm. Today, virtually every classroom has a smartboard, which is connected to the internet and makes a lot of the older equipment useless antiques. 

Of course, each student has a laptop computer or tablet to use too.

Cursive writing, or actually even printing. I'm sure you all recall the green tagboard cursive letters in white script that virtually every elementary teacher had on display in the classroom. A certain amount of time each day was devoted to practicing printing in the primary grades and then cursive at the intermediate level. Writing assignments were either printed or done in cursive. 

If you went to Catholic school like me, the nuns were fanatics about it. Maybe it was in their sisterly vows. “I swear that I will torment elementary students about perfecting the Palmer Method of cursive. So help me God.” 

It never happened to me, but I have been told by others that rulers on the back of hands were sometimes utilized (especially if you were left-handed) to help emphasize a kid's devotion to cursive perfection (but right-handed). Also, I know this sounds sexist , but why did the girls always have better cursive?

Today there is almost no need for writing of any kind, with the possible exception of math problems. Most things are written with a keyboard on a computer, tablet, or even a phone for homework. Most classrooms today have a minimum of pencils, pens, and paper. It simply is not needed. There is also a shortage of nuns so I guess rulers are not needed either to keep those fingers in place on the keyboards.

This is going way back, but 16mm  films and projectors were once the way to see movies. In the Rochester District, you had to order a movie from a central supply location, and it would be delivered to the school by a messenger. Then you had to reserve the projector from the library where it was kept. 

In my first school, you could never get it on a Friday afternoon because the same lazy teacher always beat you to it. Once you got the movie and projector, there was at least a 50 percent chance the film would break at some point, and you'd have to splice it with tape. Some of the movies had been spliced so many times they were almost unwatchable. If the projector light bulb blew out, that was the end of the movie for the day because, apparently, new bulbs were only made in Mongolia or somewhere.

In the 1980s, VCRs came into use so you could more easily watch movies on a TV. Televisions (still the kind with “Rabbit Ear” antennas) became popular to watch big events like presidential inaugurations. Often classes would have to combine together because each school only had a couple TVs. In the late 80s, video cameras were introduced to record school plays and events. 

Today, every school has wi-fi, and each classroom has that previously mentioned five-foot-high smartboard connected to it, so all those previous viewing methods are obsolete.

Before big Xerox stockholders got rich from the copier business, we made copies with a mimeograph machine. A toxic fluid was poured into it by teachers, and some lawyers could probably make a bundle today after finding out what health problems were caused by exposure to that stuff. 

We would make a master carbon copy, clip it into the machine, and turn the crank to roll off the number of copies we wanted. This often resulted in purple fingers, and if the copies were “hot off the press,” the students would be sniffing them, which was probably as bad as smoking. 

Copiers are still a problem, too, with adding toner and the constant jamming. If hidden microphones were ever placed in copier rooms, lots of teachers would be in trouble for their (expletives deleted).

Finally, we would use a machine called a filmstrip projector. A strip of film would come in a metal or plastic container. Usually, there was an entire box of these devoted to a certain topic. The strip of film would be inserted into the projector (again requiring those light bulbs from Mongolia), and the teacher or a designated student would turn a knob that advanced the film one frame at a time.

Accompanying these strips was a record or audio tape that would narrate the topic. When a beeping noise occurred, that was the signal to advance the frame. For example, if the topic was Batavia, NY, the tape would say something like: “Batavia is a small city located in western New York,” while on the screen would be a map of New York State with a red dot showing where Batavia is. “Beep”. The film would be turned one frame. “ Batavia is the seat of Genesee County.” The film would show a map of New York State counties highlighting Genesee County and Batavia. “Beep.” And so on ad infinitum. 

Or should I say ad nauseam because the people chosen to narrate these film stips must have been hired from a group of failed announcers due to their extremely boring and annoying voices. 

About halfway through the filmstrip, you would look around, and students were either asleep or drawing funny-looking pictures of you.

Whether you attended school in Batavia, Le Roy, Alexander, Oakfield, Rochester, Buffalo, or Tucumcari, New Mexico, if it was before the 2000s, you used one or more of the classroom things I described. They were all successful aids in learning to a greater or lesser degree, but their time has come and gone like the feather quills and inkwells of the 1800s. Like phone booths and dial phones, today's kids would not have heard of most of these things if you asked them. As they say, time marches on. But it can sometimes be enjoyable to think back to the “good old days” and the things our teachers used to educate us.

(Authors note: as is usual with my writing I try to make my articles nostalgic with a touch of humor mixed in. If you care to comment, I would love to hear any anecdotes you might have about any of the equipment I mentioned. Or, maybe I forgot some things that you could add. However, if you have any political comments about today's education there are numerous forums to do that. Please keep to the spirit of reminiscence here. Thank you.)

Author's note: I am aware that there was discrimination against people of Italian and Polish descent (and possibly others ) in the 1950s and '60s that prevented them from enjoying what I did. I apologize ( I found out about it in high school) and understand if there is leftover bitterness. It seems that things have changed for the better today, and there are no longer any restrictions.

When I was a kid in the 1950s and 60s, I was fortunate to be in a family who had a membership at Godfrey's Pond ( See Part 1 History The Batavian Aug. 9, 2023) operated by the Genesee County Fish and Game Protective Association in Stafford. We enjoyed swimming, picnicking, fishing and boating. My mom's family, the Newhouses, who lived on North Lyon Street, were members (my Uncle Bob Newhouse, age 93, is a lifetime one), so when my parents got married, apparently, my dad got a Reilly membership for us. Being only a short driveable distance away, we spent a lot of time there in the summer months. Others in the Genesee County area have summer memories of Nu-Lake, Silver Lake in Wyoming County, Horseshoe Lake (which was mostly private), Boulder Park at Indian Falls or other places. I did visit a couple of those places, but my remembrances are primarily of Godfrey's Pond.

Peck At The Pond, Rap On The Rump
My first memory of the Pond comes only from photos. There I am on the shore in a playpen, maybe about age 3, so it would be circa 1950. The little girl caged in there with me was the daughter of some family friends. Now, I have written many times about how shy I was as a child and teenager. Well, apparently, on this day, I somehow got my nerve up and there for all to see was my first kiss. The look on the girl's face tells the whole story in one word -- “Whoa!”

I don't remember the kiss, but I do recall the swat on my behind. When I was probably seven or eight, my mom got out the photo and was teasing me a little with it. I got embarrassed, grabbed the photo, and tore it in half. Mom was not happy. I still have the torn and taped-together picture somewhere, but luckily an unripped version survived. Recently, I saw that the “ little girl's” mom passed away at the age of 99. I was able to contact her, and after expressing my condolences, I sent her the photo. I hope she was amused.

Swimming Stories
When I was small, we spent a lot of time playing on the beach at the “shallow end,” as everyone called it. As a fair-skin freckled redhead, this has probably come back to haunt me in my later years with frequent trips to the dermatologist. I'm pretty sure that there were no SPF sunblock lotions available back then, so I have become very familiar with liquid nitrogen treatments even though I avoided the sun like the plague as an adult.

I learned to swim at Godfrey's Pond (I remember as a real little kid being at the YMCA and going in the pool naked with a bunch of other little boys- what was that all about?) but like almost everything I did back then it was a battle for my mother. The day lessons were supposed to begin, I chickened out and hid in a closet outside the door of our upstairs apartment on Ellicott Avenue. She eventually found me, and after a lot of screaming and pulling, Mom finally got me out of there by threatening to call the priest from St. Mary's to come over. Of course, once I got there and got to know the other kids and the teacher, I was fine and really enjoyed it. Except for diving underwater – I had and still have bad sinuses.

I think the teacher's name was Mrs. Williams, and there were several steps to pass -- beginner, intermediate, and advanced. In order to pass the lessons ( I think it took me 2 years), you had to swim out to the overhead “wire” (I think an electrical line stretched across a section of the pond) and back with Mrs. Williams rowing beside you in a boat. It was maybe 100 yards. If you made it (I did), you received your swimmer's badge. Some really good swimmers got to apply for their lifesaving badge. You had to be able to surface dive down to save someone, and I couldn't do it. Blasted sinuses again.

One funny story I recall about swimming at Godfrey's: we took a friend one time, and we were going to swim out to the floating raft that was positioned probably 25 yards away. He swam halfway out, exclaimed, “ I can't make it!” and swam back. I'll let you do the math, but he got teased for a while about that one.

There were three diving boards at the deep end - low, medium and high. I was okay with the low and the medium, but I always had to hold my nose or wear nose clips because when my face hit the water, it felt like someone shoved a knife up my sinuses. The high board was a different story, though. Heights are not my favorite, and there was no way I was diving face-first from up there anyway. I don't think I ever dove head-first off the high board, but I would jump off occasionally just to prove that I wasn't a total chicken.

Fishing Forays
Just behind the “deep end ” swimming area was a line of trees, and then the terrain descended into an area we called “The Hollow.” At the back of the hollow flowed Bigelow Creek after the Pond water flowed over the dam. When I was 8, 9, 10 years old, I used to prowl along the edge of that small stream, fascinated by the fish I could see in there. I didn't have a fishing pole, but I got some fishing line and tied a hook on the end (probably not an improved clinch knot) and added a little sinker. I would spend hours, it seemed, tossing that line in the creek, trying to get something to bite. Mostly the fish were just Suckers, but one day I finally managed to get a little Perch to bite. I was so proud that I ran with it all the way to wherever my mom was to show off my probably six-inch fish. It wasn't much to brag about, but it was my first catch.

At some point, probably about age 10, I got a fishing pole and reel of my own. Nothing fancy, of course, just a little push-button spin-cast reel. I must have taught myself to cast because, without a doubt, my dad was the worst fisherman I ever saw. There is a famous legend about the “Gordian Knot,” which was supposedly tied by Gordius, the King of Phrygia, which was only able to be untied by the future ruler of Asia. Well, my dad came up with snarls in his line that would put old Gordius to shame. These occurrences resulted in an outpouring of “Judas Priests!” (my dad's faux cussing ) and “This goldarned stupid reel” that would send us kids scurrying for the hills.

Later in life, I had a small fishing boat and got up the nerve to take my elderly dad fishing in Lake Ontario one time. I was in the front of the boat, and the “Judas Priests” began in the back. I went to help, and somehow he had cast his line backward behind him. As I took the pole and reel to assist him I realized there was a fish on the line that had bitten on his worm. I handed him the pole, and he reeled in a decent smallmouth bass that he had caught completely by accident. Better to be lucky than good sometimes, I guess.

Once I got my own pole and reel, I graduated from the hand line in the creek to fishing in the actual pond. My go-to spot to try was on the bridge where the dam was, and I would cast my worm into the hole on the side where the water had carved out a deep pool before going over the falls. Since I was only 10 or 11 years old, I didn't have a lot of patience, so after the sunfish stole all my worms or I actually hooked a couple, I'd give up and go swimming or something instead.

But, one day, I could see a decent-sized largemouth cruising around in my favorite fishin' hole. I REALLY wanted to catch that bass. I might have cast 20 times, and it just wasn't interested, and I was getting frustrated. I almost wanted to say, "Judas Priest bass!” But I tried one last cast and could actually see the worm drifting right in front of the bass's mouth. “C'mon, bite,” I thought and BOOM! It did. I set the hook, and hand trembling, I reeled the bass up out of the water and swung it onto the bridge. As you can see from the photo, it really wasn't that big, but of course, I was thrilled and put it on a stringer to show my parents. Once I was older, I almost always practiced catch and release (I do not care for the taste of fish, and it's better to let them live and grow), but there was no way I wasn't gonna show that one off. I must have gone swimming afterward, though -- notice the nose clips around my neck.

I never really caught a big fish in Godfrey's Pond, but they're in there. Once in the fall, when the water got cold, we watched a guy fight a huge Northern Pike right in the usual summer swimming area. It put up a long fight, and when he finally got it in, it was definitely 3 to 4 feet long.

My last memory of fishing in The Pond was soon after I was married in 1972. My wife and I took my younger brother Jim in one of the rowboats across the pond to the south side where the railroad is. A bunch of trees on the embankment provided shade, and it must have been spawning time because we caught so many Sunfish and Bluegills that our arms got tired. This time we let them all go, though.

Row, Row, Row Your Boat
Godfrey's had a bunch of small rowboats which you could rent for a nominal fee. That's how I learned to row, and we used to cruise around the pond just getting exercise and horsing around. Sometimes fishing too. Eventually, we discovered that in the southwest corner of the pond, there was a cement culvert that went under the railroad tracks. It was put in to allow Bigelow Creek to flow through from the swampy wetlands between Horseshoe Lake and Godfrey's.

The Pond rowboats would fit through the passage, but you had to get down really low and fight your way through the spider webs. There might have been a bat or two in there as well. I guess all that made it more exciting. A couple of times, when we got to the other side, we told ourselves that we were going to row all the way to Horseshoe Lake, but the murky water between the reeds and cattails got shallow, and we never made it very far. I'm not even sure it's possible in a boat.

My younger (by 11 years) brother Jim tells a story that when he was a teenager, he took our Uncle George the plumber, not exactly the outdoor type, out in a boat and through that underpass and surprisingly, he really enjoyed it. When you think about it, I imagine a plumber would be used to dark watery places with spiders.

Picnics and “The Stand”
The Pond had plenty of fireplaces, picnic tables, and even a couple of covered shelters for larger family gatherings. My Gramma Newhouse and my mom, Anna Newhouse Reilly, were both good cooks, so we had plenty of picnics on nice summer days. Weekdays were the best because it could get really crowded on weekends. My dad was a notorious mosquito hater, and they loved the taste of him for some reason, so if it was a little damp and not windy, he'd be swatting like a madman. We still tell stories of how at home, if he heard one buzzing near his ear in the night, he'd keep us all up whacking the walls with a rolled-up newspaper until he got the offending bloodsucker.

After swimming (back then, everyone believed that if you ate before swimming, you'd get murderous cramps and drown), we'd always ask Mom for some change and go to the little refreshment store where the changing lockers were (I don't think I ever changed in there once -- we'd just wear our bathing suit under our clothes). We always just called it “The Stand”. We'd get a popsicle (grape was my fave), creamsicle, fudgsicle, candy or a little bag of chips. I think most things only cost a nickel or dime back then. “Ah, the good old days,” as everyone from back then says now.

The Worst Thirst
My mom was pretty strict and wouldn't let me get a two-wheeled bicycle until I turned 10 years old, which I did in January 1957. So sometime that spring ( we were living on Ellicott Avenue just before we moved to North Spruce Street), we went to J. Frank Dicks Bike Shop on the corner of Thomas Avenue by Corrigan's mom-and-pop store, and I got a bike. It was a three-speed, and it was referred to as an “English “ bike.

Once I learned to ride, I became obsessed with riding to Godfrey's Pond. I nagged Mom for a long time, and finally, she gave in – with one provision: She would not allow me to ride on Clinton Street Road (Route 33), which was the way we took in the car because of the busy traffic, especially big trucks. So we had to devise an alternate route.

After taking a test ride in the car, it was determined that I would pedal out the Bank Street Road, turn right onto Batavia Stafford Townline Road (no, I didn't remember most of this 66 years later, I had to look it up on my iPhone GPS), then left onto Fotch Road, left to Batavia Byron Road ( a lot of this route is going back south making it longer but safer in Mom's eyes, small country roads with little traffic), and finally onto Griswold Road which takes you to Godfrey's Pond Road.

I started out in the morning, and as I recall, the ride there wasn't actually too bad for a 10-year-old. It was about 8 miles, so I got a good workout for a kid. I felt pretty good about myself, too -- look what I did all by myself. Once there, I really don't remember what I did. It was a weekday, so I don't think any lifeguards were on duty in the morning, and I know I didn't bring a fishing pole on my bike. I guess I just hung out for a while before I started back.

I do remember one thing, though, and it was prophetic of my return trip. Somewhere by the dam and “The Hollow” was a natural spring pipe that people used to drink from. I thought, “I'll get a cool drink before I leave.” Why didn't I bring a canteen with water that I could have filled? This became a very important mistake on my trip home.

It was getting into the afternoon as I left, the sky was clear, and the sun was beating down. I think it turned out to be a pretty hot day. As I retraced my route, it was also more uphill --  a harder ride than the way there earlier. By the time I got to Bank Street Road, I was VERY thirsty. That's when the “Why didn't I bring a canteen ?” thought hit my brain.

You've all seen the movies and the cartoons where the parched travelers are dying of thirst, and the heat waves look like an oasis of water to them as they crawl through the desert sand dunes. Well, I wasn't in the desert or crawling (and definitely not dying), but that's how I felt. And then I made a second crucial mistake. Instead of turning onto Bank Street, somehow, I thought going straight on the Batavia-Elba Townline Road and then taking State Street home would be faster and easier. Wrong.

As I rode along, my lips felt like sandpaper. I had no saliva to swallow, and I was running out of energy. At one point, I peddled, very slowly at that point, past a herd of cows, and there was a tiny little stream of water there. I honestly considered stopping and at least rinsing my mouth. Thankfully I did not make that mistake. Can you imagine how sick I could have gotten from that?

Finally, I made it to State Street ( I must have forgotten to bring my cell phone to call home for Mom to come pick me up, too), and local residents know that is where the Batavia Airport is located. Somehow through sheer willpower (and walking my bike up hills), I made it there, and I was thinking, “They have got to have a pop (that's what we called soda) machine. Please!” And they did.

In my pocket, I had 2 dimes. The machine said 10 cents per bottle .” Yes! I'm saved, I'm not going to die of thirst”. I put in the first dime and pulled on the bottle. And – it wouldn't release. “No! This can't be happening!” One more chance. I put in the second dime, tugged on a bottle in a different row and out it came. I don't even remember the flavor or brand, but I downed that probably 8-ounce bottle like it was the last liquid on earth. Man, that tasted good! And cold.

So I was temporarily saved. But I still had a couple miles to go to Ellicott Avenue, and now I had a raging stomach ache from drinking the pop too fast. But off I went. As I got across the Thruway bridge and closer to the residential area, I came to the Little League Stadium on the corner of Bank and State Streets. I thought, “They have restrooms there! Please let them be unlocked.” And finally, I caught a break -- they were open. I went in and, using my hands as a cup, I drank from the sink faucet (I know-gross) until I thought I would burst. Again-dumb move as I barely made it home without vomiting.

When I got home, I put my bike in the garage and practically crawled up the stairs to our second-floor apartment. Mom was anxiously awaiting me and said, “Oh, I'm so glad you're home safe, Dave. How was your ride?” I was in no mood to tell the whole story right then, so I said, “It was fine. I'll tell you about it later. I'm a little tired right now.” I went right to my bed, and I think I was asleep in about 30 seconds. I don't know if I ever told her the whole story, but I do know that was the thirstiest I have ever been in my life before or since.

Return Visit
I did not go to Godfrey's Pond for many years. In 2016 I reunited with Jim Heatherman, an old elementary, high school, and college friend in Batavia, for lunch. I hadn't seen him in almost 50 years. Over lunch at T. F. Brown's (formerly Mancuso's Restaurant), we got to talking about The Pond. When he left, I drove there just for nostalgia's sake. I didn't stay long. I walked down by the swimming area (now closed due to pollution, a pool has replaced it), saw the old “Stand” and walked the short distance to the dam. I swear everything looked exactly the same. Even the old beat-up rowboats at the docks by the swimming area. The only new thing I noticed was there were two young girl lifeguards on duty, and they were wearing bikinis. That most definitely wasn't the case when I was a kid.

Godfrey's Pond certainly holds a lot of good memories for me and many others. I just wish all could have enjoyed it.

Author's Note: For more than 100 years, Godfrey's Pond, located in northeast Genesee County, has been a recreation spot for some local residents. Swimming, boating, fishing, picnicking, camping, and gun sports have been enjoyed there and still bring lasting happy memories to those who were able to enjoy them. I will be writing a two-part article on “The Pond, “ with Part 1 detailing its history and Part 2  describing my childhood memories of the adventures I had there when I was a kid in the 1950s and 1960s.

Pond Origins
Between Route 5 and Route 33 to the east of Batavia is an area known as Seven Springs. Underground springs there bubble to the surface and form what is known as Bigelow Creek. The terrain is downhill to the northeast, and so that is the direction the creek flows. Over the last couple hundred years, entrepreneurs took advantage of the flowing water by constructing dams at several different locations on the creek to use the water power for the milling of various products.

The first dam is directly at Seven Springs and formed what is now known as Chapin Pond. At one time used for milling flour, the pond is now part of a Zen community area called  Chapin Mill Retreat Center. Coincidentally, when I was born in January 1947, my parents were renting the old mill building, which had been converted into living quarters. My mom frequently and nostalgically recalled her early married days after my dad came home from World War II  at the quiet and peaceful “Mill.”

Horseshoe Lake
From Seven Springs, Bigelow Creek flows in an easterly direction still north of Route 33. In the late 1800s, a man named Robert Fisher dammed the creek to build a mill. But in 1897, the property was sold to Charles Hodges, who constructed a much higher dam resulting in what he named Horseshoe Lake. Various entrepreneurs attempted in the early 1900s to make the lake into a summer resort. A baseball diamond was laid out, boats were purchased,  a merry-go-round and roller coaster were installed, and a bath house was built, but due to lack of transportation to such a rural area, it only prospered for a short time. By the 1950s, Horseshoe became a quiet residential lake, which pretty much it remains to this day.

Godfrey's Beginnings
Bigelow Creek outflows from Horseshoe Lake and heads northeast passing beneath Route 33.  It forms a boggy wetland area several miles north, and previous to 1832, Elijah Godfrey purchased the area and built a small dam for the purpose of sawing lumber and grinding feed, and the resulting pond got its name from him, which it still bears today. 

In 1851 Norris Haywood bought the land and pond, and during his ownership, the New York Central made a deal for a right of way and put through their tracks, which separated the property into two sections. The current mainline of the CSX Railroad still goes by the pond.  A cement culvert was built below the railroad tracks to allow the water to pass through from the south end of the property to the north, where the pond is located.

In 1874 Thomas Dobney took control of the property and began using the water mill for grinding plaster brought from Byron which was used for fertilizer.  In 1890, Joseph Bork, a real estate man from Buffalo, purchased the property to start a resort. He planned to construct a dance hall and have tennis courts and a baseball field. He also brought in row boats. However, like Horseshoe Lake, the plan failed due to lack of transportation to the site.

The property was sold to the New York Central Railroad in 1900, and they raised and rebuilt the dam, which added 14 million gallons of more water. However, in 1902 a flood destroyed the dam and completely emptied the pond. The railroad built a new dam of concrete, and the pond was refilled. However, the New York Central did not take water directly from the pond but rather ran a sluice to South Byron, where the trains took on the water. The mill continued to be leased to various businessmen to grind feed.

Recreation Area Finally Becomes A Reality
In 1909 a group called the Genesee County Fish and Game Protective Association leased the Godfrey's Pond property from the New York Central, which was no longer using it. Their intention was to have a club with dues-paying members who would use the area for recreational (fishing, hunting, etc.) purposes. The organization made some improvements to the rented area, including planting thousands of trees, and people began to join and enjoy the rural pond locale. 

Twenty-two years later, in 1931, the Fish and Game Association purchased the land and pond outright from the Railroad for $4,750. The total property equaled 100 acres, 50 of which were taken up by the pond. The purchase was negotiated by Assemblyman Charles Miller along with Arnold Keller, William Phillips, and Porter Davis, who were officers of the Fish and Game Association.

At the top of a hill overlooking the pond was a house that the Association designated as the residence of the property caretaker and his family. The very first caretaker was Joseph Morith, and another well-known one was Jerry Ruckle.

Through the years up until the 1950s and '60s, members and their guests had a lot of opportunities for recreational fun. For swimming, there was a shallow section with a sand beach at the southeast end near the railroad. Families with small children tended to congregate in that area, and the Association hired lifeguards for safety. At the north end was a deeper area, and through the years, a cement deck was installed and low, medium, and high diving boards were placed there. A floating raft was installed each summer about 25 yards out for swimmers to use. Swimming lessons were offered, and of course, lifeguards were on duty there too.

Not far from “the deep end “ was a building that tripled as a bathhouse for changing, a refreshment stand (popsicles, ice cream, chips, candy, etc.), and a recreation room (ping pong and so on). This is where members registered their guests after paying a small fee.

Just to the east of the “deep end “ were docks with rowboats available for boating or fishing. No motors were allowed. In the very early days, the Association tried to raise trout, but the water was too warm. So the pond became a fishery for sunfish, perch, largemouth bass, and northern pike.  From time to time, various fishing contests were held. To the west of the swimming area was the dam, and below that, the water flow became faster as it reformed into Bigelow Creek (note: through all these years, I never knew the name of the creek until  I did research for this article), which eventually empties into Black Creek which then flows into the Genesee River at Scottsville and then on to Lake Ontario.

Throughout the property, there were several shelters available to reserve for family outings and many fireplaces and picnic tables. Camping was also permitted in a couple of separate areas.

Near the railroad and to the southeast of the beach area (everyone called it “the shallow end”) was a shooting range where gun enthusiast members could practice their marksmanship.

Major Additions and Changes
Since 1970 the Genesee County Fish and Game Protective Association has been busy adding more attractions for its members to enjoy. Thanks to the inspiration of James Southall, an aviary was constructed below the dam and north of Bigelow Creek.  It features a display of ornamental pheasants, waterfowl, quail, partridge, peacocks and swans. Participating members hatch and raise their own birds and sell some to offset operating expenses. Each fall, pheasants are released in an adjoining property for hunting by members.

In 2004 to the north of the aviary, a four-acre trout pond was dug and filled. There is a hatchery, display pool, and raceways for the young fish and breeders, which are then used to stock the pond. The trout are Rainbows and Palominos, which are a mixture of rainbows and goldens. Members are allowed to keep 20 trout per year, but most practice catch and release.

Off to the east, there is a trap shooting range where shotgun enthusiasts can shoot clay birds and past that is an area of archery targets where bow and arrow users can practice their skills. There is also a safe one-way archery trail for practicing which begins near the aviary and ends near what is referred to as the “Back Pond.”

For hikers and exercisers, there are seven trails of varying lengths that intersect and which total about five miles in all.

There are two separate camping areas for members to use with RVS and/or tents.

An unfortunate change happened in 2018. Members were complaining about a greenish color to the water, and through testing, it was discovered that the pond was too contaminated for swimming. Trying to chlorinate such a large body of water was not feasible for a number of reasons. A weed harvester was installed, and oxygen bubblers were added to ensure that the fish population was kept healthy and abundant. But, it was a no-go for humans.

Members and their leadership met and decided that some type of swimming availability was a must for the survival of the facility. The club decided to spend around $300,000 to build a pool near where the caretaker's house was. The funds to pay for the swimming area were projected to come from increased camping and group events that the pool would provide.

Students from  BOCES worked to remove trees and stumps, and many members who had trade skills volunteered to help out at no charge. The pool opened in 2019 and has been a big success, although many older members sadly reminisce about their days swimming and learning to swim in the actual pond.

Godfrey's Pond now has about 1,600 members and continues to thrive as an active outdoor recreation spot in Genesee County, New York.

Photos courtesy of Godfrey's Pond and Ed Kademon, submitted by David Reilly.

In Part 1, published on May 16, I detailed my love of sports as a kid and replaced my short and disastrous high school football career with a more enjoyable experience on the Notre Dame cross-country team.

Roundball Remembrances
A big accomplishment for me in my sophomore year was overcoming my diffidence and fear to try out for the Junior Varsity basketball team. I was 6 feet 3 inches tall, and my friends kept goading me to give it a shot (no pun intended). Making it difficult however was the fact that my hoops skills were limited to making a right-handed layup and tying my Converse high-top sneakers. Fortunately for me, the coach was the aforementioned Pete Corbelli and since he knew me from cross-country, we had a good relationship. Somehow Coach Pete put me on the team (to the dismay of a few other guys who were probably better players), and I always thought maybe it was because he saw a kid who needed a boost in confidence. I will always be indebted to him for his kindness.

Again, I don't remember much about any of the games that season. I just recall feeling like a possum in the headlights every time Pete would put me in the game because I pretty much had no idea what I was doing. As the year went by, I must have learned some basic skills just by going to practice every day. The thing that made me the happiest was that I got to be part of a team, even if didn't get to play very many important minutes.

In my Junior year, I wasn't eligible for JV anymore (even though that was probably my skill level), so I had to try out for the Varsity. The coach was Lucien “Lou” Lodestro, so I couldn't count on Corbelli to sneak me in again. Unbelievably to me (and probably to a bunch of guys who got cut), I made the team. 

I remember approaching the team roster Coach Lou had posted on the gym door with trepidation and just standing there stunned when I saw my name. I guess inheriting tallness genes from my dad (the rest of his brothers and sisters were short) made the difference. Being six foot three was sometimes a pain (feet hanging over the end of the bed, hitting my head on low-hanging light fixtures, dancing with shorter girls if I could even work up the nerve to ask them), but in this case, it worked in my favor.

I don't know our team record from that year, but I'm sure we had a losing one. Coach Lou gave me some decent playing minutes, and it always put a big smile on my face if I scored (rarely) and the cheerleaders would break into, “ Ho Hi Sip Si, Dave Reilly, he's our guy.” The season highlight was making the winning layup in one home game on a pass from senior teammate Don Andrews who had stolen the ball. Why I was in the game at the end is a mystery. Maybe some guys had fouled out, or a mysterious illness had swept through the team.

One of the good things about having been part of a team is the shared memories that you and your teammates have, including humorous ones. 

One of our games was in Buffalo against St. Mary's School For The Deaf. This was a small private school that served a particular type of clientele and had probably under 100 students. One of their players was named Bob Sheak, and he had received a lot of press in Buffalo for his achievements on the court. Some of us, thinking we were funny, were joking about him on the bus and in the locker room, saying that he would probably come out in a turban (Sheiks wear a traditional headgear called a keffiyeh but we were ignorant high school boys) and a robe with a harem of cheerleaders. Well, he came out all right in a regular uniform and scored a bunch of points, and they beat us. 

That night was another bunch of lessons learned about life by us.

Another funny incident (although not at the time) was when our old team bus broke down at a Thruway toll booth. Our athletic director, Father Dave Scheider, got the whole team out of the bus by exclaiming,” What are you guys waiting for? The bus isn't going to start itself!” and we collectively pushed it until our long-time driver Gordon Judd popped the clutch and got it started. That must have made quite the scene for passing drivers. We had to laugh through our embarrassment.

A completely ridiculous thing a few of us did after school and before practice was to sneak outside to Soccio Street to have a cigarette in brothers Bill and Jack Bishop's old car they drove to school. Were we nicotine-addicted fiends? Not at all. We actually only took a few drags because we were rushed for time and didn't want to get caught. Personally, at that time, I bet I didn't even smoke 10 cigarettes a week. Why did we do it? Why do teenagers do a lot of silly things? A bit of rebellion, a bit of trying to get away with something, maybe.

On one occasion, Father Scheider did catch a couple of us smoking outside the gym exit door, and we got suspended for a game. Taking away my less-than-stellar production was not going to hurt the team, but I think I stopped sneaking smokes after that because I was embarrassed and felt I had let Father Scheider (who was a good guy) down.

A couple of humorous memories of Father Dave: When he was coaching (he had been an outstanding athlete at Batavia High) or just cheering us on from the stands or sidelines, if he got upset with something we did, he would yell out, “C'mon you pork chop!” That was his priestly epithet of choice. I think a local restaurant at the time should have had Father Dave Pork Chops on their menu.

One year in basketball, a number of us had started making the sign of the cross for luck before shooting free throws. After a few games of this, Father Scheider addressed it in the locker room in no uncertain terms.“ Knock that stuff off pork chops! You do the playing, we'll do the praying.” 

He was a character for sure.

Senior Struggles
In my Senior year, 1963-64, either Lou Lodestro or the school decided that coaching both football and basketball was too much for one man, so a former Niagara University player named Don Satterly was hired for the hoops job. This move turned out badly for me. Coach Lou must have realized that we didn't really have the talent to win a lot of games, so he tried to give everyone (even me) a chance to play. Coach Satterly had different ideas and spent the season trying to overachieve. His management style could be summed up in one pre-game speech he gave,“ Hey, you guys. Some of my friends are coming to the game tonight, so don't embarrass me.”

We were having a miserable season, and I was playing very little, if at all. I understood that I wasn't very good, but when we were losing by 25, and I didn't even get in at the end for a couple of minutes, it was very defeating. I came to practice every day (and then had to take the city bus to the other end of town and walk half a mile to my house) and worked as hard as anyone else.

The final straw came after a Friday night away game at Le Roy. There was a big crowd, including a lot of our fans (many of our students, including some teammates who came from Le Roy to our Catholic school), and as we entered the court, the Le Roy Band (we didn't have a band) broke into the Notre Dame Fight Song. Being a huge ND fan since I was little, this actually gave me goosebumps. 

Well, we were 1-9 at the time, and it didn't take long to see that we were going to be 1-10. In the last few minutes, we were down by 20, and there I sat on the bench, watching the seconds tick away. All the pre-game warm feelings had evaporated into a mixture of sadness and anger.

I can't remember if some words were exchanged with the coach in the locker room when we got back to Batavia, but it would have taken a lot of nerve from a shy kid like me to speak up. I guess I probably muttered, “I quit” and walked out the door.

Afterward, I fumed all that night and all day Saturday. I knew I had to do something to stand up for myself, though. 

The following day on Sunday, there was an away game at Cardinal Mindzenty in Dunkirk, which was 90 miles away. Our team manager, Wally Sorenson, had a car, and I found out he was going to drive there on his own. I asked if I could go with him, and my act of defiance was to sit in the crowd and let the coach see I was there. I didn't do anything overt or cause any problems. I just wanted him to be aware of me. He probably didn't care much, but I did. It was a sad end to a disappointing season and experience for me.

Getting On Track
As my senior year and high school days moved toward a close, I still had bad feelings about how basketball had ended. I wanted to do something sports-wise to finish up on a positive note. Baseball was not an option, but some of my friends and teammates from the cross-country team were also on the track and field squad, and they encouraged me to join them.

I had never been a good distance runner, but the coach, the previously mentioned Father Dave Scheider, gave me a chance at running the quarter mile event (now 400 meters) and also being one of the four runners on the mile (today 1500 meters) relay team. Once again, I wasn't outstanding in any way, but I did come in third a few times and helped the relay team be victorious in some meets. 

It was a good positive experience, and I felt like I contributed more than just being the team clown. 

One race I do remember was that I was actually in first place heading to the finish line, and about 5 yards from the finish line, my legs just totally gave out, and I ended up doing a face plant into the cinder (there were few synthetic rubber surfaces back then) track. I think I was able to get up and take third, but the first aid kit supplies of iodine and band-aids definitely got used on the bus on the way home.

My most memorable track experience did not even involve me directly. At the end of the year, All Catholic Meet at the University of Buffalo Stadium, my teammates and I cheered wildly in the stands as fellow senior Dan Martin surprised everyone (except perhaps himself) and won the prestigious mile race. Not only did he beat everyone from our small school division, he also triumphed over more well-known runners from the much larger Buffalo Catholic schools.

We celebrated with Dan all the way back to Batavia on the bus after that stunning upset.

Notre Dame Hall Of Mediocrity
After graduating in 1964, I moved on to St. John Fisher College in Rochester. At that time, like Notre Dame, it was a very small school. Even so, I had no illusions that I could make any of its teams and never bothered to try out. I played some intramural basketball, but that was it. Later in life, I resumed playing basketball with some fellow teachers and friends and am proud to say that I managed to play until age 66.

Of the thousands of students who have played sports at Notre Dame since 1951, I would definitely rank in the bottom ten percent. I guess in my favor would be that I participated on three separate teams and earned a varsity letter in each. I certainly have no regrets (except for my senior year of basketball) and do have pleasant memories of being a participant and teammate with some great guys like Mike Palloni, Jim Heatherman, Dan Martin, Don Andrews, Bill Rideout, Dick McEneny, Jim Fix, Paul Messina, Tom Howe, Pat O'Gorman, Bob Callahan, Joe Scanlon, John Francis and more. 

Overall, playing sports contributed to widening my experiences and bringing me out of my shell of shyness. Go Irish!

Even when I was a little kid I was interested in sports. As early as 5 or 6 years old I was keeping a scrapbook of players from Notre Dame University football. In a previous story, I detailed my dream of someday playing quarterback for the Fighting Irish, but that blew up very quickly, along with my football “career” the first week of freshman year at Notre Dame High School (The Extremely Brief Football Career of a Batavia Boy 12/29/2018).

The memory is a strange thing, but I distinctly recall watching the Cotton Bowl football game in 1954 when I was 7 years old. It stands out because in the game a player from Rice University was running for a touchdown when an opponent from Alabama who was sitting on the bench ran on the field and tackled him.

In October 1956, when I was 9, I remember watching the entire baseball game (in black and white, of course) when Don Larsen of the New York Yankees pitched a perfect game in the World Series against the Brooklyn Dodgers ( I was rooting for the Dodgers though).

In October 1957, my favorite baseball team, the Milwaukee Braves, won the World Series beating the Yankees in seven games. Weekday games back then were in the afternoon (men would go to the games wearing suits!), and unbelievably and forever endearingly, my mom let me stay home “sick” from school one day to watch. I got bragging rights over my friend Charlie who was a Yankees fan, and I now have a pretty impressive collection of '57 Braves memorabilia, including signed balls from the team's four Hall of Famers – Hank Aaron, Warren Spahn, Eddie Matthews, and Red Schoendienst.

In November 1957, I delighted in viewing Notre Dame University, which was a 19-point underdog, end Oklahoma's 47-game winning football streak by upsetting the Sooners 7-0.

I mention these sports events not to brag about my memory (somehow, my brain has blocked out my entire year of kindergarten at Washington School), but to illustrate how focused I could be on athletics at my very young age.

Neighborhood Games

As far as playing sports, that was limited to the neighborhood and parks with my friends. There were no Pop Warner or Vince Lombardi youth football leagues then. (Lombardi was not even a head coach until 1959.) I did have my own helmet, though ( A Batavia Boy's Favorite Childhood Possession Was His Red Football Helmet 10/7/2018).

Pretty much the only organized sport with leagues for young kids then was Little League Baseball. But, I was too shy and lacked the confidence to sign up and/or try out. My friends and I would sometimes play at the Little League field on State Street by MacArthur (now Dwyer) Stadium. But, we would play there on the weekday afternoons when no one was around. In the evenings and on weekends, the teams with the uniforms and coaches would take over.

I can't recall anyone in my neighborhoods (first Thomas and Ellicott Avenues, then North Spruce Street) having a basketball hoop in their driveway where we could play that sport. We had a gym at St. Mary's School, but I don't remember the school being in a CYO league or if they were, once again, I was too shy to join.

The first time I even played basketball was in 7th or 8th grade in St. Mary's School gym class. A classmate, Mike Woodward (whose family owned and still runs the Alabama Hotel Restaurant), encouraged me by saying, “ Reilly! You're the tallest kid in the class! You gotta play.” He even took me aside and showed me how to make a layup. But as I got toward high school, I had played very little.

Heading To High School

My freshman year at Notre Dame, I was too crushed by my football debacle to even think of trying any other sport. It was all I could handle just to try to get through algebra and Latin. Veni ,Vidi, Deficere.

As sophomore year became imminent, some of my friends decided to join the cross-country team. Even though I had never done any distance running, this choice seemed feasible to me because I could be with my buddies, everybody automatically made the team, and you wouldn't get your brains beat in.

I really don't remember anything about that season as far as meets, or team record goes. I did discover that I was only a fair runner and never finished in the top 5 to get points, but I enjoyed the exercise and camaraderie of being on a team.

Some of us had to learn the hard way, though, that cross-country running took dedication and commitment. When we first started, our practice route was to jog from the athletic field down Union Street to Oak and then go around the Veterans Hospital Grounds by way of Park Road to Richmond Avenue and back to school. Being high school kids and thinking we were smarter than the coach, some of us would cut through an Oak Street back yard, climb the hospital fence, wait in the woods a while to equal the time, and then cut through to Richmond and finish.

It only took the coach a few days to figure out that we were coming back not out of breath and hardly sweating, so something was amiss. After many extra laps around the field in his plain sight, we learned our lesson, as always - the hard way. Fortunately, the more devoted and capable members of the team had not gone along with our deception anyway.

Harrier History

I continued as a cross-country team member through my junior and senior years and earned a school letter in both years. Starting in 11th grade, we had a new coach, Pete Corbelli, whose day job was being a U. S. mail carrier, and what he delivered and put his stamp on the team was a mix of seriousness combined with fun. Our practices switched to the State (now Centennial) Park, which was about half a mile east on Richmond Avenue. This had three advantages: it was a good warm-up exercise to jog there and back to start and end practice, it had hilly terrain more similar to where our meets would take place, and we were mostly in view of the coach, so there would be no shenanigans.

Our local meets were run at Terry Hills Golf Course on Clinton Street Road. Most of our away races took place at Delaware Park in downtown Buffalo. Back then, Notre Dame, being part of the Diocese of Buffalo, participated mostly in leagues with teams located in Buffalo or to its west. Some of our opponents were St. Mary's of Lancaster, Our Lady of Victory, St. Francis of Athol Springs, Father Baker, Cardinal Mindszenty of Dunkirk, and Saint Mary's School for the Deaf in Buffalo.

We had a good team in my junior and senior years, with some of my classmates earning most of our meet points. Dan Martin, Mike Palloni and Jim Heatherman were the stalwarts, with Ron Hermance and Mike's younger brother John pitching in too. In junior year, our record was 5-3, and we finished fifth out of 13 schools in the All-Catholic meet. Senior year our team went 5-2 and ranked sixth among 18 in the year-ending championships. I say “our,” realizing that my contribution was more of being a good team member and providing laughs on the bus and at practice more than actually earning any points. Coach Pete's assessment of my running skills was, “Reilly, you run like a horse!” and he didn't mean a thoroughbred. More like a Clydesdale pulling a beer wagon.

(To Be Continued: in a future edition, I will detail my high school forays into basketball and track or “Getting Splinters and Eating Cinders.”)

Fifty or sixty years ago, in small cities like Batavia, barbershops were one of the hubs of the community. Every man and boy (unless their wife, mom or aunt was a hairdresser) generally went to the barber at least once a month and sometimes more often. But the barbershop was more than a business. It was a gathering place for the males of the community, just as the hairdresser was for the females.

The barber was often, in addition to a haircutter, a person to tell your troubles to if you'd rather not use a bartender. Men gathered in the shop would talk politics, (especially the local kind), sports, or fishing and hunting. Today you will be more likely to witness that in a diner or coffee shop where groups of usually older retired gentlemen will sit around a table with their cup of joe complaining about “ how the world has gone to hell in a handbasket.” In his later years, my dad and his cronies called it the “ coffee klatch,” and their main forum was Sport Of Kings Restaurant.

If you were a kid in the 1950s, there were really only 2 choices of haircut you could have – the regular trimmed on the sides and combed neatly on the top kind or a crew cut (today called a buzz cut). There were no mohawks, mullets, or, god forbid, long hair. I had both at various times, and each required a different kind of care.

For the regular cut, you'd add some Brylcream ( “A Little Dab'll Do Ya”) to keep your hair in place. Many crewcuts like mine would leave some raised hair in the very front. That's where “Butch Wax” was utilized. You would add the gooey wax to the front and then comb it upward. In the winter, if you walked to school, the wax might freeze, so you looked like you had brown, red, or blonde chia grass on the front of your head. Then when it melted, it smelled like bubble gum as it oozed down your forehead.

When you got to be a teenager, a third possibility became available, but only if you wanted to be considered a “hood” or “greaser” or Elvis wannabe. This was the ducktail or D.A. (duck's “rear end”). The type of guy who had this hairdo might be seen with a leather jacket, white T-shirt with a rolled-up sleeve bulging a pack of Lucky Strike smokes and, if he was way cool, driving a '57 Chevy.

We Reilly kids went to Mr. (Warren) Parker to get our haircuts. He was located upstairs at 114 Main St. near The Dagwood Restaurant. There were closer barbers to where we lived, but I think we went there because our dad did. I remember that when we were little, he had a booster seat to put in his chair to raise us up high enough (I'd guess all barbers had something similar). As we got a little older, the main attraction was his supply of comic books. I recall that he kept them in a drawer, and you had to ask for them -- probably to prevent their disappearance.

I was never a fan of the Action Comics “superhero” genre. I was more of a Donald Duck/Scrooge McDuck, Popeye, Bugs Bunny kind of kid. Since this was recently post-World War II, my favorites were “ army” comics, of which I had a huge collection at home. Like some other things I “lost” over the years, I wish I would have kept them as they would be worth some decent money today.

I'm pretty sure Mr. Parker, like most barbers back then, had another drawer for certain of their men customers, which contained “Playboy” and other risque adult magazines of that type. That collection was off-limits to kids, though.

As proof of the importance of the local barbershops of that time, Batavia in 1960 had a population of about 18,000 people. At any given time there were probably about 20 to 25 shops in town. Some operated solo, while others had 2 or 3 chairs, “no waiting,” they advertised.

Haircut prices at that time were usually in the $1.50 to $2.00 range, with an extra charge for a shave. My brother tells a story that when he was about 10, he sneaked into a barber who was cheaper because he wanted the extra money for something. But the barber buzzed him with a crew cut that my mom didn't want him to get. So, he got in trouble besides being scalped.

My barber Warren Parker's brother John (called “Shorty”) had a shop on West Main Street near the corner of North Lyon next to Ann's Paints.

Ben Meleca was hired as a chemistry teacher at Notre Dame High. He was my teacher the second time I took the subject (I was more of a language/history student than math and science. I actually had to take geometry three times! Good thing I taught elementary school my whole career). Ben went on to become a professor at Ohio State University.

Carl Meleca

Another popular barber, Ray Fisher or “Stub,” was on East Main by Pontillo's Pizza. He was an avid fly fisher and used to tie his own flies right in the shop between customers.

Also on East Main was Tom Varco, who in addition to cutting hair, apparently had quite a repertoire of off-color jokes for the men.

On the North side of Main Street, up above Thomas and Dwyer Shoes, was Tony Mancuso. He also had a shop by the bus station.`

Bill Cecere was another north side of Main Street guy. Kids loved going to him because he'd give out a pack of Juicy Fruit gum with every haircut. He also stocked Mad magazines for your reading enjoyment.

Over on Oak Street was Charlie Puccio and Louie Fanara was on Ellicott Street by the Pok-A-Dot Restaurant (still there today) and across from Ange's Italian Restaurant.

Jack Burling was on State Street and later on East Main by The Miss Batavia Diner (also still there). Reportedly he was cutting hair into his 90s.

Joe Deni was on Ross Street by the Richmond Library. Kids would go get books and then get their hair cut or vice versa.

Chuck Wood had a shop on the corner of Bank Street and Washington Avenue above a TV repair store (those don't exist anymore). Dads could drop off the television for some new tubes and then get a haircut.

So, if the barbershops were so useful, popular, and necessary, why are there so few remaining, not just in Batavia but everywhere? Well, you could blame it on The Beatles, for one. In the early 1960s, when The Fab Four took the world by storm with their longish Beatle Cut hairdos, many boys (to the dismay of their parents) jumped on the long hair bandwagon. Then when the “Hippie” culture spread out from San Francisco, and long hair became synonymous with the Vietnam War protests, it was the beginning of a decline for the barbers.

As we progressed into the 1970s and the rise of “Disco,” it was no longer considered a stigma for men and boys to get their hair cut by a “stylist,” particularly female ones.

Today rather than the old-fashioned barbershops, there are “Hair Zoos,” “Super Cuts,” “Sport Clips,” “Fantastic Sams,” and many other similar franchises literally on every corner or in every mall where men or women can get their hair needs taken care of.

There are still a few barbers in Batavia, such as Canzoneri's and Royals on Ellicott Street and My Cut on East Main. All are throwbacks to days gone by. They will not disappear like Photomat, Blockbuster, or Borders Books because men will always need their hair cut. But, it doesn't seem that in today's fast-paced world where people are always in a rush that, the barbershop will ever regain its place as a de facto clubhouse for the men and boys of the town. That might be the unkindest cut of all to barbers.

Author's note: Thank you to all who responded to my inquiry on Memories Of Batavia and provided me with recollections of Batavia barbers which made some of this story possible. I apologize for some that I omitted.

Photos provided by David Reilly. Top photo: Louis Fanara cutting hair in his shop by The Pok-A-Dot.

Throughout my life music has been both a source of joy and a cause for regret. On thr positive side, I listen to or watch music every single day. It is one of the things I absolutely have to have in my life and I find it hard to imagine being without it. Going to see and hear live music is something I do all of the time, and I really missed it through the two years of the pandemic.

However, I constantly regret not ever learning to play an instrument and reading music. Like a lot of other things I didn’t do in my life, it was a result of shyness and insecurity mixed in with the lack of available resources. In elementary school (St. Mary’s) and high school (Notre Dame) we had no instrumental music instruction at all.

My brother Dan was a member of St. Joseph’s Drum Corps, and I was too shy to join. As an example of my reticence, when I was 9 or 10 my mother signed me up for swimming lessons at Godfrey’s Pond. When the time came to go, I hid in the closet, and she had to threaten to call the priest to get me out of there. Of course, once she got me there, I was fine and loved swimming.

When I think about being a little kid, I really don’t recall much about music then. I was more interested in sports: I can remember a football game I watched on TV in 1954 when I was 7. My parents, like everyone from the World War II era, loved Big Band music, so I probably heard some of that on the radio. My Aunts Kate and Peg wouldn’t miss “The Lawrence Welk Show” every Saturday night, but a kid wouldn’t admit to their friends that they watched that. Every weekday morning my mom had on the “Clint Buehlman Show” (“yours truly Buehly”) on WBEN Buffalo while we ate breakfast and got ready for school. But he was an avowed rock and roll hater and wouldn’t play any of that “noise.”

Vinyl Countdown

Eventually, I did start listening to some of the DJs, and I distinctly remember the first two records I ever bought. The first was “Singing The Blues” by Guy Mitchell in 1956, and then “Come Go With Me” by the Dell Vikings in 1957. I think they might have been 78 RPM records, but I’m not positive. The former was kind of country-ish and the latter was “Doo-Wop,” so I think my mom didn’t complain too much when I played them on our very basic record player.

A Christmas present which really made a big impression in my music life was a little red transistor radio with an earphone I got when I was 12 or 13. Up until then I had to share the family radio with my parents. The transistor meant I could listen to whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. And I could plug the earphone in and only I could hear what was being played.

At that time in the early '60s, WKBW 1520 on the AM dial from Buffalo was getting a reputation as a powerhouse of rock and roll broadcasting. DJs Tommy Shannon, Joey Reynolds, and Danny Neaverth were all “spinning the hits” for a wide audience, which definitely included me.

Tommy Shannon was one of the early cool DJ's who drove a Corvette and reputedly dated Ann Margaret. He wrote his own theme song which I'd bet many people could still sing today: “Top tunes ... news and weather. So glad we could ... get together. On the ... Tom Shannon show.” The group Rockin' Rebels did an instrumental version that became a top 10 hit in 1961.

Joey Reynolds (real name Joey Pinto), in between playing songs, was an early predecessor to “shock jocks” like Howard Stern. He would break records he didn't like, argue with callers, and just generally adopted an over-the-top persona. When he eventually got fired, he nailed his shoes to the station manager's door with a note that said, “Fill these!”

Danny Neaverth was a home town Buffalo boy who was on WKBW for 25 years. He made appearances at local schools including one time at a Notre Dame dance that I attended. At one point he asked for a volunteer to come up on stage, and I was too shy, but my “friends “ volunteered me by carrying me to the stage and dumping me up there. I don't recall what I had to do, but I'm sure my blushing face was as scarlet as a fire truck. Neaverth was also the public address announcer for the Buffalo Bills football and Braves basketball teams.

Regardless of their radio personalities, it was mostly these three DJ's who introduced me to Dion and The Belmonts, the Shirelles, the Beach Boys, and eventually to the English explosion of the Beatles, Dave Clark 5 and the Rolling Stones.

(L to R) Joey Reynolds, Tommy Shannon, and Danny Neaverth of WKBW 1520

Television Tunes

As far as seeing bands, the best place to do that was on “The Ed Sullivan Show” on TV. Of course, there was the infamous Elvis Presley swivel-hipped debut in 1956. Buddy Holly, The Four Seasons, and The Beach Boys all had appearances leading up to the debut of the Beatles in February 1964. I had just turned 17 and was in my senior year at Notre Dame, and I was watching with millions of others. My biggest memory of the show was an audience of screaming teenage girls who seemed to be having, in the words of “The Count Five” song a couple years later, “a psychotic reaction.” (As a side note, that crowd craziness was what caused the Beatles to give up playing live.)

There was also “American Bandstand” with Dick Clark. I think more girls watched that for the dancing. Plus, the songs were lip synced, not live. A funny part to me was when they'd choose a boy and a girl from the audience to rate a record. Practically every time one would say, “Dick, I'll give it a 10 because it's got a good beat to dance to.”

Then, in college years, there were two shows called “Shindig” and “Hullabaloo.” They had on all the famous bands (plus go-go dancers). Back then in college, no one had a TV in their dorm room; there was one in the lounge, but hardly anyone ever watched it except for when those shows came on. Then the room was packed.

Going Live

As far as actually seeing live music in person, we were pretty much limited to local teenage bands like Batavia High's Cryin' Strings in the basement of St. Mary's Church, or at school dances, due to not being old enough to drive. I have a friend I met in college who went to Toronto in 1964 and 1965 when she was in high school to see the Beatles, but that was way out of my league. She probably still suffers vocal chord problems from it.

In June 1964, though, a rock and roll show actually came to Batavia at the Mancuso Theater, and I wasn't going to miss that. I don't remember who I went with, but I'm hoping it was a girl. I did have a sort of girlfriend my senior year, but since I didn't have a driver's license or a car, I was lucky she tolerated me.

The headliners were The Searchers from England. Part of the “British Invasion,” they had a couple of hits with “Needles and Pins” and “Love Potion #9.” I remember thinking at the time, “Wow. A real English band in Batavia.” In doing some research for this story I heard from a woman (a young teenage girl then, of course) who said that she and some of her friends talked their way onto the tour bus and she kissed the drummer. There's a memory to last a lifetime! I bet she wishes “selfies” was a thing then.

Other bands on the bill were Ronnie Dio and The Prophets. I don't remember them, but years later he became the guitarist for Black Sabbath, The Dovells (a choreographed dancing boy band who had a hit with “Bristol Stomp”), and Dick and Dee Dee who sang “River Deep, Mountain High.” I was surprised to find out Dick had the high falsetto voice. There were two shows and five bands, so some of the groups must have done only two or three songs. It was emceed by Danny Neaverth, who seemed to be everywhere back then. I wouldn't put it anywhere in the top shows I've seen, but it's memorable for being the first.

The event that really turned things around for my music experience was going to college. In September 1964, I was off to St. John Fisher College (now University) in Rochester. Between the guys in the dorm and the girls at Nazareth just down the road, I became exposed to a lot of different tastes and genres. Eventually, between the two schools and being in Rochester, I got to see a lot of bands and groups. Nazareth had an especially nice theater which hosted some great shows.

When I came back home for the summer, Batavia really didn't have any national touring band venues, but about 15 miles north on Route 98 in Albion there was the Oak Orchard Lanes. For most of the week it was a bowling alley, and on weekends they covered the lanes with plywood and set up a stage and sound system. I didn't have a car yet, so I had to ride with friends who drove way too fast. Closing my eyes and gritting my teeth all the way there and back, I always thought it was worth it to see good bands.

Some of the groups I remember seeing there were The Association (“Cherish” and “Windy”), Shadows Of The Knight (“Gloria”), Los Bravos (“Black Is Black”) and the Swinging Medallions (there's a '60s name for you) which had a hit with “Double Shot Of My Baby's Love.”

There was a band from Toronto called The Mandala and dressed in gangster-styled suits and used strobe lights which I had never seen before. They had a minor U.S. hit with “ Love–itis.” All in all, no really long-lasting famous bands, but it was something to do and some pretty decent music. When I was researching this part of my story, a lady named Gail who used to frequent “The Lanes” back then had been there recently and took some photos that she shared.

Photo courtesy of Gail Williams

Burn Baby Burn

Another summer college destination was The Inferno, a big venue in Williamsville east of Buffalo. The main draw for going there was the weekly appearance of Wilmer Alexander and the Dukes. Wilmer was a black R&B singer from Geneva, fronting an all-white band. Immensely popular in the Western NY area, The Dukes drew sellout audiences wherever they played, with their signature crowd pleaser being a cover of The Four Tops’ “Reach Out.”

I also recall seeing Junior Walker and the All Stars there doing “Shotgun” and “Road Runner.” The night I saw the Paul Butterfield Blues Band, I was standing in the back watching an opening act, and glanced to my side and Butterfield was standing next to me in all of his black-leather-jacketed glory. What did I say to him? Well, it was me, so I just stood there pretending I didn't see him until he walked away. Again, an iPhone 13 would have come in handy.

Ironically, I was kind of a soul music/R&B fan at that point in the summer of 1967, and it was at that venue where soul was king that I had an experience that changed my whole musical taste. In addition to the main room at the Inferno, there was a another glass-enclosed smaller room which featured a second act. One night I didn't care for who was playing in the big room and decided to check out a band called Salvation Navy. I don't know who they were or where they were from, but the music they were playing blew me away.

That May the Beatles had released “Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.” I was somewhat of a Beatles fan (who wasn't?), but hadn't seriously listened to that album yet. Well, the Salvation Navy, whoever they were, played that album note for note and chord for chord, and I don't see how the Beatles could have played it live any better themselves. I was entranced, and from then on my head went in a whole different direction in my musical taste.

Unfortunately in September 1968, The Inferno lived up to its name and burned to the ground, ending its several year reign as a go-to music venue.

A local Batavia spot I should mention — although most went there for the girls and drinking rather than the music — was Columbo's Clinton Lounge on Clinton Street Road. It was definitely misnamed, because you wouldn't go there to actually “lounge” or even drink out of a glass. But on Saturday nights, they regularly had a band from Rochester called King Arthur And The Knights. My clearest memory of them is the cover they did of The Four Seasons' “Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You,” which was great for some serious slow dancing with a certain girl.

In my final couple of years of college, and with getting a car, I really began to see a lot of big time bands, both in Rochester and elsewhere. After graduation I kept up my love of going to live music all through the '70s until the '80s when I had children. There were few shows in the next 20 years, but most of my time was taken up with child- centered activities, particularly softball.

When the kids got old enough to “fly from the nest,” and especially when I retired from a 33-year teaching career, I resumed going to concerts in earnest. I certainly don't pay $3-$5 for a ticket any more, like in the old days, but it's worth it to me to be entertained. It's also different than attending sporting events, because you don't leave sad if your team loses.

In recent years I have also become a poster and ticket collector of concerts that I have attended, and my apartment looks like a mini rock and roll hall of fame. It's fun to look back all those years ago and remember how my love of music started and developed, and grew into something that gives me so much happiness today.

I just keep asking myself one question though: why couldn't my mother have broken out the priest threat to get me to take music lessons instead of swimming?

Everyone who attended college, especially those who went away to school, has at least a couple of good stories. You know, stories that you told your parents years later prefaced with, “It's a good thing you didn't know this back then but...”. Or stories that you told your kids once they were grown to prove that you were cooler or crazier than they thought you were.

One of my stories(I don't have that many) involves a weekend my senior year at St. John Fisher College in Rochester when I met some famous musicians. Unfortunately for me , even though in retrospect they were funny, my interactions proved that I was definitely not cool.

My friendship enabled me to score front row tickets to each of the 2 nights, but I was not involved in any of the production. It was such a great event though that 50 years later 3 of us who were there in 1968 went back to Nazareth on the anniversary to reminisce.

The following autumn the same friends had another big show at Nazareth planned and this time I wanted to be a part of putting it on. I was assigned to “Publicity”. This boiled down to me going around the downtown Rochester area and asking bar owners to put a poster in their windows. Not exactly exciting but a job that had to be done.

Grunt work I guess you'd call it.

As a reward for doing that and probably because I was one of the only ones with a car, my next task was to pick up 2 of the musicians at the airport for the first night's show.

All That Jazz
The group that night was a well-known jazz ensemble -- The Charles Lloyd Quartet. It consisted of leader Charles Lloyd on saxophone, Jack DeJohnette on drums, Ron McClure on bass, and Keith Jarrett on piano.

I knew little or nothing about jazz music then, but over the years I learned that these were some of the biggest names in that genre. Fortunately, now in their 70s and 80s, they are all still playing.

So, on Friday afternoon off to the Monroe County Airport, I went in my cranberry 1961 Chevy Biscayne to transport Ron and Keith to Nazareth for the soundcheck. I felt a little nervous, but not really having any idea of their stature in the jazz world, not too much.

I don't know if they were expecting a limo or some better kind of vehicle, but if so they were kind enough not to say so. We put McClure's upright bass in my trunk and off we went.

Apparently, I was more nervous than I had thought though. On the way there it had been raining. But , as I drove the two musicians the sun had come out. I was trying to make conversation when one of them said, “Hey could you turn off your windshield wipers? It's kind of annoying.” I hadn't even noticed they were on and hoped they didn't notice how beet red my face had turned.

Everybody Hasn't Heard About The Bird
Then at some point during the trip, I don't recall how it came up, but I mentioned the phrase, “...gave him the bird”, the colloquialism for the 1 finger salute given to people you are mad at. Except, neither Keith nor Ron had ever heard it called that. They said, "Gave him the what?” I could almost feel them exchanging odd glances at each other behind my back. But, at least it made for an interesting discussion the rest of the way. Hey, maybe I taught them something.

The concert that night was stellar and I felt good about broadening my horizons to a kind of music with which I had not been familiar . My date was a young lady from Batavia (who I have not seen for 50 years) and I probably tried to impress her by pointing out the two musicians on stage who had been in my car that afternoon. I left out the windshield wiper incident though.

If He Walks Like A Duck
The next night's headliner was the “Father of Rock and Roll” Mr. Chuck Berry. I would have been ecstatic to drive him from the airport, but Chuck had a very unique way of going on the road to perform.

The promoter would pay for his plane ticket and Berry would fly into town by himself bringing only his guitar. He would rent a car at the promoter's expense and drive himself to his hotel and the venue. No tour bus or big production with a trailer and “roadies” for him.

According to his contract, the promoter would be responsible for hiring a capable local band with bass, drummer, and rhythm guitarist to back him up. Chuck would show up for a soundcheck and rehearsal before the show and that was it.

I was fortunate to be able to attend the warm-up at Nazareth that afternoon and it was an experience to see Berry put the band through its paces. It was fairly easy actually. He would say, “ Key of G, 1,2,3 and away we go...”. But he had specific cues to guide them like when he stomped his foot they would pause and when he stomped it again they'd start back up. He had them go through some of his basic songs like Johnny B. Goode or Reelin' And A Rockin', corrected them on a few things, seemed satisfied, and let them go with, “See ya tonight”.

They must have been a very capable band because Berry was known to be somewhat difficult with his backups at times, including some famous musicians. There is a 1988 documentary about him titled “Hail! Hail! Rock And Roll!” which shows how hard he could be to work with specifically with Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones.

Before that night's show, a friend and I inhaled a substance that was illegal back then but mostly legal now. It was the first time for me (it never became that big of a deal for me going forward) and let's just say that we were in a “jovial state of mind” for the festivities.

Chuck put on a very entertaining show going through many of his hits and showing why just about every rock guitarist who came after him borrowed his licks and paid him homage by their imitation. He did his patented duck walk move a number of times and had the crowd right in the palm of his talented hand.

Nuns Night Out
Being in a “jovial state of mind” really added to one song that Berry did. He did a humorous double entendre tune called “My Ding A Ling” ( Google the lyrics) which involves an audience sing-along with different parts for the men and ladies.

As this concert was held at the Catholic Nazareth College, a number of the nuns who lived on campus must have decided to have a night out for themselves and attend. There were a bunch of them all sitting together in one row and good sports all they sang along with everyone else.

Well, it was funny enough to see a row of nuns singing, “ I wanna play with my ding a ling'', but our “jovial state of mind” put us over the edge into side-splitting laughter.

After the concert, there was the usual “after show” party. Ours wasn't held in a ritzy club though. It took place in the apartment of some of the students who had worked on the show. It was located above a bar on Monroe Avenue in Rochester known as the Cobbs Hill Grill. Today it's still operating as Jeremiah's, known for their chicken wings which weren't even invented back then.

Party Like It's Almost 1969
So, college student apartment 1968 style: probably minimum furniture of the used variety. A bookshelf made from concrete blocks and boards may be holding Kurt Vonnegut novels, Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet, a book of Lawrence Ferlinghetti poetry, and so on. Hanging beads separate one room from another. Possibly a big wooden spool from a utility company that had once held wire now used a table. On the table would be a Chianti bottle used as a candle holder coated with melted wax and a couple of overflowing ashtrays. A stereo system with good-sized speakers and some Bob Dylan vinyl spinning on the turntable.

People came in from the show in twos and threes. Chatting, smoking one thing or another, drinking beer or wine, talking loudly over the music. Someone said they heard Chuck was coming to the party. “Nah. Chuck Berry here? No way man.”

A group of us were hanging out in the kitchen when there was a knock at the door. Someone yelled out, “It's open!” and in walked Chuck Berry. Our mouths dropped open because 1. it was Chuck Berry and 2. he was accompanied by a Nazareth girl who I bet has a way better story to tell than me.

We were all trying very hard to be cool and nonchalant in Chuck's presence. You know like the guy who pretty much-invented the rock and roll guitar wasn't standing right there.

It's Not The Real Thing
Then out of the blue came one of the greatest uncool moments of all time. Chuck asked, “Hey man, anybody got any coke?”

One of the girls replied, “ There might be some in the refrigerator.” And I in my infinite naivete chimed in, “ Or if not , I'm sure they have some downstairs at the bar.”

Chuck looked at us with a look like, as my mom used to say, we all had 3 heads. “Man”, he scoffed. “ You ain't even in the right ballpark.”

“Oh!”, we all realized together. “That coke!” You could almost see us facepalming ourselves in unison. SMH as we would have commented today by texting.

I don't remember exactly, but I don't think Chuck stayed at our party much longer. All these years later I wish I could find that Nazareth girl( now in her 70's if living) and find out where the rest of the night led them.

Now, since “that coke” wasn't really a big well-known deal until the 70's I guess we could be forgiven for our cluelessness. Also, since I had just finished the third of my 4 summers working for Coca-Cola in Batavia, one could see why the kind that came in a bottle would be fixed in my brain. But still... it was embarrassing.

But, on the positive side, it was in reality a good thing we didn't have what Chuck wanted. And over the years I have told that story many times and never failed to get a laugh out of those who heard it.

Chuck passed away a couple of years ago at the age of 90, but he is still one of my favorites and I listen to his songs all the time. When I hear the lyrics to “Reelin' and a Rockin' that says, “Looked at my watch, it was 10:28, I gotta get my kicks before it gets too late”, that night in 1968 flashes in my mind.

Unless you are over 103 years old and remember the Spanish Flu worldwide outbreak of 1918, then the COVID virus is your first (and hopefully last) pandemic. Enduring all of the shortages, masking, social distancing, quarantining, and isolation for the past year and a half has caused me to think back to when I was a kid growing up in Batavia in the 1950s and 1960s.

What kind of health care did I receive? Who were my providers? What kind of medical problems did I experience? Did we have fears back then like there are now with COVID?

Doctor In The House
My first memory of a doctor is when I had appendicitis at age 5. We lived at 26 Thomas Avenue and our family physician , Doctor Mansueto, lived across the street at number 23. He regularly made house calls after office hours and my mother summoned him to see me.

I had a fever, was vomiting, and had severe lower right side belly pain – the class signs of an infected appendix. But when Dr. Mansueto began examining my abdomen I started giggling like he was tickling me. My mom was exasperated by my reaction until he touched the right spot and I let out a screech so loud that the customers at Olivers Candies probably heard me. It was off to St. Jerome's Hospital for me.

This was in 1952 and a year earlier a major renovation of St. Jerome's had been completed so they were all ready for me. I recall that the anesthesia that was used for my surgery was ether which causes a lot of nausea upon awakening. In between throwing up, all they would give me was ice chips to moisten my mouth. After several days' stay, I got to go home minus my appendix and plus the first of many scars.

Dr. Biagio Mansueto had gotten his degree from the University of Bologna in Italy and then served in the U.S. Army Medical Corps in Europe during WWII. In 1946 he began his medical practice as a family physician in Batavia with an office upstairs at 73 Main Street above what was Critic's Restaurant. He had a 35-year career and helped deliver over 2,000 babies before retiring to California in 1980. He passed away in 1995.

We had many occasions in our family to call on the services of Dr. Mansueto over the years. When I was about 7 or 8, I had a bad case of strep throat and he had me hospitalized for several days at St. Jerome's. Back then your own family doctor would visit the hospital and oversee your care. The only thing I can remember is that I was given some Hydrogen Peroxide to gargle with and for some reason the nurse left me alone to do that. I spilled it in my bed and lay uncomfortably in the wet sheets until someone discovered it.

A Bad Dime Was Had By Me
A more humorous incident that ended up at the doctor's house began in St. Mary's Church. While attending Sunday Mass my mother gave me a dime (talk about inflation) to put in the collection basket. Me being a goofy little boy, the dime ended up stuck in my nostril. After a couple of embarrassing minutes trying to extricate it (resulting in a lot of runny snot), mom dragged me (probably literally) out of there.

She got me in the car and proceeded to Mansueto's across the street from our house. Fortunately, the doctor was home and calmly removed the stuck coin with tweezers. He told my mother and me that he would be required to keep the coin as payment. This became a funny family tale in subsequent years, but I got my ears blistered (as my mom used to say) that day.

College Interruptus
Probably my last interaction with Doctor Mansueto was after my sophomore year of college in 1966. The whole school year I had been feeling off health-wise and had been losing weight. While working a summer job at Coca- Cola on East Main St. I developed a nagging cough. Eventually, the doctor suspected pneumonia and had me admitted to St. Jerome's for tests and observation.

I have 2 memories of that stay. First, one night the dinner that was served was a not very fresh plate of fruit. Nutrition-wise I guess that was okay ( if it didn't look like it had been left out for a couple of days), but not exactly what a 19-year-old would want. I think I had my mom go to Kustas Kandies on Main Street and get me a big cheeseburger.

Secondly, I know people seem older when you are that young, but there was one nurse who looked about 80. She was walking so slowly entering and leaving the room, with tongue only partially in cheek I asked the young man who was my roommate if he thought we should get out of bed and assist her.

As it turned out. I ended up at a specialist in Rochester and had to withdraw from St. John Fisher College to have surgery for a benign (thankfully ) tumor in my lung. That was definitely not a fun experience but did result in my spending an extra year getting a degree and delaying immersion into the real world of adulthood.

Take Your Best Shot

But by far the things that scared us the most were the newspaper and magazine photos of kids in “Iron Lungs”. These were the precursors to ventilators and consisted of a large metal tank which the patient was placed into with only their head sticking out. The apparatus helped you to breathe easier and helped the lungs and diaphragm to regain their strength.

Most people only needed the iron lungs for several weeks, but somehow we kids got the impression that if you got polio you'd have to spend your whole life in there.

So, needless to say, when we and our parents learned of Doctor Jonas Salk's vaccine discovery that would keep us from those horrible contraptions we counted the days until we could get our shots. Sound familiar in 2021?

It was in the spring of 1955 when the vaccinations finally came. I was in the fourth grade at St. Mary's School and it was announced that doctors would be going to the schools and be assisted by nurses in doing the inoculations. Dr. Samuel Gerace came to our school and I recall him being very friendly and soft-spoken to make the nervous kids more at ease.

I don't remember which kid it was, but one of the boys was boasting about how easy it was going to be and no one should be a “scaredy-cat”. As he waited in line for his turn, he saw the needle go into a child's arm and fainted, going down like an electric pole in a hurricane. For the rest of the year, he was the one that got needled.

Later on in the 1960s, my younger brother was protected against polio by an oral vaccine developed by Doctor Albert Sabin. Instead of a shot, the medication was placed on a sugar cube and you just had to pop it in your mouth. No more fainting.

You Know The Drill
I would be remiss if I didn't mention my experiences with dental care. Our dentist was Doctor Lawrence Mulcahy whose office was in a big white building on the northeast corner of East Main and Ross Streets. I'm sure that he was a very capable dentist, but I would have rather eaten bugs than endure a session with him. I used to stress for days before my appointment.

I don't recall Doctor Mulcahy giving an injection (what most people call Novacaine but used to be Procaine and is now Lidocaine) to numb my mouth for fillings. Rather, he administered Nitrous Oxide, also known as laughing gas.

This is a chemical that apparently people have fun with at Grateful Dead concerts, but I can assure you that I wasn't doing any laughing in the dental chair. It made me feel a little lightheaded but did practically nothing for the pain. I'm pretty sure I yelled out in agony on several occasions.

I was so traumatized by my dental visits that I did not go to the dentist for many years. Eventually, when I finally did go, I had so many cavities that I had to have them taken care of in stages. Dental care was not as bad in the 1950s as in the Old West days when the barber doubled as the dentist. But, I'm sure happy that my appointments for dental care today are painless and anxiety-free.

A lot of folks who get on board the nostalgia train seem to think that everything was better back then. Admittedly, you were more likely to have a personal relationship with your family physician, especially in a small town and particularly when they sometimes came right to your home. But, advances in scientific discoveries ( for those of us who trust them) and medical technology have enabled us to have a longer and healthier life today.

My friends and what they thought and did became all-consuming it seemed.

When I was 10 and going into the fifth grade, we moved from the Thomas/Ellicott Avenue area across town to North Spruce Street. After some begging and whining (and maybe some fake crying) my parents agreed to let me continue at St. Mary's School on Woodrow Road, even though it would involve solving some transportation issues.

Most of my friends still lived on the west side of town and at first, I didn't see as much of them except during school.

The exception was Charlie, my partner in shenanigans, whose parents built a big house on East Avenue. Their basement was so big at one time they considered putting a bowling alley down there. They also installed a fountain in their front yard, which featured spraying water that changed colors. Older teens used to park in front and make out until the police shooed them away.

So, Charlie was right down the street and then as we got more toward 12 or 13 years old my friends' and my parents allowed us further range on our bikes and the gang was back together again.

A huge kid advantage to living on North Spruce was having lots more outdoor room to play and horse around. At that time, we were the last house on the northeast side of the street. North Street ended at our corner. All around us were woods, which today is the Narramore and Allanview Drive area.

Charlie vs. Dave

We had a big back yard and Charlie and I would spend hours out there playing whiffle ball. He was the New York Yankees and I was the Milwaukee Braves. We'd designate certain areas for singles, doubles, triples and home runs and we'd play entire nine-inning games, even to the point of writing down lineups and batting orders.

We had some epic games and even a couple fights because Charlie was not a good loser.

The Braves moved to Atlanta in the '60s and I've not had a favorite baseball team since.

A number of years ago I started collecting 1957 Milwaukee Braves memorabilia and I now possess all the Topps baseball cards from that team as well as signed baseballs from the four Hall of Famers who played for them that year: Warren Spahn, Hank Aaron, Eddie Mathews, and Red Schoendienst.

Into the Woods

Our house became a popular gathering spot with my friends because what kid doesn't want a woods to mess around in? Especially in the summer, we'd spend a lot of time out there. We'd play chase and someone had built an awesome tree house and we'd actually have “wars” where we threw rocks at each other. My friend Ray got clonked in the head one time and as my mother bandaged him up her comment was, “You guys already have rocks in your head.”

Fort Reilly

Right on the edge of the woods and our property we built a “fort."

Constructed of an old piece of plywood, some 2x4s, and a bunch of old sheets and bedspreads, it was place to hang out and sneak cigarettes.

Most of our parents smoked like chimneys, but it was "Do as I say, not as I do.”

We used to play poker for smokes, but most of the time the cigs we gambled with were ones we pilfered from our parents.

As we got a little older our parents agreed to let us occasionally “sleep out” in the fort. Of course, very little sleeping took place.

A really bad incident that happened out there involved my younger brother Dan. I had already gone into the house (again) and was sound asleep.

Apparently, when the other guys woke up, they decided to start a fire in a pit we had dug. They couldn't get it going so little brother went in the garage to get some gas.

You can predict what happened next: the gas caught fire as he poured it and in trying to jump away, it spread to his face.

I woke up to screaming. I ran to the kitchen along with my parents and there was Dan with his head in the sink splashing cold water on his face.

My father, dressed in his nighttime attire of tank top undershirt and boxers, tried to go get dressed, but my mother literally pushed him out the door to go to the hospital. He was lucky to get his pants on.

Fortunately, although he was in pain for a few weeks and had some nasty looking scabs, Dan recovered fully with little or no scarring.

Our fort was decommissioned by General Mom Reilly and we had to find somewhere else to hide out.

Tanks for the Memories

One of the things we used to do on our overnight “fort” escapades was go wander around the streets.

We weren't really doing anything bad like vandalism, but rather just looking for some excitement. For example, if we saw car headlights coming at 1 in the morning, more than likely it was a police car on patrol. So, we'd dive into the bushes like we had escaped from prison. If it turned out not to be the cops, we were disappointed because it just wasn't as thrilling.

At some point on one of these ventures we ended up on State Street by the National Guard Armory. Sitting there next to the building was a genuine military tank. It was not a World War II leftover like you would see in front of a V.F.W. or American Legion. I'm pretty sure it was a real working tank that they must have used for training purposes.

The unbelievable thing was that they left the tank unsecured.

We would climb up, open the hatch and go inside. We would look through the slit visors and I seem to recall a periscope we would play with. Hopefully, the guns weren't loaded or operational because I don't even want to think how that could have ended.

Today, there is a fence around the Armory and most likely lots of security cameras to identify any surreptitious anarchist types who might be up to no good. Not to mention goofy teenagers.

What put an end to these early teen hijinks? Three things: summer jobs, getting driving permits, and interest in girls. You can't really leave work at the hot dog stand at 2 a.m. and head over to climb around on an Army tank.

But teenage mistakes kept getting made.

On my very first real date with a girl I took her to see Alfred Hitchcock's “The Birds,” one of the scariest movies ever. I think it was a coincidence, but soon after that she moved out of state.

I guess it's a good thing to grow up and mature (although some never do). But those teen years certainly provided me with some good stories to tell when I got old.