<html> <head><title>Stories about John Piper, YMCA Camp, Manchester College, Danville, Indiana, IN</title> <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=unicode"> <!-- Date Created: 08-14-02 Date Last Modified: 12-16-08 This page name: stories.htm Website location: http://larryp56.tripod.com/JRP/stories.htm Written by: Larry L. Piper, 989.835.8573, larryp56@REMOVEchartermi.com --> <meta name="resource-type" content="document"> <meta name="description" content="Stories about John Piper's Life, both humorous and poignant"> <meta name="keywords" content="John Piper stories humorous $5 bet Danville cat punting father Purdue tennis Larry life father-son paddleball web site family"> <meta name="distribution" content="Global"> <meta name="copyright" content="Copyright @2002, All rights reserved.l"> <meta name="author" content="Larry Piper"> <meta name="GENERATOR" content="MSHTML 6.00.6001.18148"> <meta name="revisit-after" content="45 days"> <meta name="classification" content="family"> <meta name="robots" content="INDEX, follow"> <meta name="rating" content="Safe For Kids"> <meta name="language" content="English"> <meta content="Web Page" name="doc-type"> <meta content="Copywritten Work" name="doc-rights"></head> <body background="images\clouds2.jpg"> <center> <font color="red" face="arial" size="6"><a id="top" name="top">Stories from John Piper's Life</a></font><img height="183" hspace="25" src="splash2.jpg" width="150" align="middle"> </center><br> <font size="5"></font><ul> <li><font face="arial" color="blue" size="5">The $5 <a href="#bet">bet</a>: coaching high school basketball in IN in '30s </font> <li><font face="arial" color="blue" size="5"><a href="#punting">Punting</a> the cat</font> <li><font face="arial" color="blue" size="5">Fourth child <a href="#enrolled">enrolled</a> in college: Mildred at Purdue orientation </font> <li><font face="arial" color="blue" size="5">Father-son <a href="#tennis">tennis</a></font> <li><font color="blue" size="5" face="arial">Baseball at <a href="#victory">Victory Field</a>, Indianapolis, IN </font> <li><font face="arial" color="blue" size="5">Stories from <a href="#war">World War II</a></font> <li><font face="arial" color="blue" size="5">Does the name <a href="#Piper">Piper</a> mean anything to you?</font> <li><font color="blue" size="5" face="arial">John Piper at <a href="#college">college</a> </font> <li><font color="blue" size="5" face="arial">Wrestling at <a href="#wrestle">YMCA</a> </font> <li><font color="blue" size="5" face="arial">Making <a href="#shells">shells </a> </font> <li><font face="arial" color="blue" size="5">The <a href="#mirror">mirror</a> 'incident' in Franklin, IN</font> <li><font face="arial" color="blue" size="5">The <a href="#5ways">5 ways</a> of doing anything--according to John Piper</font> <li><font face="Arial" color="blue" size="5"><a href="#shorty">Shorty </a> at the carnival</font> <li><font face="arial" color="blue" size="5"><a href="#parents">John &amp; Mildred Piper</a> a contrast in styles</font> <li><font face="arial" color="blue" size="5"> Judy shooting <a href="#clay">clay pigeons</a> at Flat Rock River Camp</font> <li><font color="blue" size="5" face="arial">Gramma Jollief: Easter <a href="#egg">egg hunt</a>, Beyond the Grave, Education </font> <li><font face="arial" color="blue" size="5"><a href="#baseball">Baseball</a> in the creek at Danville Park</font> <li><font face="arial" color="blue" size="5">John Piper's <a href="#funeral">funeral</a>: friends from many walks of life </font> <li><font face="arial" color="blue" size="5"> Building a floating <a href="#pump">pump</a> on Flat Rock River at YMCA Camp</font> <li><font face="arial" color="blue" size="5"> The <a href="#shooting">shooting</a> incident at the Conservation Club </font> <li><font face="arial" color="blue" size="5"> The garage <a href="#garage">gadgets</a></font></li></ul> <p><br> <font color="#ff0000" face="Arial" size="4">These stories are based solely upon the memories of Larry Piper. They are being committed to paper starting in 2006, some 29 years after John Piper's death. Many of the events took place before I was born. Other events took place from 46 to 60 years ago. I have tried to put an estimated date of occurrence by each entry. </font> <p><font color="#ff0000" face="Arial" size="4">I hope to confirm and enhance these stories with my two sisters, Janet and Carol. Our brother, Bob, passed away in 1960, so his memories are lost forever. My target audiences are my immediate family and close relatives, most particularly my four grandchildren, now in 2008 whose ages are 9 to 13. My goal is to preserve these memories for them.</font> <p><font> <font face="Arial"><font color="#ff0000"><font size="4">You can always turn off the music by clicking on the square 'stop' icon at the bottom.</font> <br><br><br> <br></font></font> </font> <h2><a id="bet" name="bet">The $5 Bet</a></h2> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">This story, which has always been my favorite, is about coaching high school basketball in Indiana in the '30s. But every coach, regardless of the sport, the level of competition, or the geographic location can relate to this story--which is about breaking training rules. Now you need to remember in the '30s that (1) there was no such thing a tenure for teachers, (2) there were no teacher unions and (3) the country was in the depths of the Great Depression, which made jobs very hard to come by. Also, every teacher's job was renewed annually by the local school board. Unless you are a Hoosier, you cannot appreciate how fanatic high school basketball has always been taken in Indiana, particularly in its smaller towns. So teachers who were also coaches had their jobs determined by their won-lost records. </font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">John Piper's graduation from Manchester College in 1933 with his fabulous athletic background undoubted helped him to get a teaching-coaching job in one of the many smaller schools in northern Indiana. Now the exact date and location of this story has been lost. Based upon the pictures on the Family page, he lived in a different town nearly every year, so this story could have happened in any of 4-5 schools. He was married two years after graduation, so it is probable he was married when this event occurred.</font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">Mid-way through the season John Piper caught 2-3 of the stars on his basketball team smoking. Smoking was always his biggest no-no, so there was no question about kicking these boys off the team. When confronted, the boys defense was 'You can't kick us off the team--we are the stars. And besides, you have no one else to replace us.' On this latter point they were correct since most small high schools were lucky to have 8 or 9 boys out for basketball. But kick them off he did, and he finished the season with second-string players. So he lost most or all of these last games.</font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">Now it is time to reflect back upon the annual high school basketball championships that have been held in Indiana since 1911. Every school competed in basketball (there were over 700 when I graduated in 1956) and every school competed in the same class (which was not changed until the '80s). Which the possible exception of the Indy 500, it was the biggest thing to happen in Indiana. Think Super bowl. </font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">So now we return to the end of the school year and John Piper has to appear before the local school board to contract renewal. The verdict: not to renew. When he inquired why not, the answer was simply you did not have a very good record. To make his point, he asked if they considered winning important. They did. What happened next is priceless. John Piper reached into his billfold, pulled out a $5 bill and laid it on the table in from of the school board members, and said, "I will give this $5 to anyone who can tell me the two teams who played for the state basketball championship." To drive home his point, he pulled out another $5 bill, laid it on the table and said, "and I will give you another $5 if you can tell me the score." (Remember, $5 in the '30s would be the same as a $50 or likely a $100 bill today.)</font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">John Piper moved on to another school the following year. But he also still had the two $5 bills in his pocket. The point had been made: winning was NOT more important than following the rules.</font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">Now this would normally be the end of a great story. But, as Paul Harvey is fond of saying, here's the rest of the story. Every athlete and coach has seen the movie Hoosiers, the mythical story of a small Indiana town winning the state basketball championship. Only the movie was based upon fact that Milan, population around 1000, did win the 1954 state championship, defeating Muncie Central, whose student body was probably bigger than 1000, 36-34 in the finals at Butler Field house. </font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">But let's backup to 1952. Coach Marvin Wood of Milan caught some of his star players smoking. He kicked them off the team and finished the season with sophomores. Of course they lost but they gained a season of experience. The following year in 1953 Milan went to the final 16 teams before being eliminated. Now they had two years of experience. Then in 1954 he had 5 seniors who were into their third year of starting high school basketball games. There is no doubt about the wisdom of the coach, about the abilities of their star player Bobby Plump, but could it also have been the three years experience they had--brought about by a coach's insistence upon following the training rules--that was the intangible that allowed Milan to achieve every small town's dream.</font> <br> <a href="#top"><img src="images/up2.jpg" border="0"> top</a> <br> <h2><a id="punting" name="punting">Punting The Cat</a></h2> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">The John Piper I knew had a dislike of cats. He grew up on a farm, so cats were never pets. He claimed he didn't like wild cats because they killed small animals and birds. But the real reason was a bad encounter he had with one particular cat, probably when he was in his mid 20s. </font> <p><br><font face="Comic Sans MS">Now I have to tell you about his ability to punt a football. He was obviously the kicker on his college football team--he also was great at drop-kicks, something gone from the game in the last 60 years. When I was 11 or 12, making him 41 or 42, I saw him punt a football 35 to 40 yards, and that was with a sore knee on which he had an operation about 10 years later. Who knows how far he could punt in his collegiate days.</font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">Mother could attest to this story, so it had to occur after 1935 when they were married. Once while visiting some of their friends, he leaned down to pet their cat. The cat, in one of its last moves on this earth, leaped up and grabbed John's right forearm with all four claws. Being outside, Dad took a couple steps, flung his right arm downward to dislodge the cat and before the cat hit the ground punted the cat for all he was worth. It had to be a true 'Kodak moment'. There is no record of how far the cat went or what happened to this friendship, but from then on Dad never trusted any cat. <br> <br></font> <a href="#top"><img src="images/up2.jpg" border="0"> top</a> <br><br> <h2><a id="enrolled" name="enrolled">Enrolling the 4th child at Purdue</a></h2><font face="Comic Sans MS">Both John and Mildred were trained as teachers. Both taught at the high school level at some time in their lives. My maternal grandfather had a PhD in Education and spent a career as a high school principal and superintendent. But I didn't know, or at least didn't pay much attention to these facts while I was growing up because my Mother was busy raising four children and my Father worked for the YMCA.<br><br>Still, there was an unspoken feeling at our home that education was important. I remember one of Dad's best friends, who had a couple wild children in the '60s, finally asked Dad what was the secret to his four kids staying out of trouble. John Piper's answer was, 'get them educated'.<br><br>So, in 1956 I was off to Purdue to pursue an engineering degree. I had fortunately earned enough money to cover most of my college expenses; still there was the occasional money for extras from my parents and grandmother. <br><br>About the same time my Mother went back to teaching full time because there were my three siblings were growing up. In 1961 my older sister enrolls at Ball State. Three years later in 1964 my second sister also enrolls at Ball State. Both subsequently graduate with teaching degrees. <br><br>Now we get to 1967 when my brother is ready for college. He was always good at math, so it was natural that he also enrolled at Purdue. I need to digress here for some background material. Purdue's freshman class size had to be 5000+ at this time. The procedures called for all these freshmen to show up a few days early for 'orientation'. The first day also included an orientation for their parents, pretty much to allay their fears about sending their child off to this big university. Besides a football or basketball stadium, there aren't many places that you can comfortablygather 5000+ parentsin one place. But Purdue has the Elliott Hall of Music. Now you have undoubted heard of the Radio City Music Hall in New York. It seats around 6,600 which makes it probably the largest indoor theater. Well, Purdue has a duplicate design with a similar seating capacity; this isthe Elliott Hall of Music.<br><br>So here is this grand theater, which includes two balconies,almost full with parents. Down on the stage are the half dozen top administrators: Dean of Men, Dean of Women, Head of Housing, Head of Financial Aid, Curriculum specialists, etc. They can answer any questions the parents may raise. So the moderator, who likely was the current President, welcomes the parents to Purdue. His fatherly tone of voiceaims to put the parents at ease that they will indeed get through this process of sending their first born off to college. And as evidence that others have survived this ordeal, heis pretty sure that their are some parents in the audiencefor whom this is their second child to attend college. He asks them to stand, and sure enough a couple hundred do stand. Nowhis confidence is growing, and he says do we have anyone for whom this is their third child. In this packed theater a handful do rise. Having made his point that parents and child do survive this separation of college, the President startsto introduce the first speaker. And then as an after thought he off-handily remarks I don't suppose we have anyone here with a fourth child. Now Mother is the ONLY one standing. After the applause died down,he uttered, half jokingly andhalf serious,those now famous words, 'come up here on the stage maam. You know more that the rest of these experts.' <br><br> Mother was never prouder in her life.<br></font><br><a href="#top"><img src="images/up2.jpg" border="0"> top</a> <h2><a id="tennis" name="tennis">Father-Son Tennis</a> Match</h2><font face="Comic Sans MS">Tennis was always my game. I was younger and smaller than all of my classmates, so I was never outstanding at football, baseball and track, in which I did manage to letter.Our town of Danville, IN,had three clay courts, possibly left over from the teacher's college that folded in the early '50s. But most importantly, we had Rosemary Frazier. She knew everything there was to know about tennis, and she was eager to share it with anyone and everyone.<br><br>By some good fortune I managed to find my mother's old tennis racquets while exploring a closet. With absolutely no help from anyone, I discovered two smooth walls with level ground where I could hit the tennis ball against. I did this for the entire summer of my 10th year. Then the next summer I stumbled onto these clay courts where Rosemary must have encouraged me. (You need to realize that my Dad was working full time with a one hour bus ride to and from work each day. Mother was busy raisingmy 1, 4 and 7 year siblings. So no one knew what I was up to.)<br><br>At age 11 I was on the fast track to become a ball player, at least in my mind. We had a AAA team 20 miles away in Indianapolis towhich my Dad took me regularly. But more importantly, we had Bob Leedy. Like Rosemary, he was part of the summer park program that gave us all a chance to develop and hone our ball skills. We played softball in the morning and hardball in the afternoon. Further details about Bob Leedy will have to wait for another story.<br><br>So it was a real conflict of interest that caused me to play more and more tennis. By my 12th summer I was hooked. Now the Danville Tennis Club had at least 50 members, maybe as many as 100. We regularly held tournaments, and as I soon learned, had some of the strongest players in the state of Indiana, particularly youth and women. By August, 1951, I managed to win the 12 &amp; Under division.The Clubalso played a 15&amp;U, 18&amp;U, Men's and Women's Divisions as well as doubles in most of these other Divisions. If you won a Division in our Club, you were effectively a State Champion, at least in 1951. One more factoid: I did not own a pair of tennis shoes, so I played barefoot--which was not too hard to do on clay courts. But when I came home with my first ever trophy, my parents decided they should buy me some shoes. (The trophy actually got broken during the awards ceremony, and when I got the repaired version a couple weeks later, my Mother promptly broke it while cleaning. There must be a story or message hiddenthere somewhere; both of us have survived to this day.)<br><br>In a couple years I am one of the top players in the Club. But as elsewhere in life, there is always somebody better than you. In this case is was John Tom, about 5 years my senior. While we practiced against one another, I think we only played for real on one occasion when I must haveplayedin the Men's' Division. Of course I lost.<br><br>Now 2-3 times every year Dad would come down a play me in singles. Even by 14 years of age, with a couple major titles under my belt, I still could not defeat Dad, age 44. As I grew older andcompeted in many other sports andtalked with other players about their Dads and then raised children of my own, I discovered it is a rite of passage for the kid to finally beat the old man. Buteven withcompetitive personalities that Dad and I had, it was never a problem. Indeed, it was an asset. <br><br>About 1954 our Club decided to hold a Father-Son tournament. Here was a match made in heaven for the Pipers. We blew through the field and were matched against John Tom and his father in the finals. Now here I learned a great lesson: no matter how good one of the partners is, the weaker partner will become the Achilles Heel--if you take advantage of it. While we played 'sociable' for a few games--like a table tennis gamein which partnersalternate inhitting the ball--when the match was on the line, John Tom never saw the ball again. I think we won something like 8-6. Dad was happy about the win, but even more so by the way our strategy worked. I think that effectively ended his tennis playing, but he went out very proud of me.<br><br><br><br><font face="Times New Roman" size="5"><strong>Larry Piper andTennis<br></strong></font><br>You should read the above paragraphs to get some background of how I discovered tennis and maybe more importantly, how tennis discovered me. I think I had a couple guardian angels during this period of my youth.<br><br>I think it is fair to say that from age 13 to 15, I played tennis 4, 5 even 6 hours every day, seven days a week. As stated above, we had three (later four) clay courts. They were free to use, were located within a mile of my home and one could always find some competition. <br><br>Any story about tennis, for me, has to begin with Rosemary Frazier. While I cannot remember a single incident in the 4-5 years I played at Danville where she gave me a verbal tip or correction, she was always there. I suspect she gave lessons, for money, but that was not my style--or within my financial reach. I always felt she worked best behind the scene. She set up the tournaments, she drove us to tournaments and she was tireless in promoting the Danville Tennis Club throughout Indiana. I fashioned my 30 years of coaching young girls in track after Rosemary's model: I was there to givethem the specifics, but I felt I was more valuable in organizing and running the track meets. As an individualRosemary was unrivaled. While I did not have all the facts in my earliest tennis years, I was aware that (1) she had lost her husband around age 30 to lukemia, (2) she was left with a 1-2 year old daughter to raise alone, and(3) the local college, where she was Dean of Women,folded shortly thereafter. Rosemary drove an old Frazier car--I'll bet some of you don't remember that model. She later remarried and became Rosemary Helton. She easily found another job teaching math at nearby Plainfield and finished her career and Danville teaching the younger siblings of Judy and I. I think she had a couple Womens state singles titles and many doubles titles. The last time I talked with her she was about 65 and recovering from hip replacement--which I had two by then. I was a little disappointed that she didn't remember all my tennis prowess from 35 years earlier, but that was likely caused by all the people she had taught tennis over that period. Tennis was never a high school sport during Rosemary's tenure, but it is a tribute to her influence that once tennis did come to Danville High School, one of my tennis partners has been their tennis coach every since.<br><br><br>Drink water, 2-handed backhand, conditioning, no food prep, no hangup with equipment, no lessons, birthdate, metal racquet<br>Moe, girl friend, used umpires, Ellis, McClure<br></font> Do you know what it is like to have a state championship under you belt and still not be able to beat your father?<br>Highlight was winning father-son tournament against John Tom &amp; Rome Osborn<br><br><a href="#top"><img src="images/up2.jpg" border="0"> top<br><br><br> <br> <p id=""></p></a> <h2><a id="victory" name="victory">Baseball at Victory Field</a></h2><br><font face="Comic Sans MS">If Barbara Walters asked me what was my fondest childhood menu, I would reply, without hesitation, going to Victory Field to see a double header baseball game with my Dad. Froman early age of 8 or 9I can remember riding the bus 20 miles into Indianapolis, meeting my Dad after work and watching 14 to 16 innings of AAA baseball. <br><br>Dad was working at the Central YMCA, 310 N. Illinois, in Indianapolis, a location that was his home base for the next 27 years. I probably made this trip once or twice a year for 4 to 5 years. Mom would pack a big picnic basket full of food and drink (you could take such items into Victory Field at that time). It was all I could do to carry/drag that basket when it was fully loaded. Somehow I managed to reach the closest bus stop at the edge of town--no easy feat in the early years when the family owned only one car and Dad would have it at work on the day of a baseball game. Buses were the lifeline of America in the late '40s and early '50s; trains did not carry passengers, at least to Danville, and the old interurban which was so prevelent in central Indiana had folded after the War. So for 50 cents, maybe even less for a child, I rode the bus for one hour to the Indy bus station. The distance was around 20 miles, but the bus driver stopped almost every mile to pick up passengers until we reached the edge of Marion County, the location of Indinapolis. At this point there was likely some gentlements agreement with the city bus system that our out-of-town bus would no infringe upon their territory.<br><br> The Indy bus terminal was the 'Grand Central Station' for the Midwest. During the day at any one time I'll bet there were7-8 lanes of buses, lined up 5 to 6 deep inside this open hanger type structure. I can still smell the gas fumes--I'm not sure diesel engines were that popular at the time. About 80% of the buses were just like mine; they were local feeder bus lines that came and went to Indy. The remaining buses were the Greyhound and Trailways type. One could literally see the world by boarding the right bus. The terminal had a ticket/waiting area, but I don't recall ever being in there as a young boy. I suspect by 8 pm in the evenings it might have become a little seedy.<br><br>So now the laws of physics kick in. Here is this 110-120 pound boy lugging a 30+ pound picnic basket. I had about 3 city blocks to cover. I would carry the basketabout 100 feet, rest 20 seconds, carry itanother 100 feet, etc. It was always a warm, summer afternoon, so I was sweating after the 20 minute struggle. Now my efforts were always rewarded because right across the street was the Fox Theater, probably the only burlesque theater in Indy. The pictures out front, while mild by todays TV standards, were pretty titilating to a young boy. I am reasonable sure that Gypsy Rose Lee was still in 'action' in those days, and she would stop by the Fox every so often. <br><br> By now it is 4:30 pm. I enter the 'Y' via the side door. Dad's office was close by, but he was never there. Around 5:00 he might breeze through, acknowledge my presence, and then take off again to handle some problem. By 5:30 he had cleared out and locked up the place for the day, and we headed for his designatedparking spot. With all his job problems over for the day--he was the Boys Secretary--Dad could devote 100% of his time and attention to me. Usually there was one last stop at Emroes sporting goods store. Emroes was the WalMart of sports stores, and I think Dad ran a tab there. Actually, I never lackedfor at least the sporting basics: oneball, bat, mitt, football and a leather soccer ball which I used as a basketball. When Dad stopped at Emroes, or any other business in downtown Indy, he did not use parking spaces. He'parked' like a delivery man, leaving the car in the street, engine running while he ran into a store. Eventually, about 6:30 we reached the ballpark. <br><br> Victory Field was and still is located on 10th street, about 2-3 miles from the 500 Speedway on 16th street. It was the home of the Indianapolis Indians, a AAA club that was owned by the Cleveland Indians.At this time there were 8 teams in the American League, 8 teams in the National Leagure and 8 teams in the AAA. (There was an upstart AAA league on the West Coast, but it was not yet of the same calibre of the eastern AAA league. Victory Fieldwas in a semi-commercial section of town, but it was not run down. Parking was free and safety/security was never an issue. About half the time we would firstgo upstairs to the business office. Now Dad's business 'dealings' always amazed me.Between hisjob function, his recent military service and his notarity in Indiana sports, he ran across an eclectic mix of people; many of these wanted to give him something. I always suspected that is whereour ball game tickets came from and probably much of my sports equipment. On one occasion while we were in the Indians' business offfice I saw this gal take a stack of about 20-30 tickets, fan it with her thumb and presto, she had counted them. You may not believe this, but some 40 years later when I read about John Scarne, a magician and card shark, I realized such a feat was very possible.<br><br> We reach out seats, always in the mid-price range, and open our picnic basket. The game was always a double-header, a Piper trait of getting our money's worth. The first game must have started about 7:00 pm. I remember the stadium as being cool after struggling in the hot Hoosier summer sun. It was usually about half full, so crowds were never a problem. We ate our food, kept score, but never got a player's autograph or purchased any souvineers--another Piper trait. Consequently, we were not bouncing up and down, disturbing other people in our row to visit the concession stands. Minor league teams then played a 9-inning first game and a 7-inning second game. I have to take that somewhat on faith because John Piper NEVER stayed until 'the last dog was hung' as he was fond of saying. We hand to 'beat the crawd', another Piper tradition that I faithfully carry on to this day. Besides, I'm getting tired, Dad has to go to work the next day, I had to get up before school to deliver my newspapers, and frankly, we had gotten our money's worth by 10:30. <br><br> This is not the end of Victory Field in my life. Jump ahead 3-4 years. The first date with my future wife Judy was my high school Jr-Sr prom in May, 1955; the next date was actually a double date in the summer of 1955, to Victory Field. Jump ahead 2 more years to the fall of 1956. I'm a freshman at Purdue. Placement tests (there were no SAT or ACT exams then) had placed me in an advanced English class--thanks to my world-class high school English teacher Mrs. Armstrong. For one assignment we had to write a brief paper, probably about any subject of our choosing. Well it was a no-brainer for Piper to regurtitate the above story. But more importantly, our instructor chose what he considered the best paper, and he read mine to the class. Jump ahead another 30 years. My daughter, studying sports management at Indiana University, has a summer interns job with the Indianapolis Indians, who still play at Victory Field. I come down a couple times that summer from Michigan, and she gets me a front row seat. All those childhood memories come flooding back. <br></font><br> <br> <a href="#top"><img src="images/up2.jpg" border="0"> top</a><br><br><br> <h2><a id="war" name="war">World War II Stories</a></h2><br> <font face="Comic Sans MS">Dad went into service in early 1944, which made him 35 with two children. His occupation had just changed from a school teacher to YMCA work, which obviously was not deemed a 'critical' skill. Judy's dad at this time was 30 with one child, but he got a pass on military service because he was an electrician at GM's Allison Division which made tanks and jet engines. I always thoughtDad's active duty tour was two years (because he got out in early 1946), but the war's end may have shorten his obligations. I know he did spend 6-8 years in the Indiana National Guard Reserve. Dad's militarytraining was what was then called a '90 day wonder', meaning he got a fast version of OCS (officer candidate school). His college degree and possible maturity had a lot to do with the military making him an officer, specifically an ensign in the U.S. Navy. He served with the Shore Patrol as well as aboard Liberty and troop ships. When he left active duty in 1946, he was a Lt, which translated to a Captain rank in the Army Guard.<br><br>Like others of the Greatest Generation, dad did not sit around, repeatedly telling the same old war stories. However, he did make comments from time to time, and he did have a few military history books which I remember reading. I later discovered some photos taken of his ship life after the war was over. So what follows is a chronological history of his WW II service.<br><br> When he was inducted in 1944, we lived on the SE edge of Indianapolis near a location called Five Points. I was 5 and my sister was 1, and we lived in a rental house. We must have left this house on or aboutthe time Dad left. I do remember the local civil defense guy hassling my mother during a blackout condition when she was trying to feed my baby sister Janet. We were the last house on the road, so this guy was an eager-beaver. I remember my Mother listening to news about the war, and I always wondered what the news stations would find to talk about after the war ended. <br><br>I remember one of Dad's brother driving down to move Mom, my sister Janet and I back to North Manchester, IN, to live with Dad's parents. I retain this memory of my uncle offering the removesome wiring from this house because it had been added by Dad. Silly memory and I'm pretty sure it didn't happen. So we did move to North Manchester in the summer of 1944 where I started the first grade--at age 5--that fall. Mom lasted one year with her in-laws; I never heard Mom say it, but this was a strained time. What I remember was (1) the long trains that used to come through town, (2) the blue star or gold star flags in nearly everyone's window, and (3) taking 25-cents to school once a week to buy another stamp in my war bond book--$18.75 filled a book which would be worth $25.00 in ten years. My first grade school is still there, but I have no recollections about teachers, fellow students or what I learned. I do remember the walk to and from school. <br><br> Our three family members did make a train trip to Charleston, WV, to visit Dad once. I think it was in early 1945 because the weather was mild and the train was full of soldiers and there were the coffee and donut stops along the way. That would have made me 6 and Janet 2. Dad was stationed aboard a Liberty-type ship, although it had deck guns. I still remember when Mom saw Dad, she dropped my hand, left me behind, and ran to meet Dad while she still carried my sister. I got to run around loose on this ship, which is why I know it had deck guns. Now one of Dad's stories was about his time in the Shore Patrol which had to be when they were stationed in the U.S.These are equivalent to Military Police, and they are dealing with military guys who get in trouble. His favorite story is about bailing outthe farm kidswhoget to the big city, decide to go to the local night clubsor watering holes, and then find out once they are inside that there is a cover charge. So he would have to negotiate with the club owners, get them to forget about their cover charges in return for having these drunkensailors pay their tab and leave,<br><br>We then moved in the summer of 1945 to Danville, IN, to live with Mom's parents. I went to the second grade and finished my 2-12 education at the same school building. I quickly learned that most of my second grade classmates had gone to kindergarten and had learned to write in the first grade. I had done neither, so it took me a couple years to catch up. How my Mother, sister and I survived in this three room apartment I cannot fathom. I was a wild kid--we would call it ADD today--and my grandfather was dying of congestive heart failure. My grandfather died in April, 1946, and Dad got an emergency leave to come home for the funeral.<br><br>Dad spent his sea duty time in the Pacific, primarily transporting Japanese POWs after the war had ended. All of the photos he had were taken either aboard ship or at some of the islands that had been taken from the Japanese. The one specific story that I remember Dad telling was him practicing skeet shooting off the fantail of the ship. The Jap POWs, which he described as almost meek, would sit on the deck and bet among themselves on whether or not he would break the clay pigeons. The Japanese currency was effectively worthless, so the term betting takes on a whole new meaning. <br><br>Dad also mentioned on more than one occasion that once the war was over, everything they were carrying aboard ship in the way of supplies automatically and immediately went overboard. His specific example was tons of vellum-type paper.<br><br>The only other war story was about buzz bombs. Now he could nothave seen or hear them if he spent his time in the Pacific. So his information was likely second hand. I thought his descriptions of what the buzz bomb could do, particularly to an individual, were highly exaggerated. But then another name for a buzz bomb is the V-1 bomb. The V stood for a German word meaning vengance, so the fear-factor of this weapon was certainly very high, and I alwasy felt this colored Dad's comments.One thing I never recall Dad mentioning wasany kamize planes. This seems to jibe withall thepictures mentioned above; his sea duty must have been post-war.</font> <br><br> <a href="#top"><img src="images/up2.jpg" border="0"> top</a> <h2><a id="Piper" name="Piper">Does the Name Piper Mean Anything ?</a></h2> Induction of John Piper into Manchester College Hall of Fame<br><br> <a href="#top"><img src="images/up2.jpg" border="0"> top</a><br><br><br> <h2><a id="college" name="college">John Piper: Time Management at College</a></h2><br><font face="Comic Sans MS">John Piper's education is both interesting and intriguing. He grew up with his three siblings around Warsaw, IN. I know this because he graduated from Warsaw High School, but I am not exactly sure of the year. His own father was missing for a brief period of time while he lived in Michigan City, IN, courtesy of the State of Indiana. He attended Manchester College from 1929 to 1933 when he graduated. I have Manchester yearbooks from that era, but the information is sketchy or missing on details. My mother and uncle were also attending Manchester around the same time. There is a gap of a couple years in 1927 to 1928 between high school and college that is unaccounted for. I would love to get anotherMother, with her father working as principal in nearby Spring Hill, IN, was four years in age and two years in grade behind Dad at Manchester.<br><br>So how did John Piper get to college? He apparently never played any sports, with the possible exception of basketball, at Warsaw High School. The Great Depression was in full swing, so how could he pay for college?His dad may have been in the slammer at the time. There is a graduation photo, presumably of college, that shows John and his sister Mary in cap-and-gown, but only his mother. The answer seems to be that (1) the President of Manchester College was Otho Winger, (2) Otho's sister was Ethyl Winger Piper, my Dad's mother, (3) Dadand his mother lived in Manchester, so housingcost was zero and(4) Ethyl was a great cook. I always figured Ethyl traded her cooking skills for tuition cost for John Piper--and his sister Mary who was a year behind him.<br><br>So how did John Piper get into football? That story is lost; however it is documented that at Dad's first football practice he ran the wrong way when he got the football. That suggests that he had no high school experience. Another story that Dad often repeated was that he didn't have time to study in college. He always said, 'I had to go to class 4 hours a day, work 4 hours a day and practice football 4 hours a day.'<br><br>The great numbers that Dad amassed in four years of football at Manchester are chronicled in the FOOTBALL section of this web page. What I can personally attest to is that he was fast. Even with a bad knee, at 41 he could beat me for the first 30-40 yards in a dash. He was also very athletic in other sports. I mentioned elsewhere that I had a hard time beating him at tennis when I was 13-14 and state champion. What I remember most was his introducing me to the game of paddleball. I was at least 14, maybe 15. I know I had won a state championship by then in tennis. He had told me he could beat the Indiana state handball player if they were playing paddleball; I was most impressed. I could play him about even if he merely hit the front wall; it was like practicing against a board. But when he started serving off the side walls, and then hitting them clear to the back wall on the fly, I was hopelessly lost. That was probably the last time we ever competed in a physical match--now cards and checkers would continue on until his dying day. <br><br>Dad eventually had knee surgery; I would guess it was around 1965 which would have made him 56. Knee surgery was still of the 'slash-and-burn' variety, and the surgery didn't do much for either his pain or to restore anything like reasonable functionality. When we cleaned out the homestead in 1981 after Mom died (Dad died in 1977), we found 50+ empty pint bottles that had once contained rubbing alcohol. I assumed the old athlete in him used alcohol to rub his legsto easethe pain. Unfortunately, we also found 50+ empty Cool Whip tubs, a testament to his poor eating habits.A final note for me was my eventual domination of the game of paddleball. About three years later I once again saw the game of paddleball being played at Purdue. I skipped it at the time, but I did take up a related game called squash racquets. In three years I went from first round loss to loss in the finals tocampus champion. Then three years later in 1963 I found the PB game again when I began working for Dow Chemical. This time it stuck.<br></font><br> <a href="#top"><img src="images/up2.jpg" border="0"> top</a><br><br><br> <h2><a id="wrestle" name="wrestle">Wrestling at the YMCA</a></h2><br><font face="Comic Sans MS"> Back in the early days of TV (like 1950) everything was, of course, black and white, the number of channels were limited and the program selection was awful. One of thepopular programs was professional wrestling, and I use the term professional with considerable lattitude here. The participants were former colligate wrestlers and there were not too many of them, at least now around Indiana, so we all had our favorites. Gorgeous George, one of the better known wrestlers,came along about this time. I mention George because Cassius Clay admited he modeled himself after George who was the consumate self-promoter.Wrestling action was pretty realistic because these guys all came from a wrestling background. Certainly the idea that what you saw was not for real or that there was any sort of 'fix' never entered the minds of the nuevo and naive viewing audience, including me.<br><br>So one Saturday night we are watching a wrestling match with two evenly matched guys. Dad calmly volunteers the thought that competitor A will win. Sure enough he does, although it was anybody's match when Dad picked the winner. When I asked how he knew that (Dad was a boxing referee, so I figured he saw something I didn't), he said, 'because I watched them practice last week down at the 'Y', and I knew they had predetermined who would win this match.' He also added that by promoting rematchs, they could keep the public's interest.<br><br>This incident was only one of many, many times that Dad informed me of what the real world was like. I never had any problems asking and accepting advice from Dad. He never preached to me (except about demon rum and smoking) so it was easy to believe his advice. I would say I developed a healthy cynicism about life. <br></font><br> <a href="#top"><img src="images/up2.jpg" border="0"> top</a><br><br><br><br> <h2><a id="shells" name="shells">Making Shells</a></h2><font face="Comic Sans MS">When Dad died in 1977, my children were 8 and 10. Although we were able to visit each Thanksgiving and Christmas, their most lasting memories of Dad were him reloading shells. For nearly as long as I can remember he was doing this. It was always a small scale operation, and I don't recall him selling any ammo.<br><br>Reloading is not a difficult procedureif you follow a precise step-by-step plan. And you need to devote your full attention to what you are doing--in other words no multitasking, no watching TV and no interruptions from phones or family. So Dad would retreat to the basement in the evenings whenever he needed to make a new batch of shells. I can remember watching him on a few occasions, This quiet time with your father seemed to burn the memories more indelibly into my brain; that also seemed to be the way my children remember this time with Dad.<br><br>There is nothing illegal about loading your own shells, and itwill allow you to experiment with different powder weights, shell type and size and even casing size. There was undoubtedly considerable cost savings in loading your own shells, but this was offset by the time involved. The biggest factor was the purchase, storage and handling of powder. I can remember Dad always had 6-8 one pound cans of various grades of DuPont powder in his work area. He never had any accidents, but I suspect today the idea of storing powder would be a no-no tomost home owners and insurance agents.<br><br>What follows is my recollection of his reloading procedures. It will not be of any interest to most people. It write it mostly to document what I remember. A shell consists of the case, a primer, powder and the projectile. For a shotgun shell there is some wadding between the powder and buckshot and also on top of the buckshot. <br><br>Let's begin with a normal cartridge. Each caliber shell requires two dies. They look like an oversize sparkplug, only they are threaded so they can be screwed into the reloading tool. This reloading tool is permanently mounted to a sturdy bench. It has a long arm that will raise and lower the cartridge into the die. (I have seen a similar device sold to make your own 2" and 3" pin-on buttons.) The whole procedure is designed to process a batch of shells in each step rather than take one shell through the entire process. Consequently, Dad had created a series of cartridge-holding boards, each drilled with 50 holes in a pattern of 5 rows by 10 columns. The steps are (each of which is repeated 50 times): (1) put the first cartridge into the tool (which contains the primer die), raise the arm to remove the spentprimer, manually place a new primer into a holder and lower the arm to seat the new primer into the brass case, (2) weigh out the proper amount of powder on a separate scales and pour it, via a funnel, into the case, (3) place the case, whichnow contains a new primer and powder, into the reloading tool (which now has the resizing die screwed in), place a bullet on top of the case and raise the arm which seats the bullet. This is simple enough, except one has to be diligent. The primer must be seated, only a single powder charge should be loaded, the case cannot be cracked and the bullet must be fully seated. <br><br>Dad must have had at leaset 8-10 sets of these dies, ranging from around .25 caliber up to .50 caliber. (I still have the box from one of these sets.) I don't recall him having a large inventory of spent brass, so I felt that he would shoot up a couple boxes of shells and then reload them when he had collected 50 spent cartridges. I don't know how many times he could reload a case, but I suspect the top of the case would split when it was near the end of its life. <br><br>Shotgun shells were reloaded similarly, only the cases, made of heavy cardboard, had a shorter life. Also, there was a separate tool, also bolted to the workbench, that contained two large cylinders, one for powder and one for buckshot. So the empty case had the primer replaced, then moved to the powder/buckshot loading and then moved back to the reload tool for final crimping.<br><br>Dad had one more tool that would resize a 30-06 brass case down to at .25 calibre case. It bolted to the stairway where he could get tremendous leverage. I doubt very many other reloadershad such a tool.<br><br>Finally, Dad owned a gun whose barrel was made from a 1.125" cylindrical steel blank. He had a friend who operated the machine shop at the Boys' School in Plainfield, IN. This guy had drilled a holeEXACTLY through the center of this 3-4 feet barrel, added rifling, added the trigger action and Dad mounted it in a wood stock. I could hardly pick it up!</font><br><br> <a href="#top"><img src="images/up2.jpg" border="0"> top</a><br><br><br><br> <h2><a id="mirror" name="mirror">Losing a Mirror</a></h2><br><font face="Comic Sans MS">While this story is trifling, it became a shiboleth for what John Piper would do in certain situations. The time is early one Sunday morning. The location is downtown Franklin, IN, on U.S. 31. Very few people were stirring at this hour. Dad was pulling a trailer which containedsome furniture. One of the pieces wasdresser with a large mirror attached. Someone had given him the furniture, and he was moving it to the 'Y' camp. While locatednear the main intersection, a gust of wind or shift of the cargo caused the mirror section to fly off the trailer and crash in the middle of the highway. Dad never touched the brakes; he could see in the rear view mirror that the chest mirror was a total loss.<br></font><br> <a href="#top"><img src="images/up2.jpg" border="0"> top</a><br><br><br> <br><br> <h2><a id="5ways" name="5ways">The 5 Ways of Doing Anything--According to John Piper</a></h2><font face="Comic Sans MS">One of Dad's favorite sayings was that there were four ways of doing anything: The right way, the wrong way, the Navy way and coach Burt's way. The last two ways represent a couple of life's lessons, namely, in some circumstances the correct response is 'Yes Sir'. <br><br>With military service no longer in vogueand with coach's authority challenged at every level, many people have never had the opportunity to learn this lesson. Thereis a popular set of rules for the work environment: 1 - The boss is always right and 2- if the boss is wrong, see rule #1. It is amazing how many young adults have told me they would not work under these rules. Of course, they tend to live with their parents and have little day-to-day responsibilities. One of these days theymay become become old adults with no benefits, no retirement nest egg and no health care because they could not or would not remain in a job long enough.<br><br>Now the title says '5 Ways'. Dad would rattle off the four ways mentioned above, but then he would add, 'then there is my way'. And that is the lesson every child must learn: Mom and Dad are always right.</font> <br><br> <a href="#top"><img src="images/up2.jpg" border="0"> top</a><br><br><br><br> <h2><a id="Shorty" name="Shorty">Shorty at the carnival</a></h2><font face="Comic Sans MS"> Dad's next older brother was Otho, named after his paternal grandfather who also was the President of the local college. But he always went my the name Shorty. I don't think he ever went to college but he was a catcher on the local baseball team that Dad played on.Shortyowned aconstruction outfit, and he was right at home in this rough and tumble world. He was a fun guy, always with a bunch of jokes at the family Christmas gathering. And he liked to gamble. <br><br>But this story goes back to the late'20s when the Piper brothers were around 20. Now Shorty got himself involved in one of these carnival games where for 25 cents you try to put three balls in a basket. It is really simple to do, and the barker was only too eager to demonstrate that fact. The rules of this game were a little different in that, if you won, you got all your money back plus a blanket. So there was a strong incentive to keep playing to win your money back.<br><br>But like all carnival games this one was fixed. It was the usual arrangement where the main guy is standing out in the street next to the 'pigeon'. He obviously is not influencing the game. But his partner is at the side of the stand, arms folded, and apparently disinterested in the efforts of my uncle. Shorty easily drops the first two balls in the basket, but every time he pitches the third ball it bounces back out. (In case you haven't seen this game, the baskets are bushel baskets like one you would use for apples. The basketsare sitting at a45 degree angle and there is a hole in the bottom side. You essentially drop the ball in the basket and it falls through the hole.) Now when Shorty, or anyone else for that matter, drops the third ball, the partner casually leans against the frame. This tightens up a spring in the base of the basket and the ball pops out like it was shot from a cannon. It works the same way with those fuzzy dolls you try to knock over with baseballs.<br><br>So these guys are into Shorty for about $20 and he is clueless as to what is happening. So my Dad takes Shorty aside and explains the ruse. Now Shorty, while a little short, is one solid guy and very capable of taking care of himself. So he steps back up, calmly drops in the first two balls, then reaches over to the partner, grabs him and bodily throws him out in the street. Then he steps up and drops the third ball into the basket. Well all hell broke loose. I am sure the Piper brothers saw to it that Shorty recovered all his money and you would hope he was a little wiser. Unfortunately, this was not to be. I remember about 1957 he made the headlines of the Indianapolis Star when he got bilked by some gambler for about $10,000.<br><br>But this was another good lesson I learned from John Piper.</font> <br><br> <a href="#top"><img src="images/up2.jpg" border="0"> top</a><br><br><br> <h2><a id="parents" name="parents">John - Mildred</a> </h2><br><br><br><br> Street wise vs. naive<br> athletic vs. artistic<br> non-medical vs. medical<br><br> <a href="#top"><img src="images/up2.jpg" border="0"> top</a><br><br><br><br> <h2><a id="clay" name="clay">Shooting Clay Pigeons at the YMCA Camp</a></h2> <br><br><font face="Comic Sans MS"> In mid June, 1960, Judy and I paid a surprise visit to the YMCA camp near Shelbyville, IN, where Dad had spent the past few years as camp director. Momwas back teaching and she still had three children at home, but she visited on the weekendsand helped him with the books. This was the first time we had visited since our wedding in early June. We had driven down from Lebanon, IN, where we wereliving for the next six months. I had a 9th semester to finish up my degree at Purdue, and Judy had a plum job with Alison Division of General Motors in Indianapolis. If you check an Indiana map, Lebanon is exactly half way between Purdue and Indianapolis.<br><br>Sundays were a slight change of pace from the normal routine at camp. After the noon meal, everyone walked over the dam to one of the remote activity fields where they shot skeet. Guns were a major part of camp life. Riflery wasone of the six major activities. A rifle was fired each morning and evening at flag ceremonies by an honored camper. <br><br>Dad owned a sheet-throwing device and he loaded his own shotgun shells, so cost was not a big deal. Now the Sunday routine was that only the counselors, which were 18-21 years old, did the shooting. It was a fun time with the 8-10 boys in each cabin cheering (andbetting)for their respective counselor.These counselorstypically would be lucky to hit one out of every three pigeons. So Judy and I walked into this fun event. Dad was, of course, delighted to see us, but he couldn't leave what he was doing. He introduced us andthen let me take a shot; I probably hit it. Then as an after-thought he asked Judy if she wanted to shoot. Three thoughtsshould be mentioned here: (1) there were never any female campers, so no one has every seen a female shoot a gun, (2) Dadwas a stickler on gun safety,but he would allow anyone to shoot (and presumably learn from the incident), and (3) he did not know that Judy's dad was also a gun nut. Judytook the shotgun from Dad, calmly put it up to her sholder and said 'pull'. She smoked the pigeon and handed the gun back.Silence. I have never seen Dad at asuch a total loss for words!</font> <br><br> <a href="#top"><img src="images/up2.jpg" border="0"> top</a><br><br><br><br><br> <h2><a id="egg" name="egg">Gramma Jollief and the Easter egg hunt with Carol</a></h2> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">In 1951 or 1952 my sister Carol would have been 5 or 6. Easter egg hunts were not very sophisticated. So this Easter the city fathers decided to liven up the event by awarding a wrist watch to whoever found the special egg. Casio was unheard of and Timex was just getting started, so watches were still very expensive, probably $30-50. </font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">That Easter Sunday all the small children were lined up around a small section of the Danville park. The section was less than 1/4 acre and there were probably 40 to 50 children. The grass was fairly short and there were numerous trees. The adults were kept out of the search area so they could not help the children. </font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">Now it was obvious that a lot of eggs were laying on the ground, but they all looked alike. So off the children went, baskets in hand, eyes glued to the ground for that special egg. But not Gramma J. as she was known to all her grandchildren. Gramma J. was not only smart she was street-wise. Where would you hide that special egg? So she looked up. Sure enough, there in the fork of one of the seedling trees was the prize egg. Now with a bit of side-line coaching, she got Carol's attention, pointed up at the tree, and Carol had herself a new watch. </font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">There are a number of lessons to be learned from this story; I'll let each reader choose their own. </font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS"></font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">A second story about Gramma J., while somewhat spooky, does say a lot about her personality. I will call this story 'From Beyond the Grave'. </font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">I have always exhibited signs of organization, particularly in making and keeping lists. I always attributed this to my Mother, who we learned after her death, kept a list of every Christmas present and its cost that she gave to every member of her family for every year. In her role as music and art teacher, she also kept a list of which clothes she wore each day to school--presumeably to avoid duplication in the same class. </font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">However her mother, Gramma J. was also a list-keeper. She always sent out birthday cards to her grandchildren--and presumeably others--like clockwork. In our younger days there was usually a Washington or Lincoln enclosed, but when we got older it was just a card. What we didn't know is that early each year Gramma J. went out and purchased the birthday cards for everyone on her list for the coming year. She signed the card, addressed and put a stamp on an envelop, sealed it and filed it away. They a couple days before someone's birthday--another list she kept--Gramma J. would pull out the card and mail it. Efficiency personified. </font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">Now Gramma J. died in the spring of 1980. What happened next can only be surmised. My Mother, bless her heart, must have found this stack of unmailed birthday cards while cleaning out Gramma J's things. Not one to waste a perfectly good card and stamp, Mother went ahead and mailed the cards for the rest of 1980 at the appropriate date. So many grandchildren received messages from beyond the grave. </font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS"></font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">The third story about Gramma J. occurred about 1978. It reflects another side of Gramma J., namely her intense desire to maximize the outcome of everything she did or said. Today we would say she had a hidden agenda, but really she always thought about the consequences of everything she said or did. I would not call this 'political correctness' because she would call 'a spade a spade'. (An example of her mindset, trivial to me but not to her, was her comment after our son, Scot Alan Piper, was born. Now many people have commented on our spelling, but Gramma J. was worried about what his initials spelled.) </font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">Anyway, my daughter Laura, while working on a genealogy project in Jr High, mailed Gramma J. for some background information. Now Gramma J. had a lot of information, so much so that she was a member of DAR. And in the years 1942-1946, she was the Registrar and Dean of Women at a small college in Danville, IN. Now in her 9th decade of life, with most of her friends deceased, she wrote back to Laura with voluminous information. But a final warning note was included. She did not want her educational background to be published because someone might find out she did not have a college education. </font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS"></font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">Another story that occurred about the same time in our little town of Danville that also had some interesting lessons to be learned. There was this contest to determine the most popular girl in town. I'm not sure if there was any age limit. You submitted your girl's name to enter. The list of names was posted at one of the two grocery stores in town, and each girl had a ballot box with her picture on it. Voting was done by the grocery store receipt--the contest was obviously sponsored by one of the grocery stores to pull business away from the other. You put your receipt in the ballot box for each girl, and the total dollar amount was the total vote. Now there were a lot of girls entered, all well known, most pretty and some rich. But as the voting ended after a few weeks, one girl was far, far out in front of the others. She was not pretty, she was certainly not rich and she was relatively unknown. I knew her because she lived next door to me and her father made a living by driving the town's taxi. </font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">Besides having a large family and hence a large grocery bill, the taxi driver was saving the receipts from all his food deliveries and effectively 'stuffing' the ballot box. So much for fair play. The grocery one store got its publicity, but the town got a strange winner. </font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS"></font> <p><font face="Comic Sans MS">One final contest. I think my Mother must have entered a number of contests because my brother Bob was addicted to entering contests. But Mother was extremely naive. I'd hate to think of how she would have been taken in today's Internet scams and pfishes. Mother was an art/music teacher, so she selected this contest that she figured she had a good chance of winning. The rules were to write the sponsor's name, as many times as possible, on the back of a post card. She carefully wrote the name 200 times in very tiny script and she figured she had it won. The winner however did it 2000 times! I never knew any more details, Mother was a little less naive after that.<br></font> <a href="#top"><img src="images/up2.jpg" border="0"> top</a><br><br> <br><br> <h2><a id="baseball" name="baseball">Baseball at Danville Park</a></h2><br><font face="Comic Sans MS">When Dad was at Manchester College, one of the teams in their 'league' was Central Normal, the college in Danville--where we later lived. The ball diamond was located at the Park, and it was part of the football field. So there were not any walls or fencesto mark the diamondboundaries. Actually there was a paved, park road than ran through the left fielder's position, which was Dad's position that day--he normally was the catcher.About50' beyond the road was a creek.<br><br>At some point in the game one of the Central Normal team hit a ball over Dad's head and it rolled into the creek. There seemed to be an unwritten rule that any ball hit into the creek was a home run; at least the home town boys felt so because they would go into their home run trot. Well, the second time it happened, Dad fished the ball out of the creek--which was never more than a couple feet deep--and threw the guy out at home. <br><br>Dad told this story with almost a boyish glee. I felt a somewhat similar joy when a few years later, batting left handed and playing on the softball diamond at the other end of the football field, I reached the edge of this same creek. I had hit a changeup pitchagainst the local hotshot pitcher; it was only some years later that learned that thechangeup is meant to fool the really good batters--something I was not.</font> <br><br> <a href="#top"><img src="images/up2.jpg" border="0"> top</a><br><br><br><br> <h2><a id="funeral" name="funeral">His funeral: friends from many walks of life</a></h2> friends from Danville, friends from church, friends from YMCA, friends from Conservation Club, gun friends<br>Followup cards and letters; detached rectum<br><br><a href="#top"><img src="images/up2.jpg" border="0"> top</a><br><br><br> <h2><a id="pump" name="pump">Designing a floating pump</a></h2> Last project while a camp director<br><br> <a href="#top"><img src="images/up2.jpg" border="0"> top</a><br><br><br><br> <h2><a id="shooting" name="shooting">The shooting 'incident' at the Conservation Club</a></h2><font face="Comic Sans MS">Guns and safety were frequently used by Dad in the same sentence. After his retirement from the 'Y' in 1974, he joined the local Conservation Club. The Club had a 3-5 acre lake, a club house that would handle up to 100 people and facilities for shooting in the form of both a rifle range and a skeet range. He rapidly built up the membership's interest in shooting.<br><br>An incident arose when a bullet entered the side of a home some 1-2 miles from the Club. Dad had a suspect; the guyeven admitted to firing the gun, but claimed any bullet could not have gone that far. So we bought a couple maps from the U. S. Geologic Survey Department. We then could measure the exact distance from the Club to the house with the hole. Dad looked up the muzzle velocity of the offending gun, and with this data, it was an easy calculation to determine the angle--actually there were two angles--that the gun would have had to have been elevated to achieve this range. When confronted with these facts, the Club member backed down and probably was kicked out of the Club--although not before trying to get Dad into trouble with the Firearms division of the Dept of Treasury for being a 'gun runner'. Dad had something like four separate gun permits, and the investigating agent was very impressed with not only his records but the fact that he had tought somewhere around10,000 kids about gun safety.</font><br><br><a href="#top"><img src="images/up2.jpg" border="0"> top</a><br><br><br><br> <h2><a id="garage" name="garage">The garage gadgets</a></h2> Not a big deal, just dozens of 'inventions' to make his life easier<br><br> <a href="#top"><img src="images/up2.jpg" border="0"> top</a><br><br> <br><br><br> <font size="4" color="blue" face="arial">You need to check back from time to time to see how I am progressing on these stories.</font><br><br> <center><a href="start.htm"><font face="arial" color="red" size="4">Return to start page</font></a><br><br><b><!-- embed music, user controlled --> <center><font face="comic sans ms" size="3">'The music is Swan Lake' (midi).</font><br> <embed src="swanlake.mid" loop="2" height="20" width="150" autostart="true"></embed></center><br><br></embed> <center> <b>Site created by Larry L. Piper, Aug. 12, 2002. 2002-2006. <br><br>Last updated: Dec. 14, 2008 <br><br> <a href="mailto:larryp56@chartermi.net?subject=JRP Stories">email</a> me with comments.</b><br><br> <img src="../images/powweb.gif"></center></b></center><font face="Arial" color="#0000ff" size="5">S</font> <h2></h2> </body></html>