Simpler Times
But the message was always the same … it was meant to build character
By Ron Ciancutti
A couple of old Army barracks sat far back from the road. One had been converted into living quarters, and the other housed bicycle parts of every kind. The gentleman who lived there allowed any kid who didn’t have a bike to build his own from the piles of frames, parts, and tires. The old man’s guidance was steady and patient. When the bike was completely functional and safe, the child paid the man five dollars. If the kid had no money, he returned and worked the five dollars off by helping to clean up the yard and the bike building. Most kids hung around long after their debt was paid. They learned the value of a giving spirit, and it felt good. That’s why every kid in my hometown had a bike and grew up able to fix, repair, or rebuild it—a set of skills that lasted a lifetime. Those skills included patience, integrity, and a steady hand. The boys from the local orphans’ home spent a lot of time there. They put a gigantic pot of water on each morning, and everyone brought something to put in the pot. Perhaps a can of tomato soup, a can of beans, some carrots to dice up, a cup of rice. Each day was different. They called it Hobo Stew, and the old man added spices before it was served. It was always different, but always good.
Photo: www.canstockphoto.com / Antonio_Diaz
My parents never worried about me spending time there. The old man told wonderful stories of the past, and I recall him making connections for some of the older boys who needed jobs or perhaps letters of recommendation for school. Politics were never involved in the people he “served”; he just enjoyed doing the right thing.
The Tire Store
About one or two miles away stood a long, brick storage building owned by another stalwart businessman. The building was full of tires of every shape and size, and locals always marveled that, no matter the request, the right tire would always be found. The owner kept worn ones, plugged ones, new ones, and barely rubber ones because some folks couldn’t afford new tires, but they needed just enough to get to work; he believed that “one man’s junk might be another’s treasure.” Local legend was that the rubber he donated to the war effort (WWII) was monumental, and that he had a letter from the president thanking him. The letter was “somewhere in one of those drawers in the desk.” But his extra-special “performances” happened frequently in winter. He never had more than a floor jack and tire iron for tools. Even in winter with the snow swirling around, he could be seen in front of the store changing tires in his white T-shirt and gray work pants. He stood about 6’5” and had a back as broad as a basement door. It was a familiar scene to see a man in a suit and tie standing there as the old man dove under the car and broke those tight lug nuts, sending the wrench spinning in a speedy circle. In only a few minutes, the driver was on his way while the tire man’s arms were bright pink. Nothing a little coffee wouldn’t fix.
My dad always bought his tires there and would bring the old man a canned ham and a tin of nuts every Christmas. When Skip from Skippy’s Pool Hall got a new slate pool table, he asked his tire buddy to help him move it into his building. The old man took one end, and three guys took the other.
The Pool Hall
Skippy’s was a great place, too. The pinball machines were only a dime, and the snacks were awesome. A person could buy an ice-cold Dad’s Root Beer, a cup of hot cashews, five pretzel sticks, and three licorice whips for sixty cents. That left four dimes out of a dollar for pinball; I made a dime last quite a while. My dad was a pretty good pool player, so I got to know all the old-timers fairly well, too. They all gave me loose change, hard candies, and an occasional Hershey bar. If Dad played well, I could usually con him out of an extra dollar; I went next door to Griffin Hardware, where I bought a Hot Wheels car for seventy-nine cents including tax (there were two more dimes for pinball and a penny for a licorice button back at Skip’s).
The Barber Shop
With a belly full of root beer, I pushed my new Hot Wheel along the pool-hall benches until I was bored. Then I went across the street to my grandfather’s barber shop. Now, that place was loaded with political talk—most of which I didn’t understand, but what I do remember is most of the talk was in agreement, not disagreement. The customers were “all on the same team.” Everyone wanted the best for our country, our citizens, our leaders. There was a high level of trust and a belief that elected leaders had our best interests in mind. Political parties were practically unknown, as I recall; people had a tendency to look on the bright side. Walter Cronkite was the national-news anchorman, a calming presence like a grandfather, with a steady baritone voice that soothed America. He never tried to trick us or scare us. When John Kennedy was assassinated, his voice cracked, and he broke into tears while reporting the news. He removed his glasses and paused, and a nation wept with him.
When the Saturday-morning gang left the barber shop, Pappy patted the chair and looked at me. I jumped up on the seat, and he buzzed my hair “like the college boys wear it” (constant character-building references back then). Afterwards, I dug in my pocket for a nickel or any remaining change to pay him. He told me to “put it in the poor box at church,” so the next day when I walked into church with my grandma (his wife), I did just that. After church, we walked back to her house where she made a breakfast that was nothing short of wonderful. I changed my clothes and cut her grass and then jumped back on my bike to ride home where there were other chores waiting, but nothing unreasonable. Most of my friends and I felt it was an honor to be living under our parents’ roof because we knew how hard they worked to provide for us. The daily chores were merely a contribution we made to make that life whole. It was the American home—no politics—just co-existing in a free world we were a part of and understanding there was a need for gratitude and cooperation that came with the privileges. That attitude made the county better. It made us better people.
Local Heroes
Most of my peers wanted to be astronauts; the NASA Glenn facility was on the outskirts of town as was the Cleveland Browns training facility. So those of us who didn’t want to go to the moon wanted to go to the stadium and play in the NFL. No player was hawking $300 shoes back then, and they gladly signed an autograph when kids biked up to the practice field and watched them as they prepared for fall games. The Hall of Fame kicker Lou Groza even lived in our town, and people would ask, “How ya feeling, Lou?” He smiled and famously answered, “Welllll, I can’t kick.” The fans just loved that. It made them feel like he was one of us.
See? Maybe that’s all that’s missing these days—a sense of belonging that evokes a sense of pride and character, a return to simple things, simple times.
President Dwight Eisenhower was often quoted saying he owed much to his quiet upbringing and the life he treasured as a boy. “For any American who had the great and priceless privilege of being raised in a small town, there always remains with him nostalgic memories. And the older he grows, the more he senses what he owed to the simple honesty and neighborliness, the integrity that he saw all around him in those days,” he said.
It’s perfectly simple, isn’t it?
Ron Ciancutti worked in the parks and recreation industry since he was 16 years old, covering everything from maintenance, operations, engineering, surveying, park management, design, planning, recreation, and finance. He is now retired. He holds a B.S. in Business from Bowling Green State University and an M.B.A. from Baldwin Wallace University. He is not on Facebook, but he can be reached at ron@northstarpubs.com.