Some would say I had an idyllic childhood. I was the youngest son of Jack and Lois Schoch. The four of us (including brother John, four years older) lived on Washington Avenue, in Springfield, NJ.
My father managed stone quarries for Houdaille Construction Materials Company during the day, moonlighting with Mr. Brown or Mr. Heerwagen in the evenings as a painter/wall paperer/carpenter. My mother was a Registered Nurse in our School District, followed by her association with Dr. Bruton, an orthopedic surgeon at the Summit Medical Group. Doctor Bruton assisted with one of Joe Namath’s earlier knee surgeries.
Our home was a small two-story Cape Cod; one bedroom, one bath, a living room, a dining room and a kitchen on the first-floor, two bedrooms and one bath on the second floor as well as a full unfinished basement. The basement was split into three areas; my mother’s laundry, my father’s woodworking shop (the sawdust was an ongoing point of contention for my mother and her tidy laundry) and our play area that included a television and a homemade ping pong table.
The best part of our existence was Washington Avenue Park, which was conveniently located a few steps beyond our property’s fencerow. The park consisted of a baseball field, a basketball court and a large, wooded area that cloistered such intriguing spots as Danger Manger and the Turtle Hole, all of which bordered the Rahway River, far more a stream than a river. We literally lived in the park, playing all sorts of sports with our friends, season after season.
Faith, family, sports, friends and proper conduct were the priorities of the day.
Faith: My father and mother were members of the First Presbyterian Church in Springfield. The church was established in 1745. During the Revolutionary War, the church was burned to the ground by British and Loyalist troops; rebuilt in 1791. In 1905, the State of New Jersey erected a statue of a Continental soldier on the front lawn of the church on land deeded to the State. The statue sits on the grounds of the smallest State Park in New Jersey, a mere five feet by five feet.
Our grandmother was the director of our youth Sunday School while my father served as President of the Board of Trustees, an Elder, Deacon and handyman. We rarely, if ever, missed Sunday School or weekly service. Our Reverend (Dr. Bruce W. Evans), was a graduate of Princeton Theological Seminary. He continued his education at Oxford University in England. Reverend Evans and his wife (Lib), were close family friends.
Sports: Our world revolved around playing, watching and listening to sports. It wasn’t uncommon for my mother to be listening to Notre Dame football, the New York “Football” Giants or the New York Yankees on her radio in our kitchen. Our father was an outstanding high school wrestler, competing as a lightweight for his entire high school career, placing runner-up in a statewide AAU tournament. Our mother would have been a sensational high school athlete had women sports been in vogue during her childhood. Her nickname in the neighborhood was “Wilma” (referencing Wilma Rudolph, a three-time Olympic gold medalist and the fastest woman in the world during the 1960’s) as she ran faster than any young buck or doe in our community. My brother played football (quarterback), basketball (guard) and baseball (third baseman) in high school. His collegiate football career, which lasted a total of three days, was cut short due to a significant knee injury. I played basketball and baseball in high school and basketball and lacrosse in college.
I share this background as a backdrop to the following story which occurred during the summer of 1961. I was seven years old at the time. A true classic in the annuls of our family history.
During the summer months of our childhood, Washington Avenue Park was the place to be. Two counselors were responsible for as many as thirty-day campers between the ages of five and fifteen: coordinating the various activities of the day. Those activities included, but were not limited to arts and crafts, games, field days, tether ball, baseball/softball, basketball, etc. All of this stuff was absolutely in my wheelhouse!
One summer afternoon, after I had sustained a devastating loss in a heated tether ball match, my brother, having witnessed my post-match behavior, thought it was in our family’s best interest to report to headquarters that I had used profanity. Shortly thereafter, I heard my mother’s recognizable whistle, soliciting my immediate presence; you know, the fingers in your mouth kind of whistle that can be heard for miles! As I left the tether ball area, heading towards home, I passed the picnic tables where counselors were occupied with numerous campers. I then cut across the middle of the infield, inexplicably stopping to request a drag of a cigarette from the pitcher, Arnold Arnold (this is not a typo), completely unaware that my mother and brother were standing just shy our rear fencerow in plain sight of my second felony in mere moments.
My mother, not unaccustomed to wielding the literal and figurative consequences of inappropriate behavior, thought it was best to wait until my father got home to further assess the situation and dispense the proportional disciplinary measures. For the accused, this was never a good situation as dealing with the unknown (until dad got home), was far worse than any immediate punishment!
As the judges and the accused sat around the kitchen table, the verdict came swiftly… “QUILTY”. After some degree of deliberation, the sentencing phase of the proceedings began to take shape. It was determined that I would be required to stay in my room (other than meals), until I completed a very specific assignment; writing (actually printing because I didn’t know cursive at the time), in black and white composition books, the following:
- 250 times…I will never swear again.
- 250 times…I will never smoke again.
If the actual punishment component wasn’t challenging enough, it occurred in the middle of summer, in ninety-degree temperatures, in an un-air-conditioned upstairs bedroom. As I recall, the task took the better part of three days to complete. Three days away from my buddies, baseball and good times.
In retrospect, I was thankful that I wasn’t caught drinkin’ or I may have never seen the light of day!
Thank you for following Bad Golf Guy! The back nine can only get better!
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