I don’t like it when I get totally confused, and that was the case last week. 
Stuart, my therapy dog, and I were out doing our normal things. On Tuesdays we visit one of two nursing homes and rehab facilities. We always alternate between the places, and I keep a calendar to ensure that we are at the right place on the proper day. 

But because of some scheduling  problems, I got confused and went to the same nursing home two weeks in a row. We will get back on track ... I hope.
A few days before that my friend Amy Storms told me that her daughters, Abby and Chelsea, were working part time at the Lowe’s on Emerson Avenue, which is where Amy works. Bill Bane had told me that Amy was going to get married during the first week of May.

Since Stuart and I were returning from a reading session at Hornet Park Elementary, we decided to stop by Lowe’s and see Amy. 
As we were walking through the building, Chelsea stepped out into the aisle and waved at us. We started chatting, and a couple of the questions that I asked her got answers that I wasn’t expecting. I was a bit puzzled.

Chelsea was working a register and needed to get back to help some customers. Another cashier told me that I could find Amy at the front desk. 
As Stuart and I started walking through the store again, Chelsea stepped toward us again. But it wasn’t her. I was shocked to see that it was Rachele Tryon. She was one of my former bus riders when she attended South Grove Intermediate. She and her sister, Myranda, rode with me.

I tried explaining why I had a stupid look on my face. I told Rachele that I had confused her with Chelsea. I said I had been told that Chelsea and Abby worked at the store and Chelsea is who I had been expecting to see. I had no clue Rachele worked there.
She looked at me and asked if I had not known that I had been talking to her earlier. I nodded my head in agreement. She then placed an arm around me and muttered that I was really getting old. I think Stuart was about to agree with her.

We talked for a couple of more minutes before she headed back to her work station. 
Stuart and I walked to the front desk area and spotted Amy, who confirmed her upcoming wedding. She introduced us to her friend and co-worker Linda. If I were asked to describe Linda, I probably would have to say she is a “hot mess.” Stuart and I enjoyed meeting Linda.

We talked about a couple of things before I told Amy that I had confused Rachele with Chelsea. 
I was getting better at explaining this now. I told her how there are two pairs of sisters and the fact that Chelsea helped me on Bus No. 5 and the Tryon sisters rode Bus No. 5 had me a bit confused. Plus I had no clue Rachele worked at Lowe’s.
I think Rachele, Myranda, Chelsea and Abby need to take me to lunch and help me get unconfused. Stuart agrees.

The Southport High School Alumni Association has one less member as George Gerdt died a few days ago. George was in the class ahead of mine at Southport. He and his family owned Gerdt Furniture in Southport.
I have this wonderful memory of being in Thomas Brethauer’s public speaking class with George. I believe I was a junior.

One afternoon Mr. Brethauer was lecturing and writing important information on the blackboard. My desk was just a bit to the rear of George’s, and one day I noticed that he was telling a story to a few of the guys sitting near him.

As I looked around the room there were several small discussions going on between classmates; very few were taking notes. Mr. Brethauer continued writing on the blackboard.
All of a sudden he turned around to make an important point, and as he swung his arm out in front of himself, he knocked his glass of water on the papers that occupied his desk.

I think everyone in the room except George witnessed the accident, and everybody but him got quiet. My desk wasn’t close enough to have heard the entirety of his story, but I did hear the next three words that he said after the room went silent: “Well damn it.”

Mr. Brethauer looked at George, and George’s attention was focused on the front of the class. What George said next was amazing. As he quickly took in the view of Mr. Brethauer and the spilled glass, his quick thinking showed up.
George shouted, “No. No. I mean damn up the water so it doesn’t ruin any of your papers!” The class broke into wild laughter, and we were shocked at the speed George was able to expound a logical explanation for his outburst. Mr. Brethauer leveled his eyes at the class, and we froze into silence.

Unfortunately for George, he didn’t notice the bad eye from Mr. Brethauer. At the exact time that the room fell silent, George was explaining things to his buddies about his quick thinking, but what we all heard from him was, “Hell, I didn’t notice that he knocked over that water at first.”

Mr. Brethauer gracefully swung his arm, without striking anything, toward the door and said, “George, OUT! …To the office ... NOW!”
I have little memory of any other students that were in the class, but I bet that several of them could have written about this.
George was a great guy, and he is going to be missed.

Oh yeah. He and I shared Aug. 5 as our birth dates. Shonk is a 1960 graduate of Southport High School, a ’63 grad of Indiana Central College (now the University of Indianapolis) and a retired bus driver from Beech Grove Schools. 

Several times during the past few weeks I have been reminded of friends who were either customers or employees at my father’s Sunoco service station on Madison Avenue. One customer was a great guy named Warren Roller, who was a member of the Indianapolis Fire Department.

In most cases, firemen worked 24-hour shifts and then were off 48 hours before returning to the job. Most firemen had part-time jobs that occupied some of their free time. Warren had a small construction business.
One weekend morning while he was getting a vehicle serviced, he asked me if I had any important plans for that afternoon. I replied that I was free for the afternoon, and he asked if I would help him wax his airplane. He explained that he owned a small single-engine plane and was a licensed pilot. I was told that he kept his plane at the Greenwood Airport. 

Warren picked me up later that afternoon, and we went to the airport. He told me several important things about the plane before we waxed it. We worked well together, and he was telling me stories about planes and fire trucks. When we finished and put everything away, Warren asked me if I would like to go for a plane ride.
A ride had not been discussed, so I was surprised and excited. Soon we were inside the cockpit, buckled in and ready to go. After he conversed with the tower, we took off. As we crossed Southport Road, Warren said we would be flying over my house on Fairhope Drive. It was so cool to see our neighbors’ homes and our house from the air.

He banked left, and we were headed west along Thompson Road to U.S. 31. I saw Longacre Pool and Park. After another left turn we were soaring south over U.S. 31. I was having a blast. 

As we were flying over the highway, I noticed something strange. Cars motoring south on U.S. 31 were going faster than we were. About then, Warren bumped me on my shoulder and pointed to some of the gauges on the dashboard. Then he said, “That wax is really doing a good job. This is the fastest this plane has ever flown,” he said while pointing to the speed indicator.

I was concerned that we were going slower than cars on the highway, and he was excited about setting a new speed record in his airplane. I never said anything about those fast-moving cars. 

During my early years – when it took only a single digit to explain my age – we lived on Madison Avenue. As I have mentioned before, the house that we lived in then is now the Longacre Bar & Grill. I have shared a few “old house” tales about that place in past columns.

I remember some of the Easter egg hunts there. Most kids desired to get up early the morning after the arrival of Santa or the Easter Bunny. I recall feeling lucky because that wasn’t a problem at our house. I’m sure my sister, Kathy, would agree.

Our dad had a daily milk route – I remember being told that milk cows did not recognize weekends or holidays –  and it required him to drive out to various farms in the New Palestine area and pick up milk from dairy farmers and haul it to the Polk Milk Co. in Indianapolis to be processed and bottled for sale. This meant that he had to leave our house by 6:30 a.m. Christmas and Easter. 

I remember the Easter Bunny being generous and smart. Our baskets overflowed with colored eggs and candy. What really impressed me about him was that he would hide eggs and candy outside if the weather was nice and inside if the weather was nasty. I wondered if he used the same route as Santa.

Santa always came down our chimney. In advance of his yearly visit, he would receive a letter or a visit from Kathy and myself so he knew what we wanted. The Easter Bunny knew what kind of candy we liked. He never left me any coconut candy because he knew I disliked it.

Because dad started on his route so early, he was finished by early afternoon. That allowed him to stay caught up on all of his home duties, like yard work and keeping his milk truck operational. I remember he and my maternal grandfather installing a basketball goal on the front of our garage.

That goal provided many hours of fun for me and my buddies; we all went to Edgewood Grade School or Perry Junior High. I really liked it when Dad played with us. His specialty was his underhand scoop shot.

Another one of my fond memories involved Dad reading the ongoing children’s stories in the newspaper to Kathy and me. Each afternoon he positioned himself in his favorite easy chair – with us kids comfortably on the chair’s soft arms –  and read “Uncle Wiggily.” Uncle Wiggily Longears was the main character in this series by Howard R. Garis, who penned a story every day (except Sundays) for more than 30 years and published 75-plus books.

I remember sitting with Dad and listening to those stories like it was last week. 
When my grandsons were little I purchased an “Uncle Wiggily” book, which I still have and occasionally peek into. Maybe I should take it up to the Longacre and read myself a few stories.