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July 29th, 2014

7/29/2014

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Back in my early driving days, my buddies and I showed favoritism toward certain automobiles. Some of my friends were totally attached to General Motors vehicles, while others were fond of big-engine, four-speed Chevrolets. High-performance Fords were strong, and Chryslers with Hemi engines were wicked.
We raced them at local drag strips and cheered them on at national drag racing events. We also paid attention to our favorite makes on the NASCAR circuit; these cars started out as stock models but were modified from bumper to bumper.


Several of my friends and I made trips to Florida for the Daytona 500. I always cheered for the drivers who drove Fords because I drove, raced and worked on them.


I operated a small industrial supply business in 1995 and sometimes drove a charter bus for The Free Enterprise System. As the Brickyard 400 weekend neared, I received a charter that involved taking a group to practice, qualifying and the race. But rain washed out qualifying, and the starting order was determined by practice speeds.


The race was held on Saturdays back then, and that year’s event was scheduled for Aug. 5 (my birthday). 
It was raining race day morning as I drove my group out to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. And by the looks of the ominous clouds, it appeared that the race would be postponed until Sunday. Some of my passengers headed for their seats in a suite on the front stretch while some remained on the bus with me.
Hours had passed but there was no official announcement that the race had been postponed. The folks who had stayed behind finally decided to join the others in the suite, and they invited me.

 
In a strange turn of events, the rained stopped around 3:30 p.m., and the track-drying equipment was deployed. The cars were lined up a short time later, and the green flag waved about 4:30 p.m. 
For the thousands of people who had already left the IMS, they made a beeline back to the track and caught some of the race, which was over by 7 p.m.


It had been a long day for myself and my passengers, and I still had to return them to their pickup location. 
But my day was far from being over. My group was affiliated with General Motors and was part of the group known as GM Goodwrench, the main sponsor of Dale Earnhardt Sr.’s winning car.


We were soon down on the track. From there the party moved a few times inside the track and then a couple of times to locations at hotels. It went on for hours. After having spent so much time with some members of the group, I felt like part of the gang.


I met Earnhardt and car owner Richard Childress that evening and chatted with them briefly. Earnhardt always drove a Chevy, but he got to talk and laugh with a Ford guy that day.


 My long day was getting longer and longer. As I remember, I parked the coach back in the company lot about 1:30 a.m. 


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. 
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July 23rd, 2014

7/23/2014

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I started driving a school bus at the start of the 2001-02 school year. I saw an advertisement in The Spotlight (now The Southsider Voice) by Beech Grove Schools and called and got an interview with Assistant Superintendent Jim Flanders. Within a few days I was an employee. 

On one of my first visits to the transportation department I ran into my old friend William “Bill” Bane. “At least everyone wouldn’t be a stranger,” I thought.


School started in a few days, and there was a lot to learn: my routes and duties and school policies, and I wanted to become acquainted with my fellow drivers. Bill was a big help in those early days of school that year.
The drivers room in the transportation building is where drivers gather for meetings or hang out until leaving on their routes. The room has a large conference table with chairs positioned around it. I quickly noticed that most of the drivers had their special seats. 


After a few days I spotted an empty seat and started sitting in it. It was interesting to visit with 10 to 15 new fellow workers at that table. Sometimes it seemed like everyone was talking and no one was listening. 
One day during a rare quiet moment, I heard a female driver ask if anyone had change for a twenty. I dug into my pockets and counted my cash, but I only had about $17. However, I had a plan. I held up my fist full of small bills and coins and told her I had change.  


Upon returning to her seat and counting the money, she appeared a bit startled. I was sure that she would look in my direction, so I looked away. I watched as she started counting it again. I figured she was considering the possibility that she had miscounted. 


The woman now faced the dilemma of challenging a new employee and accusing him of shortchanging her $3. I’m not sure if she knew my name or vice versa. I watched as she started counting that pile of money for the third time. 


After that third count the lady looked up with total distress showing on her face. When we finally made eye contact I exploded in laughter. She knew that she had been had and quickly filled the room with words unfit to be published here.


We both were laughing in a couple of minutes. I apologized and told her that I owed her $1.50. She quickly and loudly corrected me.


Michele Atherton and I became good friends over the years and are still employed by the transportation department. I often ask her if she needs change, but she never does. 


During that time I had several friends and family members named Michelle, including our daughter and her friend. When I started working with Michele Atherton, I need to separate the Micheles when having conversations with them. 


Our daughter remained Michelle; her neighbor became “Little Michelle,” and my co-worker became “One L,” which she is still known as. Bill Bane is still Bill Bane.

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July 16th, 2014

7/16/2014

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I operated a small industrial supply sales business from 1985-2001, during which time I had only two employees. My daughter, Michelle, helped as an outside sales representative for a while, and Herbert T. Catt was my officer manager for several years.

At some point I joined the Indianapolis Business Boosters, which is still a great networking club that meets on Thursday mornings. As I remember, I missed a couple of meetings and discovered that I had been elected president when I returned.


We met at MCL Restaurant, 3630 S. East St., and the cafeteria’s staff prepared our meeting area and allowed us to store some of our materials on the premises. 


One morning I walked into the restaurant for our meeting and was informed by an employee (Heather) that she couldn’t find our stuff. She was sort of excited and a bit upset as she scampered off to check some other places. 


I turned around and to my amazement I saw a couple of our members walking in with all of the missing materials. They had used the equipment while attempting to attract new members during a recent function.
Shortly after we finished setting up, Heather returned. She was more upset and excited than before as she repeatedly announced that she could not find our stuff. I pointed toward the front of our meeting space and told her that we had found everything.


Her eyes grew, and she asked, “Where was it?” She was so relieved but at the same time very confused.
I smiled and said, “It was in the basement.”


I didn’t think that she could become any more excited than she was, but I was wrong. “We don’t have a basement,” she continually remarked. 


Soon Heather saw some other employees and exclaimed that the stuff had been found. She was also asking them if they knew anything about the cafeteria having a basement. She returned and announced, “WE DON’T HAVE A BASEMENT!” 


I smiled and explained that the only entrance to the cellar was through a door in the men’s rest room. That set Heather off again, and she was off to find that door. 


She must have said “We don’t have a basement” a couple of hundred times that morning. 
I’m sure that she eventually found out where the materials had been.


That happened about 15 years ago, and Heather still works there; she’s going on 23 years. We have laughed and joked about that morning and the elusive basement for years.


I stopped in to see her to get some facts straight last week. She was taking care of customers, and there was no way I could keep up with her as she flew through the dining areas. So I stood still, and as she passed I would ask a question, which she answered on her way back. 


Heather works during lunchtime. If you want a good meal, stop at MCL and sit in Heather’s section. Tell her you know about “the basement.”
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July 09th, 2014

7/9/2014

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Most of the time I am guided to an idea for my column by conversations with family and/or friends. I get excited as I recall the story at my computer.

But this week I’m drawing a blank, so I’ll have to resort to a story from my backup list of potential ones.
This tale happened when Madison Avenue was being converted from a two-lane state highway to its present four-lane configuration. My father’s Sunoco service station, which was on Madison just north of Epler Avenue, was almost impossible to enter or exit for months. We also had several school buses that we needed to service, fuel and park.


While keeping the station open, we leased one at the corner of Carson and Hanna avenues. We spread out our employees between the two locations. My dad stayed at the Madison site, and I was dispatched to the other.


Both stations were open from 6 a.m.-10 p.m., and we pumped the gas while checking the oil, water, battery, etc., and washing the windows. We also checked tire pressure and provided free air. Gas was about 30 cents per gallon. My how things have changed.


One morning as I arrived for work I noticed a car parked directly in front of the main customer door. I immediately recognized the auto as being owned by Mickey Johnson, a good friend of mine. I walked past the car, noted it was empty, saw the keys on the floor and started to open the station. 


I figured his car needed some repairs and was dropped off during the night. I was sure that Mick would call and tell me what was wrong with it. I believe that he delivered pizzas during the evening at this time and would need his car that night.


If I didn’t hear from him by 10 a.m., I would call him for instructions.
Around 8 a.m. I heard strange noises coming the truck, which was wiggling a little. Soon those mumbling noises became shouts of “Get me out of here!” which were interlaced with profanities. 
I grabbed the keys and unlocked the trunk. As the lid opened I discovered the car’s disheveled and confused owner. 


We later found out that Mick and some of his friends were at a lively party. When it was time to leave, everyone concurred that Mick was in no shape to drive. It was decided that a friend would drive him home and would be followed by another friend to collect the helpful driver. Well, either Mick couldn’t give proper directions to his home, or he didn’t want to go home in his condition. So, they drove to our service station and locked him in his trunk.


When I find myself at a loss for a good story, I think of my good friend Michael Howard Johnson.
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. 
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    Fred Shonk

    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. 

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