My family was going through some interesting changes when I was in junior high. 
Dad had sold his daily milk route, which entailed him picking up milk from farms in the Acton/New Palestine area and delivering it to a processing plant in Indianapolis to be bottled. He was going to open a Sunoco service station on Madison Avenue just north of Epler. 

While the building was being constructed, Dad was trained for his new career at a company-operated station on West Washington Street. It was open 24 hours, and he worked various shifts. I went with him a few times on the overnight shift. 

During the construction process and when school was in session, I got off the school bus in the afternoon at Epler and Madison. I enjoyed walking home and watching the progress of the station. It was also great to walk with Nancy Wilcox and other classmates.

During Dad’s time in training, he and George Frye, who was also in training to open a station, became good friends. George, a native of Loogootee, lived in Brownsburg and was going to open a station there.
Both businesses opened about the same time. We stayed in contact with several Sunoco dealers in the Indianapolis area. Bill Singer had one of the first Sunoco stations in the city, and White’s Sunoco was on Madison near the Teepee Restaurant. 

After a few years George gave up his business and came down to work with us. He was a great guy, and we worked together well. It’s amazing to me the goofy things we remember about someone. George had two work uniforms: one for warm weather and one for cold weather. There were two days a year when he switched from his winter attire to summer clothing and vise-versa. Once that change was made he wore that uniform until the next change – no matter what the weather was like.

When we started operating our fleet of school buses, George obtained his license and became a bus driver. He and his wife moved from Brownsburg to a home just off of Edgewood.

When we decided to close our station and move to a larger building in Southport, George stayed with us. I learned so much from him. The building that we operated out of there is now Long’s Bakery. 

After a few years we sold our fleet to Perry Township Schools. My father and George went to work for the township as bus mechanics, positions from which they retired. 

George and his wife moved back to Loogootee after they retired. George and my Dad are dead, but I frequently think about them. 

A group of current and former township bus drivers meets monthly for breakfast. We have so much fun remembering our friends and telling great stories.

I so enjoy driving north on Madison from Epler to Shelby. I remember our gas station, Nancy Wilcox’s house, Heath’s Market, my family’s old house, several neighbors’ houses and Longacre Pool. Wow!

My wife, Lyn, and I reside on Fairhope Lane in the house that my folks built when I was in high school. My family moved into that home shortly after I obtained my driver’s license. My sister, Kathy, was finishing her last year at Edgewood Grade School, and one of my morning duties was to drive her to school. We all agreed that she shouldn’t have to change schools for one year.

Lyn has been in Colorado for a couple of weeks, and I have been the lone human in the house. That triggered some memories of when my folks went on a vacation and allowed me to stay home alone. 

During that period of time we operated the Sunoco service station on Madison Avenue. The first time that I was in charge, one of the large underground fuel tanks cracked and water got mixed with the gasoline. We had to repair several customers’ cars. 

On another occasion when I was alone for a few days, I thought hosting a small party would be a good idea. I contacted a couple of my girlfriends so they could help me plan a party on short notice. I think we invited six couples.

Some of the yard needed mowing, and one of the gals stepped up and volunteered. I got out our riding mower and showed her how to use it before returning to the house to get some other stuff done. 

The mowing sounded like it was going well until I heard the mower make a deep growl a couple of times before returning to its normal sound. I rushed to the window to see a small tree, which my dad had planted about two months ago, scattered all over the yard. I rushed out and flagged my helper to a stop. She informed me that in a panic she forgot how to stop the mower.

As I recall, the rest of the evening went fairly well. I salvaged a small branch of the tree and took it to several stores the next day to see if I could replace it. I was told that that type of tree should not be planted in the middle of summer. I was stuck.

When my folks returned from their trip, I was home waiting. I had planned on telling Dad when he was in a good mood, but I didn’t have the chance. He walked in the front door, strolled through the house and looked out the picture window to the back yard.

Before saying anything like “Hello” or “How are you doing?” he yelled, “What happened to my tree?” I quickly started explaining how I was so overloaded with chores that I asked a friend for some help, and my friend hit the tree with the mower.

I told him that I had tried to find a replacement. When I mentioned the type that I had looked for, Dad said he was glad I hadn’t planted that kind of tree, for it wasn’t an apple tree – the kind my friend had mowed down.  
Dad would have been wondering for years where the apples were.

Sometimes my columns take us down memory lane to my elementary and high school days, as I enjoy remembering those times and the opportunities that challenged us every day. This week’s piece is playing out Sunday afternoon while I sit in my little outbuilding office (aka The Hideout) and mash together a bunch of words for Southsider Voice Editor Scott Mohr, who will skillfully mesh them together for us to read.

It has been a full week that I have been operating under what I’m calling “camp conditions.” My wife, Lyn, is in Colorado, and I am home alone ... well, not if you count the pets.

Lyn is assisting her brother, Tom, and his family. Tom is having some serious health issues, and some of these problems are the same ones that their mother experienced years ago. Lyn remembers these well and knew that she would be able to help.

Before she could go it took her about a day to find folks who could  cover her volunteer work at various agencies. Since Lyn was leaving over the Fourth of July weekend, booking a flight was a challenge; she had to settle for a departure time of 6:30 a.m. Sunday. Alarms went off at our house at 4 a.m., and we were heading to the airport an hour later. 

Our therapy dog, Stuart rode with us. On our drive home I explained to him what was going to be different for the next couple of weeks.  

There are a couple of things that cause Stuart distress: thunderstorms and fireworks, both the norm lately. We didn’t get much sleep over the Independence  weekend. Most of the time I would have been the second choice as a human to console Stuart during these scary times, but he had to settle for me, and he seemed to be pouting as he did so. 

The young hens – Alberta, Betty and Jackie – that live in our backyard are also distressed by Lyn’s absence. If my wife is going to be doing some yard or garden work, she will release the chickens from their cage so they can roam. They behave well for her, but I can’t say the same for when I let them out.

Stuart and I have worked things out over the past week. He loves routines, and I struggled with the distribution of his treats for a few days. I generally only give him a treat when I need to leave the house and will be going some places that he wouldn’t be welcomed. Sometimes when he doesn’t want me to leave without him, he will turn his head away and won’t accept the treat. If I tried to give him a dog cookie at the beginning of last week, he assumed that I was going to leave and wouldn’t accept it. 

The only other creature that sometimes hangs around our house is the neighborhood cat, Guessie, who enjoys Stuart’s company. I haven’t noticed Guessie recognizing any changes in our routine.

One more week and Lyn will be home. All of us here will be doing the happy dance when she returns.

I had fun part-time job driving a charter bus in Indianapolis during the 1990s. During the professional basketball season I worked with several of the teams that came to town to play the Pacers.

On one such occasion during the 1991-92 campaign, I drove out to the airport to meet the Boston Celtics. At that time many in the NBA believed that Larry Bird was playing his final season. This was probably going to be the last time he played at Market Square Arena.

After the Celtics’ gear was loaded, I was ready for the trip to the team’s Downtown hotel. As we headed up the ramp to the Airport Expressway I noticed a television cameraman recording us. Within a half-mile we encountered another guy taping us. I smiled while thinking about how much attention was being given to Bird’s last game in Indianapolis. 

A couple of guys met us at the Westin and asked the coaches to step off the bus while everyone else remain seated. They talked for a while before an assistant released all the players and staff except for one player, but it wasn’t Bird. 

I later found out that the detained player had been involved in a hit-and-run accident in the Boston area the previous evening; it wasn’t until the flight had departed that law enforcement officials had put all the pieces together.

Things became much clearer then. Those cameramen weren’t as much interested in Bird’s last game in Indy as they were in breaking the story about the accident. They had followed us Downtown and were setting up their cameras near the bus. Soon, that player and all of the fellows talking to him exited the bus and went inside the hotel.That was the last I heard about the incident for a few years.

One of the Celtics’ stars was their starting center, Robert “The Chief” Parish. We hit it off quickly and enjoyed chatting each time he was in town. Several years later he was a member of the Chicago
Bulls and started with Michael Jordan, Scottie Pippen and Dennis Rodman.

On one occasion as The Chief and I were talking, I asked him if he remembered the hit-and-run incident. He told me that the player had been convicted and served some time before moving to Europe to play ball. 
Parish said the player was a good guy who made a couple of bad choices. He also said the guy had learned from his mistakes and was really doing a good job of piecing his life back together. I don’t remember his name, but I’ll never forget the concern and passion in The Chief’s voice as he gave me the update.

Bird finished the season and became a member of the 1992 Olympic squad, known as The Dream Team. He was later named coach of the Pacers before being becoming president of basketball operations. He is the only person in the NBA to be honored as Most Valuable Player, Coach of the Year and Executive of the Year.