Stories for Oliver

Advance Praise for Stories for Oliver

Stories for Oliver is more than a memoir of Charles William Wrightson. It is a tribute to his ancestors and a glimpse into how this heritage has impacted his character, core values and philosophy of life.

Wrightson has a remarkable memory for detail and a gift for communicating a simple incident into an interesting and entertaining event. Throughout the book, he intertwines stories of family activi-ties, sports and significant events that have made a lasting impression on him and influenced his development.

The reflections on parenting, friendship and values are practical, inspirational, and motivating. I found the reflections on his career and travels especially interesting.

I was deeply impressed with Wrightson’s broad range of interests and his depth of intellect. His topical reflections and intimate family poems add to the substance of his writing both to his grandchildren and to a much wider audience.

Stories for Oliver captures the memories and unlocks the recollections that make up the life of Charles William Wrightson. His writing is imaginative, animated, informative and entertaining. His stories are destined to become a lasting legacy, treasured by generations of Wrightsons far into the future.

—Richard R. Blake for Reader Views

I just finished reading Stories for Oliver by author Charles William Wrightson, and now I’m sitting here wondering how to put my thoughts into words so that I can write its review. The many short stories, reflections, and poetry contained within this book’s pages reminded me of the lively conversations I’d begun to have with my father before his untimely passing a few years back. My father and I lived almost two thousand miles apart, which meant there wasn’t always a lot of time to sit and chat, yet when he would share stories of his childhood I always listened with bated breath, not to mention, a small amount of envy. I never knew that growing up could be so fun and that fifty years ago the world was a much happier and seemingly more carefree place. The same feelings I’d had when listening to my dad’s tales were also elicited within me as I read Stories for Oliver.

As far as the premise for Stories for Oliver, Wrightson started this writing project shortly after his first grandchild, Oliver, was born. Wrightson’s goal with this memoir was to provide a look at his life, from childhood to present, so that Oliver would have an understanding of who his grandfather was. As is the case with most authors, once Wrightson started putting the proverbial pen to paper he kept having ideas for more and more stories to include. Somehow his original intention of just a few short stories wound up becoming forty humorous, eye-opening, reminiscent, and thoughtful tales, plus ten heartfelt poems. Bravo Charles! Well done! I dare say your writing teacher would be proud. Oliver, Genevieve and your grandchildren who are still on the way are very lucky indeed that you have taken the time to write this for them.

In summary, I found Stories for Oliver to be an extremely well-written and riveting book. The stories and poetry found within its pages are heartfelt, sincere, and filled with love. Plus, there were some that were educational, which is helpful as oftentimes we find we live in a world where common sense isn’t really all that common.

I give Stories for Oliver a solid five-stars, and I recommend it to readers of all ages.

—Charline Ratcliff for Rebecca’s Reads

Lucky is the person who has a special family member as Charles William Wrightson, who could be described as a keeper of memories — one who shares stories of parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and friends. His Stories for Oliver, describing his growing-up years in the 1950s and 1960s in Baltimore, could easily be the memoirs of millions of baby boomers growing up in the USA and Canada during this era. However, anyone fortunate enough to read or hear about these tales will carry away with them fond memories and a sense of history during some very interesting times.

Many of us will probably ask what is the point of dredging up your past, which at times can be laborious and even painful. Furthermore, what do you hope to accomplish? As Wrightson descriptively and perceptibly illustrates, creating your memoirs forces you to take stock of who you are, who you used to be, how you arrived at your present destination, and it also serves as a reminder of your own mortality. He succinctly sums up his life by asserting: I reflect with a complex mixture of gratitude, regret, anger and amusement on the path my life actually did take. It is these adventures that depict all of his feelings and aspects of his life that he is able to pass unto his family, children and grandchildren — a personal legacy, in the hope that they will read, cherish, and perhaps learn something from them while eventually passing them on to their own offspring.

Divided into two parts, Wrightson offers bits of his early childhood and goes on to present some of his reflections and philosophical musings concerning such themes as parenting, friendship, his father’s values, and many more, providing his readers with a great deal of insight and inspiration. He even tries his hand at poetry and ends with a few thoughtful and beautiful poems.

Regarding these memoirs, readers will no doubt get the feeling that Wrightson has certainly paid attention to everything, including his first business venture, where he learned the principle of demand and supply, his kindergarten experiences, his first major league baseball game he attended, his boating experiences, as well as many other ventures that he has detailed and that we can easily identify with, particularly if we grew up during this same era. And what makes them all the more interesting is that they do satisfy our curiosities.

To add depth and color to his memoirs, Wrightson manages to mix a collection of events, happenings and people in his family with wit, humor and wisdom. Readers meet many of his relatives and friends whom he interacted with over the course of his sixty years and the influences that they had over him. Also thrown in are the many events of the 1960s — an era, where those of us who lived through it, can agree that it was certainly interesting times. No doubt, reading Wrightson’s book you get the feeling his writing of his memoirs must have been a labor of love — something he truly enjoyed. It also serves as an incentive for readers to reflect on their own lives and follow Wrightson’s lead in recording their own personal histories that can be passed on to their offspring. What a wonderful gift!

—Norm Goldman of Bookpleasures.com

Stories for Oliver

Charles William Wrightson

Santa Rosa, California

Acknowledgments

I would like to express my appreciation to the following persons for their invaluable assistance — Dorothy Wrightson, my mother, and Nancy Pohl, my aunt, for their contributions to the stories; Stephanie Wrightson, my wife, Bruce Wrightson, my brother, and Bob Pohl, my cousin, who reviewed the draft; and Alixandra Mullins, who designed the cover. And very special thanks to my life writing teacher and editor, Suzanne Sherman.

* * * * *

Disclaimer — This book includes descriptions of numerous events, many of which occurred several decades ago. All of the events involving the author are described to the best of his memory. The events involving his ancestors are based on the recollections of his relatives.

* * * * *

Copyright 2011 by Charles William Wrightson. All rights reserved.

ISBN-10: 1460910958

ISBN-13: 978-1460910955

Library of Congress Control Number (LCCN): 2011903980

An interview with the author is available at Bookpleasures.com.

Website: CharlesWilliamWrightson.blogspot.com

Cover designed by Alixandra Mullins of FireDragon Graphic Design. Photography by Stephanie Wrightson.

This book was edited by Suzanne Sherman (SuzanneSherman.com).

Smashwords Edition: May 2011

March 1, 2011

My Dearest Grandchildren,

I started this writing project three years ago, after Oliver was born. I intended to put a few memories on paper so that he would always have a sense of who his grandfather was, but one story followed another. Meanwhile, my second grandchild, Genevieve, was born and two more granddaughters are on the way. This collection of stories is for you and those who may follow. All of you share a special place in my heart.

I have many, many fond memories of my grandparents: Grandmom Seipp and Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop Farley. I now realize what a joy and blessing a grandchild can be, and I share a new kinship with my parents and grandparents. Now I know why my Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop let me and their other grandchildren jump up and down on their beds until the slats fell down — and why my parents let their grandchildren run and scream and laugh through the house every holiday, slamming doors and jumping on the beds and laughing all the way. Both grandparents and grandchildren laughing with pure joy and happiness.

My parents and grandparents told me many stories while sitting around the dinner table, or passing the time on long car trips, or enjoying a glass of lemonade on a hot summer night. The stories covered many topics: what it was like growing up during the Great Depression; an adventurous trip to Atlantic City before my parents were married; how their parents or grandparents immigrated to America (from Scotland, Ireland, and Germany) to pursue the American dream.

Your great-great-Grandmom Seipp lived to be 105 years old. She was in excellent physical and mental health when she celebrated her 105th birthday on February 15, 1999. Grandmom also had a fantastic memory, and she told me many stories of her adventures. Included in this collection are some of the stories she shared with me.

During the past few years, I talked with your great-grandmother, Dorothy Farley Wrightson, to obtain more insight about her side of the family. She is the source of the stories in this collection that involve my parents, the Pattersons, and the Farleys.

And, then, there are my stories. Many of the stories recount my adventures. Some are happy, some are sad, and others are more philosophical. I tried to include a mix that reflects my life. The first set of stories provides a glimpse of my childhood growing up in Baltimore in the 1950s and 1960s. In the next set of stories, I focused on what it was like for me to turn 60 years old and the various events that occurred during that year.

A friend asked her grandchildren if they had any questions for their grandmother. She was bombarded with questions: Where did she grow up? What were her schools like? What were her favorite childhood activities and her best subjects in school? Who were her friends and did she have the same friends all through school? What are some of her favorite memories? Who was her favorite president during her lifetime, and why? How was she impacted by major world events? What age was her favorite, and why? What kind of jobs did she have? You might have similar questions.

To celebrate Oliver’s fourth birthday, I’ve included my reflections on different topics as well as more stories. I hope they provide you with a greater understanding of me as your grandfather. Lastly, you inspire poetry which is included in the final section.

This book is dedicated to all of you. I cannot express how much pure joy you bring to my life. Each of you is a precious gift to me. When I am with you (or even think of you), my heart bursts with joy and happiness. Thank you for the opportunity to be your grandfather.

All my love to each one of you, always,

Pop-Pop

LIST OF STORIES

PART 1 — MY CHILDHOOD AND ANCESTORS

The Journey to the Little White Schoolhouse, and Beyond

The Youngest Ballboy

My Third-Grade Teacher, Mrs. Hopkins

Summer Adventures on the Runabout

Teddy Pavlos and Baseball Cards

B&B Snowballs

The Baltimore Orioles

More Baseball Stories

Inauguration Day for John F. Kennedy

The School Prayer Controversy

President John F. Kennedy is Assassinated

Grandmom, Still Going Strong at Age 105

The Farleys and the Pattersons

Thankfully, A Few Good Times during the Depression

A Day Trip to Atlantic City

Hometown Heroes

Sitting in the Front Row

PART 2 — REFLECTIONS AND MORE STORIES

Turning 60: The Beginning of the End? Or the Beginning of a Golden Age and the Best Period of Life?

Oliver’s Playground

Thanksgiving at Yosemite

A Trip to Charlottesville

Why Do I Love Wine?

Oliver’s Room

Reflections on Parenting

Reflections on Friendship

Reflections on John Wooden’s Pyramid of Success

Reflections on My Father’s Values

The Mulch Lady Incident

From Snowballs to the Executive Suite

Sunrise, Sunset

Reflections on My Career

Reflections on Longevity

Reflections on Ralph Waldo Emerson and What Goes Around, Comes Around

Reflections on the Undervalued Quality of Resilience

Oliver’s First Day of Pre-School

The Official Weigh-in

Lighting Candles for Annie’s Baby

Paradise on High — The San Juan Mountains

The Giants are World Champions!

Knocking Another One Off My Bucket List

PART 3 — POETRY

Oliver’s Fourth Christmas

My Second Grandchild

Doting

My Father Digs Tunnels

Warm in the Sun

A Son’s Appreciation

A Parent’s Lament

Solitude

Last Day

Gratitude

The Light of the Sun

The Journey to the Little White Schoolhouse, And Beyond

It was a late-summer day in Baltimore, Maryland, in the first week of September of 1954 when my mother led a nervous little boy by the hand. My mother was wearing a dress that she usually wore to church.

At 8:45 in the morning, it was still cool and there was some morning dew on the grass. We walked out the back door of our house and up the steep alley that ran behind the houses on our street. Then we crossed Gleneagle Road at the top of the alley to the other side of the street that bordered the new elementary school. We walked one block down Gleneagle to the original, small white clapboard schoolhouse that had been used before the new large, brick school — Leith Walk Elementary School — was built. We climbed the three steps to the front door. Entering, there was a peculiar smell I didn’t recognize. It’s funny — I can still smell it 56 years later. Not exactly a bad odor. I think the smell was a combination of dust and paper and paint supplies and a little mustiness because the school had been closed up over the summer. There was no air-conditioning in Baltimore at that time, and the summers were brutally hot and humid.

Inside the small building, we were met by a whirlwind of activity with mothers and kids and teachers all hurrying from one place to another. There were lots of voices and conversations that I couldn’t understand. I remember my mother being a little confused and not knowing where I should go which, in hindsight, is a little funny because there were only three classrooms in the school — and only two of them were being used for the kindergarten classes. My mother asked one of the teachers, who looked at a list and directed us to the appropriate classroom. Once in the right room, my mother walked up to the teacher and introduced herself and said, This is my son, Bill Wrightson.

The teacher, who was very pretty and seemed nice, smiled at me with a twinkle in her eye. Hello, Bill Wrightson, she said. She took me by the hand and explained that she wanted all the kids to sit on the floor until everyone had arrived and school would start.

As I walked away, I looked back at my mother. She had tears in her eyes as she smiled and waved. Then she left. I felt like crying, and I think tears came into my eyes.

Then the teacher said in a loud voice, All right everyone. I’m glad you’re all here today to start kindergarten. Let me tell you what we’re going to do today. I think you’ll find it very exciting. At that precise moment, my love affair began with school and learning and stretching my mind, and it lasted continuously for the next 17 years.

***

I was born on July 31, 1949 at Union Memorial Hospital in Balti-more, Maryland. My parents, Charles and Dorothy Wrightson, were married on April 16, 1941, so they had been married for over eight years when I was born. I was their first child and the first grandchild on both sides of the family. Consequently, I was spoiled rotten.

Following the end of World War II in 1945, a huge number of babies were born in the United States. Over 4 million babies per year — over 79 million in total — were born during the 19-year period of the baby boom between 1946 and 1964. My generation, the baby boomers, continued to produce many surprises as it progressed from babies to toddlers to grade school to high school to young adults to middle-aged adults. The oldest baby boomers turned age 65 in January 2011. I’m now 61 years old.

My parents moved to 5824 Leith Walk in July 1950 just before my first birthday. They had been living in an apartment in Baltimore, and they were thrilled to be moving to a newly-built rowhouse in the suburbs. Leith Walk was a neighborhood street that ran seven blocks from Belvedere Avenue in the south to Northern Parkway in the north. Belvedere Avenue was the low point, and our house was two and a half blocks up the hill and on the west side of the street.

Leith Walk Elementary School was a half-block to the north of our house, which was the fifth of a group of eight houses on our block. An alley ran behind our row of houses and also climbed the hill. From our back porch, we could look directly down the long alley behind the houses on Glenhaven Road (to the south) and Gleneagle Road (on the north).

I don’t have a lot of vivid memories before age five when I started kindergarten. We had a little white dog named Ricky. I think Ricky was a Spitz. Ricky had a brown doghouse in the back yard that was surrounded by a white picket fence.

I remember scorching days of summer heat, orange popsicles from the Good Humor man, and going to sleep at night with little fans that hummed and rotated to move the hot, humid air. Our next-door neighbors were the Cunzemans who had three girls and the Albrechts who had two boys a couple years younger than me. There was also an extremely friendly couple without children, Mac and Meal, who lived four houses down the street at the corner of Glenhaven and Leith Walk.

I remember the excitement of Christmas Eve and the anticipation of Santa Claus’ arrival. At Christmas, my father would put an electric candle with an orange bulb in my bedroom window along with the Christmas tree lights, colored Christmas lights around the front door, and other Christmas decorations around the house. Every night, the orange candle spread a warm feeling throughout my room that mingled with the other wonderful sights, smells and traditions of the holiday season.

When I was four years old, Aunt Nan and Uncle Bob picked me up after dinner one night, and we drove to Mondawmin Shopping Center. It was the middle of October and there were many dry leaves on the ground. I jumped from one pile of leaves to the next. Most of the stores were closed, but we spent a couple of hours window shopping at the outdoor mall. I vividly remember three or four small monkeys in a window exhibit of a Hess Shoe Store that had a big front window. I watched those monkeys jumping and playing around for what seemed like a long time. When we got home, my mother had been taken to the hospital, and my brother, Bruce, was born the next day. Oliver, you’re going to be four years old when your little sister is born next month — just like Pop-Pop was four years old when Bruce was born.

***

During the first part of my year of kindergarten, I noticed one little boy named Arthur who frequently got into trouble. The teacher had to intervene when arguments or fights broke out. Arthur was always in the middle of every disturbance. He would pull girls’ hair. He would punch any boy who had the misfortune to sit next to him. Arthur, don’t act like a bully, the teacher would say.

One day just before story-time, I was sitting on the floor and Arthur sat down next to me. I remember being somewhat nervous because he kept making remarks — not directed to anyone in particular — just vague exclamations or fragments of sentences. At the same time, he kept moving his arms and fists in an aggressive manner — different eccentricities compared to the rest of my fellow five-year- olds — although all of us were in the process of gently being housebroken so we could successfully start first grade the following year.

The next thing I knew, Arthur had jumped on me and knocked me backward on the floor. Before I could react, he was on top of me and had my arms pinned. I raised my head and looked up at him from my prone position. All I could see was a mop of reddish hair. I thought his head was just resting on my arm and he was contemplating his next wrestling hold to put me in submission — when he bit me. I screamed. The teacher rushed over and pulled Arthur off me. The skin wasn’t broken, but I saw his tooth marks clearly on my arm.

Arthur caused problems the entire year for my wonderful kindergarten teacher. He and I reached an arrangement after I fought him back a couple times. He stopped trying to bite me; I avoided him whenever possible. Eventually, I discovered that Arthur lived less than a block from me. I ran into him the first week of summer vacation after school had ended.

One day Arthur joined a group of us playing stickball in the alley behind our houses. Our stickball games were pick-up games and sides were chosen from whoever showed up each day. Toward the end of the morning, his mother called to him and he motioned for me to come with him. Arthur’s family lived in a rowhouse just like mine. From the alley, we had to climb about 15 steps, up a small hill, to get to his backyard, which was elevated above the alley. He