I believe baseball is the greatest sport of all time. On the surface, there’s the game, but to real fans, there are layers to the game and at its core, there’s an inside game that is fascinating.
It isn’t so much the action that compels me but the anticipation of action. Sure in the modern game, casual fans cheer the towering home runs but to me the most beautiful play in the game is stealing home.
Imagine the pent up intensity. The eyeballing of every micro move from pitcher, catcher, third baseman, base runner, third base coach, on deck circle, dugout, umpire and even fans on top of the action in the box seats down the third baseline. As the runner inches down the line and retreats, as the pitcher eyes him and then the plate and him again, voices aloud, voices in the head, the tension builds to the moment it just can’t be contained. The pitcher goes into his windup and the runner breaks for the plate as if someone just shot him from a canon. This is the action after the suspense but it also builds new suspense. For the next three seconds time slows to a crawl and everything is vivid. All five senses dance to life. Sound – silence. Sight – red. Voice – breath. Touch – sweat. Smell – dirt. The play at the plate is going to be close. The third baseman shrieks. The fans gasp and then are dead silent. The pitcher panics after releasing the ball and charges in on the plate as well. The catcher now knows what’s barreling down the line and has to hold his position and wait for the ball. The runner decides his approach – take the plate wide and reach in or try to knock the catcher into the stratosphere. Then, everything speeds up again and in a flash of lightning, ACTION! It is over as soon as it started and the dust is everywhere. Everybody is frozen. More suspense. More anticipation. SILENCE. Then there it is; the culmination of the most beautiful thing in sports. “SAFE!”
I grew up learning about baseball from my Dad and Grandpa. My Grandpa moved to Cleveland from Sicily when he was 7-years-old and probably never missed an Indians game win or lose. If the team did poorly, he was a spectator of individual achievements like a perfect game or a rare sight like the triple play. Nothing beats seeing feats live. The ESPN highlight reel is a poor substitute for totally unexpected live phenomena.
My favorite memory of baseball growing up was when Dad took Grandpa and me to old Municipal Stadium on the Lake Erie shore. Grandpa kept a scorecard. This is another great treat of baseball. Scoring a game on a card is better than taping the game in my mind. There’s an account for most every movement and each scorer develops a style of their own to mark things like how hard or where a ball is hit and other subtleties of the game. It’s a mind opener. Anyway, Dad went to get some foot longs and I sat there with my little league glove next to Grandpa who was pushing 80. I heard the crack of the bat. I saw the ball coming closer. Closer. CLOSER. We were in the upper deck down the third base line. When that ball whizzed directly over my head I yanked back my outstretched glove because I wanted no part of it. The thing looked like a basketball at that moment. I shook Grandpa afterward and screamed “Did you see that!” He grunted, "See what, see what?” He had no clue what just happened. Little did he know that was the moment I became a die-hard fan of the game, the Indians, and Cleveland sports.
Dad started me on my baseball card collection. He would get a pack and I would get a pack (with his money). We kept our collections separate. Then one night he gave me his box of cards. I was stunned. Then I became an addict. I got a paper route to support my addiction. I’d go to the five and dime in our neighborhood in Avon Lake and use all my paper route money whenever I got paid and buyout the supply of cards at the store. Then I’d sit in the parking lot with my friend and we’d go through each pack like it was Christmas morning to see what was there. I’d give him the gum that came with each pack. After a while, I grew tired of getting triples and quadruples of certain cards and wrote a letter to Topps baseball card company asking if there was a way I could just buy one of every card they made that year. I was delighted to receive the news that I could buy the complete set for something like $50. It got expensive when other companies appeared in my consciousness like Fleer, Donruss and Upper Deck. I loved my Oscar Gamble and Toby Harrah cards and missed getting doubles or triples of those cards.
It’s funny, but I don’t remember any of my childhood friends or classmates being Cleveland Indians baseball fans. Maybe it was too painful to admit openly. When Pat Corrales was manager, I was in 10th grade. The Cleveland Plain Dealer ran an essay contest – “Why Do You Like The Indians?” By this age I was reading the sports section daily so I was all over it. And I won! I think back and wonder if I was perhaps the only one who bothered writing an essay. None-the-less, the prize was “dinner with the Indians” and a free ballgame. “Dinner with the Indians” meant I got to eat lunch with a friend at the stadium for the first stop of the winter press tour. Only the manager and a couple players showed up to talk to the room full of reporters and afterward, I got to wait in line and shake some hands. But when we got there, Mom dropped us off and my buddy and I walked in.
When we entered the room we scanned it for a place to sit and this booth, center stage and next to huge windows high above ground outside, had our names on it. Not really but we knew it was ours! Until some lackey in a suit scrambled across the room to us as some old guys and their entourage entered. He said we couldn’t sit there. We said we could. He demanded we move. I said I won the contest. He looked dumbfounded and by this time, the old guys were standing there too. One said “What seems to be the problem?” The scared looking man (lackey) sounded like he had diarrhea of the mouth so I explained. The old man in charge said, “You boys have a good time” and left us to the enormous booth while he and his entourage pulled tables and chairs together. Later he was introduced as Gabe Paul, General Manager of the Cleveland Indians. The other old guy was assistant GM Phil Seghi. Say what you will about those men and how they handled the Indians, but in that brief moment they taught me the success of selflessness in the world of business. On the way out, my friend and I shared an elevator with a rising star named Pat Tabler. He had a girl under each arm and had become a bigger hero of ours than just a moment earlier.
When I returned from overseas after spending a few years in the Army, I lived at home for the summer and decided to coach little league baseball. My old coach was a legend in Avon Lake youth sports and he gave me the opportunity. At 21-years-old, I was able to share my favorite pastime with a new generation. But it was also an eye-opener into the underbelly of youth sports. First, our team stunk. But we did win some games and eventually made the playoffs. But the early part of the season grew frustrating, not for me, but some of the parents. They wanted me to make their kids into little Rick Mannings or Sandy Alomars. Then one game, a father that always sat at the end of the parent line near shallow right field with a cooler, sprang from his lawn chair and charged the umpire (who was only 17-years-old). He was spitting, cussing, and when I finally got my shocked body out there to diffuse him, I was shocked again for the potent smell of alcohol was in the air all around this nut. The commissioner later had me contact the nutty father to notify him he was banned from coming to any other games.
My Dad and I drove to downtown Cleveland to watch the progress on Gateway’s construction when I came home from college. Gateway was the name given to the complex downtown that would house Jacob’s Field, new home to our beloved Tribe.
When I began my career, Major League Baseball went on strike just when the Indians were legitimately competing for the first time in my life. Jacobs Field magic or carryover from the curse of Rocky Calavito? The following year we went to the World Series and my wife became a fan of the Tribe even though she grew up far from C-town. As players from that year did the modern-day shuffle from one team to the next, my wife would track their careers and tell me how Tavarez was doing or Sorrento. Another World Series in 1997 and my wife learned what The Drive and The Shot felt like. Only this time it was one word – MESA!
When the Indians fell back out of favor and we were clearly rebuilding, I took my, then, four-year-old daughter to a game. I gave her the whole experience I grew up with. We got on the Rapid Transit and she loved the train ride. A man plopped down in the seat in front of her and she laughed and pointed and said very loudly, “Dad – look, that man has a comb stuck in his head.” Having survived that uncomfortable event, we walked to the stadium. Then she said, “Dad look, Indians.” And so there were, Native-Americans protesting Chief Wahoo. By the way, my Grandma was a full-blooded Delaware (Lenape). My Dad is half Lenape and half Sicilian. But we respect everyone’s convictions and right to free speech so we chatted a bit and went inside the gate.
I don’t give my kids a lot by today’s standards but I flat out spoiled my daughter on this day. Program – yes. Hot dog – yes. Peanuts – Yes. Cracker Jack – yes. When I tried to show her how to keep a scorecard – NO! Then after all this and three innings, she saw the cotton-candy man and I knew instantly this was her moment that would forever make her a fan. One section over, she followed him with her eyes. Then she asked questions about this strange sight and knew she had to have cotton candy. Half an inning later she was twisted backward thumping my shoulder without looking as she panted, “He’s coming Dad. Dad here he comes.” So I decided to make her earn this treat and said that she had to get his attention to come down here or she’s out of luck. She asked how to do it and I said just yell “Cotton Candy Here.” And she did! LOUDLY and REPEATEDLY. She handled the entire transaction herself and when she was done, like she needed it, many in our section gave her a standing ovation.
Gone are Thome, Belle, Ramirez, Visquel and in were a fresh batch of kids making noise. In 2007 I found myself far away from the shoreline I called home. But a business trip brought me back for a night. My Dad and I watched the Tribe win a huge ALCS game against Boston putting us one win from another World Series. It was a special night I’ll remember. Just the two of us watching the game alone in his family room, cheering, reminiscing, analyzing, talking, and having the time of our lives. When I returned home, my son met me at the door donning his Sizemore jersey and Wahoo cap eager to share something he learned to sing at school – “Take Me Out To The Ball Game …”
You can start your great American family pastime all over Ohio at Cleveland Indians, Cincinnati Reds, Toledo Mud Hens, Akron Aeros, Lake County Captains, Mahoning Valley Scrappers, Columbus Clippers and Dayton Dragons. For those that want a fascinating look at the history of the game, visit Ohio Village Muffins, read Baseball Anecdotes, or rent the 10-pack DVD set – Baseball.
By Frank R. Satullo, owner of OhioTraveler.com
Monday, August 16, 2010
Monday, January 4, 2010
Bubble Gum & Spit Littered The Road to Becoming The OhioTraveler
I learned at a young age in a farm-town turned boomtown – Avon Lake, Ohio – that happiness was derived from freedom more than money. It was by observing my grandfather that I learned this lesson. Unfortunately, after serving in the Army and graduating at the University of Toledo, I lost that concept as I ambitiously fought my way up the corporate ladder. I’ll tell you how I threw myself off the top of the heap to rediscover happiness. But first, I want to share the real-world example of happiness by way of freedom, not money.
My Grandpa Cliff and Grandma Joan raised five kids in Cleveland, Ohio. My Grandma wasn’t employed and my Grandpa worked out of his garage re-treading tires. This family of seven took plenty of time traveling the country vacationing. It was all done on the income of a man that scavenged the Cleveland-Akron area for worn tires to add new tread for resale. People flocked to his garage (as in behind the house) to get a good deal on tires. These cheap tires didn’t last long – at least not for me when I was 16. But I went back for “rubber all around” as my Grandpa used to say. It was too cheap not too – even though I was there every 6-12 months. By the way, I was a master at changing a flat!
Anyway, I stopped by for tires one very cold and snowy January morning. Grandpa was still reading the newspaper and sipping coffee when he yelled out, “Jo, it’s sunny and warm in Miami today. Let's pack our bags!” Within an hour they were southbound on I-77. The only thing he did was hang a sign on the garage door, “Gone to Florida. Come back next week.”
The business would be there when he got back. And he had no employees. He tried a real brick and mortar business, once, retailing tires, but went back to his solo operation. It wasn’t because he couldn’t make it, but because he lost his freedom! He spent his days with employee issues and record keeping and when he wanted to head to Miami on a whim, or Texas or California, he couldn’t because he had to do more than hand-write and hang a sign on the door.
You say that’s a romantic tale of a generation past and that it can’t be done today. Well, let me tell you my story and you’ll see it’s not only possible but within reach.
First, there are always naysayers, and to be honest, with good reason. It is true that 90 percent of all new businesses fail to stay in business for more than five years.
I had my naysayers before I took the entrepreneurial plunge. But first, I tested the waters on the side for a few years.
It all started with knowing my employer was going to downsize and relocate or terminate everyone in its Cleveland-Akron offices. I knew this because I was the Director of Public Relations. So I brushed up my resume and sought to acquire some new skills like learning to build a web site. Once the web site was built, my father-in-law in Greenville, Ohio near Dayton joked, “If a tree falls in the woods and nobody is there to hear it, does it make noise?” Translation: If you build a web site and nobody knows about it, will anyone visit? So with that, I put my PR savvy to work.
I couldn’t afford advertising, so I created homemade bumper stickers, which lasted until the first rain. Then, living on a very busy, former country road in Strongsville, Ohio, I created a homemade billboard for my front yard. Neighbors loved it I’m sure. People started visiting the site, albeit a few. Then, I got creative – or quirky – and out came Spot-The-Rock.
Spot-The-Rock was a throwback to the pet-rock of the 1970s but weighed about 20 pounds, had reggae-looking hair, a face and could talk when his body (formerly Elmo’s) was squeezed. Spot became a sensation and was booked across Ohio to make appearances. This brought fame without fortune. After several other gimmicks and modest news coverage, I discovered a part of the web site was fast becoming a favorite – free places to travel around Ohio.
By now I was out of work and also interested in free Ohio fun to entertain a family of four. I found so many free things to do and places to go in the state I decided to write a book about free Ohio fun. Then, I channeled the entire site to promote it. But before the book was printed (I self-published it after numerous rejections), I had a job-offer in Cincinnati and went through the pains of relocating my family and selling our home.
Eighteen months later, book sales produced a little nest egg. But more importantly, the web site, remaining static that whole time, had acquired a very large audience. Go figure. This prompted the biggest sales presentation of my life. Not to corporate leaders, not to angel investors, but to my wife!
I asked her to just give me six months to make something happen. If it didn't work, I’d have time to find a new job, albeit not much time. But to do this right and have a chance, I needed to go at it full-time. She reluctantly agreed to risk our entire savings on this venture.
This is when the current version of the web site was introduced – OhioTraveler.com. It offered unique family attractions across the state and not just the freebies. But this was merely a tool to develop a public relations practice that helped those that the larger firms ignored – organizations with little to no budgets. My first client was a non-profit in the poorest county in Ohio, smack in the foothills of Appalachia.
The road I chose to travel had its share of bumps and moments of fearing failure. It was a roller coaster. The most difficult part was not having a routine paycheck. I can’t tell you how many times we robbed Peter to pay Paul in the beginning and how many nights I thought I’d pee blood. But, I stuck with it and my wife stuck with me whispering confidence in me when I needed it most.
We had no money to do anything extra. Renting videos was a budgeted expense and don’t even mention ordering a pizza. We learned just how much excess income middle-class America was used to spending. It’s funny how our culture makes it feel like it's necessary spending and puts a stigma on alternative ways to getting something you want or need besides buying all the marketing, advertising and packaging that comes wrapped with just about anything these days.
What it taught us was how to appreciate what we have and savor what new things we acquired rather than show it off and then seek the next thing to toot our horn about. We could feel richness growing on our human interior instead of showing on the exterior.
But what I rediscovered most was what had been long-lost – personal freedom! I work from home in Liberty Township, Ohio now and my wife is a special education teacher in Lebanon, Ohio. I actually get to eat breakfast and dinner with my family, something I rarely did before. On Sundays, it’s all about family. Once upon a time in America and not all that long ago, nobody worked on Sundays. This downtime, formerly known as spare-time, a concept all but extinct now, is essential to the mind of an entrepreneur. Without it, I probably wouldn’t have had a relaxed enough frame-of-mind to think of the innovations that truly make OhioTraveler.com a distinct entity online, catapulting it to the top. In fact, while visiting the Cincinnati Museum Center with my kids, I took video and still pictures, later thinking this would be a well-received new dimension of my free online publication. Now I’m flooded with new subscriptions daily. And no advertising was ever done so it’s a word-of-mouth, or shall we call it “word-of-mouse” phenomenon. It’s refreshing and rewarding to pursue a dream and succeed on your terms, persevering through self-doubt and growing pains.
Although side-tracked for a decade, I really believe now more than ever that Americans should pursue their dreams and seek a profession that they enjoy and the money will come because the opposite – seeking money and enjoyment will follow – is like chasing a mirage.
To me, being an entrepreneur isn’t about the Initial Public Offering of stock, it’s about the freedom to decide to go to Orlando while sipping my morning coffee and being there with the whole family for dinner at Epcot. And having just enough money (and time) to pull it off.
By Frank Rocco Satullo - http://www.ohiotraveler.com
My Grandpa Cliff and Grandma Joan raised five kids in Cleveland, Ohio. My Grandma wasn’t employed and my Grandpa worked out of his garage re-treading tires. This family of seven took plenty of time traveling the country vacationing. It was all done on the income of a man that scavenged the Cleveland-Akron area for worn tires to add new tread for resale. People flocked to his garage (as in behind the house) to get a good deal on tires. These cheap tires didn’t last long – at least not for me when I was 16. But I went back for “rubber all around” as my Grandpa used to say. It was too cheap not too – even though I was there every 6-12 months. By the way, I was a master at changing a flat!
Anyway, I stopped by for tires one very cold and snowy January morning. Grandpa was still reading the newspaper and sipping coffee when he yelled out, “Jo, it’s sunny and warm in Miami today. Let's pack our bags!” Within an hour they were southbound on I-77. The only thing he did was hang a sign on the garage door, “Gone to Florida. Come back next week.”
The business would be there when he got back. And he had no employees. He tried a real brick and mortar business, once, retailing tires, but went back to his solo operation. It wasn’t because he couldn’t make it, but because he lost his freedom! He spent his days with employee issues and record keeping and when he wanted to head to Miami on a whim, or Texas or California, he couldn’t because he had to do more than hand-write and hang a sign on the door.
You say that’s a romantic tale of a generation past and that it can’t be done today. Well, let me tell you my story and you’ll see it’s not only possible but within reach.
First, there are always naysayers, and to be honest, with good reason. It is true that 90 percent of all new businesses fail to stay in business for more than five years.
I had my naysayers before I took the entrepreneurial plunge. But first, I tested the waters on the side for a few years.
It all started with knowing my employer was going to downsize and relocate or terminate everyone in its Cleveland-Akron offices. I knew this because I was the Director of Public Relations. So I brushed up my resume and sought to acquire some new skills like learning to build a web site. Once the web site was built, my father-in-law in Greenville, Ohio near Dayton joked, “If a tree falls in the woods and nobody is there to hear it, does it make noise?” Translation: If you build a web site and nobody knows about it, will anyone visit? So with that, I put my PR savvy to work.
I couldn’t afford advertising, so I created homemade bumper stickers, which lasted until the first rain. Then, living on a very busy, former country road in Strongsville, Ohio, I created a homemade billboard for my front yard. Neighbors loved it I’m sure. People started visiting the site, albeit a few. Then, I got creative – or quirky – and out came Spot-The-Rock.
Spot-The-Rock was a throwback to the pet-rock of the 1970s but weighed about 20 pounds, had reggae-looking hair, a face and could talk when his body (formerly Elmo’s) was squeezed. Spot became a sensation and was booked across Ohio to make appearances. This brought fame without fortune. After several other gimmicks and modest news coverage, I discovered a part of the web site was fast becoming a favorite – free places to travel around Ohio.
By now I was out of work and also interested in free Ohio fun to entertain a family of four. I found so many free things to do and places to go in the state I decided to write a book about free Ohio fun. Then, I channeled the entire site to promote it. But before the book was printed (I self-published it after numerous rejections), I had a job-offer in Cincinnati and went through the pains of relocating my family and selling our home.
Eighteen months later, book sales produced a little nest egg. But more importantly, the web site, remaining static that whole time, had acquired a very large audience. Go figure. This prompted the biggest sales presentation of my life. Not to corporate leaders, not to angel investors, but to my wife!
I asked her to just give me six months to make something happen. If it didn't work, I’d have time to find a new job, albeit not much time. But to do this right and have a chance, I needed to go at it full-time. She reluctantly agreed to risk our entire savings on this venture.
This is when the current version of the web site was introduced – OhioTraveler.com. It offered unique family attractions across the state and not just the freebies. But this was merely a tool to develop a public relations practice that helped those that the larger firms ignored – organizations with little to no budgets. My first client was a non-profit in the poorest county in Ohio, smack in the foothills of Appalachia.
The road I chose to travel had its share of bumps and moments of fearing failure. It was a roller coaster. The most difficult part was not having a routine paycheck. I can’t tell you how many times we robbed Peter to pay Paul in the beginning and how many nights I thought I’d pee blood. But, I stuck with it and my wife stuck with me whispering confidence in me when I needed it most.
We had no money to do anything extra. Renting videos was a budgeted expense and don’t even mention ordering a pizza. We learned just how much excess income middle-class America was used to spending. It’s funny how our culture makes it feel like it's necessary spending and puts a stigma on alternative ways to getting something you want or need besides buying all the marketing, advertising and packaging that comes wrapped with just about anything these days.
What it taught us was how to appreciate what we have and savor what new things we acquired rather than show it off and then seek the next thing to toot our horn about. We could feel richness growing on our human interior instead of showing on the exterior.
But what I rediscovered most was what had been long-lost – personal freedom! I work from home in Liberty Township, Ohio now and my wife is a special education teacher in Lebanon, Ohio. I actually get to eat breakfast and dinner with my family, something I rarely did before. On Sundays, it’s all about family. Once upon a time in America and not all that long ago, nobody worked on Sundays. This downtime, formerly known as spare-time, a concept all but extinct now, is essential to the mind of an entrepreneur. Without it, I probably wouldn’t have had a relaxed enough frame-of-mind to think of the innovations that truly make OhioTraveler.com a distinct entity online, catapulting it to the top. In fact, while visiting the Cincinnati Museum Center with my kids, I took video and still pictures, later thinking this would be a well-received new dimension of my free online publication. Now I’m flooded with new subscriptions daily. And no advertising was ever done so it’s a word-of-mouth, or shall we call it “word-of-mouse” phenomenon. It’s refreshing and rewarding to pursue a dream and succeed on your terms, persevering through self-doubt and growing pains.
Although side-tracked for a decade, I really believe now more than ever that Americans should pursue their dreams and seek a profession that they enjoy and the money will come because the opposite – seeking money and enjoyment will follow – is like chasing a mirage.
To me, being an entrepreneur isn’t about the Initial Public Offering of stock, it’s about the freedom to decide to go to Orlando while sipping my morning coffee and being there with the whole family for dinner at Epcot. And having just enough money (and time) to pull it off.
By Frank Rocco Satullo - http://www.ohiotraveler.com
Detour. Take the Detour! Nooooo Turn Back.
Hmmm. I was going to take the long way around until a park ranger challenged my manhood back at Natural Bridges. I had asked her if the Moki Dugway posed any danger. You know because of the kids and all. She looked me straight in the eyes and actually said, “Take off the skirt.”
OMG!
We’re doing it.
Nuff said.
As I sat, stopped, pulled off the road, staring at an intimidating sign warning what’s ahead, I looked at my wife riding shotgun and the kids through the rear-view mirror.
We still had a choice, drive the long way around a mountain or go over top of it. The problem with going over it was that it was said to have a steep, narrow, dirt switch-back road without guard rails and a maximum speed limit of five miles per hour.
I had to phone a friend.
“Matt, did you go over this dirt road mountain in bla-bla-bla?”
“If you don’t go over it, you will miss some of the most spectacular views of the whole trip,” He deadpanned.
Ironically, Pink Floyd’s “Learning to Fly” played on XM Radio as we ascended into the sky when I thought “The Turning Away” may be more appropriate.
This was one speed limit I certainly would not break.
Once we were clearly at breathtaking heights I looked at my hands clutching the steering wheel in front of me and couldn’t help but notice my knuckles really were white just then.
The kids were loving it. They were also loving my fear.
“Dad, how fast would we hit bottom if the edge of the road crumbles around this next turn?”
“QUIET! Let me concentrate!” I was serious.
Meanwhile, my wife was busy taking pictures and some out-of-focus video sounding like she was at a fireworks display saying “Ooohhhh …Ahhhhhhh.”
Going up I had to drive on the outer part of the 1 ½ lane road but as long as there weren’t any cars coming from the other direction, I hugged the rock wall on the inner part of the lane very conscious of the slight dirt embankment separating us from a death plummet.
There were times I too got lost in the amazing breadth of vision as we neared the summit. It was like looking out of an airplane window (except when rock cliffs were in my peripheral vision) and seeing a ribbon of road stretching for what may have been a hundred miles. Perhaps I’m slightly exaggerating. But it was a sight to behold.
In just a mile and a half, there was 1,100 feet between us and the bottom. I could feel the tires searching for traction around some hairpin turns.
“CAR!” Shouted my wife.
“Holy %&#@!*^&%$#!!!!!!!!” I countered.
We passed within inches. I was maxing out at two miles per hour when they whizzed by doing at least 12 MPH – MORE THAN DOUBLE THE SPEED LIMIT. Some people are just crazy.
Looking back at this death-defying adventure to save a bit of time driving, I’m not sure I’d do it again but I am glad that we did it once. It was one of those unexpected, unplanned happenings that you remember from a family vacation.
WHEW!
Now that Moki Dugway (a.k.a. Mount Cr_p Your Pants) was in the rearview mirror, we enjoyed the openness of the Southwest landscape and mountains in the distance.
“Cool. Look at that. It looks like an upside down sombrero.” I said as we drove next to a strange rock formation.
“It’s called Mexican Hat.” My wife muttered ready to eat and go to bed.
“Wonder why they just don’t call it “Sombrero.” I wondered out loud.
“Just drive Dad. Please don’t stop.” Begged the kids.
Going through Monument Valley and Valley of the Gods was stop and go. Not because of the traffic but because I kept pulling to the curb when I had an opportunity so I could get out and take a picture of the rock monuments. Even after a long day’s travel and all the sightseeing and hiking we did, I just couldn’t pass on the photo opps. And with each mile, I had a better shot. The family was restless. I was obsessed.
Finally, we arrived at the Navajo Reservation for a night stay in Arizona before exploring some sights there the next day on our way back across the border to Bryce Canyon National Park in Utah.
MORE DETOURS AND HOLIDAY ROAD ARE AT http://www.ohiotraveler.com/holiday_road.htm
OMG!
We’re doing it.
Nuff said.
As I sat, stopped, pulled off the road, staring at an intimidating sign warning what’s ahead, I looked at my wife riding shotgun and the kids through the rear-view mirror.
We still had a choice, drive the long way around a mountain or go over top of it. The problem with going over it was that it was said to have a steep, narrow, dirt switch-back road without guard rails and a maximum speed limit of five miles per hour.
I had to phone a friend.
“Matt, did you go over this dirt road mountain in bla-bla-bla?”
“If you don’t go over it, you will miss some of the most spectacular views of the whole trip,” He deadpanned.
Ironically, Pink Floyd’s “Learning to Fly” played on XM Radio as we ascended into the sky when I thought “The Turning Away” may be more appropriate.
This was one speed limit I certainly would not break.
Once we were clearly at breathtaking heights I looked at my hands clutching the steering wheel in front of me and couldn’t help but notice my knuckles really were white just then.
The kids were loving it. They were also loving my fear.
“Dad, how fast would we hit bottom if the edge of the road crumbles around this next turn?”
“QUIET! Let me concentrate!” I was serious.
Meanwhile, my wife was busy taking pictures and some out-of-focus video sounding like she was at a fireworks display saying “Ooohhhh …Ahhhhhhh.”
Going up I had to drive on the outer part of the 1 ½ lane road but as long as there weren’t any cars coming from the other direction, I hugged the rock wall on the inner part of the lane very conscious of the slight dirt embankment separating us from a death plummet.
There were times I too got lost in the amazing breadth of vision as we neared the summit. It was like looking out of an airplane window (except when rock cliffs were in my peripheral vision) and seeing a ribbon of road stretching for what may have been a hundred miles. Perhaps I’m slightly exaggerating. But it was a sight to behold.
In just a mile and a half, there was 1,100 feet between us and the bottom. I could feel the tires searching for traction around some hairpin turns.
“CAR!” Shouted my wife.
“Holy %&#@!*^&%$#!!!!!!!!” I countered.
We passed within inches. I was maxing out at two miles per hour when they whizzed by doing at least 12 MPH – MORE THAN DOUBLE THE SPEED LIMIT. Some people are just crazy.
Looking back at this death-defying adventure to save a bit of time driving, I’m not sure I’d do it again but I am glad that we did it once. It was one of those unexpected, unplanned happenings that you remember from a family vacation.
WHEW!
Now that Moki Dugway (a.k.a. Mount Cr_p Your Pants) was in the rearview mirror, we enjoyed the openness of the Southwest landscape and mountains in the distance.
“Cool. Look at that. It looks like an upside down sombrero.” I said as we drove next to a strange rock formation.
“It’s called Mexican Hat.” My wife muttered ready to eat and go to bed.
“Wonder why they just don’t call it “Sombrero.” I wondered out loud.
“Just drive Dad. Please don’t stop.” Begged the kids.
Going through Monument Valley and Valley of the Gods was stop and go. Not because of the traffic but because I kept pulling to the curb when I had an opportunity so I could get out and take a picture of the rock monuments. Even after a long day’s travel and all the sightseeing and hiking we did, I just couldn’t pass on the photo opps. And with each mile, I had a better shot. The family was restless. I was obsessed.
Finally, we arrived at the Navajo Reservation for a night stay in Arizona before exploring some sights there the next day on our way back across the border to Bryce Canyon National Park in Utah.
MORE DETOURS AND HOLIDAY ROAD ARE AT http://www.ohiotraveler.com/holiday_road.htm
Spring Break Nightmare
Spring break. It means different things to different people in different stages of life. For me, a middle-aged man, married with two young children, it meant a mini trip for Easter break a couple years back.
I grew up in northeast Ohio but now live in southwest Ohio. Every January a lifelong friend of mine and I get both our young families together for a three night stay in a nice large cabin with a hot tub somewhere in Ohio east of I-71. But for whatever reasons this time January drifted into February, then March and so we decided since both our wives are teachers, we’d book a place over their spring break. That way, the wives and kids would all have school off. Perfect?
I’m not going to say where we stayed, but when we got there it was not what we expected. First of all, as the OhioTraveler, I should somehow know better. At least that’s what I read in the look my buddy Matt greeted me with upon arrival. My how Internet pictures can lie. It was a cul-de-sac street in the woods with mini-cabins and a nearby lake. And every cabin was bursting at the seams with college kids on SPRING BREAK! That is, every cabin but ours and as I would later learn, one somewhere across the street.
Well, my good-old friend was unusually quiet as we drank a beer and fired up the grill listening to Bon Jovi music bouncing off the trees all around. I guess that’s what they consider classic rock nowadays. The only good thing so far was that these cabinettes somehow had thick enough walls to soundproof us from the all night partying going on next door. Fortunately there was a vacant lot separating us. We decided to brave the night and express our disappointment to the office in the morning since it was already getting late and the kids were ready for sleep. Our kids that is!
Meanwhile, outside, my friend and I were drinking beer a little faster and a little more than we have in at least 15 years. Then, Mr. Buff appeared. Mr. Buff had a chiseled everything. Made me yearn for my Army days when I could stick my chest out and strut my stuff around, but my stuff was settled in a bowl full of jelly somewhere around my belt.
Anyway, Mr. Buff said, “We were talking over there and decided, ya know what? Let’s give these old-guys over there our cell phone number so if they need us to pump down the volume, we’ll know.”
I was immediately intrigued and looked all around for these old guys. It was like a truck hit me when I realized Buff was referring to us! He was so nice though, in that fake, but believing he was sincere kind of way.
I kept having visions of us being in the middle of those Nationwide Insurance commercials – “LIFE! It Comes At You Fast!”
Well, inside the cabin, all things were quiet so miracles do exist.
The next day, we did some sightseeing, ate lunch at a nice place and then someone suggested we go antiquing. And although I wanted to, something inside screamed “noooooooooooo!” So after we spent two hours in the antique mall, we went to the lodge, went swimming, played games and had a fine time. On the way out, we stopped at the front desk and made it known that we hoped there would be patrols to keep the college kids at bay but that there were no complaints at this time.
We drove back to cul-de-sac Ft. Lauderdale to see every rooftop shingled with guys with no shirts. Below there was a wiffle-ball game being played at the end of the cul-de-sac. The kids asked if they could play too. Yeah right.
At dusk, I had to walk some trash to a nearby dumpster. There were raccoons. Yippee! So I got the kids, walked back and showed them wildlife. When we were done being entertained by the little scavengers, it was getting darker and we headed back to the cabin.
Fortunately, only I saw the streaking from afar. At least this night, the party was at the cabin across the street instead of next door because I think things were getting wilder.
In the morning we decided this was enough and we’d go back to our usual January getaway in luxury and privacy in Hocking Hills. As I packed the van, I had to make another walk to the dumpster. On my way back, I was startled to see a family of four emerge from a cabin kitty-corner from ours and next to last night’s party.
Here’s their story,
“In the middle of the night, my worst fear came true,” said kitty-corner Dad. “Someone was banging on the back door yelling let me in. Well, I yelled back, You better get out of here, this isn’t your cabin now go away. To which the drunk on the other side pleaded, Come on dude, stop mess’n with my head and just let me in.” This repeated a few times before the stranger at the door fell silent.
And so it goes. I could tell all of us old guys had a new story to tell. Nothing like a traveling nightmare to make good talk.
By Frank R. Satullo, The OhioTraveler – http://www.ohiotraveler.com
I grew up in northeast Ohio but now live in southwest Ohio. Every January a lifelong friend of mine and I get both our young families together for a three night stay in a nice large cabin with a hot tub somewhere in Ohio east of I-71. But for whatever reasons this time January drifted into February, then March and so we decided since both our wives are teachers, we’d book a place over their spring break. That way, the wives and kids would all have school off. Perfect?
I’m not going to say where we stayed, but when we got there it was not what we expected. First of all, as the OhioTraveler, I should somehow know better. At least that’s what I read in the look my buddy Matt greeted me with upon arrival. My how Internet pictures can lie. It was a cul-de-sac street in the woods with mini-cabins and a nearby lake. And every cabin was bursting at the seams with college kids on SPRING BREAK! That is, every cabin but ours and as I would later learn, one somewhere across the street.
Well, my good-old friend was unusually quiet as we drank a beer and fired up the grill listening to Bon Jovi music bouncing off the trees all around. I guess that’s what they consider classic rock nowadays. The only good thing so far was that these cabinettes somehow had thick enough walls to soundproof us from the all night partying going on next door. Fortunately there was a vacant lot separating us. We decided to brave the night and express our disappointment to the office in the morning since it was already getting late and the kids were ready for sleep. Our kids that is!
Meanwhile, outside, my friend and I were drinking beer a little faster and a little more than we have in at least 15 years. Then, Mr. Buff appeared. Mr. Buff had a chiseled everything. Made me yearn for my Army days when I could stick my chest out and strut my stuff around, but my stuff was settled in a bowl full of jelly somewhere around my belt.
Anyway, Mr. Buff said, “We were talking over there and decided, ya know what? Let’s give these old-guys over there our cell phone number so if they need us to pump down the volume, we’ll know.”
I was immediately intrigued and looked all around for these old guys. It was like a truck hit me when I realized Buff was referring to us! He was so nice though, in that fake, but believing he was sincere kind of way.
I kept having visions of us being in the middle of those Nationwide Insurance commercials – “LIFE! It Comes At You Fast!”
Well, inside the cabin, all things were quiet so miracles do exist.
The next day, we did some sightseeing, ate lunch at a nice place and then someone suggested we go antiquing. And although I wanted to, something inside screamed “noooooooooooo!” So after we spent two hours in the antique mall, we went to the lodge, went swimming, played games and had a fine time. On the way out, we stopped at the front desk and made it known that we hoped there would be patrols to keep the college kids at bay but that there were no complaints at this time.
We drove back to cul-de-sac Ft. Lauderdale to see every rooftop shingled with guys with no shirts. Below there was a wiffle-ball game being played at the end of the cul-de-sac. The kids asked if they could play too. Yeah right.
At dusk, I had to walk some trash to a nearby dumpster. There were raccoons. Yippee! So I got the kids, walked back and showed them wildlife. When we were done being entertained by the little scavengers, it was getting darker and we headed back to the cabin.
Fortunately, only I saw the streaking from afar. At least this night, the party was at the cabin across the street instead of next door because I think things were getting wilder.
In the morning we decided this was enough and we’d go back to our usual January getaway in luxury and privacy in Hocking Hills. As I packed the van, I had to make another walk to the dumpster. On my way back, I was startled to see a family of four emerge from a cabin kitty-corner from ours and next to last night’s party.
Here’s their story,
“In the middle of the night, my worst fear came true,” said kitty-corner Dad. “Someone was banging on the back door yelling let me in. Well, I yelled back, You better get out of here, this isn’t your cabin now go away. To which the drunk on the other side pleaded, Come on dude, stop mess’n with my head and just let me in.” This repeated a few times before the stranger at the door fell silent.
And so it goes. I could tell all of us old guys had a new story to tell. Nothing like a traveling nightmare to make good talk.
By Frank R. Satullo, The OhioTraveler – http://www.ohiotraveler.com
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