Jerry Udell History
A Collection of my Writing
Welcome!
I have always felt that I have had a very interesting and satisfying life—one full of unusual, poignant and humors experiences. I have recently reflected on how I probably have not shared many of these stories to my wife, daughters or grandchildren. This fact collided with the reality of my just recently turning 80. While I have every reason to believe that I have several good years left, I decided to put some of these memories down in paper for my family. It also occurred to me that my memories might serve as a contribution to the Writers’ Club of Leisure World.
Table of Contents
My Writing
My first serious instruction on the importance, beauty and power of the written word took place in a prep course for the graduation required high school English 6 test at Shortridge High School in Indianapolis, Indiana.
In this course, we were required to write one essay and 2 précis per week. Shortridge High School made every effort to assure that its graduates knew how to write.
In college, my favorite academic activity was writing term papers required by my history and government course professors.
My first job as a college graduate was as the first intern to the then newly elected U.S. Senator from Indiana, Senator Birch Bayh. I remained on the staff for 10 years during which I wrote statements for his delivery to Senate committees and for use in Floor debates.
Later, as Chief of Staff of the Senator’s Indiana home office, I delivered hundreds of remarks to constituent groups.
In the three years I worked for U. S. Senator Mike Gravel, (D-Alaska) I wrote occasional political speeches for the Senator.
After leaving the Hill, I began a 17-year career as Vice President of the American Retail Federation. It was my job to serve as principal liaison with the Federation and its 50 state and 27 national associations. I wrote and delivered over 300 speeches to those groups annual meetings to crowds ranging from 6 to 600. I also wrote a monthly 4-page newsletter focused on this segment of the membership.
The Writers’ Club has given me the opportunity to rekindle a professional passion that most retirees must forgo when the work responsibilities end! This membership is a highlight of our very busy Leisure World life!
I was born in Indianapolis, Indiana on December 30, 1939, and I had a wonderful childhood–thanks to two great parents. I attended Hanover College for two years and graduated from Indiana University in 1963 with a BA in government. My new bride and I moved to Washington, DC where I joined the staff of freshman U. S. Senator Birch Bayh (D) of Indiana as his first intern. I served 10 years on his staff and was elevated to the position of Director for Political Affairs. During that time, I served in executive positions in six campaigns at the Gubernatorial, US Senate and Congressional levels and was afforded the opportunity to shake the hands of six U.S. Presidents.
After my decade with Senator Bayh, I joined the staff of staff of Senator Mike Gravel (D) of Alaska. I was his Washington office chief of staff and raised $400,000 for his re-election campaign.
I spent my post political years as Vice President for the National Retail Federation for state and national associations where I had the responsibility of handling the Association’s relations with its 50 State and 27 National Retail Associations. That position afforded me the opportunity to visit all 50 states as a guest speaker.
Following my 17-year association leadership position, I spent 17 years in promotional product sales with three different companies.
I have always felt that I have had a very interesting and satisfying life–one full of unusual, poignant and humorous experiences. I have recently reflected on how I probably have not shared many of these stories to my wife, daughters or grand- children. This fact collided with the reality of my just recently turning 80. While I have every reason to believe that I have several good years left, I decided to put some of these memories down on paper for my family. It also occurred to me that my memories might serve as a contribution to the Writers’ Club of Leisure World.
I am so appreciative for the support and editing expertise of my wife, Marilyn, in the preparation of all these pieces. Without my grandson, Mark Piazza’s, ideas, expertise, and the time he dedicated to creating this website, this project could not have come to fruition. I am so grateful to both.
My reminiscences begin with one from my high school years at Shortridge High School in Indianapolis and the role Broad Ripple played in my life
Riverside Amusement Park
Riverside Amusement Park was a giant park located in central Indianapolis and featured a full complement of carnival rides and games and perhaps as many as 10-12 baseball diamonds. My high school baseball team played many games in this park. The diamonds were laid out on widely differing levels.
On one particular occasion, we were playing on the most highly elevated playing field in the park. The surface on which we were playing barely contained the infield before dropping, along the first base line, many, many yards on a steep incline down to another diamond.
I was a right-handed batter. I swung late on a pitch which I hit on the extreme end of the bat. The ball was wildly rotating and cleared the first baseman’s head by
about four feet. You could hear the ball make a weird spinning noise as it sailed over his outstretched hand. It barely stayed fair, but then bounced a hard right straight down the giant hill on which our diamond was set.
It ended up on the lower playing field, rolling towards a startled short stop, who was, as he should have been, focused straight on the batter at home plate. But here came my ball, trickling down the gigantic hill toward his right foot.
If that wasn’t confusing enough, he then noticed the catcher, in full protective gear, the pitcher and first baseman of the team, we were opposing, racing down the hill from our elevated diamond to set up some kind of relay to get my ball up on our diamond to stop my running the bases.
Meanwhile, I nearly “succumbed” while rounding second base and heading for third. (At 5’10” and 150 pounds, I didn’t have much practice running out home runs!)
As my ball was gradually being relayed up to our paying field, I couldn’t run much farther. Finally, my right foot hit HOME PLATE! The umpire yelled, “safe!” and I collapsed in the arms of my congratulating teammates—many were hysterically laughing. I had just hit the most bizarre, funkiest home run in Shortridge history!
This incident happened over sixty years ago. I wonder if the “record “still lasts!
Broad Ripple
In the 1950’s, the Broad Ripple section of Indianapolis was on the way to becoming a quaint, artsy, “in place” extension of Indianapolis, but to most of us, it was just the home of our northside school rival. We all knew a few kids from their school, but in general there wasn’t that much interaction between students.
It wasn’t until I entered Hanover College and was having trouble with freshman Biology that I met an attractive Broad Ripple co-ed who happened to be a straight A student. I asked her if she would tutor me for a midterm. She agreed. We discovered that we lived on adjacent streets at home—but 17 blocks apart.
She got her A in biology. I got through. Mission accomplished!
We decided to date that summer. I asked her if she liked bowling. She said “yes.” When I picked her up and met her mom and dad, I noticed a living room bookcase full of bowling trophies. I asked her if they were her dad’s. She modestly replied, “No, they’re mine.”
She trounced me on the lanes that night but, more importantly, I didn’t strike out. She ultimately became my wife, and our 61-year romance continues to this day.
Dear Don,
Our friend Mike Ryman sent me a copy of your book, Air Raid Nights & Radio Days. My name is Jerry Udell and I was born December 30, 1939, in Indianapolis. My mother, father and I attended Shortridge High School. I attended Hanover College from 1958 to 1960 and graduated from Indiana University in 1963. We lived in two northside locations until I left in1963 for the Washington, DC area where my wife and I and two daughters essentially have lived for the past 57 years.
I loved every page of “Air Raid Nights!” You and I lived parallel lives–just on different sides of town. It brought back so many memories and I want to share some of them with you.
I only read about 4–10 pages a night, as I wanted to savor every moment. I didn’t want your book to end. Here are some of my musings that your writing brought back to the front of my brain that I hadn’t thought of in years–or decades.
Fibber McGee and Molly in Whistful Vista
This hysterical post WWII half-hour serial was one of my favorites! Ours was the last generation to hear these broadcasts live. “Don’t open that closet, McGee…”
Civil Defense Warden
My dad was a manufacturers’ representative and traveled throughout the Midwest. He sold parts that his casting and forging plants made to fit the needs of major companies such as GE and Allison Division of General Motors. (Family lore has it that he even had a part that made its way to Tinian for installation on the Enola Gay.)
Late one night I was watching my dad who was shaving in preparation for an early morning sales call. We had one light bulb on over the sink. We both jumped as there was a loud rapping on our window. We peeked out and were greeted by a helmet clad, flashlight-wielding air raid warden ordering us, “Turn off that light right now!” We did so immediately!
Dad and I never discussed just how the “Japs,” as the enemy was commonly referred to in the war era, could fly over half the US from Japan to central Indiana and discover our single light bulb on which to presumably drop a bomb. We just obeyed our air raid warden’s command.
In retrospect, the whole experience of a helmeted volunteer and our immediate unquestioning obedience to his order seems to define the unity, spirit and determination of Americans during the war.
Victory Field
Mom and dad would take me to Victory Field to see a couple of games a year.
I actually played on the field as a member of the Junior Baseball all-star team of the mid 50’s. During the summer of last year while moving from our long-time residence to our current retirement community, I discovered pictures of me playing 1st base in that game! This was one of the thousands of moving decisions I had to make in closing down the only house we had ever known. Save or toss. Save or toss. Yeah, I saved them!
Craig’s for Hot Fudge Sunday.
My Grandmother Ruske and my mom would take me on the streetcar to Craig’s for a hot fudge sundae a couple times a year. Can you imagine taking a public conveyance halfway through Indianapolis for what now can be purchased on virtually every commercial street corner in America? How times have changed!
James Whitcomb Riley
“James” seemed to be one of the biggest names in Hoosier history when I was a kid growing up. However, I don’t remember ever being required to read his poems at any level of my education. Plus, I don’t recall any other contribution he made to history. He must have had a great agent!
Governor Henry F. Schricker
This is the first Indiana politician whose name I heard, but like James Whitcomb Riley, I don’t recall hearing his name associated with any particular issue or accomplishment. Perhaps this is because people of our era didn’t expect government to do much after the war.
But still, it does strike me as unusual, since I spent 10 years on U. S. Senator Birch E. Bayh’s staff and another 3 years on another Senate staff, that I hadn’t heard something about him.
Bob Hope
You had a “brush” with Bob Hope as a kid with your connection with the movie in which you were an extra. I had mine as a junior in high school where I saw him in concert at the Indiana State Fairgrounds. How many people do you suppose he “touched,” in some way, shape or form during his stunning lifetime? When you see the films of him entertaining the troops overseas for decades and you realize—he never spent a Christmas at home with his family and that many thousands of the troops he entertained probably never made it home—it can’t help but bring a tear to your eye.
Thanks for the memories, Bob. I’m one of the millions you touched and am so proud to say so!
Kate Smith and God Bless America
Right Person—Right Time—Right Song
Nobody can “revisionist history” her out of my heart!
Boy Scout Oath
I hadn’t read it for decades. It’s still as good today as it was when it was written. If I were on the drafting committee I would probably have added, “Follow these rules, boys, and you will probably lead a pretty good life.”
Chicken Dinner
A chicken dinner in your and my day began with your Aunt Les and my Grandma Ruske buying the live chicken, killing it with their bare hands, plucking its feathers, butchering it and finally frying it. I witnessed the early part of this process, but fortunately never really connected the gruesome execution with the delicious meal at the dinner table.
Today a dad picks up the fully cooked chicken at the Safeway on the way home from work for $5.95. Mom adds a few frozen side dishes and “voila!” chicken dinner for the whole family!
Not everything in the “good old days” was better than “today’s days.”
Starlight Musicals at Butler Bowl
My Grandmother (of the chicken dinner fame) took me to see my first musical at Starlight. I believe it was “Desert Song.”
The night may have planted a seed. Today, my wife and I usher at four theaters in Montgomery County, Maryland. As you might expect, since the County is a Washington DC suburb, the talent is exceptional. Ushering is a great retirement avocation. Not much “heavy lifting” and you see 16 free plays a year.
Riverside Amusement Park
I’d go to Riverside Amusement Park about once a year but was at the adjacent baseball diamonds countless times as a member of the Shortridge baseball team. The baseball part of the park was enormous with maybe 10-12 diamonds which were built at widely varying elevations.
On one occasion, we were playing on the most highly elevated diamond. I was a right-handed batter. I swung late on a pitch which I hit on the extreme end of the bat. The ball was wildly rotating and cleared the first baseman’s head by about 4 feet. You could hear the ball make a weird spinning noise. It barely stayed fair and then bounced a hard right straight down the giant hill on which our diamond was set. It ended up on the lower playing field right in front of a startled short stop who quickly realized what was happening as the catcher, pitcher and first baseman from our game were racing down the hill to set up some kind of relay system to get the ball up on our diamond to stop my running the bases.
I nearly “succumbed” while rounding second base and heading for third. At 5’10” and 150 pounds, I didn’t have much practice running out home runs! Meanwhile, my ball was gradually making it up to our playing field. I crossed home “safe!” and collapsed in the arms of my congratulating teammates—many were hysterically laughing. I had just hit the most bizarre, funkiest homerun in Shortridge history!
Indiana State Fairgrounds
I lived a block and a half from one of the scores of small gates to the State Fairgrounds. This gate led directly into the midway rides and sideshows. When my mom and dad purchased our house, they bought the next-door vacant lot which served as the neighborhood baseball and football field. But once a year it became my back-to-school “gold mine!” My parents let me turn the lot into a State Fair parking lot for the Labor Day weekend crowd.
I made a sign and welcomed in the customers – “Park all day!!! 1 ½ blocks to the Fair Midway. Only 35 cents!!!”
My dad did all the parking – while I collected all the money. Every square inch of our front and side yards was covered with cars. I ended up with a total of $35- $50 every year! It was some operation!!
Kilroy History
Of course, I remembered the phrase, “Kilroy was here,” but I never heard the “story behind the story.” Great history by you! There are some subjects that remain indelible in my 40’s and 50’s childhood that you didn’t mention or didn’t mention in depth in “Air Raid Nights.” They include:
BB Guns
BB Guns in the pre-teen years were about as much a passion as a driver’s license and a car were to the mid-teen years. The movie “Christmas Story” and Ralphie were “real” in our neighborhood.
My dad was an excellent carpenter. He made a shooting gallery with moving animals on it for me in our basement. When spring came, we moved our shooting outside. Target shooting outside usually consisted of walking through the alleys and firing away at just about anything non-living that you can imagine—usually stuff in the neighbors’ trash, discarded soda bottles, etc.
Can you imagine if you looked out your back window today and saw two or three kids walking through your neighborhood with Red Ryder BB guns? From a distance the gun looks a lot like a Winchester 73—the gun that opened the West. How times have changed!
Broad Ripple
Broad Ripple was becoming a quaint extension of Indianapolis during the 50’s, but to most of us, it was just the home of our northside rival. We all knew a few kids from our rival school, but in general there wasn’t that much interaction.
It wasn’t until I entered Hanover College and was having trouble with Biology that I met an attractive Broad Ripple co-ed who happened to be a straight A student. I asked her if she would tutor me for a midterm. She agreed. We discovered that we lived on adjacent streets at home—but 17 blocks apart.
She got her A in biology. I got through. Mission accomplished!
We decided to date that summer. I asked her if she liked bowling. She said “yes.” When I picked her up and met her mom and dad, I noticed a bookcase full of bowling trophies in the living room. I asked her if they were her dad’s. She modestly replied, “No, they’re mine.” She trounced me on the lanes that night but more importantly, she ultimately became my wife and our 61-year romance continues to this day.
Basketball
The legend, lore and reality of Indiana high school basketball probably reached its zenith in the 50’s and 60’s or at least until the Indiana State High School Basketball Association changed the format by dividing the single state championship into several divisions based on school population.
Interestingly enough, given the basketball climate in the 50’s, when a high school student bought a ticket to the “sectionals,” (first round games), and had all his teachers initial the ticket, he was excused from school to attend the afternoon sessions. Who could pass up this opportunity? —one of Hoosier’s many “finest” traditions!
There would be no more “David and Goliath” stories that in real life would in give us the Milan State Championship in 1954. This upset was immortalized by “coach” Gene Hackman’s portrayal in what is widely acclaimed as the best sports movie ever made — “Hoosiers”.
The Indianapolis 500
For me and my friends, the Indianapolis 500 was an all-consuming 30-day passion.
For me the second saddest day of the year (second to the day after Christmas!) was the day after the race. As Hoosier and Shortridge Alumni Kurt Vonnegut said, “Growing up in Indianapolis in the 50’s was the Indianapolis 500 and 364 days of miniature golf.” We lived and breathed the 500 for the entire month of May.
My dad told me that he thought my first visit to the track was at age 5. I remember as a teenager hearing the golden-throated voice of Tom Carnegie the track announcer saying, “He’s done it! A new track record–150 miles an hour for Parnelli Jones.” Everyone pretty much agreed–“That’s it! They’re never going to go much faster.”
I think you would agree that everybody should go to at least one Indianapolis 500? There is nothing like being in a crowd of 450,000 of your fellow humans and hearing the command, “Drivers, start your engines!” And having 33 cars cross the start/finish line at 230 miles per hour. You may hate it or you may love it, but you’ll agree, “There is nothing else like it.”
Flanner Buchanan Funeral Home
A place where, if I still lived in Indianapolis, I’d be spending more and more of my time as I and my classmates have pretty much all turned 80 years old or older by now.
Thanks for bringing back all these memories, Don!
Jerry Udell
Three years ago, I lost my Dad. He was 101! During our 76 years together, he passed his love of country and interest in sports on to me, his only child.
One day in the fall of 1956, he said, “Jer, How’d you like to go to New York with me on a business trip?” Obviously, my response was, “Dad, that would be great!”
By way of background, I was born and raised in Indiana and at that time there was very little theater in Indianapolis and no professional sports teams in the state. We only had summer stock featuring Broadway plays from the thirty’s and forty’s and no professional sports franchises. The Hoosier State with Indiana and Purdue and, of course, Notre Dame football, was a hub of college—not professional—sports.
As a result. I had never personally seen a Broadway play or a professional game in person.
As the day of our departure neared, dad said “Son I have tickets to some events in New York that I think we’ll enjoy.”
We saw “My Fair Lady” and a dramatic play called “Raisin in the Sun,” starring a young unknown African American actor named Sidney Poitier, (who eight years later would be the first of his race to win the Best Actor Academy Award) AND… tickets to three World Series games featuring the Yankees versus the Dodgers. (It was to be the last Subway Series as the Dodgers moved to L. A. the next year.)
The plays left a lasting impression on me. My wife and I currently usher in three Montgomery County theaters to this day. But the event that imprints the trip in my mind revolves around the World Series.
We saw the two Series games played in the week we arrived and had tickets for Monday’s game in Yankee Stadium.
My dad was aware that I had a major event scheduled in high school and gave me the choice of going home on Sunday or staying and seeing the game on Monday.
I was one of the two finalists running for Junior Class President and the one and only campaign speeches were to be given by me and my opponent at 10:00 Monday morning!
Shortridge High School was one of the oldest in Indiana with 3,000 students and had some very conservative traditional rules–one of which was that there were only two sets of class officers—Junior and Senior. So this was a big deal for me. I said, “Dad, I don’t think they will vote for me if I am not even there!” He agreed and we sold our tickets to the game and headed back to Indianapolis.
On Monday morning, the speeches took place as scheduled. They were predictably mundane and forgettable. At 3:30 that afternoon my locker mate Elliott Nelson came up to me and said 14 of the most memorable words anyone has said to me in my life. “Have you heard what Don Larsen’s (the Yankees starting pitcher) got going in the bottom of the 7th?”
October 8, 1956, Don Larson, a mediocre pitcher—as confirmed by his 81 win-91 lost-lifetime record– pitched the only no–hit-no-run game in World Series history—without the Udells in attendance!
Thirty years later, I was in Cooperstown, New York on a business trip.
I was walking past a baseball souvenir shop when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a picture of Don Larson and an autographed ball for sale! I decided on the spot I’d pay up to $200 for it. I walked in the shop with my hand on my wallet and nervously asked the clerk, “How much for the Larsen ball?” He replied, “$35.00.” You never saw $35.00 come out of a wallet any faster!
Two months later, on Christmas morning, I gave my dad two presents—one was a plastic baseball stand—the other a baseball signed “Don Larson, October 8, 1956.”
And, oh, by the way, YES, I was elected Junior Class President!
My mom died several years ago at the age of 88.
She did not go to college. Mom’s major calling was that of a housewife. She kept a beautiful home and was quite an accomplished, self-trained interior decorator. I remember our house being totally redone three or four times. Her home and tending to the needs of her husband and raising her only child was the major focus of her life. She would occasionally volunteer for causes that interested her.
One volunteer organization was a group of women dedicated to lowering the high school dropout rate in Indianapolis. Its work was the subject of a large article in the Indianapolis star. I was working as an intern (my first post college job) for senator birch Bayh (D-IND). I called the article to his attention. He inserted it into the congressional record and offered a tribute to the group. Mom’s name in the congressional record! Pretty neat!
In the ‘70’s and ‘80’s, there were a great number of books written by people who had experienced “after-death” experiences and who returned to life after serious accidents or major operations. They were able to recount in great detail the location of objects in the operating room—things that were done and said, during surgery, etc. The books were fascinating, short, mostly paperbacks and made fascinating reading.
One day, I started telling mom about these books, many of which involved women in childbirth. My mother’s face fell, and her eyes widened. She teared up and said, “Jerry, that’s what happened to me when you were born!”
She related to me that my birth was difficult—a fact I had known all my life. That is why I was an only child. Having another was too dangerous.
Mom related a difficult, painful, and lengthy birth process. She recalled being whisked at great speed down a dark tunnel and arriving at the end of the tunnel in a bright light that was peaceful, warm, and alluring and being told she could enter the light or turn back. She communicated with the spirit that she wanted “to go back and raise her son.”
By this time, mom and I were sobbing and laughing and hugging all at once.
Although this phenomenon of after-death experiences has been the subject matter of many books, tv shows and investigations since Mom and I had our talk, there is no consensus among the medical or spiritual communities as to these incidents’ origins and their meanings. But mom and I had a pretty good idea as to what it meant to us. This is where our strong bond began!
I was born in Indianapolis, Indiana on December 30, 1939, and I `had a wonderful childhood—thanks to two great parents. I attended Hanover College for two years and graduated from Indiana University in 1963 with a BA in government. My new bride and I moved to Washington, DC where I joined the staff of freshman U. S. Senator Birch Bayh (D-IN) as his first intern. During my 10 years on his staff I was promoted to Director of Political Affairs and Constituent Services. During that period I served in executive positions in six campaigns at the Gubernatorial, US Senate and Congressional levels and was afforded the opportunity to shake the hands of five U.S. Presidents.
After my decade with Senator Bayh, I joined the staff of staff of Senator Mike Gravel (D) of Alaska. I was his Washington office chief of staff and raised $400,000 for his re-election campaign.
I spent my post political years as Vice President for the National Retail Federation for state and national associations where I had the responsibility of handling the Association’s relations with its 50 State and 27 National Retail Associations. In that capacity, I had the opportunity to visit all 50 states as a guest speaker.
I have always felt that I have had a very interesting and satisfying life—one full of unusual, poignant and humorous experiences. Recently I reflected on how I probably have not shared many of these stories with my wife, daughters or grand- children. This fact collided with the reality of my just turning 80, so I decided to put some of these memories down on paper for my family. It also occurred to me that they might serve as a contribution to the Writers’ Club of Leisure World.
My story begins with my high school years at Shortridge High School in Indianapolis.
Riverside Amusement Park
Riverside Amusement Park was a giant park located in central Indianapolis and featured a full complement of carnival rides and games and perhaps as many as 10-12 baseball diamonds. My high school baseball team, Shortridge, played many of its games in this park. The diamonds were laid out on widely differing levels.
On one particular occasion, we were playing on the most highly elevated playing field in the sports complex. The surface on which we were playing barely contained the infield before dropping, parallel aside the first base line, many, many yards on a steep incline down to another baseball diamond.
I was a right-handed batter. I swung late on a pitch and hit the ball on the extreme end of the bat. The ball was wildly rotating and cleared the first baseman’s head by
about four feet. You could hear the ball make a weird spinning noise as it sailed over his outstretched hand. It barely stayed fair, but then bounced a hard right straight down the giant hill on which our diamond was set.
It ended up on the lower playing field, rolling towards a startled short stop, who was, as he should have been, focused straight on the batter at home plate. But here came my ball, trickling down the gigantic hill toward his right foot.
If that wasn’t confusing enough, he then noticed the catcher, in full protective gear, the pitcher and first baseman of the team we were opposing, racing down the hill from our elevated diamond to set up some kind of relay to get my ball up on our diamond to stop my running the bases.
Meanwhile, I nearly “succumbed” while rounding second base and heading for third. (At 5’10” and 150 pounds, I didn’t have much practice running out home runs!) As my ball was gradually being relayed up to our paying field, I couldn’t run much farther. Finally, my right foot hit HOME PLATE! The umpire yelled, “safe!” and I collapsed in the arms of my congratulating teammates—many were hysterically laughing. I had just hit the most bizarre, funkiest home run in Shortridge history!
Broad Ripple
In the 1950’s, the Broad Ripple section of Indianapolis was on the way to becoming a quaint, artsy, “in place” extension of Indianapolis, but to most of us, it was just the home of our northside school rival. We all knew a few kids from their school, but in general there wasn’t that much interaction between students.
It wasn’t until I entered Hanover College and was having trouble with freshman Biology that I met an attractive Broad Ripple co-ed who happened to be a straight A student. I asked her if she would tutor me for our midterm. She agreed. We discovered that we lived on adjacent streets in Indianapolis—but 17 blocks apart.
She got her A in biology. I got through. Mission accomplished!
We decided to date that summer. I asked her if she liked bowling. She said “yes.” When I picked her up and met her mom and dad, I noticed a living room bookcase full of bowling trophies. I asked her if they were her dad’s. She modestly replied, “No, they’re mine.”
She trounced me on the lanes that night but, I didn’t “strikeout.” She ultimately became my wife and our 61-year romance continues to this day.
Mom’s and Dad’s love of Christmas was not necessarily inspired by religious conviction, but was motivated by what an intense love of the season would mean to me, their only son.
Tradition I—The Quest for the Perfect Christmas Tree
Caused by the shortages of WW II, large, full trees were hard to find. Dad would buy two trees. He would put the better in a tree stand and then cut limbs from the “donor tree” and drill holes in the better tree into which the “donor tree” branches would be inserted. Voila! Perfect tree, year after year.
Friends and neighbors would ask, “Bob where did you get that tree? It’s perfect!” I don’t know if Dad came clean or not but I always wondered!
I carried this tradition on in my family using the branch scraps found on the ground of every tree lot to create my “perfect tree.”
Tradition II—Mom’s Rules!
Mom’s Rule #1
No decorated tree or presents would be seen before I came down on Christmas morning
Everything would be put out after I went to sleep on Christmas Eve. Santa brought everything! I was to see nothing until I came down on Christmas morning.
Imagine my reaction year after year! Talk about Christmas magic!
Mom’s Rule #2
I was born on December 30. Mom decreed that no member in the family would give me a present and say, “This is for Christmas and your birthday.” No way! She reasoned, “Jerry’s birthday is special. He deserves a present celebrating just his birthday–Jesus on the 25th, Jerry on the 30th.”
This rule really had a significant effect on my life—If I didn’t get a present I really wanted on the 25th, I knew the chances were pretty darn good, I’d get it for my birthday.
The Most Incredible Christmas Ever
One year, our basement was off limits to me for about three weeks before Christmas.
A cartoonist at the time named Al Capp created a comic strip featuring a little bowling pin shaped character named a Shmoo. My dad bought a set of plastic nesting dolls shaped like shmoos. He placed a rhyming set of clues in every shmoo that led me to a new place in the house. The last clue was at the top of the basement stairs. It told me to turn on the basement lights and not to wet my pants in the excitement! I clicked the switch and much to my surprise, the basement had been turned into a recreation center!!
There was a full-sized juke box full of Spike Jones records. (Spike Jones was leader of a band in the 40’s and 50’s that recorded comedy songs full of all kind of crazy sound effects.) There was a full sized commercial pinball machine. Both machines had been modified so they could be played for free.
This Christmas present was the culmination of mom’s and dad’s master plan to create a house that all kids would like to come to. Thus they knew where their son was, and they got to know the kids with which he was becoming friends. Turning the basement into a community rec center was the final stage. When they bought the house, they bought the vacant lot next door which comprised the outdoor department of the “facility.” That’s where we played football, baseball and basketball. Now our house was THE place to be year ‘round.
The Last Tradition
After high school, college, marriage, children and grandchildren, we visited mom’s and dad’s house for one more late-fall, pre-Christmas visit. Mom was beginning to slow down quite a bit. I asked if she would like to go for a mother-son visit to an upscale gift shop in the neighborhood. She said she didn’t think she was able to make it. As I surmised, that was her last Christmas.
The Udell family Christmas traditions continue in the hearts and minds of two grandparents, two children, and five grandchildren spread throughout North America in Rockville, MD; Victoria BC, Canada; and Atlanta, GA.
I attended Public School 66 in Indianapolis. I walked to school in the morning, home for lunch, and back for the afternoon session. Most of our classrooms, as did many throughout Indianapolis, contained bookcases made by the Udell Woodenware Works, a prominent Hoosier business founded in 1870 by a distant relative of our family.
My memories of grade school are fading as I am in the midst of my 81st year. But one day remains burned in my memory. It remains so because it involves my personal behavior so uncharacteristic that I can’t ever remember doing anything in my life nearly so outrageous.
I believe most people whose paths I have crossed would agree—that I am even tempered. But this was one day I just plain “lost it!” I have no idea what grade I was in or how old I was, but crayons were still a part of our mandatory educational toolbox.
Dick Sunman was a friend of mine and sat right next to me. He was a cute small kid with a blond crew cut, but his concentration skills would have today been of concern to his parents and his teachers. Put bluntly, he had none.
Miss Pauline Hammer was our teacher. Her title “miss” might have hinted at a touch of loneliness. Her last name—Hammer—couldn’t have been more appropriate. She was as tough as nails and ran a tight ship.
On the day in question, Miss Hammer began the lesson by explaining a mathematical process by which one used to solve the problems presented on the front page of our worksheet. She then told us to tackle our worksheet.
Dick, who had been visiting his “other universe,” suddenly realized that he hadn’t been listening to Miss Hammer. As he did every day, he turned to me and asked, “What are we supposed to do now?” Every day it was the same! He always asked me what to do. Without any premeditation or forethought, I looked Dick straight in the eye and said, “She said to turn your paper over and draw a big red airplane.”
Incredulously, Dick said, “What??”
And I replied with total sincerity, “Draw a big red airplane on the back of your math paper and make it as red as you can.”
Dick flipped his paper over and began drawing his “big red airplane.” He was pushing his red crayon so hard; it was flaking off into little red pieces. Dick’s elbow was at ear level. He was pushing so hard on his Crayola.
Unbeknownst to Dick, Miss Hammer was beginning her strut down the aisle to check work and solidify her authority posture. She glanced at Dick’s “work” and screamed, “Dick Sunman, WHAT ARE YOU DOING!!!!????”
Dick replied, “I’m making a big red airplane just like Jerry said you wanted.”
Miss Hammer, her eyes on fire, turned to start on me. Before she could say anything, I took the offensive. “Miss Hammer, Dick never listens to your directions. He always asks me what to do. I’m sick and tired of having to always tell him what to do.”
LONG PAUSE!!!!
Dick was immediately moved out of the alphabetical “S” and “U” section of the room and moved to the front of the room. I hope Miss Hammer got lots of laughs telling this story in the teachers’ lounge that day!
Through the years, I have worked on improving my “understanding and patience” skills.
The P.S. to this story—I don’t remember Dick ever speaking to me again!
I was born in 1939 in Indianapolis, Indiana. I turned driving age (16) in 1955—my first year in high school.
My mother and father had negotiated a deal with my grandmother for her 1949 green Plymouth. As I recall, it had a gearshift sticking up from the floor. Produced just a few years after the war, the car had no “bells or whistles”. Its body design was that of a gigantic Volkswagen. Streamlining and fins were not introduced until the 50’s.
Earning a driver’s license required a lot of work! We had to master the minute details of the Indiana State Highway Manual. For example. How many feet behind a vehicle you should drive to be able to stop safely if the car in front of you should slam on its brakes at 30 miles per hour? etc.
We took drivers’ training class in high school and practiced driving with our teacher and our fellow classmates in the car. (It was under these circumstances that one quickly realized how unnatural the practice of driving was for some of our classmates. To this day, as I drive the beltway, I frequently wonder, “How many of the cars that surround me are being driven by people who really know what they are doing!”)
On the weekend, we took the wheel, under our parents’ supervision, in large vacant public parking lots trying to learn the vagaries of parallel parking. (I know people that have been driving 50 years that still don’t quite understand the angles of this maneuver.)
We grilled classmates of ours who had taken the written test the previous year and particularly focused on the “trick question at the end.” The driving test was held on a closed outdoor course by a state highway instructor, sitting in the passenger seat, who would grade you at several points along the course. With the end of the course on the right side of the road directly in front of you, he would gesture in that direction and say, “When you’re finished, just pull over there”. Many “unbriefed” drivers would fail to notice that there was one final stop sign directly opposite the instructor’s right shoulder. The “unbriefed” kid didn’t have a chance. Of course, he followed the instruction of the adult instructor who’d just given him an “order” accompanied by a gesture. The problem was that the student had just run a stop sign and running a stop sign resulted in an immediate failure of the test! He would have to wait another month to get his license.
I was a “briefed student” and my green ‘49 Plymouth followed my commands perfectly. I stopped at the stop sign and passed the test. I had earned my ticket to unrestricted freedom and a signal to the world that I had passed my first state sanctioned requirement on the path to adulthood!
My other ‘49 green Plymouth’s moment of glory came at a bird watching trip mandated by Mrs. Ruth Richards, my Biology teacher. Mrs. Richards was an institution at Shortridge High School. She may have taught during my dad’s days at the school! A small flinty woman, she would have been well cast as the witch in the Wizard of Oz.
She scheduled two bird watching trips a year for her students at Lake Sullivan, a very large park in central Indianapolis that was a great gathering place for birds. Needless to say, attendance was a command performance!
The trip was a success as all students added several sightings to their bird notebook. Mrs. Richards ended the event and we all returned to our cars. All of a sudden, Mrs. Richards jumped from her vehicle and started yelling for us the get out of our cars. She had just seen a rare sighting and she wanted all of us to get credit for the sighting.
I parked my car, moved to the rear of my car and pulled out my binoculars. As I made the sighting, I heard a thump and a “whoosh” and a scream of one of my classmates, “Jerry, your car!”
I had parked parallel to the lake, neglected to engage my parking break and the wheels somehow moved to the left. The sounds we all heard were that of my car running down the bank of the lake, just nipping the base of a large tree at the lake’s edge and going into the lake.
Fortunately, no one was injured. The car just hit the tree a glancing blow and the car only went in the water about half a hubcap high—not high enough to get water in the cabin of the car.
I called my dad and said, “Dad, you’re not going to believe this, my car is in Lake Sullivan!”
He kept his composure and called a tow truck that easily pulled the car back to the road and I drove it home with just a few scratches.
Once again, my grandmother’s green ’49 Plymouth had served me well. I loved that car and all it came to represent—unrestricted freedom, a rite of passage, and in the end—toughness!
Located in north side Indianapolis, Shortridge High School had a tradition of excellence. In addition to usual high school offerings, it taught six foreign languages, ten semesters of math, had an art gallery filled with work by professional local artists, a student run radio station, and the oldest (est. 1898) student written daily four-page newspaper delivered to each student’s homeroom desk.
My Alma Mater proclaimed, “We were ranked among the best,”—a boast affirmed by the weight Ivy League admission offices extended to our graduates’ applications.
Enrollment during my years (1954-1958) reached 3,000. The school was big, and could be socially cliquish. It could be difficult to find your niche, or more appropriately be accepted by those already in a niche to which you wanted to join. Shortridge could be busy, crushing, deflating, and exhilarating all at the same time. It could be a toxic atmosphere for some. Quite a load for a teenaged population!
On August 8, 1998, Shortridge alums along with those of two other rival north side high schools, Broad Ripple and North Central, joined to celebrate their 40th reunions. Friday night each school had its own private celebration. Saturday combined the three student bodies for the concluding get-together.
I had moved from Indianapolis to Washington D. C. shortly after college graduation and thus played no role in organizing the reunion, but I became aware of what I thought was an interesting, but in retrospect, obvious phenomenon associated with high school reunions. Interest in attending was totally proportional to each student’s level of participation in the total high school experience. Those who had a successful and participatory experience couldn’t wait to attend. For some, high school was the most unpleasant experience of their life. Reliving it by attending the reunion was the last place on earth they wanted to be!
One such person was Jane Miller. She was not very involved in Shortridge but was friends with one of the committee organizers who relentlessly encouraged Jane to attend. Jane had all the excuses— “I didn’t have many friends. I wasn’t in many activities, etc., etc.”
Finally, she relented. Jane Miller, Shortridge Class of ’58, planned to attend her 40th reunion!
It was reunion night. Still apprehensive, she stopped in the women’s room to freshen up and prepare herself for what was coming—whatever that would be. A voice behind her said, “Hi Jane. I remember that beautiful piano solo you played on the senior day program.” Others greeted her. “Jane, you and I sat together in homeroom. And we had such a wonderful time together on the Senior trip to New York. Tell us all about your life now.”
Later, Jane said to her friend on the committee, “They remembered me!”
She realized that she had made a difference and that she had made a favorable impression…as a person.
In recalling this incident, I remembered a great quote from Robert F. Kennedy. It had to do with his first exposure to the outside world as a representative of his brother. He said, “Every time a man stands for an idea or acts to improve the lot of others…he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope…” and he concluded with how such an action can make positive change in the human condition.
Ratcheting down Senator Kennedy’s sentiments to a far less consequential level, I thought about our everyday life. Do we not all send forth our own “ripples” defining who we are and what we are to all with whom we have contact?
Jane learned forty years later that she had a pleasant impact on people far beyond her realization. She may not have changed the world, but she would have felt far more comfortable about a segment of her life had she realized this earlier.
How about your life? What kind of ripples have you sent?
I came to Washington and was hired as the first intern for newly elected Senator Birch Bayh. Little did I know, for the next 10 years I would work for a man who spent 18 years literally “bending” history. One historian characterized Senator Bayh as one of the “most consequential law makers of the 20th century.”
In the 60’s and 70’s, Senators and Congressmen were revered and respected. There were no “tweets” or “twitters”. Politics in those days was a much more personal and civil vocation. You always respected your opponent. You never questioned your opponent’s motives. Bipartisanship was practiced daily. Friendships were formed across Party lines.
As one involved in the political part of the process rather than the governing aspect of staff work, I personally witnessed several particularly poignant moments. Here are a few that made a lasting impression on me.
Birch Bayh Ear Tug
Each year, public officials find themselves in large crowds with constituents elbowing their way to shake hands, urge a position on an issue, ask for help, or believe it or not, voice a complaint!! While some elected officials have better memories than others, no one has a good enough memory to perfectly handle such a situation. Senator Bayh and his staff devised a system for use in his Presidential campaign of 1978.
Presidential campaigns are particularly difficult because you are constantly in very large crowds where there are many you do not know. Our system involved having at least four staff within the Senator’s eyesight. If the Senator touched his ear while talking with a guest, that was our signal to reach out to that individual when he left the Senator. It was our job to find out why the Senator felt this person would be a potential help to the Senator’s campaign and hopefully obtain a business card. Later, we would record our findings on handy index cards.
On the plane home, we combined our index cards and the first draft of our state file was completed.
One Night at the Batesville Casket Company
The affair was held at the summer resort of the Batesville Casket Company owned by John Hillenbrand, a large contributor to the Democratic Party and owner of one of the largest casket companies in the country. He held a gathering for the entire Democratic Party in southern Indiana. About twenty counties were involved. I saw her heading straight for the Senator, tears streaming down her face. This was going to be a challenge. She was going to share her problem, whatever it might be, with Senator Bayh.
I approached her and learned that her husband, a small-town mayor, had recently died. She was here to see Birch one last time. This was a part of her life that she would no longer have. I learned her name and was about to give it to the Senator when the crowd shifted, and she reached him before I could. After a few minutes with the Senator, she then hit him with the line that every political staffer dreads most. She blurted out, “And I bet you don’t even know my name!” Senator Bayh didn’t even flinch. He embraced her and said, “What do you mean? How’s my favorite gal from Green County!” She hugged him tighter and nearly screamed, “You DO remember me!”
I couldn’t wait to get to the car and ask the Senator how he remembered her name. He replied, “I didn’t. I just remembered where I saw her last.”
I mentioned the incident to my immediate superior, Bob Boxell, and he said, “He’s not the best with names that I’ve ever seen, but he’s the best with putting people in a place where he saw them last.”
A Night in Columbus, Indiana
Congressman Lee Hamilton was one of the finest public servants and greatest politicians I’ve ever known. He was elected in 1965 and served Indiana’s 9th District for 34 years. Upon his retirement he was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom by President Obama.
I became friends with Congressman Hamilton’s Administrative Assistant, Dave McFall, and we hatched a plan that Dave would persuade the Congressman to ask Senator Bayh if I could take a leave of absence to serve as office manager and volunteer coordinator for the first Hamilton re-election campaign. The deal was struck. The campaign was the first of six in which I participated.
As the campaign was approaching Election Day, the campaign staff suggested to the Congressman that we stage a large outdoor rally in downtown Columbus. We suggested that we seek Senator Robert Kennedy as the main speaker. The Congressman issued the invitation and Senator Kennedy accepted.
On a dusky evening in October, 1969, a light plane carrying the Senator taxied to a stop at the outskirts of Columbus, Indiana. Senator Kennedy, Congressman Hamilton, Dave McFall, and I proceeded through the Indiana countryside heading toward an overflow crowd in central Columbus. Outside of town, we noticed a clump of people standing along the road. As we drew near them, we saw three small boys, each holding a plastic bronze bust of President John F. Kennedy.
Senator Kennedy asked that the car stop. He rolled down the window, greeted the kids and their excited parents and said, “Kids, I don’t have time now. I’m on my way to give a speech for Congressman Hamilton. But if you’re here when I ‘m on my way back to the airport, I’ll stop and if you have a camera, we’ll have a picture together.”
The speech and the crowd reaction were a rousing success. Congressman Hamilton was re-elected not only for his second term but also for 30 more years.
As we were returning to the airport, we spotted the mom and dad, each holding a flashlight, along with three sleepy kids waiting by the side of the road.
The promised picture was taken, thank you’s and goodbyes were exchanged, and Senator Kennedy headed to the airport.
Somewhere in the outskirts of Columbus today, I’ll bet there’s still a picture in the den of the homes of three men who are now in their 60’s of the three of them, their mom and dad, and Senator Robert Kennedy, and Congressman Lee Hamilton—this picture captured the heart and spirit of Senator Kennedy.
And I’ll bet three kids in Columbus, Indiana, had a show-and-tell experience that’s never been equaled.
The intercom light flashed on my office phone. My boss said “Jerry, come on in, I‘ve got someone here I’d like you to meet”. Ten years had passed since I was hired as his first intern. I had been promoted to Director of one of the four departments in the office—the Political Department.
During the first of three decades in Birch Bayh’s Senate service he had acquired an outstanding legislative and political record. He was viewed as a “must visit” for young Democrats hoping to become part of the next wave of “hot young Washington personalities.” This was one such visit.
Our visitor wanted to pick the Senator’s brain on political and governmental subjects, details on moving his family to Washington and various Committee assignments and personalities in the Senate etc.
He was, attractive, quick, smart and had a smile that went from ear to ear. The Senator and I were impressed. As the meeting concluded, the Senator asked me to give our visitor a tour of the office, introduce him to our staff and explain our structure and organization. Later in the afternoon, the Senator buzzed me and said, “I really liked that guy. Why don’t you do some research and see what his chances are of winning?”
I wrote a one-page memo that stressed the following points.
Our friend is a county commissioner from a state with only three counties—not thought by many to be a likely path to the U.S. Senate. He’s running against a three term incumbent who is thought of as Mr. Republican by his state’s citizenry and he currently enjoys a 60%+ approval rating. The consensus of the political experts is, that while our friend has a future in public service, it will not likely begin in the Senate next January.”
The young man we met that day WAS elected to the U.S. Senate 48 years ago. On January 20, 2021, he will be inaugurated as the 46th President of the United States. His name is, of course—Joe Biden.
In February of 1963, my wife and I moved from Indiana to Washington, D.C. Through a combination of fortunate circumstances, I was hired by newly elected Indiana Senator Birch Bayh. I was his first intern and I spent 10 years on his staff during which I had a front row seat to some of the more interesting events of the tumultuous 1960’s and early 1970’s.
One such event was a truly historic one in which I played a personally memorable, although historically insignificant, role.
Senator Bayh was a political shooting star with three-decade staying power. He was elected Speaker of the Indiana House of Representatives at age 30, while still attending law school at Indiana University. He was elected to the United States Senate at the age of 37 and he spent 3 terms in the Senate. One historian characterized him as, “One of the most consequential lawmakers of the 20th century…responsible for Constitutional Amendments and a long list of legislative accomplishments that changed and improved America.”
One of the first of these accomplishments was the 25th Amendment to the United States Constitution regarding Presidential inability, disability and succession—an Amendment that has received considerable attention recently as an alternative to President Trump’s impeachment.
My story focuses on a piece of memorabilia from my political items collection—a tie that I am wearing today which can only be described as moderately ugly. The genesis of this tie dates back to 1967.
As the time neared for the Senate vote on the 25th Amendment, I asked if I could sit in on the Senator’s final Senate floor debate preparation meeting. The Senator approved my request.
The morning of the scheduled Senate debate, the Senator’s legislative staff arrived at the office unusually early and began peppering the Senator with every tough question with which the Senator might possibly be confronted. As time went by and the questions began to trail off, one of the more senior staff members said, “Senator, I think you’re ready. But the tie you have on is really ugly. Jerry is wearing a beautiful red, white and blue tie that would be perfect for this occasion.”
The Senator and I agreed and we exchanged ties. He headed to the Senate floor to lead the debate on an exercise that had been successful only 24 times in American history—amending the United States Constitution. The Amendment passed and in due time was ratified by the States. The Senator and I never again discussed the exchange of ties.
I’ve saved his tie all these years. Why did I save the Senator’s tie? Maybe the next time my grandchildren visit, I’ll show them the tie that binds the Udell family to the United States Constitution.
My last professional job was as a Director of Development for the Citizens for Sound Economy – a responsible conservative, pro-business group that lobbied at the state level on tax and budget legislation and worked to install pro-business judges at state and local levels.
My job was to serve as liaison to several members who administered their company’s six figure yearly contribution to the organization.
My first day on the job started with desk-to-desk introductions by my boss to my new colleagues. During this process, I became aware of a going-away party being held for a very popular senior executive after work in the conference room. My boss suggested that it would be a good opportunity for me if I chose to attend.
Introductions over, I went to my office. In mid afternoon, a young staffer appeared at my office door brandishing a congratulatory card for the day’s honoree and asked for a nice note and my signature. Despite the fact that I didn’t know the man, I took the card, opened it and turned it over, looking for the least obvious blank space to sign. Much to my horror, there was only one vacant spot on the card. It was directly in the center of the card. When the honoree opened his card, my message would be exactly where his eyes would take him.
I filled the spot with as tasteful but innocuous message as I could concoct. Despite my best efforts, I could think of no one but John Hancock whose oversized autograph on the Declaration of Independence was so large that the king could read his name without putting on his spectacles which of course gave birth to one of America’s most familiar phrases used when being asked to sign any legal document —“Just sign your “John Hancock” right here!
My mind was out of control. Out slipped the thought, “Maybe no one will notice – yeah, right!” It would more likely be, “Can you believe the new guy? He signed the card right in the middle – some nerve!”
As the party wound down and several staff were offering fond personal and professional reminiscences, one said, “John, 10 years from now, when you look back on your time here, what thoughts are likely to come to your mind?”
Without missing a beat, John picked up the card, opened it and said, “I’m sure my first thought will be, ‘Who in the hell is Jerry Udell??!”
I’m sorry I didn’t get to know John. I would have liked him and his quick wit and sense of humor! I hadn’t met him before and I’ve never met him again!!