Memories of a life cut short
by Dick Naegele,
copyright 2011
Prior to the Vietnam war, my life was peaceful and serene living in Newport, NY. Newport is a small rural village, nestled in the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains of Central NY state. We moved there when I was going into the junior year in high school. My parents didn't want us kids growing up in the Utica NY and suburb's school systems,and they had found a wonderful old house with brook babbling through the backyard and mature trees shading the entire property.
I was devastated by the very thought of moving to “hicktown USA” and leaving all of my friends. There were no shopping centers, no theaters, and no city buses to travel around on.
It was a cold fall morning when an open stake rack truck backed into our driveway. It was no moving van by any stretch of the imagination. The truck's owner had been recommended by the person my parents purchased the house from, who was also the local pharmacy owner. It seems that the truck's owner was a local dairy farmer, and part time school bus driver, whose sideline was local freight delivery, as well as being the main source of deliveries from the local feed store.
I watched as two muscular farm boys loaded our furniture and household goods onto the truck, and covered it with a hay tarp. They were dressed in jeans and work boots. I was soon to learn that jeans and work shoes or sensible loafers were the norm, and that my tight chino slacks and pointed shoes with heel taps were scorned and ridiculed in small town America. The “Fonz” look was not acceptable. Walking the halls with a cigarette behind my ear was not acceptable either. Moving from Whitesboro Central School to West Canada Valley Central School, could just as well have been a move to the opposite side of the globe.
Continued HERE:
http://morecontinued.blogspot.com/2016/04/continued-line-59.html
Dick Naegele, "Clipper," now hails from Tennesee, but most days find his heart in the Mohawk Valley of central New York State, where he plans to one day return. Living the life of the "Last American Cowboy," Dick was a trucker and logged over 3 million miles on the nation's highways. He has owned his own business, been a government manager and also a professional firefighter. A writer of many talents and experiences, his writing sees the hearts of people that most of us often miss. More of "Clipper's" writing is located on his blog, "Along the Banks of Beaver Creek," at: http://alongthebanksofbeavercreek.blogspot.com/
by Dick Naegele,
copyright 2011
Prior to the Vietnam war, my life was peaceful and serene living in Newport, NY. Newport is a small rural village, nestled in the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains of Central NY state. We moved there when I was going into the junior year in high school. My parents didn't want us kids growing up in the Utica NY and suburb's school systems,and they had found a wonderful old house with brook babbling through the backyard and mature trees shading the entire property.
I was devastated by the very thought of moving to “hicktown USA” and leaving all of my friends. There were no shopping centers, no theaters, and no city buses to travel around on.
It was a cold fall morning when an open stake rack truck backed into our driveway. It was no moving van by any stretch of the imagination. The truck's owner had been recommended by the person my parents purchased the house from, who was also the local pharmacy owner. It seems that the truck's owner was a local dairy farmer, and part time school bus driver, whose sideline was local freight delivery, as well as being the main source of deliveries from the local feed store.
I watched as two muscular farm boys loaded our furniture and household goods onto the truck, and covered it with a hay tarp. They were dressed in jeans and work boots. I was soon to learn that jeans and work shoes or sensible loafers were the norm, and that my tight chino slacks and pointed shoes with heel taps were scorned and ridiculed in small town America. The “Fonz” look was not acceptable. Walking the halls with a cigarette behind my ear was not acceptable either. Moving from Whitesboro Central School to West Canada Valley Central School, could just as well have been a move to the opposite side of the globe.
Continued HERE:
http://morecontinued.blogspot.com/2016/04/continued-line-59.html
Dick Naegele, "Clipper," now hails from Tennesee, but most days find his heart in the Mohawk Valley of central New York State, where he plans to one day return. Living the life of the "Last American Cowboy," Dick was a trucker and logged over 3 million miles on the nation's highways. He has owned his own business, been a government manager and also a professional firefighter. A writer of many talents and experiences, his writing sees the hearts of people that most of us often miss. More of "Clipper's" writing is located on his blog, "Along the Banks of Beaver Creek," at: http://alongthebanksofbeavercreek.blogspot.com/
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