With Me Always, My Journey Without and With The Trinity

God.

CHAPTER ONE

Turned to Prayer

In my days of innocence, I do recall a few things as being a toddler. As one can imagine, little comes to the mind of this seventy-three year old man. Oh, I do have faint memories of a few things that occurred in those very early years. The fact that my toys consisted of my mother’s pots and pans in the kitchen were a hit to me then. I know my neighbors could always look forward to me showing up around the evening dinner hour to watch Howdy Dowdy on their twelve-inch television.

The fact was we never had one of these electrical devices of entertainment. When my mother was not busy preparing meals, she, as part of a group from Pittsburgh, would pack up food parcels toward the end of World War II and definitely years after, which would be sent directly to relatives in Germany. She would steam open pudding packets, take out the contents, and replace them with cigarettes, which were the best currency for getting other supplies in exchange in that country. As all the mail was censored after the war, she couldn’t inform relatives. Instead, she waited to hear from them as to whether they enjoyed the pudding!"

In addition to keeping the relatives fed, shoes and other things were also sent.

Mom along with my brother, Bob, and my sister, Betsy, and I would then take the packages to the Dormont Post Office to mail.

When I got a little older, I joined my parents along with the neighbors, to participate in an annual block party. Practically everyone who lived on this dead end street in Bethel Borough took part. Fun was had by those of all ages. As usual, the kids played together, and the adults did their thing.

At other times, when that wasn’t going on, I would spend some time visiting some of the residents of our little community, doing what kids love to do best, make messes and getting into trouble without ever trying.

Of all the friends I had in that Pittsburgh suburb of the South Hills, there was one fellow I spent a lot of time with who owned a white rabbit. Danny Dopinhanger lived approximately one and one-half acres directly behind our house. The rabbit’s name was Bun Bun; very fitting, don’t you think? I loved to go to the cage that sat in the corner on his property, to the left of the white painted house. Very often, I would visit this furry animal and stick my fingers into the holes of the wire mesh to pet my four-legged friend. We had many brown rabbits running around our neighborhood. This was the first time I admired a white one. Not only was it special because it belonged to my friend, but it had a tumorous growth under its chin. I don’t think it was healthy, but at that time, I didn’t know anything about that type of thing, especially with rabbits.

I can still recall on a warm, sunny afternoon as I made my way home from Danny’s house, I decided to reach out to God and ask Him a favor. Nature’s call had made its presence known. Doubt filled my mind whether I’d make it home in time. Instantly, I was reminded of a message Pastor R. Russell Riethmiller had preached from the pulpit at Faith Lutheran Church. He had said, If you need help and are troubled, call upon God and He will help you. In a matter of minutes, I thought the whole thing through. What do I have to lose? I asked myself. I stopped for a minute, made my petition known, and then continued home.

When I got to back to my parents’ house, swung open the door, and made haste to the little room down the hall, I knew right then and there, God existed as He, indeed, did answer my prayer. I never forgot that day. I can still picture myself walking up the grassy hill. It’s almost like it happened yesterday; the memory is so vivid.

Yet, so much has happened since I was seven years old. God has certainly played an integral part in my life. I have to admit that there were some times along my journey of life when I didn’t think I needed Him, but I found out that way of thinking only left me wander down the wrong paths, unknowingly.

To think back as far as my brain will take me is almost unimaginable. It’s hard enough to remember what I ate for lunch yesterday, let along think back some seventy years and recall instances of living as a child most likely in kindergarten. My experiences there were short, and unfortunately, not among my favorite moments. Really none of my experiences in elementary schools was anything to write home about.

I don’t think I was in Keenan Elementary School’s kindergarten class in Mt. Lebanon, Pennsylvania, more than four days. I convinced my mother I didn’t want to go back and stuck to my guns, as the saying goes, and that was that!

Like any first week of schooling K-12, the first five days of each educational year are more of an introduction of what’s to come and what the teachers expect of you. All went well in kindergarten the first three days. I was getting along fine with the other boys and girls, and having a good old time as one would expect kids to have. Then things got a little bit out of hand one particular Thursday.

It seemed that the teacher had asked us all to bring something to class for show- and-tell. I can handle that. I thought it was going to be fun, taking something of worth and then talking about it. What was to follow blew me away.

I first have to state that it should be an adult’s responsibility to set an example for children at that age. Remember that youth are very impressionable. If the leader acts a certain way and it is not protocol, what were the youngsters to think?

I was really excited when Show-and-Tell Day arrived. I shared my story, as did the other kids in class. All went well right up to the end of the day. It was then when the unexpected happened. The tall brunette blurted out, No, Paul, you can’t have it back. I’m going to keep it for myself! Hey, is this the way school is supposed to be? My whole learning process began on a negative note and I was no happy camper, let me tell you. I looked at her smack dab in her eyes and stated, Why should you be allowed to keep it? It’s mine! That didn’t seem to work.

No one can truly understand the churning of resentment that started to raise my adrenalin level to such heights that I felt compelled to initiate phase two of what I considered to be a normal reaction.

I scooped up all my belongings and bolted out of the classroom door, turned to the right, ran up the stairs, flinging the school doors open and ran into the parking lot where I hoped I would find the family car parked, with my mother at the steering wheel, waiting for my dismissal.

Thank God (even though at that time, I didn’t know He even existed) she had arrived a tad bit early. I told her what had happened and Mom didn’t make me return and apologize. I threw my stuff in the car, ran back, knocked on the window (the classroom was in the basement of the building), and yelled, I’m not ever coming back, and Mom’s not making me!

The next day, we never heard from the teacher or the principle, which now that I think of it, is a bit strange, particularly since it was reputed as a topnotch school system.

My mother, then, for my first grade year, decided to try something new. Instead of sending me back to Keenan, for my introduction to education Part 1, she opted to send me to another school, one closer to where we lived. After all, as a South Hills resident, this was definitely a better decision to have me go to Rutherford Elementary School, not far from our humble abode, rather then to motor down a road much farther, back to the place where I first received that bitter taste to what the parents heard was first-class education.

I felt as though I graduated, but really I hadn’t. It was a whole new everything for me – teacher, classroom, and nobody who looked familiar with whom I could share old times. One may ask, What old times? I agree. With four days of getting to know each other, what’s old anyway? Back at Keenan, I could have sung the song, Getting to know you, getting to know all about you…

This was a time period I’ll never forget. Even though the war was over, when sirens went off, we still found ourselves heading for the floor using desks to shelter us. Maybe the school knew something I didn’t, but at that early age, what was I supposed to know anyway, other than what the parents taught me at home?

Everything about that school stands out in my mind, the wooden desks, the big windows facing out onto the main road, and the chalk blackboards with the wooden troughs. I liked the ideas that we could all open our desks and deposit our books, pencils and other items that we needed to fulfill our studious tasks.

All went well for a while. I actually made it to the beginning of fourth grade. Whoopee!!! I thought I was on a roll until one day my mother received a phone call to meet with the principle.

He told her, There is only one way Paul can stay here at Rutherford Elementary School. Because he is slower than the other students, he will have to be entered into the classroom with special education students.

My parents didn’t take kindly to that statement, so guess what? It was back to Keenan! I would soon find out that I couldn’t just ease into a new classroom as one of the gang. I found myself being in the limelight with this new teacher. What a revolting development! I have to use those last two words for a reason. Just put yourself in my place. What would one do (sounds like a television show title) if one’s teacher constantly pointed one out to other classmates emphasizing how cute one is? I felt like shriveling up into a ball and rolling into the inkwell.

Again, teachers seem to forget, we are like clay, molded by the potter, headed toward the kiln of hard knocks if behavior on behalf of adults is allowed to continue. Where did her approach place me as seen by the other kids? Go to the head of the class and get a star for your forehead? It was almost like, Man, get away from me, Mr. Cutey Pie! Swell. Teachers like that need to be weeded out of the system. She certainly did me no favors. I had enough on my plate. I didn’t need her admiration as a contribution.

It’s OK, I guess, to a certain extent to be labeled a geek, nerd or ‘wiz-kid,’ but don’t call a fourth grader cute. Now, I can understand God creating me as a cute offspring, but a grown woman, such as the teacher, should know enough that some thoughts should just be kept to herself!

Looking back at my Keenan years, there were other moments of anguish that were very unpleasant, more than being the teacher’s pet.

One day in gym class, we were all lined up in alphabetical order, with me (Mr. V) being at the end of the line, as was always the case. It seemed the instructor was miles away from me. I could barely hear him speak. It was frustrating to say the least. He then started motioning people to do things. Since I was at the very end and out of hearing range, I came up with an idea that seemed good to me at the time, but boomeranged instead.

I put my finger up to the left side of my head and rotated it counter-clockwise to indicate to him that I didn’t understand what he was stating. He misinterpreted it to mean that I was signaling to him that he was crazy to have me do whatever it was that he was indicating for me to do. All of a sudden, he came racing over to me, grabbed my arm, and pulled me out of the large activity room all the time stating, I’m taking you to the principle’s office. You are not going to get away with this! Actually, I really thought I was doing the right thing. But for some reason, no one believed me. My parents were contacted and I was homeward bound. This so-called schooling idea was definitely not my bag. I had something taken from me that wasn’t given back, my teacher embarrassed me in the front of other children, and now this, making an gesture that resulted in a reaction of negative consequences.

And it only got worse.

During recess, all the kids would play together and would have no interest in including me. I was forced to stand by myself and watch. Thanks to the great staff at good old Keenan, there was no insistence of letting me become a part of the place. I felt as though I were an outcast, if anything. That doesn’t go down well with a kid!

Oh well, I had three years of that during September through May and was very happy it was behind me after I finished sixth grade.

When summer vacation interrupted my formal educative years, it was most welcome, to say the least. Nothing much comes to mind other than to state that I spent a lot of time bicycling through the neighborhoods close to and far from our house. Brookside farms had many hills. It was certainly a struggle peddling up the steep grades, but coming down was a whole other story. I swear I must have gone thirty to forty miles per hour down those long hills. It was definitely fun personified. Back then no one stressed about wearing helmets. They were practically non- existent, except for motorcycle riders.

If someone were to ask me what street I probably coasted down the most, it had to be Comanche Road. It had two main hills and I rolled down both. When I wasn’t strengthening my muscles, a neighbor and I were in the fields not far from my house making forts out of the brush-type twigs that were scattered everywhere. Sometimes he would make one in a location and I at another. Then we did as most youth do, engage in some kind of wild-west confrontations.

At other times, we would just hike the fields toward Washington Road. Along the way, we would find golf balls from the range nearby. If I remember correctly, I think our parents made us return them.

As far as doing other things that summer, few of them come to mind. It goes without saying that I spent maybe a half-hour a day down at Danny’s petting Bun Bun. Since I had a fancy concerning rabbits ever since my father told Bob, Betsy and me rabbit bedtime stories in our growing up years in our household, that animal has stayed dear to my heart even now to my