Stories from

(Warning: Christmas spoilers are contained in this article.)

When people reminisce about Christmas when they were little, different remembrances about the holiday come to their minds. The tree, the dinner, the church, and the presents they received are all standouts.

The best thing about Christmas for me is the magicality of it for kids. When I was young I fell hook, line, and Rudolph for the whole thing. Santa Claus, the reindeer, the sleigh -- all of it. Then, when I became a dad and had little ones of my own, it brought me back to my own childhood to see the awe and wonder on their faces on Christmas morning.

My Santa-believing years were mostly spent at 26 Thomas Avenue where we lived from when I was 1 to 8 years old. My parents, especially my mom, really stoked the imaginations of my younger brother Dan and me with the fantasy aspect of Christmas.

In the days leading up to Santa's visit we were encouraged to write and mail our toy list to the North Pole, first dictating to mom and later scratching out our own missive complete with misspellings. Then, we would walk holding mom's hand to the nearby mailbox to send them off. I guess now kids would text Santa or maybe the Jolly Old Elf is on Twitter.

Putting up the tree is not a great memory though. Going to pick one out at the tree lot was fun, usually combined with stopping for hot chocolate. But, once we got it home it was my dad's responsibility.

Troublesome Tree Stands

Apparently no one had yet invented an easy to use stand and this task was rife with a lot of yelling and epithets. My dad's favorite was “Judas Kraut!” We knew things were really going badly when we heard, “Oh fall down why don't ya!” Usually we'd retreat to our room to avoid this yearly outburst.

Almost worse than erecting the tree was the putting on of lights. First, the snarled wires, which had somehow become entwined like a ball of snakes up in the attic since last year, had to be untangled. Then, those who lived back in the '50s will remember that if one bulb went out they all did. Consequently, an exhaustive and profane process had to be carried out to find the faulty offender. I was never good at science so I'm not sure of why this was electrically speaking, but it sure caused dad to give off sparks.

Once the tree was up and lit (temporarily until another bulb shorted out the whole string) it was mom's purview to decorate it. As you can see by the accompanying photos, this meant applying mounds of silver tinsel. If the old theory of improving TV reception by putting aluminum foil on the antennas was true, Christmas trees back then were capable of picking up alien signals from distant galaxies. There must have been ornaments under there somewhere but who could tell?

Keeping Score on Outdoor Decor

A week or so before Christmas, we'd all pile into the family car (probably a Pontiac) to drive around Batavia and look at people's outdoor displays. My mom would bring a pen and paper and we'd give scores and vote on whose decorations were the best.

Since it was 65 or more years ago now, I can't recall any streets or houses which stood out except for Redfield Parkway. This street is in the western part of the city by the racetrack and the Veterans Hospital and has a median down the middle. Almost every house would put a tree on their front lawn and light it up in different ways. Individually each house wasn't much to see, but taken as a whole it was impressive.

I haven't been in Batavia at Christmas for a number of years, but I think this neighborhood tradition is still going on.

Christmas Eve Day must have been a real challenge for my (and all) moms. The anticipation of Santa coming was almost too much to bear. Activities had to be found for us so we wouldn't go completely out of control. You know how your puppy gets when it's been in a crate all day waiting for you to get home from work? That was us minus the barking and jumping. Well, the barking anyway.

So the day would be spent baking and decorating cookies and getting Santa and the reindeers' snacks ready. Cookies for Santa and carrots for the reindeer were placed on the hearth with a note. One year mom apparently thought it would be cute for me (Dan was too young) to write a poem about Santa.

Santa Claus lives way up north,

On Christmas Eve he goes forth,

To bring presents to girls and boys,

Books and balls and lots of toys.

You better watch out,

And you better not cry,

Or Santa right by your house

Will fly.

If you are good,

Do not fear,

Santa will come down the chimney

This year.

OK, it didn't win a Pulitzer Prize, but it was cute, wasn't it?

The Grip of Insomnia

Like many parents ours had to struggle to get us to sleep on the Big Night. The tactic of telling us that Santa wouldn't come if we were awake only seemed to make our eyes bulge wider. My mom told us that if we were really quiet we could hear the bells of the reindeer jingling. I was positive a couple of years that I actually heard them on the roof, but when I got up and looked out the window there was nothing there but the cold dark night.

To make it even harder to drift off into dreamland my mom had a tradition, maybe from Denmark from where my grandparents emigrated, to hang our stocking on the foot of our bed instead of the hearth. Imagine trying to fall asleep when you thought Santa would imminently be standing right there in your bedroom.

I swore that I never closed my eyes, but all of a sudden at 3 or 4 in the morning I would check my stocking for seemingly the 20th time and it would be full! Talk about magic! Then I had to restrain myself from looking through everything until morning.

One thing I could count on being in there once I learned to read was a Hardy Boys book. I loved them and for my parents' benefit it served the purpose of keeping me busy all day. I would usually have read the whole book by bedtime on Christmas night. Besides the book and maybe a small toy, the rest of the stocking was filled with nuts and tangerines. We weren't wealthy by any means.

Sneaking a Peek

One Christmas Eve, or more accurately early in the morning, I couldn't restrain myself and decided that I just had to see Santa. I tiptoed, probably in my slipper socks, to the stairs and positioned myself where I could see the tree.

I'm not sure how long I sat there, but at some point my dad discovered me and shooed me back to bed. He probably admonished me that if Santa had seen me he would have gone back up the chimney without leaving any presents. Dads are well known to be more blunt than moms about such things.

After all that anticipation, Christmas morning was almost anticlimactic.

The Big Bonanza

Nonetheless, we kids were up at the crack of dawn dragging a half-asleep mom and dad behind us down the stairs. Like in most every other household there ensued a hullabaloo of torn wrapping paper, opened boxes, and Oohs!, Aahs!, and Oh Boys! galore.

Presents for little boys in those days would certainly include cowboy gear, including the dreaded cap pistols with mom's admonishment, “Those are for outdoors only!” Also in the Santa bonanza would be baseball mitts and/or bats and footballs and equipment, including one year my prized red helmet, which I reminisced about in a previous story.

If you look carefully at one of the accompanying photos you can make out a toy gas station. Today it would possibly be an electric charging station for the kids' toy Prius or Tesla.

My parents' gift from me consisted of a construction paper covered packet in the shape of an angel or a bell made at school. Inside I would promise them a bunch of rosaries and prayers (pretty sure I never paid up) with a message that the nun would have us copy from the blackboard: "Dear Mom and Dad, Thank you for all you do for me. Your son, David Reilly.” (Good thing I put my last name so mom and dad wouldn't think some other kid named David made it.)

Round Two -- Cedar Street

After mom calmed us down enough to eat some breakfast, we were lucky enough to embark on a second round of gifts at our Aunt Kate and Peg's house. My dad had two sisters who never married and lived together in the family home at 27 Cedar Street (previously mentioned in "The Blizzard of '66") where they grew up. They doted on Dan and I (they embarrassingly referred to us as “Honey Boys”) and somehow persuaded Santa to make a stop at their place, too. So, the ripping and tearing and opening and shouts of “Yippee!” took place all over again.

Later in the afternoon, usually at our house because mom was the only family member who could cook, we'd sit down to Christmas dinner. This was somewhat of an adventure in itself.

Our Uncle George was a plumber and to be blunt, he kind of smelled like it. So Dan and I would jockey for position at the table so as not to sit by him. His wife, Aunt Helen, apparently had a food issue and while we ate turkey with all the trimmings, mom had to fix her what seemed to be a shriveled piece of some kind of meat. When we got a little older Dan and I would joke that we needed to get it analyzed by a laboratory to see what it actually was.

Once every few years my aunts would cajole everyone to have the dinner at their house. This announcement always led to loud protesting and whining including by my dad and they were his sisters.

They were raised in the Irish style of cooking, which meant boiling everything in water. This included the ham. Just the odor would make us gag. I think there were a couple of years when all I actually ate was those little gherkins that came in a jar. At least they weren't boiled.

Finally, as Christmas night arrived, the big day began to wind down. Uncle George and Aunt Helen headed home in the plumbing truck and my dad had to drive aunts Kate and Peg to their house as they both lived to old age without ever learning to drive.

Christmas Concludes

Little brother Dan conked out somewhere and would eventually be carried up to bed. I would be curled up in a quiet spot absorbed in whether Frank and Joe Hardy would solve the case of “The Sinister Sign Post.” I assume that our parents were relaxing, too, and breathing a sigh of relief that it was over for another year.

Between the ages of 8 and 10 we lived for a couple years on Ellicott Avenue and then when I was 10 we moved across town to 122 North Spruce Street. Of course, Christmases continued on with many of the same people and traditions.

But at some point, like all kids, I realized the truth, and the magic of Santa vanished. Thankfully, the enchantment returned in the 1980s when my children were born and I got to again suspend reality for several years through their wide and happy eyes.

Photos courtesy of Dave Reilly.

St. Mary's School first grade 1952. Dave Reilly was sick that day and is not included in the photo. His infamous pal Charlie is fourth from the left in Row 2.

I'm sure there has been plenty of research done about memory. Why do some people have better memories than others? How do our memories change as we age? Why do some people have vivid memories of their childhood while others' recollections are scant at best?

Of my elementary school experience at St. Mary's School in Batavia, grades 1-8 from 1952 to 1960, I only seem to recall funny or unusual happenings. What we were taught, projects we did, and most day-to-day classroom experiences elude me.

It's the silly or odd stuff that somehow has remained in my brain all these years. I guess that might be some kind of clue about my personality, but that would be for the experts to figure out.

St. Mary's was still being constructed when I started there, so for first and second grade we were housed in the lower floor of Notre Dame High School next door, which itself had just been built.

I started first grade at the age of 5 and didn't turn 6 until January. My teacher was a nun, a Sister of the Holy Cross, and that was the case seven of my eight years at St. Mary's. I do not remember her name or that of my second-, fourth- or sixth-grade teachers either.

I missed the first week of first grade due to illness. Not only did I not get to know the teacher and kids, I apparently also was left out of a group class photo taken on the steps of the school. We didn't have on uniforms, but we subsequently had to wear them.

A Howdy Doody Lunchbox and Terrifying Teens

For some reason on my first day of first grade (Maybe my mom brought me for my grand entrance later in the morning?), the nun sent me to the lunchroom all by myself.

So, there I was -- probably in a striped shirt with a clip-on bow tie and dark blue corduroy pants carrying my Howdy Doody lunchbox -- surrounded by high school kids. I do recall being intimidated by those huge, adult-like creatures and staring at them with a wide-eyed kind of terror.

I still can't believe the sister sent me alone. Knowing how shy I was I bet my mom had to work some magic to get me back there the next day.

Second grade (inset photo, left) is also a blur except for the time I got sick. I must have had a fever and recall shaking with the chills. Nonetheless, I was too afraid to tell the sister. When it came time to go to lunch, the nun lined us up and off we went down the hall.

I must have sneaked to the end of the line and as the class went one way, I went the other. Out the door I flew and on down the street.

It was probably about a mile from the school on Union Street to our house on Thomas Avenue, but despite being ill I made it. Imagine my mom's surprise (good thing she was home) when I walked in the door. “What in the world...?”, she probably said.

It's fortunate that she wasn't prone to any profanity until her elder years. After I was put to bed she must have called the school and reported my escape. I should have saved that skill for high school when I could have used it more beneficially.

The Lifelong Influence of Miss Marguerite Horgan

For Grade 3 we got to move into our now completed school. This was my only year with a secular teacher and it was my best and favorite one. Our teacher was the kind and gentle Miss Marguerite Horgan. Every day she would read to us and I enjoyed that. I like to think that she was a big influence on my lifelong love of reading.

When I became a fifth- and sixth-grade teacher myself for 33 years I made sure that every day after lunch I would try to choose some good example of children's literature and read an excerpt to my class.

The beginning of fourth grade is kind of foggy, but I think the nun who was supposed to be our teacher became incapacitated and as a result the fourth and fifth grades had to be combined.

Anyone who attended Catholic School in the '50s and '60s remembers that we always had classes numbering more than 40 students. I wish I had a class photo from that year because we must have been bursting at the seams with two classes joined together.

At lunchtime we were allowed to go outside to get some fresh air and play.

Fighting Dirty

That year some kind of construction was still going on and there was a big hill of dirt on the Union Street side of the school. This mound turned into a battleground of “king of the hill” between the fourth- and fifth-grade boys.

After about a week of torn and dirty clothes, bruises, cuts, several fistfights and most likely a bunch of parent phone calls, the principal put us on lockdown. Eventually the dirt hill was removed and we got to see the light of day again.

First and Lasting Impression

My only real memory of fifth grade happened on the first day before class even began. As we were milling about in the hall greeting our friends and looking for our classroom we heard some kind of commotion. Voices were rising, kids were laughing, and the queue of children and parents parted like the Red Sea.

But instead of Moses and the Israelites coming through, it was our classmate named Lenny. He had a wide grin on his face and a cigarette dangling from his lips.

Lenny didn't get too far before one of the nuns swooped in like a giant hawk and grabbed the cigarette in one hand and the collar of Lenny's shirt in the other. Away he went never to smoke up the halls of St. Mary's again. It was off to public school for him.

I was a student for 17 years and a teacher for 33 and absolutely no one ever made a more memorable entrance than Lenny.

Sixth grade must have been the year of boredom. One thing we had to do was memorize the Catholic catechism. The nun put a "Jeopardy!" like spin on this activity though by giving us the answer and we had to respond with the question.

A Pencil to Pass Time

To make the long day go by faster, I came up with a game to play. Did you realize that a pencil has six sides? Well, I made mine into a rolling die (as in the plural dice).

On a piece of paper I made a horseracing track divided into lanes of equal length. I would assign a famous horse (Citation, Whirlaway, Swaps) to a numbered lane and then roll the pencil to advance one to six spaces. I don't recall getting caught, but my mother had to have me tutored in math that year, so I guess one to six was my limit mathematically.

Grade seven (inset photo, left, doing homework) went pretty well for most of the year. Sister Mary Lourdes was young and seemed to convey a more relaxed and understanding atmosphere than my previous nun teachers. I really liked her and I think I started to actually enjoy school.

But, at some time in the spring that feeling went bad in a hurry.

One day we were playing outside at lunch and my friends Anthony, John and I wanted to know how much time was left. Not having a watch, we went around on the Woodrow Road side of the school to look in the window of our classroom and see the clock.

When we got back to the room, Sister Lourdes had a very sour look on her face.

As we took our seats she explained that she was horrified someone committed a grave sin by stealing the money we had been collecting for the “Missions” (poor Catholics in Third World countries) out of the container on the shelf by the windows.

If that wasn't bad enough, she said that someone had told her that they saw Anthony, John and David out there by the windows during lunch.

“Did you take that money boys?” she queried. Of course, since we didn't, all three of us adamantly answered “NO!”

Charlie -- Esquire, and a Jury of Peers

Well, the sister must have smelled a great teaching moment in the air because she told the class that since she had evidence she was going to put us on trial and the class would be the jury.

I only remember two things about the trial.

One, my friend Charlie, the costar of several of my previous stories, finagled the job of being our defense attorney. As a precursor to his later getting a law degree from Syracuse University, Charlie won the case. I think the vote to acquit was unanimous. Two, this was mostly because sister's “evidence” was solely the testimony of the informer whom she would not identify.

Afterward the nun tried to apologize and say that she really believed we were innocent, but she wanted to teach the class a lesson. Maybe, but I wasn't having it.

For the rest of the term I was disillusioned and never trusted her again.

Eighth grade was not an enjoyable year for me, or probably my classmates either. Our teacher in retrospect was not well suited or happy in her job and took it out on us on a daily basis. In my stories I try to find humor in my nostalgic remembrances and there wasn't much of that in our final year at St. Mary's.

Inventive, Perhaps, Amusing, No

I do recall one instance when I tried to be funny, but classmate Susan, who sat in front of me, was not amused.

The sister was teaching a history lesson and asked, “Does anyone know who invented the steamboat?” I whispered to the girl, “Stanley Steamer.” Immediately she raised her hand and called it out.

Now, I will give Susan credit, because when the nun reprimanded her for such a ridiculous answer she didn't rat me out. Maybe Susan had mercy on me because I was seemingly already the teacher's whipping boy. I hope I apologized to my classmate for embarrassing her, and if I didn't, I should have.

In June 1960 my elementary school career came to a close and it was on to Notre Dame.

My poor recall of any significant learning in those eight years at St. Mary's is a mystery to me. My hope is that over my three-plus decades of teaching, I provided my students with more substantial memories that they can look back on with fondness.

(Photos courtesy of Dave Reilly.)

(Photo circa 1958. That’s Dave Reilly sliding and his infamous pal Charlie making the "safe" sign.)

This year Batavia will be celebrating 80 years of baseball. Through the names Clippers, Indians, Pirates, Trojans, back to Clippers, and since 1998 the Muckdogs, the local team has provided adults and kids with a source of entertainment during the summer.

It also indirectly affected me ending up in the back of a police car about 60 years ago.

In the late '50s and '60s when I was about 10 to 15 years old (before girls), baseball was king with my friends and me.

In the daytime in the summer we would constantly be on our bikes with our bats and mitts riding all over looking for a place to play ball. One of our favorite places was the Little League park on State Street, which was deserted during the day and another field right by MacArthur Stadium where the Indians (as they were called from '57-'59) played.

We had a group of our guys and there was another ”gang” who lived in the stadium area who we would play for bragging rights.

As long as we were near the Indians' field we would go there when the team was at home and see if we could talk to, get autographs from, or maybe even score a broken bat from our heroes. The “heroes” were in reality 21- or 22-year-olds who had slim chances of getting to the majors, but they were still gods to us.

In 1957 the star was Ken Kraynak, who led the league in batting average, home runs, and runs batted in and thus won the Triple Crown trophy. We had an in with him, too, because for the summer he was dating my buddy Charlie's older sister.

In 1959 the “man” was Al Luplow, who went on to spend nine years in the major leagues. Once again, Charlie stood out but this time for the wrong reason.

Luplow was there in the clubhouse the afternoon Charlie mouthed off to some kid and got his arm broken. Al tried to comfort my friend who was screaming in pain until the ambulance got there. At least Charlie got his cast autographed by most of the players, but he never did learn to keep his yap shut.

When we were younger, 10 to 12 years old, we might have been allowed to walk to the game, but one of our parents would usually pick us up afterward.

Batavia Baseball Bargain -- the 'Knothole Pass'

Also, we would most likely sit in the grandstand section and watch the whole game. We were there for the baseball.

Back then, they had a season ticket for kids called a “Knothole Pass.” It cost one dollar and was good for almost every game. We sure got our money's worth out of that.

I guess the team figured they would make up the money by us kids buying the proverbial peanuts, popcorn and Cracker Jacks. I rarely had any money though, so they lost out on me. Also, I hated Cracker Jacks and still do.

In 1960 Batavia did not field a team due to financial problems. I'm not sure what we did with our summer nights that season, but it probably involved whining at our parents that, “There's nothing to do in this one-horse town.”

However, in 1961 the team returned as the Pirates and we returned as teenagers and some of the shenanigans that come with that wonderful age came with us.

Our parents didn't know it (do they ever?), but now we were likely to spend more time fooling around outside the stadium than in it. Also, we would more apt to be in a group of guys and the monster of peer pressure was lurking around to rear its ugly head.

One of our obsessions was trying to get a foul or home run ball that was hit out of the stadium.

But, in those days, minor league teams had no money to keep replacing expensive baseballs. So, they hired a few teenagers to go get the balls and return them to be used again.

Now, I'm not saying that the team intentionally hired mean bullies for that job, but it sure seemed that way to us younger kids. 

The teenagers were faster than us and mostly got to the balls before we could. But, on the few occasions when we actually snagged a foul or homer before them, let's just say that they didn't ask in a polite way to get it back.

We'd usually submit pretty easily, but if not we might go home with dirt on our clothes or a bruise somewhere. I do not recall ever getting to keep one of those baseballs.

Around that time, like many young teens, we began to get daring and try to smoke cigarettes. Of course, even though many of our parents smoked, we'd be in big trouble if they caught us doing it: "Do as I say, not as I do."

Acts of Derring-do

So, we couldn't smoke inside at the game because someone might see us and tell mom and dad. In fact, one time in elementary school I had a candy cigarette (there's a great product for kids) in my mouth outside and by the time I got home, my mom had gotten a call that I had been smoking!

So, if we wanted to sneak a cigarette we'd have to hide outside somewhere. One night, this is what got us into a bunch of trouble.

Behind the center field fence of MacArthur( now Dwyer) Stadium was a stone structure everyone called the Civil Air Patrol Building.

Apparently, during World War II, volunteers used be stationed there with binoculars to keep an eye out for German bombers who wanted to take out the Doehler-Jarvis Tool and Die factory or some other Batavia target.

By 1961 it was pretty much deserted except for men's and ladie's restrooms, which were kept open for people in the park area. 

(Author's Note: I was surprised on a recent visit to Batavia to find the old building still standing, albeit in ragged shape and marred by graffiti.)

My friends Charlie (yup, him again), Jay, Mike, and I were in the vicinity of the Civil Air Patrol Building during a Pirates' game. We were most likely once again on a futile mission to get a home run or foul ball.

At some point we went into the men's room to sneak a smoke. We were such chickens to get caught that we even shut the door. But, since the building was really not in use, there were no lights and this is where someone, maybe me, came up with a completely idiotic idea.

Enter Excelsior

In another open but unused room there were some old, cushioned chairs. They had either fallen apart or been vandalized so the stuffing of the cushions was hanging out.

We must have had a good vocabulary because we knew this straw filling was called "excelsior," a word that becomes important in this tale later on.

We took some handfuls of the excelsior back to the men's room, lit it on fire for light, shut the door, and commenced to fire up our Winstons or whatever brand we had. 

With no ventilation, within seconds the room filled with dense acrid smoke.

Not wanting to suffocate we had no choice but to throw open the door and exit posthaste while choking and coughing. As we regained our breath the gagging turned to laughter at ourselves as we realized how dumb we had been.

This hilarity did not last long.

We went back inside to stomp out the now smoldering straw, but didn't realize that the plumes had been seen by people inside the stadium at the game.

As we exited again, we looked up to see a Batavia City Police car speeding across the grass toward us. It turned out that a Batavia policeman (who shall remain nameless) had stopped at the game on his patrol and had seen the smoke, too.

What would you do if you were 13 or 14 and saw a police car coming after you? Of course -- RUN!

I'm not sure where the other guys bolted to, but I took off for a huge junkyard nearby. I spotted a rusted out delivery truck and hid inside.

I cowered there trembling like a kitten in a dog kennel. After a few minutes I got up the courage to peek out. There stood the cop with an annoyed look on his face.

“C'mon kid,” he said, “and don't even try running again. Your buddies are in my car already.”

Busted, I hangdoggedly trudged to the cruiser.

Meanwhile, Back at the Police Station...

As we sat in the police car sweating, we asked the officer what was he going to do with us?

“You're going to the station and the desk sergeant can decide how to deal with you,” he replied. “You know you could be charged with arson for setting that straw on fire.”

Then big mistake number two happened.

Someone, and it definitely wasn't me it was Charlie who said, 'It's not straw, it's excelsior.”

“Seltzer?”, the cop asked? “What the heck are you talking about? I know straw when I see it, and I'd advise you to shut up before you get in more trouble than you're already in.”

Charlie eventually became a lawyer, but in this instance he was ruled out of order.

Upon our arrival at the station on School Street, mistake number three occurred. As I exited the police car I tried to throw my pack of smokes underneath it.

They clunked off the side of the car and fell on the street just as the officer turned around.

“Nice try kid,” he snorted as he picked them up. 

Once inside, the desk sergeant saw us being herded in and asked the cop, “What were these guys up to?”

“I was at the baseball game and saw smoke coming out of the Civil Air Patrol Building," he reported. “I drove out there and these kids had been in there smoking cigarettes and set a bunch of straw on fire. They ran, but I got 'em,” he announced proudly.

“What have you guys got to say for yourselves?”, the sergeant asked.

Remember, Charlie couldn't keep his yap shut. With aplomb, he unbelievably inserted his foot into his mouth yet again: “Well sir, we were smoking but it was just a little fire. And it wasn't straw, it was excelsior.”

Wow. Fresh blood might be redder than the first cop's face, but that's doubtful.

Perp Walk for Rare Company

Mercifully, we did not get charged with arson. Our parents were called and had to come pick us up.

My parents almost never had company, but on this night a group of people were at our house and I had to do the perp walk through them to my parents' embarrassment.

For the next month my mother had me scrubbing walls, pulling weeds, and generally working from morning until night.

And Charlie's fate? His parents promptly enrolled him in military school in Syracuse instead of returning to Notre Dame.

It was questionable as punishment though; he went on to become a Captain and got to carry a sword around. It also served to add to his already big ego.

All of us had to go with our parents to see the Batavia Police Youth Officer Lewis Snell.

I'm not sure what admonitions he gave or what advice he might have given for our future, but it must have worked on some level because that turned out to be my last time in the back of a police car.

Unless I really go off my old guy wheels, I'm pretty sure things will remain that way, too.

Photos courtesy of Dave Reilly.

Below, Batavia's minor league baseball field as it was when Dave Reilly was a boy, circa 1958.

Below, the old Civil Air Patrol Building as it stands today; the site of the excelsior escapade.

If you grew up in the United States in the 1950s and early 1960s, or to put it another way, if you're old, the term “communist” had a very negative connotation and the color red was probably not your favorite. To be called a “commie” or a “red” was an unpatriotic insult to most people during that time.

Following World War II, the Soviet Union and China, both communist countries with their respective leaders Joseph Stalin and Mao Zedong became political enemies of the United States. When the USSR obtained nuclear weapons and China supported North Korea against South Korea and the United States in the Korean War in the early 1950s, it was the beginning of the so called “Cold War.”

The world was in fear that nuclear war would break out and the spread of propaganda by both sides became rampant. Spying increased dramatically to try to gain an advantage. The ideologies of Democracy vs. Communism were in a power struggle for world domination.

So, what did all this mean to a kid in Batavia growing up in this era? As you were trying to navigate through your kid life of going to school and watching the news in between the "The Howdy Doody Show" and "I Love Lucy" on your black and white TV, how did the Cold War affect you?

Bomb Drills at School Were Routine

In school (I went to St. Mary's Elementary), one thing I remember vividly is having bomb drills. In the event of nuclear attack, we practiced getting under our desks and putting our heads down.

Later on in life this jokingly became known as the “kiss your butt goodbye” drill. Also, I recall getting together as a school and praying for the new Pope when Pius XII died in 1958 and for the defeat of “godless communism.”

On TV, we went through the news cycle of the Korean War, the arrest, trial, and execution of Ethel and Julius Rosenberg for selling nuclear secrets to the Russians, and the Congressional hearings concerning Senator Joseph McCarthy and his investigations of Americans he suspected of being communists.

There was the “blackballing” of actors, producers, writers and artists suspected of having communist leanings, the forceful Soviet put down of an uprising against the communist government in Hungary in 1956, and Secretary of the Communist Party and Premier Nikita Khruschev's strident denunciation of “American imperialism” at the United Nations General Assembly in 1960.

So how we were affected by all this was that I think almost every kid in Batavia would have considered themselves anti-communist. That's how our parents felt, that's how our teachers felt and that's how our government felt.

In 1959 and 1960 the communist scare came closer to the United States with Fidel Castro's rise to power in Cuba. Originally acclaimed for his overthrow of the longtime Cuban dictator Fulgencio Batista, it soon became clear that Castro was aligning his government with the Soviet Union and that Cuba would be a communist regime only 90 miles from Florida.

Looking Askance at 'Beatnik' Types

Furthering Americans' dislike of the cigar-chomping Castro was his wearing of military fatigues and sporting a bushy beard; 1950's Americans, including the kids, tended to be pretty conservative and looked skeptically on any “beatnik” looking type of people.

So, with all this anti-communism coursing through our American school kid brains, my friend Charlie and I decided to make a political statement.

Looking back on it now, we were probably more highly motivated by trying to get some attention rather than any sincere “down-with-the-commies” convictions.

Charlie and I (I'm pretty sure he went along with it just to humor me) went to work in my basement on North Spruce Street constructing an effigy of Fidel Castro. I can't remember exactly what we used to build it, but I'm positive an old fur “ear-flapper' hat was cut up and glued on the face for the beard. My mom helped, but she was mostly amused at the project. Kids will be kids was probably how she viewed it.

(Actually, adults during that era were known to put up effigies of Castro, too, as this link from 1961 shows.)

Old-school Truly Fake News

The most important aspect of our plan was to find a credible place to “hang” Fidel where the media (i.e. the local newspaper) would be alerted to it. We hoped they would send a photographer and a reporter and, even though we had to remain unknown, once the “Big News” was revealed we would be famous in our own minds.

We could picture the photo of Fidel's faux body hanging from a pole with an attached “Down with Castro” sign in the middle of the paper's front page. Under it would be a headline like: “Batavia Patriots Stand Up to Commie Castro” -- fellow Batavians would see our brazen display and we would be the talk of the town for our anti-communist bravery.

Since I lived on North Spruce Street and we were about 12 years old with no way to transport “Fidel,” we picked the nearest public place with a flagpole -- John Kennedy School on Vine Street.

Of course in lieu of how things turned out with President Kennedy and the Cuban Missle Crisis of a couple years later, in October of 1962, the symbolism would have been extra sweet.

But, as all good Batavians know, the school was named for a former superitendant not the president.

At any rate, Charlie's dad was a car dealer and he “borrowed” some of those colorful triangular flags which used to be hung on poles around the car lots to help draw attention. Carrying these, fake Fidel, and our sign, we headed down North Street in the dark (probably about 8 p.m.) toward the back entrance to the school at the end of Elm Street.

In those days, North Street ended at North Spruce, so there was little traffic at that hour. Nonetheless, about halfway there, we heard a car coming. Thinking on our feet (literally) we carried Fidel between us much the same way many of us later helped our inebriated college friends back to the dorm after a night of drinking.

Holding our breath we tried to appear normal until the car went past and then let out a sigh of relief like somehow we were on a secret mission to Cuba itself.

Hoisting Fidel and Scurrying Away

The school flagpole was on the south side of the building by the empty parking lot. We quickly looped the rope around the effigy with sign attached and tied on the multicolored flags. We hoisted it to the top of the pole and stood back briefly to admire our patriotic handiwork.

Then we scurried away through the darkness like commandos returning to base, or in reality to probably go do our homework.

Our plan was to return on our bikes the next morning like we were just casually riding by. We hoped that there would be all sorts of commotion going on and that we would pretend to be as shocked but pleased as everyone else to see the heinous dictator swinging in the breeze.

Our pro-American hearts must have been thumping as we approached the school in the sunny morning. We turned onto the gravel path and emerged onto the school grounds to see “Fidel” and the flags on the pole and … nothing.

No photographers, no reporters, no police cars, nothing. Cars of school staff were parked in the lot and there was a custodian nearby cutting some grass. 

Completely taken aback, we sat on our bikes and stared. Didn't anyone see “Fidel”? Maybe that was it. Perhaps we needed to stir things up.

We pedaled over to the flagpole and began pointing and talking in exaggerated voices.

No One Pays Attention

“Wow! Look at that! It's a dummy of Fidel Castro up there! That's really something! Who could have done that?” 

The custodian kept mowing, cars kept driving by on Vine Street, a couple people left the school, got in their cars and drove away. No one paid “Fidel” a single bit of attention.

We were crushed, or at least I was. All that patriotic work and surreptitious sneaking around in the dark and no one even cared. Plus, it was too embarrassing to even tell anyone about. I'm not sure what I told my mom, but in retrospect she probably knew how it was going to turn out anyway.

The saddest (or funniest depending on how you look at it) part of the whole episode was that on our way home, Charlie said he'd really like to get those flags back so he wouldn't get in trouble with his father. 

That evening we rode back to John Kennedy and the effigy and the flags were gone from the pole. Nearby was a dumpster and we looked in to see “Fidel” forlornly staring up at us, albeit from one eye as the other has apparently been knocked loose.

Charlie retrieved his flags and as we rode away we made a pact to keep the fiasco between ourselves. Communism and Fidel Castro unfortunately would continue to plague the good old U. S. of A. for many years to come, despite our heroic attempts to raise the ire of the apparently apathetic citizens of Batavia.

When you live in Western New York, one thing you can expect is people complaining about the winter weather.

It should be noted though that people today have less to grouse about than 50 years ago.

The average temperature has increased 2.5 degrees per year and while more precipitation falls in the winter, less of it is snow.

That hasn't stopped people from moving to or spending their winters in Florida. I guess hurricanes, alligators, snakes and bugs are preferable to gloves, ice scrapers and salt trucks. Do people wear Uggs in Florida? Just wondering.

When you have resided in the North your whole life there are bound to be memorable winter storms that will stir up comparisons among those who endured them. Batavians of a certain age debate the snowfalls of 1966 vs.1977.

Because of circumstances I experienced, the most unforgettable to me was the Blizzard of 1966.

On Jan. 30^th and 31^st, 1966 the entire Northeast was wracked by a blizzard that blew in from the west. Western New York was especially hard hit due to the cyclonic effect in which winds wrapped around and blew off Lake Ontario and Lake Erie, adding much more snowfall. 

Winds of up to 50 miles per hour whipped snow that was falling, or more accurately blowing sideways, at a rate of one to two inches per hour. The Batavia area was still digging out from a heavy snowfall the week before, which had dropped two feet of the white stuff.

Snowdrifts up to 15-feet high, chain-reaction Thruway crashes, lots of stranded motorists

When the winds finally abated on Feb. 1^st and 2^nd, Western New York had been shut down to travel and motorists were stranded for up to a week. Drifts were 10 to 15 feet high in some places and heavy machinery was needed to open streets and highways.

During the blizzard a chain reaction accident of up to 100 vehicles had taken place on the Thruway just east of Batavia. Drivers had to be rescued and some taken to local hospitals. Cars blocking the Thruway were supposedly plowed off to the median (although the state disputed this) and remained there until they could be towed away.

When the storm began, I had just turned 19 the week before and was home on a break from my sophomore year at St. John Fisher College in Rochester. It was a tense time for me because there was a chance that I might flunk out. From my freshman year I was on double secret probation or whatever they called it.

There were no emails back then and the only way to find out your grades for the first semester was to go to the administration building and get a copy. They would not give them out by phone either. Of course, I had not revealed this fear to my parents who were footing the bill.

Before I returned to college, my mom had invited my aunts and grandmother to our house for a belated birthday celebration for me.

My two unmarried aunts lived together in the longtime family home on Cedar Street and neither of them drove, so they always had to be picked up and taken back. My maternal grandma lived on North Lyon Street and had one of those cars with the ball on the radio aerial so you could find it in a parking lot. Also on hand were my 16-year-old brother Dan, and my youngest brother, 8-year-old Jim, in addition to mom and dad.

Winter storm turns into paralyzing blizzard

As the day turned to evening, the snow and wind increased by the hour. Dan and I started to get nervous when we noticed our parents peering out at the storm and talking in hushed tones with each other. Snippets of the discussion were overheard. 

“...Your mother will never make it in this”... “What do we do about Kate and Peg ?”... Uh oh.

Dan and I had a whispered conversation of our own that went something like -- “Holy cow! It's really coming down. We could be stuck in here with all these people for a week!”

I know. An opportunity for some real family bonding time, right? No. Hey, we were immature selfish teenagers.

To us, this would be just as bad as those stranded motorists being stuck in the bus garage. We'd have to give up our beds and bedrooms and sleep on the family room floor. They'd be watching game shows and Lawrence Welk on the TV. We'd be cooped up with my aunts, who gave off a faint aroma of mothballs.

We needed to get out of there! But how? And where?

We put our heads together and came up with what we thought was a brilliant plan for escape. Two 50-something women couldn't get the mile or so from our house on North Spruce Street to their home on Cedar Street, but we could. There was food, heat and a TV there. What else did we need?

I don't recall if our parents put up any resistance, but they were preoccupied with figuring out how to provide for everyone anyway. A couple less humans in the house was probably a good thing.

'Arctic explorers' make the 'tough slog' to Cedar Street

So we bundled up looking like Arctic explorers Robert Peary and Matthew Henson headed to the North Pole and ventured out into the maelstrom.

I do recall that it was a tough slog even for healthy teenagers. The snow felt like little needles on your face and no plows had been out at all so we were essentially breaking trail down the middle of the road.

We cut through from East Avenue to the plaza on East Main Street where Your Host restaurant and Lane Drugs were (both closed). There was also a 24-hour laundromat (where my friends and I bought cigarettes for 30 cents a pack out of a machine in high school) that was open so we stopped in there to warm up halfway on our hike.

We were amazed to see that the entire parking lot was full of tractor-trailers waiting out the storm. It was eerie to view the snow blowing across the plaza lights, hear the sound of all the semi engines running, but seeing absolutely no moving traffic on Route 5 or 33.

Eventually, we made it to our aunts' house, called our parents so they knew we were safe, shed our boots, long johns, hats, scarves, coats and gloves, and hunkered down for the duration of the storm.

Aunts Kate and Peg were two of the worst cooks imaginable (they prepared ham by boiling it in water), so we took stock of what was in the fridge and cupboards to find out if we could survive. Mostly, I think we were looking for cookies, cakes, chips and stuff for sandwiches. You know, teenager food.

TV news confirms blizzard 'was a pretty big deal'

We settled in to watch some TV and soon the 11 o'clock news came on. The entire broadcast was about the blizzard and we realized that this was a pretty big deal.

As it got to midnight, we expected the TV station to sign off, play the national anthem, and put up the overnight test pattern as was the procedure in those days. But, to our happy surprise, the announcer said that due to the storm they were going to stay on later than usual and show movies for all those out in TV land who were stuck in the snow. Sweet!

I don't recall what movies were shown, but for sure they were in black and white and even more surely they were no Oscar winners. Maybe "The Blob" with a young Michael Landon or "Bernadette of Lourdes" for all the Catholics who were tuned in.

About 2 a.m. the movies ended and the station signed off. I said to Dan, “Well, let's head upstairs and get some sleep.”

He replied incredulously, “Are you crazy? I'm not sleeping in those beds!”

“Why not ?”, I asked.

“There's probably leg hairs stuck to the sheets,” he replied drolly. “Think about it.”

Fifty years later I still chuckle at that comment.

So, we found some hair-free blankets (we hoped) and bedded down on the couches for the night with the sound of the wind rattling the windows.

(Snowfall from the blizzard of '66 on Cedar Street in Batavia, courtesy of the Batavia History Department.)

When I awoke, I was confused briefly as to where I was. It was daylight and I realized that I didn't hear the wind anymore. I went to a window facing Cedar Street and looked out.

Behold a 'marshmallow landscape' 

My eyes must have blinked several times as I tried to focus on familiar landmarks. But there were none. Everything was white as if Mother Nature had poured bleach over the world.

I was completely disoriented as there was no depth perception at all. The sky: white. The ground: white. Everything: white.

It was then, as I tried to get my bearings, that I noticed some movement off to the south, or left. A small stick-like figure was advancing through the marshmallow landscape. I could discern that it was a person coming up the middle of the street, or at least where there should be a street.

As it got closer, I could tell that it was someone on snowshoes. Dan was now awake and at the other front window. The human snowman was approaching the front of the house and he or she began climbing up and up some more. It was then that we realized that the snowshoer was ascending a drift in front of the house that was at least 10 feet high!

My brother and I simultaneously went “Wow!”

As the Yeti-like creature came down the other side of the drift headed for East Main Street we knew at that moment that: 1. We were going to be there for a while; and 2. This was a storm we would never forget.

Shoveling out, returning to normal

I can't recall how many days we stayed at our teenage refuge, but it was a least a few. Dan and I kept busy during the day by shoveling a path from the house to the street. Our parents called often to check up on us and to ascertain if the street was clear for my aunts to return home.

Cedar Street is a connecting road between routes 5 and 63 so it needed to be travelable sooner rather than later. At some point, huge machines showed up and within a few hours the street was open. We marveled to watch the front-end mounted snow throwers, gigantic loaders and “V” plows do their jobs.

When my aunts returned home my dad had to let them out of the car in the street and Dan and I helped them navigate the thin opening through the giant drifts and plowed snow to get to their porch. They were very appreciative of us caring for their house and we were glad we'd made them happy. It wasn't the last time we had to assist them to the house either, because their driveway was unusable until the spring when the snow finally melted away.

When I did return to St. John Fisher, sweating nervously all the way in the car with my dad, I got the good news that I had indeed passed and would be able to stay. Years later, when I told my parents about my narrow escape from having to leave college, it added that much more to my recounting of my adventure in the Blizzard of '66.

(Top inset photo of Batavia Downs following the blizzard of 1966 taken by Gleason Cleveland, courtesy of Joshua Pacino.)

Photos courtesy of Dave Reilly.

Seeing this year's Batavia High School football team go all the way to the New York State Championship game and Notre Dame, my favorite college team since childhood, go to the NCAA semifinal brought back memories of playing football as a kid.

Short memories. Really short memories. You see, my official football career lasted for one week.

When I was a little kid, even at age 6 or 7, I became a huge Notre Dame University fan. I'm not really sure why.

Perhaps it was being Catholic. Maybe it was because my dad liked Notre Dame, although he couldn't really watch any sporting event without getting mad. He had a sixth sense for identifying which team was going to lose and then spending the whole game complaining that “they were getting gypped.”

I actually used to go to my aunts' house to watch sports to get peace and quiet.

When I was very young I was already cutting out articles from the newspaper about Notre Dame and my heroes Ralph Guglielmi, Johnny Lattner and Paul Hornung. When I was 10 in 1957, I watched every second of the Fighting Irish 7-0 victory over Oklahoma (on our black and white TV), which broke the Sooners' 47 game winning streak.

Around this same time I began to play football in the yard or at the park with my little friends. I'm sure the ball was bigger than some of us could hold onto, but we would run and tackle “like the big guys.” Of course, when I got my prized red helmet for Christmas (as described in a previous story) then it was really “game on."

What I'm leading up to here is that as I played and watched football more and more, I started to fantasize about playing for Notre Dame someday. I would drift off to sleep or get through a dull day at school by imaging myself running out of the tunnel onto that oh-so-bright green field at South Bend, Ind.

I would be dressed in my green and gold uniform and I would run and pass for touchdowns that would have the frenzied crowd shouting my name. The week after that 1957 Irish victory over Oklahoma my parents surprised me by taking me to South Bend to see Notre Dame play Iowa.

That whole experience -- the pep rally the night before, the school band playing the fight song, being in the stadium, the sights and sounds of the game -- all solidified my Notre Dame fandom. Even though the Irish lost the game, I was as hooked as a hungry bass chomping on a lure.

As I got older, I grew taller and a bit bigger than some of my friends. When we would play and they would try to tackle me, I would drag some of them along before they could get me to the ground so they started calling me “Tank.” That only boosted my daydream that I could be a real football player.

So, at age 13 as ninth grade approached, I was headed for Notre Dame High School, which in my mind would be the perfect lead in to Notre Dame University. I passed my physical and as the summer ended I arrived at the school with my heart pounding to get my uniform and walk over to the field on Union Street to embark on my football career.

But as happens in life, fantasy and hopefulness were in for a huge dose of reality.

The head coach was a man who had been our physical education teacher at St. Mary's Elementary School. At some point in the first practice coach blew his whistle and told everyone to gather around in a circle. It was time for a fun little activity called “Bull in the Ring.”

The upperclassmen clapped and cheered and seemingly couldn't wait to get at it. I had no idea what was going on, but I found out soon enough. Two players were called out to the center of the ring and essentially would run into each other until the coach decided that one of them had enough.

My opponent outweighed me significantly and went on in his upper-class years to become a team captain and an All-Catholic wrestler. In a minute I went from “Tank” to “Stank” and spent a long time soaking in the tub that night.

Day two brought two more obstacles: going up against way bigger guys and sunburn. Apparently Coach's view of freshman and jayvees was that they were there to be used as punching bags for the varsity.

With a minimal amount of instruction we were lined up on defense for the varsity to run plays against. At a whopping 135 pounds I was placed at defensive end against a senior who was at least 190. Play after play he would just knock me backward into the dirt like a bulldozer would a sapling.

At the same time, the sun was beating down on my red head and fair skin. I don't remember if sunblock was invented then, but even so I didn't have any. So at the end of that practice I made my way home -- head spinning, mouth and eyes full of dirt, skin like a lobster.

In fact, I was burned so badly, that my mom wouldn't let me go to practice on the third day. I can't say I complained because I could barely get out of bed anyway.

Fortunately, it was the weekend and there was no practice on Saturday or Sunday. That gave me a couple days to heal and rest.

On Monday, I made a gigantic mistake. I had my mom write an excuse note for missing Friday's practice. This was comparable to a soldier's mom writing a note to General Patton.

“Dear General, please excuse my son from the war because he had the sniffles.” What was I thinking? As Coach read the note, he looked up at me with an expression of disgust.

“Really kid (he didn't know my name)? Sunburn? I'll see you out on the field.”

So, my mom had no idea, but her note resulted in me running a bunch of laps around the field in the blazing sun while the rest of the team ignored me like lima beans at Thanksgiving dinner.

The last day of my football career really wasn't a surprise. My fantasies of playing quarterback for Notre Dame University had been ground out of my imagination and beaten into the dust of the practice field. At this point, I was just hoping to survive one more practice.

I made it, but not by much.

The final straw was an innocent enough looking punt coverage drill. We lined up in two lines, the punter kicked the ball downfield and we were supposed to take off and go after the receiver. At the end of my line stood Assistant Coach Tree Trunk Arms. His biceps seemed as big around as a normal person's legs.

As I heard the snap count and sound of the ball off the punter's foot I took off.

Suddenly, it felt as though someone had swung a baseball bat and connected with my helmet. But it wasn't a baseball bat, it was the giant fist of Mr. Trunk Arms. Apparently, he was trying to simulate the contact that you would feel from an opposing team member. Yeah, like having a bowling ball dropped on your head would simulate an acorn falling from an oak tree.

Several seconds must have gone by before I realized that my face was in the dirt. My head was reeling and as I lifted it up my vision was blurry. In the cartoons this is often depicted by a bunch of birds flying around the person's head as they stagger away, and stagger is exactly what I did though I can't recall hearing any bird noises.

To this day I hate to admit it, but I think I was crying. The rest of the practice was pretty much a foggy haze in my brain, but I'm pretty sure neither ol' Trunk Limbs nor any other coach asked if I was OK.

That night, when the mist had cleared somewhat from my noggin, I made a decision. I had been working up to it for a couple days. Not only would I never run out of that tunnel in South Bend, I wouldn't be going across Richmond Avenue to the Notre Dame High School field either. I was done.

I don't remember exactly how I quit, but it was certainly no loss to the team.

A couple of the older players made some half-hearted attempts at shaming, words like sissy and coward might have been said, but I was more relieved than sad. Later on, I did letter in cross-country, track and basketball, so I was able to enjoy high school sports after all.

Of course, my childhood daydreams were just that. No player from Batavia, and there have been many good ones at NDHS and Batavia High School, ever played for Notre Dame University. Not to mention the grades needed to get into that venerable college that I didn't come close to achieving.

In fact, St. John Fisher where I did go just had intramural football back then and I didn't even play. A couple teams asked me, but in one swing Assistant Coach Tree Trunk Arms left an indelible ache that killed any notion of football ever holding any glory for me.

Photo  courtesy of Dave Reilly.

Teenagers have most likely been doing risky adventures since ancient times. It's their way of rebelling and trying new things.

Prehistoric teens might having taken dad's newly invented wheel for a joyride down the highest sand dune. Or they could have covered some cave paintings with graffiti.

In the '50s and '60s in Batavia, drag racing on the Creek Road or jumping off the Walnut Street Bridge into Tonawanda Creek were things kids would do that parents certainly wouldn't have been happy about if they had known.

One of the rites of passage into daring teenhood that my friends and I did was climb the Batavia Water Tower on Ellicott Street.

If you lived or worked in Batavia between 1939 and 2003 you would have seen the Water Tower jutting above the city skyline. Located on Ellicott Street behind the E. N. Rowell Box Factory and Engine House #1 of the City Fire Department, it was on the bank of Tonawanda Creek and very near to downtown.

Built in 1938-39 as a project for W. P. A. (the Works Progress Administration was renamed the Work Projects Administration) at a cost of $175,000 ($3 million in today's money) the tower was short-term insurance in the event of a break in the city's water supply.

Just shy of 200 feet high (17 stories) it was believed at the time of its construction to be the tallest water tower in the United States. The blinking red lights on top were to alert low-flying aircraft. It held 1.5 million gallons, or 13 million pounds, of water.

In 1983 it was repainted at a cost of $89,000. In 2003, the 65-year-old rusting structure was no longer needed and was disassembled and taken down at a cost of $114,000.

From the day it was finished, the Batavia Water Tower must have been a challenge to the teenage ego, or maybe even to younger youths; in 1952 four boys between the ages of 10 and 14 were discovered up there by police in broad daylight. They told police they wanted to see Lake Erie, but were disappointed that they couldn't even see Lake Ontario.

For my friends and me it was akin to Flick in “A Christmas Story” accepting the “double dog dare” and sticking his tongue on a frozen flagpole. None of us really wanted to go up the tower. But, in the code of teens, none of us could get out of climbing it if someone else did without severe repercussions to our reputation. In other words, we'd rather be scared than called chicken.

I don't know about the others, but I had to block out my fear of heights, which I still have to this day. Not exactly as bad as Indiana Jones and snakes, but worse than flying on a commercial airline.

At least we weren't brazen enough to climb in the daytime. That would have resulted in a ride in a patrol car immediately. Plus, half the fun was getting away with it and not telling your parents until you were 40.

So, we would sneak back there in the dead of night. The darker the better. First, there was a fence to climb over. “Danger” and “Warning” signs were posted on the fence, but that just made it more inviting. Then, you had to hoist yourself up to a spiral staircase, which wound around the core of the tower. That part was actually not bad as it had solid steps and handrails, so if you didn't look down it was bearable.

At the top of the spiral stairs was a circular walkway which went all the way around. This part also had a railing and I could handle it if I kept my back against the wall and didn't look over the side. Those who have a fear of heights will identify with the weak feeling I would get in my legs just watching one of my braver buddies look down over the railing.

I imagine there was a fine view of the surrounding area from there in the daytime, but all we could see were the lights of downtown and surrounding buildings like the Doehler-Jarvis plant, a tool-and-die company, just to the south. (It employed 1,500 people in its heyday and closed in 1981. The buildings were later razed to make way for parking around the ice-skating rink.)

The biggest challenge though was negotiating an arced ladder that had no handrail and which curved over the top and took you up to the lights on the apex of the structure.

With trembling hands, up we would go. Once we grabbed onto the lights flashing in our face like a drowning person to a piece of driftwood, we could relax for a few minutes and enjoy our conquest. We would light up a cigarette (another thing our parents would frown on even though most of them smoked, too) and gloat in our accomplishment.

One time, we had to snuff our smokes quickly and remain very silent as we observed a policeman on foot checking on the cars in Mancuso's used car lot just below the tower. We had to stay up there longer than usual while he completed his rounds and finally left. We undoubtedly breathed a sigh of relief and tried to enjoy the moment without thinking about the trip back down.

Going back down that curved ladder was absolutely the hardest part for me. You could not negotiate the ladder going over the edge without looking down at least briefly. If that cop had still been there he could have probably heard my heart pounding.

Once back on the walkway, you could begin your descent of the spiral staircase. Holding tightly onto the railings, I would try to look straight out and not down.

As I got to the bottom of the stairway I would almost be running and then as I hopped onto the ground a huge feeling of relief would wash over me -- “I made it, I'm still alive!”

As I walked home, I would tell myself, “OK. That's it. I don't care what the guys say or how much grief they give me, I am never going up there again.” Of course, I did care, and the next time I'd go again. Except for the force of nature, I'm not sure there is anything more powerful than peer pressure.

It was more than 50 years ago, and I don't remember how many times I climbed the water tower. Certainly five or less. But, considering my fear of heights it's still a perverse badge of honor of my teen years.

When the Batavia Water Tower was being taken down in 2003, my dad was a resident of the New York State Veterans Home and I would go to Batavia twice a week to visit him. When the last of the tower was lying on the ground waiting to be taken away to scrapyards, I stopped by there and got as close as I could.

"Hah! You're not so high and mighty now are you?” I laughed.

But still every time I go out on a bridge or the balcony of a high story hotel room, I know that tower is laughing back at me.

Photos of the Batavia Water Tower courtesy of Judy Stiles at the Genesee County History Department.

People like to make discoveries. It makes them feel important, that they've found something unique. Children especially like to have something to show off and I was no different. When I was about 9 or 10 I tried to get something I found put in a museum -- the Holland Land Office Museum.

As it turned out, the thing I found belonged in a dumpster, not a display case.

It all started because of jealousy. A kid I knew had uncovered an arrowhead in his backyard or somewhere. The local museum had it displayed in a case with his name by it and every time I saw it I turned green with envy. Why wasn't it me who unearthed something while digging around as kids do?

I loved that museum. They had antique guns, a drum from the Civil War, an actual hangman's noose from the old jail -- great stuff. But nothing contributed by me, David Reilly. Every time I went there I imagined a card with my name on it next to something that every visitor would remark about.

One day while prowling around the attic of a house where we were renting an apartment, I found an old, dented, beat up bugle. I ran to show it to my mother and asked if it could be a valuable souvenir, possibly from the Civil War. She didn't think so, especially since if it was valuable no one would have left it in the attic. Of course.

Crushed, I trudged back upstairs. But as I went to put the bugle back in the cobwebs, a seed of a scheme entered my mind.

What if my mother was wrong? After all, wasn't our house on Ellicott Avenue? And wasn't Joseph Ellicott the man who was the land agent for the Holland Land Company and the one who made the plans for the city of Batavia, New York? And wasn't my favorite museum down the street named The Holland Land Office where Joseph Ellicott had his office for many years?

That bugle could have been his! Or at least belonged to someone that he knew.

I thought, “Maybe if I take this bugle to the museum they will put it in a case, type up a card with my name on it, and finally I'd be famous, at least in Batavia. Nah, they'd never fall for it. But on the other hand... oh why not give it a try?”

The next day I went to the backyard, rubbed some dirt on the bugle so it looked like it had been dug up, and nervously headed for the museum. I hung around in front playing by the cannons for awhile trying to get up my nerve. Finally, I entered.

“What can I do for you young man?” the elderly woman at the desk asked.

“I found this bugle and it's got dirt on it and it was in my backyard right across the street on Ellicott Avenue and I dug it up and I bet it was lost there by Joseph Ellicott or at least by someone he knew look see how old it is can you put it in the museum?” I spewed out the words like my voice was trying to win the Indianapolis 500.

“Oh,” the woman said thoughtfully. “Ellicott Avenue you say? Well, that's right close by isn't it? What is your name young man?”

“Oh boy!” I rejoiced in my mind. The neatly printed card next to my donated bugle was looking pretty clear to me now.

“David Reilly,” I replied, “and I live at 20 Ellicott Avenue where I dug it up.”

"Well, David,” the woman said, “I'm going to show this to our museum experts and we will check it out very carefully. You come back next week and we'll let you know.”

All week long I couldn't sleep, paced the floor, and thought incessantly about that bugle. Finally, the big day came. I walked to the museum, marched straight to the lady's desk and looked imploringly into her eyes.

“What can I do for you young man?” the woman asked.

My heart dropped to my stomach. She doesn't even remember me? But wait. She's old; at least 90. She's just forgotten.

“I'm David Reilly. I brought in Joseph Ellicott's bugle last week.”

“Bugle? Oh yes, of course. I wouldn't forget a thing like that. We took a very close look at it I can assure you.”

My stomach felt like butterflies were having a gymnastics competition. “Yes! I'm in! I've got it!" I thought. If there was such a thing as a high five back then I was giving myself plenty of them mentally.

“Unfortunately, David, that bugle is no more than 20 years old at most. Are you sure that you dug it up in your yard?”

"Oh boy. What now?" I thought. "I'm done for on the display case. Can I get arrested for lying?"

But I proceeded nonetheless.

“Oh yes ma'am, it was way down there," I told her, then blurted out this realistic tidbit: "I thought it was gold when I first saw it."

My palms were sweating so badly now that they were leaving streaks on the sides of my corduroys.

The lady reached into the drawer of her desk and pulled out the bugle. She handed it to me with some of the dirt still clinging to the sides. She wiped her hand on one of those little old-fashioned hankies.

“Well, young man, I'm sorry that we couldn't use your discovery, but it's always nice to see someone your age so interested in history. If you ever come across anything else be sure to bring it in.”

I took the bugle and managed to utter a quick “Yes, thank you ma'am” before making a hasty exit.

As I slunk back home I could almost hear the guffaws of the museum staff as they mocked my find of the “bugle of Joseph Ellicott.”

Looking back on it, the museum volunteer probably had a little laugh after I gave it to her, then put it in the drawer and never thought about it again until I came back.

As I clumped up the back steps, I chucked the bugle into the garbage can where it clanged forlornly, never to be seen again.

As I went through the kitchen my mom stopped me. “Where've you been Dave?” she asked.

“Oh, just down at the museum,” I replied.

“Again? You must have been there a hundred times. Anything new down there?”

“Nope. Nothin' to toot about anyway,” I told her and headed off to check out that new comic I had stored under my pillow.

PHOTO: Bugle shown is for illustration purposes only; it is not the bugle David found.

On July 6th, 1956 I was 9 years old. We were living on the top floor of a house at 20 Ellicott Avenue. We had moved there from one street over at 26 Thomas Avenue because my parents sold our house, but had not found another one yet.

Very early on the 6th, before sunrise, my parents got my brother Dan and me up to go see the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus train arrive and unload.

The train would be unloading on Cedar Street. My Uncle George and Aunt Helen Reilly lived at #5 Cedar and my aunts Peg and Kate Reilly lived at #27.

A Railroad Town

Batavia back then was a railroad town. Cedar Street was in the southeast part of town and connected Route 5 (East Main Street) with Route 63 (Ellicott Street). Four railroads crossed Cedar Street. Right where it met Route 5 was the Erie.

In 1915 my grandfather moved his family from Mendon to Batavia when he got a job as a foreman on the railroad and purchased the house at 27 Cedar. It was a stone's throw from the (then) four tracks of the main line of the New York Central. The property at 27 Cedar stayed in the family until 1990 as the home of my two aunts.

About a quarter of a mile farther was the so-called “Peanut” branch line and that is where the circus train unloaded. Then in another quarter of a mile was the Lehigh Valley Railroad. They are all gone today except two lines of what is now Conrail, which was moved away from 27 Cedar in the late 1950s.

Unpacking the Circus

As I recall, we drove to my aunts' house at 27 Cedar and then walked to the railroad crossing. I had certainly not seen anything before like the activity which took place. A well-oiled team of hundreds of workers unloaded the circus equipment from the train with tractors, loaders, cranes, and by hand.

The materials were loaded onto wagons and then pulled by truck and tractor to the circus grounds, which were located about a mile away on East Avenue. The route was Cedar Street to East Main Street, quickly onto Clinton Street and then to East Avenue. This involved closing those streets to traffic, and circus workers and police acting as traffic directors.

Of course, what people wanted the most to see were the circus animals, especially the elephants. The lions and tigers and other animals in cages were transported by wagon. Often the cages were covered with tarps to keep the animals calm and not give the spectators a free look. They would have to wait until they paid for a ticket to see them.

But the larger animals, such as show horses, were walked by their handlers. At some point we walked back to my aunts' to wait for the elephants to come marching by.

I realize that for many years people were concerned about using animals to entertain people and especially reports (often true) of abuse of the animals. This concern and protest eventually led to inspections and laws being passed to protect the animals. This finally caused Ringling Brothers to shut down for good in 2017, probably a good thing.

A Line of Elephants

However, when you are 9 years old and a line of elephants walks in the street by your aunts' house, it's a pretty impressive sight.

I have been to zoos and also took my kids to the Ringling Circus in the arena in Rochester in the early 1990s, but I never again got that close to, or was so awed by, such huge and impressive animals. Should they have been out of their natural habitat and walking through a city neighborhood? No. But when I was 9 it was a pretty cool thing to see.

From there, we somehow went to the circus grounds on East Avenue where the Big Top Tent and other parts of the circus were being set up. (Several years later the land was sold to developers and my childhood friend Charlie Mancuso's parents had a house built there.)

Trouble with the Big Top

The biggest job of all was setting up the huge tent. First of all, it had to be unrolled as you would a tarp on a baseball infield, except many times larger. It became a tradition over the years to enlist local kids to help with this in exchange for a free ticket.

So, I volunteered (probably with my mom's reluctant permission) and grabbed hold and began to pull. Well, somehow I fell and the huge tent was being pulled over the top of me! I guess they heard me yelling and the pulling was stopped and they fished me out from under there. I was so embarrassed and I think that was the end of my day at the circus grounds.

Here's the sad thing: I did get my ticket, but probably due to getting up so early and getting stuck under the huge tent. I never went to the circus show. I'm sure I'm more disappointed about it now than I was then, but still...

End of an Era

When I researched about the circus to jog my memory, I found out that 1956 was the last year the Ringling Brothers used the Big Top Tent.

On July 16^th, 10 days after the Batavia show that year, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, the world (including 800 circus workers) were told by John Ringling North, the owner, that using the tent was no longer profitable and that the circus would be shut down for the season immediately.

The 800 workers were given only eight days severance pay and allowed to take the train back to circus headquarters in Sarasota, Florida. It was the end of the Big Top Era.

Image courtesy of Dave Reilly.