I have resolved to "get on board" with this war in Iraq thing. I have resolved to not criticize the President Bush's decisions, nor even those of Rummy Rumsfeld.
But I see a real threat to our country, not from the left, but from the right. The threat lies in the attitude that pre-emptive strikes are OK. Why? Because if we had taken out Hitler before he became powerful, the world would have been a better place.
I thought this country's laws were built on the premise a person is innocent until proven guilty. Or does that only apply within our borders and not outside the United States?
What next? Police squads that walk the streets looking for people who might commit a crime or who were rumored to be guilty?
I'm afraid the pre-emptive strike in Iraq has set a very dangerous prcedent for our country.
God bless (and protect) the USA (even from ourselves)!
Friday, April 04, 2003
No April fools joke — you can be a blogger.
What’s a blogger?
It’s not a clogger (no dancing involved), not a logger (no big trees and even bigger meals).
No, a blogger is someone who has their own Web log site.
I first learned about Web logs from Tech TV (http://www.techtv.com) and have intended to read Web logs for some time, but was distracted by other things. First, it was my old time radio collection. Then it was the war. As Gilda Radner might have said, “It’s always somethin’.”
But this week I happened upon the NPR program “Fresh Air”. The host and guests were discussing Web logs related to politics and the war.
There is a Web log written, supposedly, by a student living in Baghdad. There are a number of Web logs available that offer a whole rainbow of political opinion.
Web logs are entertaining. They are written by popular authors, such as Dave Barry, and quirky stay-at-home moms, dads etc.
The impact of Web logs has been to make each blogger their own writer/ reporter/ publisher/ news director, etc. In short. To unfetter the Web surfer from the unceasing input of big time media (newspapers/ TV/ radio).
Now, if that sounds like I’m biting the hand that feeds me, I’m really not. Bloggers may offer opinion and (some) entertainment, but they do not and cannot offer the news information that legitimate news organizations can offer. I doubt they sell advertising, either.
At one time I entertained the idea of creating a news Web page for my home town. Within 30 seconds I realized I would need advertising purchased by businesses (something our little town of less than 500 people was short on) and I would need an income, because the newspaper I was working for would frown upon the competition.
A Web log gives anyone the opportunity to write anything about any place they choose.
You could write a Web log about your neighborhood (though we would rather you send your information and articles to The Times). You can write about your family. You can write about your hobbies. You can write about anything that pleases you. (We may not publish everything you submit to us.)
For more information on being a blogger, stop by http://www.blogger.com. Other services offer free blogging Web sites, too.
Check out my blog, titled “Being Frank”. The address you type in your browser’s address bar (at the top of the page) is
http://frankphillips.blogspot.com.
Frank Phillips is The Times managing editor. He can be reached at the office or by e-mail at:
frankphi@hotmail.com.
What’s a blogger?
It’s not a clogger (no dancing involved), not a logger (no big trees and even bigger meals).
No, a blogger is someone who has their own Web log site.
I first learned about Web logs from Tech TV (http://www.techtv.com) and have intended to read Web logs for some time, but was distracted by other things. First, it was my old time radio collection. Then it was the war. As Gilda Radner might have said, “It’s always somethin’.”
But this week I happened upon the NPR program “Fresh Air”. The host and guests were discussing Web logs related to politics and the war.
There is a Web log written, supposedly, by a student living in Baghdad. There are a number of Web logs available that offer a whole rainbow of political opinion.
Web logs are entertaining. They are written by popular authors, such as Dave Barry, and quirky stay-at-home moms, dads etc.
The impact of Web logs has been to make each blogger their own writer/ reporter/ publisher/ news director, etc. In short. To unfetter the Web surfer from the unceasing input of big time media (newspapers/ TV/ radio).
Now, if that sounds like I’m biting the hand that feeds me, I’m really not. Bloggers may offer opinion and (some) entertainment, but they do not and cannot offer the news information that legitimate news organizations can offer. I doubt they sell advertising, either.
At one time I entertained the idea of creating a news Web page for my home town. Within 30 seconds I realized I would need advertising purchased by businesses (something our little town of less than 500 people was short on) and I would need an income, because the newspaper I was working for would frown upon the competition.
A Web log gives anyone the opportunity to write anything about any place they choose.
You could write a Web log about your neighborhood (though we would rather you send your information and articles to The Times). You can write about your family. You can write about your hobbies. You can write about anything that pleases you. (We may not publish everything you submit to us.)
For more information on being a blogger, stop by http://www.blogger.com. Other services offer free blogging Web sites, too.
Check out my blog, titled “Being Frank”. The address you type in your browser’s address bar (at the top of the page) is
http://frankphillips.blogspot.com.
Frank Phillips is The Times managing editor. He can be reached at the office or by e-mail at:
frankphi@hotmail.com.
Wednesday, April 02, 2003
Oct. 25, 2002 - published in The Brazil Times
I see Anthony Bruce is back in town. His face flashed across my TV screen early one morning this week. Bruce is writing a screenplay about the Hollandsburg murders.
In case you forgot, back in the late 1970s, four men were convicted of murdering four boys in the living room of the family’s home in the Hollandsburg area of Parke County.
I met Bruce a couple years ago when he came home to Indiana to scout possible movie locations for his screenplay. He hoped to film it all on location. He was living in California at the time.
When the killings occurred, Bruce was a boy and remembers being very much afraid they would come and do something similar to him, because he lived a short distance from the Terre Haute hospital where the murdered boys’ mother, Betty Jane Spencer, was taken.
She had suffered a gunshot wound to the head and was probably allowed to live because the gang’s leader, Roger Drollinger, thought he had shot the top of her head off when her wig moved at a gunshot blast.
The entire sordid story has been recounted by David Smith, an inmate at the Pendleton, Ind., Correctional Facility. You can read the five-part interview I did with him at the Crawfordsville newspaper Web site: http://www.journalreview.com. Search for Frank Phillips or David Smith or Hollandsburg — any of those key words should bring up the interview. (Be sure to search from the year 2000 to the present and ask for the maximum number of search returns.)
I was granted an interview by Smith after I did the interview with Bruce.
When Bruce’s story was published, Smith sister-in-law called me and asked me to tell Smith’s side of the story. At the time, he had never told his story to a reporter.
Al, an intern photographer, and I made the trip to Pendleton one day. We had been granted a two-hour interview with Smith. Instead, Smith answered questions for four hours.
I remember it all being a very grisly business. I also recall Bruce as being an unsavory sort of individual with whom I desired as little contact as possible.
In the interview, Bruce told me about his childhood fears of the Drollinger gang. He also said he saw a vision of his dead mother while doing a live TV interview on a Terre Haute TV station.
As a Christian, I believe in spirits, but as fairly rational newspaperman, I also tend to discount those who see spirits.
As I say, the Bruce and Smith interviews left me with feeling very disagreeable.
I remember sitting in the Journal Review newsroom transcribing the Smith interviews. As he described his barbaric acts, claiming he was being controlled by Drollinger and drugs at the time, I would periodically tear the headphones from my head and walk away from my desk in disgust.
I am not a heavy drinker and I have never been drunk. But during the time my editor, Howard Hewitt, and I worked on the Smith interview, I went home more than one night and had a stiff belt of peach Schnapps left over from a New Year’s Eve party.
Finally, another reporter told me, “If you’re going to be in this business, you just have to get used to these things.”
Get used to mass murder? Get used to dealing with a screenwriter who hopes to produce a movie about the Hollandsburg murders? I hope I never get used to such things!
Bruce has certainly gotten used to them. He told me he had purchased a CD filled with images taken at crime scene investigations. Why? To steel himself to look at the Hollandsburg murder photos.
I nearly always am happy to see people succeed. I believe very strongly in the old adage, “Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day but teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.” Success makes people able to stand on their own and help those less fortunate than themselves.
But I hope Bruce’s movie project fails, miserably. I hope that one day the Hollandsburg murders will become nothing more than a dim memory.
Frank Phillips is The Times managing editor. He can be reached at frankphi@hotmail.com.
I see Anthony Bruce is back in town. His face flashed across my TV screen early one morning this week. Bruce is writing a screenplay about the Hollandsburg murders.
In case you forgot, back in the late 1970s, four men were convicted of murdering four boys in the living room of the family’s home in the Hollandsburg area of Parke County.
I met Bruce a couple years ago when he came home to Indiana to scout possible movie locations for his screenplay. He hoped to film it all on location. He was living in California at the time.
When the killings occurred, Bruce was a boy and remembers being very much afraid they would come and do something similar to him, because he lived a short distance from the Terre Haute hospital where the murdered boys’ mother, Betty Jane Spencer, was taken.
She had suffered a gunshot wound to the head and was probably allowed to live because the gang’s leader, Roger Drollinger, thought he had shot the top of her head off when her wig moved at a gunshot blast.
The entire sordid story has been recounted by David Smith, an inmate at the Pendleton, Ind., Correctional Facility. You can read the five-part interview I did with him at the Crawfordsville newspaper Web site: http://www.journalreview.com. Search for Frank Phillips or David Smith or Hollandsburg — any of those key words should bring up the interview. (Be sure to search from the year 2000 to the present and ask for the maximum number of search returns.)
I was granted an interview by Smith after I did the interview with Bruce.
When Bruce’s story was published, Smith sister-in-law called me and asked me to tell Smith’s side of the story. At the time, he had never told his story to a reporter.
Al, an intern photographer, and I made the trip to Pendleton one day. We had been granted a two-hour interview with Smith. Instead, Smith answered questions for four hours.
I remember it all being a very grisly business. I also recall Bruce as being an unsavory sort of individual with whom I desired as little contact as possible.
In the interview, Bruce told me about his childhood fears of the Drollinger gang. He also said he saw a vision of his dead mother while doing a live TV interview on a Terre Haute TV station.
As a Christian, I believe in spirits, but as fairly rational newspaperman, I also tend to discount those who see spirits.
As I say, the Bruce and Smith interviews left me with feeling very disagreeable.
I remember sitting in the Journal Review newsroom transcribing the Smith interviews. As he described his barbaric acts, claiming he was being controlled by Drollinger and drugs at the time, I would periodically tear the headphones from my head and walk away from my desk in disgust.
I am not a heavy drinker and I have never been drunk. But during the time my editor, Howard Hewitt, and I worked on the Smith interview, I went home more than one night and had a stiff belt of peach Schnapps left over from a New Year’s Eve party.
Finally, another reporter told me, “If you’re going to be in this business, you just have to get used to these things.”
Get used to mass murder? Get used to dealing with a screenwriter who hopes to produce a movie about the Hollandsburg murders? I hope I never get used to such things!
Bruce has certainly gotten used to them. He told me he had purchased a CD filled with images taken at crime scene investigations. Why? To steel himself to look at the Hollandsburg murder photos.
I nearly always am happy to see people succeed. I believe very strongly in the old adage, “Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day but teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.” Success makes people able to stand on their own and help those less fortunate than themselves.
But I hope Bruce’s movie project fails, miserably. I hope that one day the Hollandsburg murders will become nothing more than a dim memory.
Frank Phillips is The Times managing editor. He can be reached at frankphi@hotmail.com.
Nov. 29, 2003 - published in The Brazil Times
FRANKFORT, Ind. — Do only bad things come in threes? Good things come in threes, also.
It is the day after Thanksgiving and less than a month before Christmas, two of the happiest holidays on the American calendar, as you read this.
As I write, I am sitting in the back of a funeral home in Frankfort, Ind. This is the second funeral visitation for a family member we have made in a couple weeks.
I retreated to a corner far from the crowd after I felt claustrophobia that is unique to a crowd of people. I can be reasonably content in elevators, old-fashioned telephone booths, a railroad restroom or with a cardboard box on my head; but I have trouble with too many people in too small a space. No wonder our son doesn’t like crowds, either.
Anyway, not only have two members of my father-in-law’s family died recently, but my mother-in-law slipped on fallen leaves and sprained her ankle and wrist.
I thought about John Thomas a few minutes ago. He was a funeral home director in Waynetown, Ind., for years and years before retirement.
John confirmed an old wives’ tale for me years ago.
“Whenever we get a body from one town, I can be sure there will be two more shortly,” he said.
I grabbed my Bible tightly when he said that. We were on the road, riding in his hearse, from the funeral home to a graveside service in the little community where I ministered.
So, we often hear bad things come in threes. Do good things?
Of course. On a whimsical note, what about that great triple play during a world series I’ve heard about so often. You know - “Medgar to Evers to Chance,” or whatever it was.
And, more seriously, the Bible says God is three in one, the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
I tried to think of other examples of good coming in threes, but came up dry.
Then I turned to my old Thompson Chain Reference Bible. The editor came through for me again, as he has so many times in the past. Mr. Thompson found scriptures that support what he called “The Three-fold Duty of Life”. It is taking, making and donating, or taking, making and sharing, if you choose.
I’ll not go into the scripture verses, but I think he has something there.
We have to take material before we can make something good to donate (share) with others.
That’s what Thanksgiving and, to a certain extent, Christmas are about, isn’t it?
The Indians and Pilgrims took vegetables from the earth to make a thanksgiving dinner to share with one another, didn’t they?
When you get home from the busiest shopping day of the year today, when your feet are tired and you are cranky from the press of the crowds, try to remember Mr. Thompson’s formula: The three-fold duty of life is to take, make and donate.
Frank Phillips is The Times managing editor. He can be reached at the office, 446-2216, or by e-mail: frankphi@hotmail.com.
FRANKFORT, Ind. — Do only bad things come in threes? Good things come in threes, also.
It is the day after Thanksgiving and less than a month before Christmas, two of the happiest holidays on the American calendar, as you read this.
As I write, I am sitting in the back of a funeral home in Frankfort, Ind. This is the second funeral visitation for a family member we have made in a couple weeks.
I retreated to a corner far from the crowd after I felt claustrophobia that is unique to a crowd of people. I can be reasonably content in elevators, old-fashioned telephone booths, a railroad restroom or with a cardboard box on my head; but I have trouble with too many people in too small a space. No wonder our son doesn’t like crowds, either.
Anyway, not only have two members of my father-in-law’s family died recently, but my mother-in-law slipped on fallen leaves and sprained her ankle and wrist.
I thought about John Thomas a few minutes ago. He was a funeral home director in Waynetown, Ind., for years and years before retirement.
John confirmed an old wives’ tale for me years ago.
“Whenever we get a body from one town, I can be sure there will be two more shortly,” he said.
I grabbed my Bible tightly when he said that. We were on the road, riding in his hearse, from the funeral home to a graveside service in the little community where I ministered.
So, we often hear bad things come in threes. Do good things?
Of course. On a whimsical note, what about that great triple play during a world series I’ve heard about so often. You know - “Medgar to Evers to Chance,” or whatever it was.
And, more seriously, the Bible says God is three in one, the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
I tried to think of other examples of good coming in threes, but came up dry.
Then I turned to my old Thompson Chain Reference Bible. The editor came through for me again, as he has so many times in the past. Mr. Thompson found scriptures that support what he called “The Three-fold Duty of Life”. It is taking, making and donating, or taking, making and sharing, if you choose.
I’ll not go into the scripture verses, but I think he has something there.
We have to take material before we can make something good to donate (share) with others.
That’s what Thanksgiving and, to a certain extent, Christmas are about, isn’t it?
The Indians and Pilgrims took vegetables from the earth to make a thanksgiving dinner to share with one another, didn’t they?
When you get home from the busiest shopping day of the year today, when your feet are tired and you are cranky from the press of the crowds, try to remember Mr. Thompson’s formula: The three-fold duty of life is to take, make and donate.
Frank Phillips is The Times managing editor. He can be reached at the office, 446-2216, or by e-mail: frankphi@hotmail.com.
Dec. 20, 2002 - published in The Brazil Times
Our son called Wednesday night. He had been ill and I was concerned he might have gotten worse. Instead, he had news of the best Christmas present of all. No, he wasn’t sick any longer and with a strange December lightning storm flashing and crashing outside, my wife, Linda, learned the good news.
“I’m going to be a grandma!” she shouted. “That’s the best Christmas present of all.”
A few minutes later I heard her tell our son, Terry Jr. that he should “put water and flour into the drippings.”
“I hope you’re not talking about the baby,” I commented.
No, Terry needed a lesson in making gravy.
When Terry and Rebecca’s good news finally sunk in, I shouted, “All right! I’m getting a video camera!”
“Did you hear Dad?” Linda asked our son. “Yes, he’s always said he would get a video camera when the first grandchild came.
“When you find out if it’s a boy or girl, let me know and I’ll have all the clothes it needs by the time it’s born!”
Oh, we know many things can happen in the next several months, but right now, we are rejoicing.
“I’m going to be a grandma!” Linda shouted several times after getting off the phone. “And, you’re going to be a grandpa!”
I have been reading Ernest Hemingway’s, “To Have and Have Not.” I had put down the book when the phone rang. Afterward, I picked it up again and realized that in a few short minutes everything in my life — in our lives — had changed.
I used to watch my language much more closely when our kids were little. I was more careful about the jokes I told, the TV shows we watched. There were children present.
Lately, I had forwarded e-mail to our son that I would never had shared with a 10-year-old. Somehow, you treat a 23-year-old different than you do when he is 2 or 10 or 12.
In about seven months we will have a little one in the family again, the good Lord willing.
Terry’s call came at a good time.
That morning, our physician, Dr. Craig Johnson, reminded me “it is time” for my first colonoscopy. I turned 50 this summer and, it appears, the test will be an annual event from here on out. Yes, middle age has definitely approached.
I waited in his examination room while his nurse made an appointment with Dr. Stephens.
I had second thoughts.
“Is it really necessary?” I asked.
“Let’s put it this way,” Dr. Johnson said. “If you have the test and they find polyps, the polyps will be removed. If they find cancer, they will remove the cancer and you will probably be all right. But if you don’t have the test and cancer develops, you will probably die.”
If and probably.
I asked Linda Wednesday night (before the call came) if I should go ahead with the colonoscopy. Then I learned about a grandbaby expected this summer — well, I have a lot more to live for. I may even lose some weight! (Nah — let’s not go crazy!)
By the way, I really am more excited about holding that wonderful gift of God when he or she comes than in getting a video camera.
I will never forget the nights Terry and Amanda were born. Nor will I forget how they looked the first time I held them or how they smelled
Terry was born in Cairo, Ill. He was the only white baby in the hospital nursery.
My in-laws and I were admiring our baby when a little black girl came down the hall to visit the nursery.
“Which one is yours?” the polite little girl asked.
We waited until we were outside, in the parking lot, before my in-laws and I burst out laughing.
Our kids are spoiled. They both had me wrapped around their tiny fingers from the beginning. Do you really think Terry and Rebecca’s baby will be different?
One of the neat things: The due date might JUST MIGHT be close to my birthday. That is significant only because both our daughter and my wife were born on their grandfathers’ birthdays. It would be so cool to go for three in a row!
•••
Thank you so much for your Christmas cards. They have been a delight, both the paper and the Internet e-mail varieties. True to form, we are just planning our Christmas cards. But, guess what we will be telling folks this year!
Frank Phillips is The Times managing editor. He can be reached at frankphi@hotmail.com or at the office, 446-2216.
Our son called Wednesday night. He had been ill and I was concerned he might have gotten worse. Instead, he had news of the best Christmas present of all. No, he wasn’t sick any longer and with a strange December lightning storm flashing and crashing outside, my wife, Linda, learned the good news.
“I’m going to be a grandma!” she shouted. “That’s the best Christmas present of all.”
A few minutes later I heard her tell our son, Terry Jr. that he should “put water and flour into the drippings.”
“I hope you’re not talking about the baby,” I commented.
No, Terry needed a lesson in making gravy.
When Terry and Rebecca’s good news finally sunk in, I shouted, “All right! I’m getting a video camera!”
“Did you hear Dad?” Linda asked our son. “Yes, he’s always said he would get a video camera when the first grandchild came.
“When you find out if it’s a boy or girl, let me know and I’ll have all the clothes it needs by the time it’s born!”
Oh, we know many things can happen in the next several months, but right now, we are rejoicing.
“I’m going to be a grandma!” Linda shouted several times after getting off the phone. “And, you’re going to be a grandpa!”
I have been reading Ernest Hemingway’s, “To Have and Have Not.” I had put down the book when the phone rang. Afterward, I picked it up again and realized that in a few short minutes everything in my life — in our lives — had changed.
I used to watch my language much more closely when our kids were little. I was more careful about the jokes I told, the TV shows we watched. There were children present.
Lately, I had forwarded e-mail to our son that I would never had shared with a 10-year-old. Somehow, you treat a 23-year-old different than you do when he is 2 or 10 or 12.
In about seven months we will have a little one in the family again, the good Lord willing.
Terry’s call came at a good time.
That morning, our physician, Dr. Craig Johnson, reminded me “it is time” for my first colonoscopy. I turned 50 this summer and, it appears, the test will be an annual event from here on out. Yes, middle age has definitely approached.
I waited in his examination room while his nurse made an appointment with Dr. Stephens.
I had second thoughts.
“Is it really necessary?” I asked.
“Let’s put it this way,” Dr. Johnson said. “If you have the test and they find polyps, the polyps will be removed. If they find cancer, they will remove the cancer and you will probably be all right. But if you don’t have the test and cancer develops, you will probably die.”
If and probably.
I asked Linda Wednesday night (before the call came) if I should go ahead with the colonoscopy. Then I learned about a grandbaby expected this summer — well, I have a lot more to live for. I may even lose some weight! (Nah — let’s not go crazy!)
By the way, I really am more excited about holding that wonderful gift of God when he or she comes than in getting a video camera.
I will never forget the nights Terry and Amanda were born. Nor will I forget how they looked the first time I held them or how they smelled
Terry was born in Cairo, Ill. He was the only white baby in the hospital nursery.
My in-laws and I were admiring our baby when a little black girl came down the hall to visit the nursery.
“Which one is yours?” the polite little girl asked.
We waited until we were outside, in the parking lot, before my in-laws and I burst out laughing.
Our kids are spoiled. They both had me wrapped around their tiny fingers from the beginning. Do you really think Terry and Rebecca’s baby will be different?
One of the neat things: The due date might JUST MIGHT be close to my birthday. That is significant only because both our daughter and my wife were born on their grandfathers’ birthdays. It would be so cool to go for three in a row!
•••
Thank you so much for your Christmas cards. They have been a delight, both the paper and the Internet e-mail varieties. True to form, we are just planning our Christmas cards. But, guess what we will be telling folks this year!
Frank Phillips is The Times managing editor. He can be reached at frankphi@hotmail.com or at the office, 446-2216.
Feb. 28, 2003 — published in The Brazil Times, Brazil, Ind.
I am amazed at all the attention being given Eddie's Sandwich Shop.
No, I do not think people are being silly. Let me explain.
I grew up in a town similar in size to Brazil and we, too, had a favorite place.
I understand Eddie's would not have drawn nearly as much attention if it had not burned about a month ago. Still, the testimonials have been amazing.
Take the letter of the Northview High School student, Brett Siples, who was so upset that his little sister would never have the opportunity to experience an Eddie's hamburger (with dehydrated onions, of course).
“My grandpa took my dad to Eddie’s, and then my dad carried on the tradition by taking me there. I had always hoped to take my son there some day. I wanted to cry when I found out that it had burnt,” he wrote.
Or, take the letter of Norma Cress in today's Opinion page.
Amazing response. So amazing, in fact, I have e-mailed the producers of CBS Sunday Morning and suggested they do a piece on Eddie's and its grand re-opening. I wish Charles Kuralt were still alive. What a story he would have made out of it! (Nearly as good a story as Linda Messmer wrote -- but that's my own biased opinion.) If CBS responds, I'll let you know.
Lest you think I am not sympathetic to the fans of Eddie's Sandwich Shop, let me tell you about Veni's Soda Shop in Niles, Mich., the town where I grew up.
Veni's had a hand in my parents' engagement and provided me with some of the happiest memories of my dad.
When Mom and Dad were going together, back in 1950, he bought a box of Veni's chocolates and hid her diamond engagement ring in it. He gave it to her for Christmas and the rest is history.
A few years later, Veni's was a monthly stop for Dad and me on Saturdays.
I remember the dark-haired, man with the sallow complexion. He worked behind the counter, always dressed in white shirt and apron with a black tie. I would never call him a soda jerk, because he was more than that -- he was a friend of my dad's. I think his name was Vic, but I'm not sure.
I never saw Mr. or Miss Veni in the shop. I suspect Veni was either a family name or, like Eddie, he had died years before I became familiar with the establishment.
Veni's still sold Green Rivers when I was a boy. A Green River was a popular soft drink before Coca-Cola came on the scene. In fact, Coke and Pepsi eventually led to the end of Green River's popularity, though I have heard Green River drinks can still be purchased over the Internet.
But my favorite was a vanilla shake.
Dad would park his car on Main Street in Niles and we would walk to the bank, walk to the various offices to pay utility bills and stop at Veni's before going home.
Niles' main street is set on a steep hill. In the 1950s, Dad always set his emergency hand brake before leaving the car.
Usually we parked in front of the First National Bank. One time, Dad had a nightmare that I stayed in the car while he went into the bank. For some reason, I then got out of the car and was under it when he came out. He hopped into the car, started to drive away and ran over me!
But I always went into the bank with Dad. Then, we crossed the street, went up to the gas company to pay the monthly bill, crossed the street again at the Ready Theater, walked to City Hall, paid the other utilities and walked back toward the bank.
Veni's was located on the same side of the street at the bank.
It had a long soda counter with a few high-back booths in the back of the store. Opposite the soda counter was the candy display. It was filled with rich chocolate, chocolates covered with sprinkles and piles of empty boxes, inviting shoppers to order a custom mix of their favorite delights.
We would sit down on bar stools at the counter. Dad would order a chocolate malt and I would order a vanilla shake.
They were hand-mixed, using real ice cream not soft-serve. They were mixed in the old electric malt mixers. I still remember seeing the silver tumblers vibrating as the motor whirred.
Then Vic gave us the whole silver tumbler. Almost too much to eat, for a little boy! The first portion was poured into a silver holder fitted with a waxed paper cup. I always noticed the design on the top of the cups -- they looked like leaves. Later I learned they were the trademark of the Dixie Company.
I would suck and suck on my straw until I thought my head would cave in. Then, the reward! A mouthful of icy cold, delicious ice cream filled my mouth and rolled around my tongue.
What a treat! And the price -- 46 cents!
That was probably the last time I enjoyed a trip to pay utility bills!
Frank Phillips is The Times managing editor. He can be reached at frankphi@hotmail.com.
I am amazed at all the attention being given Eddie's Sandwich Shop.
No, I do not think people are being silly. Let me explain.
I grew up in a town similar in size to Brazil and we, too, had a favorite place.
I understand Eddie's would not have drawn nearly as much attention if it had not burned about a month ago. Still, the testimonials have been amazing.
Take the letter of the Northview High School student, Brett Siples, who was so upset that his little sister would never have the opportunity to experience an Eddie's hamburger (with dehydrated onions, of course).
“My grandpa took my dad to Eddie’s, and then my dad carried on the tradition by taking me there. I had always hoped to take my son there some day. I wanted to cry when I found out that it had burnt,” he wrote.
Or, take the letter of Norma Cress in today's Opinion page.
Amazing response. So amazing, in fact, I have e-mailed the producers of CBS Sunday Morning and suggested they do a piece on Eddie's and its grand re-opening. I wish Charles Kuralt were still alive. What a story he would have made out of it! (Nearly as good a story as Linda Messmer wrote -- but that's my own biased opinion.) If CBS responds, I'll let you know.
Lest you think I am not sympathetic to the fans of Eddie's Sandwich Shop, let me tell you about Veni's Soda Shop in Niles, Mich., the town where I grew up.
Veni's had a hand in my parents' engagement and provided me with some of the happiest memories of my dad.
When Mom and Dad were going together, back in 1950, he bought a box of Veni's chocolates and hid her diamond engagement ring in it. He gave it to her for Christmas and the rest is history.
A few years later, Veni's was a monthly stop for Dad and me on Saturdays.
I remember the dark-haired, man with the sallow complexion. He worked behind the counter, always dressed in white shirt and apron with a black tie. I would never call him a soda jerk, because he was more than that -- he was a friend of my dad's. I think his name was Vic, but I'm not sure.
I never saw Mr. or Miss Veni in the shop. I suspect Veni was either a family name or, like Eddie, he had died years before I became familiar with the establishment.
Veni's still sold Green Rivers when I was a boy. A Green River was a popular soft drink before Coca-Cola came on the scene. In fact, Coke and Pepsi eventually led to the end of Green River's popularity, though I have heard Green River drinks can still be purchased over the Internet.
But my favorite was a vanilla shake.
Dad would park his car on Main Street in Niles and we would walk to the bank, walk to the various offices to pay utility bills and stop at Veni's before going home.
Niles' main street is set on a steep hill. In the 1950s, Dad always set his emergency hand brake before leaving the car.
Usually we parked in front of the First National Bank. One time, Dad had a nightmare that I stayed in the car while he went into the bank. For some reason, I then got out of the car and was under it when he came out. He hopped into the car, started to drive away and ran over me!
But I always went into the bank with Dad. Then, we crossed the street, went up to the gas company to pay the monthly bill, crossed the street again at the Ready Theater, walked to City Hall, paid the other utilities and walked back toward the bank.
Veni's was located on the same side of the street at the bank.
It had a long soda counter with a few high-back booths in the back of the store. Opposite the soda counter was the candy display. It was filled with rich chocolate, chocolates covered with sprinkles and piles of empty boxes, inviting shoppers to order a custom mix of their favorite delights.
We would sit down on bar stools at the counter. Dad would order a chocolate malt and I would order a vanilla shake.
They were hand-mixed, using real ice cream not soft-serve. They were mixed in the old electric malt mixers. I still remember seeing the silver tumblers vibrating as the motor whirred.
Then Vic gave us the whole silver tumbler. Almost too much to eat, for a little boy! The first portion was poured into a silver holder fitted with a waxed paper cup. I always noticed the design on the top of the cups -- they looked like leaves. Later I learned they were the trademark of the Dixie Company.
I would suck and suck on my straw until I thought my head would cave in. Then, the reward! A mouthful of icy cold, delicious ice cream filled my mouth and rolled around my tongue.
What a treat! And the price -- 46 cents!
That was probably the last time I enjoyed a trip to pay utility bills!
Frank Phillips is The Times managing editor. He can be reached at frankphi@hotmail.com.
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