Hamden Daily News - Your hometown cyberpaper

May 11, 2008

The Cherry Bomb Incident

By Raymond K. Johnson

Ronnie Grube opened the little wing window on the passenger side of Kenny DeMaio’s 1954 Chevrolet BelAir. I lit the fuse on the cherry bomb and flipped it towards the small window opening. I missed.

The year was 1957, but this story doesn’t start then; it actually starts in 1968.

I was on my way to Vietnam. Mom and Dad looked forward to having my wife, Kay, and our son, Chris, stay with them during my second tour of duty overseas. After a seven-day car trip from California to Hamden, Kay and I spent the next couple of weeks getting her things organized in my old bedroom. When our household goods finally arrived Dad and I got everything stored downstairs in the cellar. He wasn’t too happy about the loss of space, but the washer and dryer we had brought with us meant no more trips for him to the Laundromat down on Whitney Avenue for at least a year. This would be Kay’s and my first separation since getting married in 1966, and that last morning before leaving was quite an emotional one for us.

Our means of communication during the next 12 months was going to be via a pair of small reel-to-reel tape recorders. I would tape my letters and send the tapes home in the mail. Kay and Mom and Dad would record their messages on the same tapes and return them to me.

Things went well for the first few months. Kay had a daily routine that included a stroll around the neighborhood with Chris in his baby carriage. She had made friends with most of the people on Francis Avenue and the surrounding streets.

Alice DeMaio, Kenny’s mother, would talk for hours with Kay and tell her stories about Kenny’s and my exploits when we were younger. Yolanda Umland, our next door neighbor, did the same. Although a little uncomfortable at first, Kay was making friends and was settling into her temporary living situation.

The tapes were a lot of fun at first. Kay would tell me of the people she and Chris met on their daily walks and it made me feel that the decision to take them to Connecticut was the right one.

One day there was some special news. I received a tape from Kay that took me back to my senior year at Hamden High School. Kay told me that on one of her daily walks she had met Ronnie Grube’s wife. The minute I heard Kay say Ronnie’s name I sat up and listened closer. She explained how Ronnie’s wife had introduced herself and invited her in for coffee. The two talked for a while and for the next few days they would stop and chat for a few minutes. After the third or fourth visit Ronnie’s wife told Kay that her husband and I had gone to school together. This was all that was said at the time -- no mention of the cherry bomb incident.

So I recorded the story about Ronnie, Kenny, me and the cherry bomb and sent the tape home to Kay. It is not something I am proud of; it was a stupid thing to do and Ronnie could have been much more seriously hurt. Here is that story.

Kenny DeMaio had completed his driver’s education course and gotten his license. I had also completed the course, but my other grades were horrible, as usual, and my Dad had said “no” when I asked if I could get my driver’s license.

Kenny drove his Dad’s 1954 Chevy BelAir four-door (green with a white top) to school every day along with Ronnie and me as passengers. I always got the middle seat. The fateful day happened just before finals in May 1957. I had a cherry bomb; they were easy to get back then as fireworks were still legal. My plan for some excitement was to light the thing and toss it out of the car in front of the high school just before morning classes.

Kenny was against the idea from the start. Kenny was always the smart one and to this day I wish I had listened to him. As we approached the high school we went under the parkway bridge. Ronnie opened the little wing window on the passenger side of the car. Using the cigarette lighter, I lit the fuse on the cherry bomb, took aim and flipped it towards the small window opening. It missed and fell back right in the middle of Ronnie’s lap.

Ronnie started yelling. I started yelling. Kenny kept on driving -- and yelling. I dropped the cigarette lighter and Ronnie jumped up in an attempt to get into the backseat and out of harm’s way. The cherry bomb rolled off his lap and fell to the seat directly underneath him. And it exploded.

With all the windows closed the sound was unbelievably loud. So were the screams coming from Ronnie’s mouth. The car was filled with smoke. Kenny, Ronnie and I were all screaming but none of us could hear anything. I looked at Kenny and could see his mouth moving but could hear nothing. I looked at Ronnie, the painful look on his face and seeing both hands clutching the seat of his pants indicated that this little prank had gone horribly wrong.

Kenny rolled down his window to let the smoke out and drove into the parking lot next to the school. Our hearing was coming back and now the sounds coming from Ronnie were more like groans. Ronnie was hurt. We got out of the car and began to check ourselves for injuries. Ronnie had absorbed all of the blast and upon closer inspection we could see faint spots of red beginning to appear on the seat of Ronnie’s chinos.

We took Ronnie to Mrs. Donahue’s (the school nurse) office. Kenny and I left as Mrs. Donahue opened a bottle of peroxide and, with a fistful of sterile gauze pads, began tending Ronnie’s injured bottom. I went to my homeroom and sat there waiting for the bell to ring for first period. The classroom door opened and in came one of the messengers from the principal’s office. He handed a note to Miss Clifford, who opened the note, read it and than looked straight at me. My heart sank.

“Raymond, go to the principal’s office,” was all Miss Clifford said. I picked up my books and followed the messenger down the stairs to the principal. I was taken to Mr. Richards’s office, who was the assistant principal at the time. He told me that he had just left Mrs. Donahue’s office where she had removed several pieces of “shrapnel” from Ronnie Grube’s backside. He made it sound as if he had leapt on a grenade -- which was, basically, just what he had done. I was suspended from school for two weeks. Ronnie recovered. I served out my suspension, and it was the last time I ever rode in Kenny DeMaio’s car.

Anyway, I packaged up the tape with this story on it and sent it back to Kay in Hamden. After listening to it, she actually met Ronnie and they had a laugh about that day in 1957. It wasn’t so funny back then.

Raymond K. Johnson grew up Hamden and graduated Hamden High School in 1957. Two years later he enlisted in the Marine Corps, from which he retired in 1979. He now lives in Oceanside, Calif., with his wife, Kay. He is penning his memories of growing up in Whitneyville in this column. Johnson can be reached at rkjohnson1@cox.net.

April 28, 2008

My Dental History

A story about fear and how it took 60 years to overcome it

By Raymond K. Johnson

The brass plate on the front of the building read:

The Carlton Building
1240 Whitney Avenue

Photo/Raymond Johnson

Today the corner lot at the northwest corner of Whitney and Putnam avenues is a small public park maintained, I am told, by volunteers. The little park has a tree, some nice plants and flowers and five benches that are usually occupied by senior citizens passing the time of day.

But when I was growing up that corner was the home of a Mobil gas station. The big sign towering above the intersection proudly displayed the big red flying Mobil horse. Gas was less than 20 cents a gallon and you could buy used drain oil for 10 cents a quart.

The Carlton Building was next door to the gas station. Whoever built that building did a very nice job. The stone façade and the big wooden door with great strap hinges and Victorian-style lights on each side of the entrance were quite imposing. Dr. Daniel Hornstein, who would be my dentist until I left Hamden in 1959, had his office on the second floor.

I was about 8 or 9 when I got my first toothache. Mom took me to get it fixed. Kids don’t like dentists; it’s in our DNA. The long walk down Putnam Avenue seemed to take forever. When we arrived at The Carlton Building, the horrible thoughts running through my head were magnified a thousand fold when I saw the doorway. The stonewalls and huge wooden door resembled something right out of the Middle Ages. It looked like the entrance to a torture chamber. Kids think that way.

Dr. Hornstein was tall and thin and always smiled. Why do dentists always smile? Mom helped me up into the dentist’s chair and Dr. Hornstein started his work.

I don’t need to relive the experience; I’ll just remind you of the state of dental technology back in the middle of the 20th century. The needles were the size of turkey basters. The drilling machine had a foot pedal and was belt-driven; it turned at about 20 revolutions per minute, or so it seemed. The drill bits were patterned after the ones used to chisel the faces of the presidents on Mount Rushmore. And the filling material was some type of metal that had to be pounded in with a little jackhammer tool that delivered a punch much like Joe Louis did to most of his opponents.

While all of this was going on I was crying. Every once in a while Dr. Hornstein would ask, “Did you feel that?” Why do dentists always ask you questions when there is a hand, a drill and enough cotton to knit a pair of mittens all in your mouth at the same time? I thought to myself, “If I answer yes he is going to stick me with the needle again, the one that seems like it is going to come right out of your eyeball if he pushes one more millimeter.”

After about an hour the doctor finally finished filling my tooth. Mom paid the bill and then Dr. Hornstein smiled (again) and handed me a lollipop. This is a dental profession conspiracy to give little kids more cavities. Job security was a big deal back then, too. From that day on I never liked dentists. That is until …

March 13, 2008. I had an appointment for yet another crown (my third or fourth). This time the dentist’s office was in Oceanside, Calif., and my dentist’s name was Randal Leoni. He must be related to Dr. Hornstein. He asks the same question, “Did you feel that?” And he always smiles.

I will admit the technology has improved; the needles are still long but the diameter is about that of a strand of hair. The drills spin at 300,000 to 450,000 revolutions per minute while simultaneously shooting galloons of water onto the drilling site. The water helps prevent your head from breaking into some sort of spontaneous combustion from the heat generated by the drill speed.

A dental assistant (mine was named Irma) sticks a suction device into your mouth and vacuums out all the water. The device is similar to a vacuum you might have seen in a TV infomercial -- the vacuum that can pick up a bowling ball. The smell of burning enamel and bone is disconcerting. The one constant through the years is the paper bib with the little chain clip thing that is put around your neck that never stops something from getting on your shirt.

Dr. Leoni came into the operatory and greeted me with a big smile. But this particular day was different. Astrologers would argue that the planets were aligned; a cleric would pronounce a miracle; and a palm reader might see a line near your thumb indicating good fortune. Maybe they are all correct. But I think it boils down to new technology -- and the fact that Randal Leoni is a damned good dentist.

The series of events leading up to the completion of the crown procedure were similar to those in a “Perfect Storm” scenario. The Novocain shot was perfect; I never felt the needle go in. The drilling was uneventful. I sat calmly in the chair and not once did I tense up to the point where Dr. Leoni had to ask, “Did you feel that?” The impression part where they shove a tube full of goop into your mouth to make a mold was quick and easy due to a new and improved faster-setting goop. All of 45 minutes later I was done and on my way home with one last word from Dr. Leoni, “No eating for one hour.” What, no lollipop?

So here we are 60 years from Dr. Hornstein and his torture chamber at The Carlton Building. Thanks to the new generation of dentists and a little technology, I am confident that if you happen to see me the next time I go to the dentist’s office I will have a smile on my face. Look closely and you might even see Dr. Leoni’s handiwork. It’s the crown on the upper-right side.