Jack Fretz

MEMORIES 4 - What’s In A Name?

The YoYo Man - People ask how I ended up living in Hawaii for forty years. They assume it was because I was sent there by Uncle Sam. But that was not it at all. It was because of the YoYo Man.

One hot, summer day, while I was doing little or nothing, a kid of about seven, a neighbor boy ran up to the house and said there was a strange looking man down in front of the corner drug store, and he was doing yoyo tricks. So I ran down there, and he was, indeed, a strange looking man, and he was doing yoyo tricks. When the mingling few grew into a crowd, he stopped his yoyoing, and told us who he was. He said he was a Hawaiian man, and he was the yoyo champion of the world, and he had come to our town to show us yoyo tricks, and to tell us about the Hawaiian Islands, which he said were really the Sandwich Isles.

Much later, of course, I figured out that he might have been a really good yoyo performer, and he might have been from Hawaii, but he was probably just a poor man in the middle of the depression, trying to get by.

But at the time, I was fascinated by him. He yoyoed, with moves we could only marvel at, and told us about his islands, and he captivated us with all he said. The Hawaiian Islands, without a doubt, had to be the most beautiful place on earth. And by the time he finished talking and yoyoing, and said he had to leave and go to the next town up the road, to show his tricks, and tell his stories to them, I knew I had to go to Hawaii to live someday. And from that day on, Hawaii was somehow going to be in my future.


The Rag Man - Our town, like most in the Midwest, had been planned and laid out in uniform blocks by someone, a town father long forgotten, I suppose. Twelve blocks were a mile. The next street over was identical to yours. The blocks were rectangular, and the streets were parallel to one another, and about two-hundred and fifty feet apart. An alley ran down between the streets, so that your house had an alley behind it, and across the alley was the house adjacent to yours, on the next street over.

Alleys were essential in those days. There were no garbage disposals, no plastic bags to put your rubbish in, and no way to dispose of larger items that broke, or you just wanted to get rid of. So every house had a big, tin garbage can with a lid, the kind you rarely see in hardware stores today, out behind the house by the alley. It usually sat on a wooden platform nailed to a tree several feet off the ground, to keep stray animals from dumping it over, I suppose. The garbage can accepted garbage and trash, carried out every day after every meal, just dumped into the can. And the garbage men came down the alley twice a week and dumped the contents of the can into a big container in the back of their garbage truck, to haul off to who knew where?

About twice a year an old man came down the alley sitting on a buckboard atop a big cart, drawn by a horse, just like in the old Wild West. The horse had a big bell on it so that when the horse moved, the bell clanged. He hollered ‘rag man’ as he came down the alley, and he was very slow. He took anything that had been placed out by the alley that was not garbage or rubbish, and people did put things out by the alley, knowing that the rag man would be by sooner or later and pick them up. And as he came down the alley with the horse bell clanging, and yelling ‘rag man’, people would run out with things for him to take.

He did this summer and winter, on average, twice a year down our alley. He looked like a raggedy man in the clothes he wore, and I thought he had the worst job in the world, going around town picking up things no one wanted, and doing what with them? I had no idea. And he seemed too old to me, to be doing that, and I felt sorry for him. He slumped, and it seemed he could barely get some of the things people no longer wanted on his cart. But he never left anything. He took it all.

So I got the shock of my life when, one day years later, while I was lifeguarding at the country club as my summer job, this big Packard automobile stopped by the pool to let a couple of kids out, and there, driving the big, expensive Packard, dressed fit to kill, was the rag man. I could not believe it. I asked who that man was, and was told that that was Mr. Kilcline, one of the richest men in town. I said he looked like the rag man that came down our alley, and was told yep, that’s the rag man. It was quite a lesson for me, and one I never forgot. Never judge a book by it’s cover? How true. Sometimes the old guy shuffling around sweeping the parking lot is really the owner of the parking lot, and the building behind it as well, and probably the business inside the building.


Little Joe Powell - My freshman year in high school, one of my subjects was American History, a required course if you were enrolled in the Academic Curriculum, intending, hopefully, to go on to college after high school was over. Our teacher was Mr. Powell. Mr. Powell was no more than five feet four in his shoes, and he was overweight and balding. He wore the same blue serge suit, shiny with age, every day of the year, never anything else. And he was quiet, and hard to hear. And boring. I figured Mr. Powell had put his notes together the first year he taught, and just pulled them out at the start of every semester, never having to change a single word his entire career. After all, it was history. He had the easiest job in town.

Then one day Mr. Powell was discussing the First World War, and some kid asked Mr. Powell a question about that conflict, and took issue with Mr. Powell’s response. He argued with Mr. Powell about his answer to the question. To this kid, the First World War was a long time ago maybe, but not long enough ago to be taught as American History. To him, the First World War was irrelevant to this course.

So Mr. Powell then began a narrative that gradually became very personal. He told about a time when he was in the army during the First World War, and in combat. His company had been ordered to go up a hill, somewhere in France, and conquer that hill. He said there was intense fire, and as he moved up the hill, his buddies began to fall. Still, he kept going. And going. And finally, near the top, he looked around, and saw that he was alone. All of his friends had fallen. He said “It was just little Joe Powell, taking that hill. Just little Joe Powell.” And he bagan to cry. Tears ran down his cheeks, and his body shook, and he had to sit down to compose himself.

We all sat in stunned silence. And later, we learned that Mr. Powell was, indeed, an American hero, with the medals to prove it. Mr. Powell, little Joe Powell, was never seen by anyone in that class in the same light ever again. And I am sure that I am not the only kid in that class that has never forgotten that day. I do not remember any other day in that class. Nothing. But I remember that day, and my teacher, Little Joe Powell.


CONCLUSION

I have often thought of these encounters in my youth, and others, too. Why are these memories still with me after so many years? What did they do to me, or for me? I have learned this: It is important to take careful note of the people that brush past us in our lives. Each and every one has a story to tell, personal and meaningful. Each offers us a lesson to be learned, as surely as do our trained educators. I am sure that the YoYo Man, the Rag Man, and Little Joe Powell, had no idea that they were influencing those around them, influencing me, in some important way. But they were. Their lives certainly did resonate with me, and I never forgot them.

There is some mystic thread that interconnects us, I believe, one to another, a shadow that each of us casts, that others step into and out of, that influences us all of our days, in ways we never expected. And our obligation is to recognize that there are these connecting threads, and they go both ways. As we are influenced by those around us, so do we influence others. In my childhood there were those of my generation, some my age, some a little older or a little younger, that I remember now for only one thing they did, or one event that occurred in which we interacted, but that has stayed with me all my life. It is a paradox that such moments seem, at the time, meaningless, but, in time, prove themselves to be not meaningless at all.

Dad

Our Dearest Dad,
We love you and miss you so much. Today our thoughts are on you. Your wonderful mild mannered ways, your laugh, and especially your insightful words.

Some people are able to reflect on the best of memories regarding their dad, when they think back to their childhood. For me, so many of the thigs that have profoundly affected me came later. I was always aware of how articulate my father was. But his proficiency in communicating through the written word was something that I came to learn about him, through my adult life. I came to know him through his writing, which had a profound effect on me.
He wrote me the most moving letters in which he shared his heart. He could be funny, recounting the antics from his younger days. He could be reflective, thinking back on the happenings of his life, and the choices he had made. In many instances, my father pondered the resilience of the human spirit which he saw through the lives of our ancestors, particularly the Fretz brothers who left their home on a perilous voyage to make a new life in this land. I don’t know how long I have known this story, but I can’t remember when I didn’t. He also wrote often about how his grandfather’s life had affected who he was. His grandfather, venturing out as a young teen, never returning home from Rumspringa. He believed that the drive to pursue the dreams that one has, is something that has been running through our veins, and is evidenced through the lives of those who came before us.
I have appreciated the time that my father took to sit, and share his thoughts with me through his letters and his stories. More than anything though, I have been blessed by his declaration of love for us. He was always consoling and encouraging, when he knew that I needed strength to get through difficult times. And if he knew that it was really bad, I would get a call. “Talk to me,” he would say. ‘”Talk to me.”
I will forever treasure your words, Dad.
Beth

When Dad called on December 20, 2016 to give me the news of his diagnosis, I was heartbroken. Emily and I made plans right away to go out to Florida to spend some of his last days with him. I was honored to be there and to be able to really help my Dad through some very hard days. All my life he had helped me, with relentless strength and commitment. He helped me with easy things and he helped me with some very difficult things throughout the years. This was the first time I was really able to help him with something difficult.

Being with Dad in those last days, I had one small comfort, and that was that I did not feel that we had ever left anything unsaid. We always said what was in our hearts and when we were oceans apart, we wrote. Dad was a wonderful writer and he would write me the most beautiful letters, and I wrote him back. On my last day there, the last time I saw him, I wrote him a few more letters, placed them into little envelopes, and left them with him. I’ll share some of those thoughts here in the next few weeks.