The Buffalo Stories Archives is the result of decades’ worth of the passionate collection of Buffalo’s day-to-day Pop Culture history by Steve Cichon.
The online portion of the archive is representative of the thousands of local books, magazines and newspapers, thousands of images and photos, and thousands of tapes and digital files of audio and video recordings contained in just over a thousand square feet of storage space.
Far from the Library of Congress or The Buffalo History Museum, at the heart of our archive is the cast away, in many cases literally garbage-picked collections and items that have often been rejected by everyone else.
It’s Buffalo’s story in a microcosm. What others have cast away; we whip up into something special.
About Steve Cichon
Steve Cichon writes about Buffalo’s pop culture history. His stories of Buffalo’s past have appeared more than 1600 times in The Buffalo News.
He’s a proud Buffalonian helping the world experience the city he loves. Since the earliest days of the internet, Cichon’s been creating content celebrating the people, places, and ideas that make Buffalo unique and special.
The 25-year veteran of Buffalo radio and television has written five books and curates The Buffalo Stories Archives– hundreds of thousands of books, images, and audio/visual media which tell the stories of who we are in Western New York.
While wearing his signature bow tie, Cichon puts his wide range of professional experience—from college professor, to PBS documentary producer, to radio news director, to candidate for countywide elected office—to work in producing meaningful interpretations of the two centuries worth of everything that makes Buffalo the one-of-a-kind place that we love.
When you browse the blog here at Buffalo Stories LLC, you’re bound to not only relive a memory– but also find some context for our pop culture past– and see exciting ways how it might fit into our region’s boundless future.
Why? Western New York’s embedded in his DNA. Steve’s Buffalo roots run deep: all eight of his great-grandparents called Buffalo home, with his first ancestors arriving here in 1827.
Buffalo’s Pop Culture Heritage
The essence of Buffalo Stories is defining and
celebrating the people, places, and things that make Buffalo… Buffalo. That’s Buffalo’s pop culture heritage-– and that’s what you’ll find here.
Buffalo’s Radio & TV
Irv. Danny. Van. Carol. The men and women who’ve watched and listened to have become family enough that we only need their first names. Buffalo has a deep and rich broadcasting history. Here are some of the names, faces, sounds and stories which have been filling Buffalo’s airwaves since 1922.
North and South Buffalo. The East and West Sides. But how many neighborhoods can you name that don’t fit any of those descriptions? From the biggest geographical sections, to the dozens of micro-neighborhoods and hundreds of great intersections.
There is a category for Buffalo Neighborhoods, but as the historian of Buffalo’s Parkside Neighborhood, and having written two books on the neighborhood’s history, giving the Fredrick Law Olmsted designed Parkside Neighborhood it’s own category makes sense.
Family & Genealogy
My family history is Buffalo history. All eight of my great-grandparents lived in Buffalo, including my Great-Grandma Scurr, who is among the children in this Doyle family photo taken in Glasgow, Scotland. Aside from Scotland, my great-grandparents came from Pennsylvania, Poland, and England. One branch of my family tree stretches back to Buffalo in the 1820s, and a seventh-great aunt was among the first babies baptized at St. Louis Roman Catholic church back in 1829, when the church was still a log cabin.
&c, &c, &C: reflections from Steve’s desk
While my primary focus for this site is sharing about things that make Buffalo wonderful and unique, sometimes I have other thoughts, too. I share those here, along with some of the titles from other categories which I’ve written about in a more personal manner.
Steve’s daily looks back at Buffalo’s past from the archives of The Buffalo News and Buffalo Stories LLC. Weekly features include “Torn Down Tuesday” and “What it looked like Wednesday,” along with decade by decade looks at what Buffalo used to be– and how we got here from there.
Thank you, WNY!
Buffalo Spree’s Best of WNY: Best Blogger
It’s an honor to have my work recognized, especially when it helps call to attention a very important topic.
WGR is celebrating 100 years of broadcasting and, as WGR Historian, I put together a handful of minute-long stories talking about the station’s rich history.
WGR’s Sign On
weeks after Buffalo’s first radio station… WWT first went on the air, On May
21, 1922, WGR broadcast its first programs the Federal Telegraph Company on
enters into the field of national radio broadcasting with the formal opening of
one of the largest and most powerful broadcasting stations in the east…. thousands of dollars (have been spent) to
furnish Buffalo with a class of radio service which will be equal to that of
stations which have been broadcasting since interest in radio began to assume
such proportions as we see today,” reported the Courier.
original owners started WGR to sell radios… and Federal Radio’s $25 set could
easily pick up any broadcast within a 30-mile radius of the city.
renders radio reception in homes of Buffalo and vicinity no longer an
instrument of the well-to-do, but for almost anybody who cares to use it.”
1923, WGR became one of the earliest tenants of Buffalo’s brand new Statler
Hotel, where it was a Class B station– authorizing broadcast on reserved
frequencies, without interference, at high power. That meant the station could
be heard regularly within several hundred miles, but could also be heard on
occasion as far away as Hawaii and England.
a century now, WGR has been the voice of Buffalo heard around the world.
Early personalities at WGR
100 years now, WGR has been bringing the great voices of radio to Buffalo.
Before he was Howdy Doody’s sidekick and one of television’s early stars, Buffalo Bob Smith, Masten High School grad Bob Schmidt was one of the stars of WGR in the 30s and 40s as “Smiling Bob Smith”
the early years of radio, the country’s most powerful stations—like WGR—weren’t
allowed to play recorded music. Conductor David Cheskin, the leader of the
18-piece WGR Staff Orchestra, was one of Buffalo’s most popular entertainers
and a “one man wonder” during the pre-war Golden era of Buffalo radio.
music made WGR nationally famous as he conducted 18 network shows a week—
including “Buffalo Presents”— heard all over the country on NBC and CBS as
performed live in the WGR studios.
Keaton was one of WGR’s most popular hosts after he, like many early radio
entertainers, settled down with radio after a life on the road as a Vaudeville
his “Stuff and Nonsense” program took off, his success turned a temporary
Buffalo assignment permanent. After the war, Billy’s wife Reggie joined the
act, and the two hosted the “Mr. and Mrs. Show” on WGR.
a long-time WGR Radio fan favorite, Billy was the natural choice to welcome the
first viewers to WGR-TV in 1954.
and now, the great voices of Buffalo can be heard on WGR.
Baseball on WGR
100 years now, Buffalo’s best sports coverage has been a reason to listen to
the earliest days of announcers recreating baseball games from tickertape print
outs, complete with broken pencil sound effects for the sound of a hit
Bisons play-by-play from Offermann Stadium with Buffalo’s first sportscaster
Roger Baker and his protégé who’d spend more than 60 years broadcasting sports
in Buffalo, Ralph Hubbell.
broadcast the games of Bison Great Ollie Carnegie as he set an International
League homerun record which stood for 69 years.
it was Bill Mazer who was behind the WGR microphone when another great Bisons
slugger—Luke Easter famously hit a White Owl Wallop over the Offermann Stadium
In the 80s, WGR was owned by the Rich Family—and with Pete Weber behind the play-by-play mic…
The station was instrumental in helping get Pilot Field built—starting a renaissance for building in downtown Buffalo, and a renaissance for classically designed ballparks all around the country.
Ted Darling on WGR
WGR was the long-time home of Ted Darling… whose smooth and exciting style brought gravitas to the expansion Sabres in 1970 and became a trusted uncle behind the Sabres play-by-play mic on radio and TV for the next 21 years.
His genuine excitement for what he was describing on the Memorial Auditorium
ice and the stunning pace of his broadcasts helped make listening to the radio
almost as exciting as being there for a Perreault rush or a Korab check.
Darling’s voice instantly brings generations of Buffalo hockey fans to a different place and time.
There’s something that feels like home when you hear Ted Darling….
Rick Jeanneret on WGR
Spine-tingling. Quirky. Explosive. Imaginative.
What can you say about Rick Jeanneret that even comes close to listening to him?
a span of 51 years—Rick Jeanneret’s has been an inseparable part of what the
Sabres are to us…
And for most of those years, it was WGR that brought you that voice.
Van Miller calls four Super Bowls on WGR
There were different places around the radio dial you heard Van Miller’s voice through the years, but the only place you ever fastened your seatbelt for Van Miller Super Bowl fandemonium was WGR.
Thinking of those great teams of the 80s and 90s, our minds flash pictures of Kelly, Bruce, Andre and Thurman—but the sound is undeniably Van Miller.
voice that made WGR feel like home during the Bills Super Bowl run…
The Great DJs of WGR in the 70s
The 1970s were the glory years for big personality disc jockeys and rock ‘n’ roll music on WGR.
Shane Brother Shane was “Buffalo’s zany philosopher king.” The Cosmic Cowboy did it all to make smiles across the miles, hoping you fill your night with life, love, laughter, family, friends, fun and music.
Stan Roberts—whose WGR jingle called him the Corny DJ—is remembered for wearing a lampshade on his head on Royalite TV commercial and Dial-A-Joke, but also as a warm, friendly, and funny presence on morning radio across five decades.
Frank Benny was one of the smoothest broadcasters to ever work in Buffalo– as the weatherman on Channel 2 and DJ on WGR starting in the 60s through the 80s.
The Commercials of WGR in the 50s & 60s
WGR has aired literally millions of commercials over the last hundred years…
Our sponsors have not only paid the bills, but have made for great memories themselves, like these Buffalo classics from the 50s and 60s:
The Commercials of WGR in the 70s & 80s
Hundreds of thousands of sponsors have aired millions of commercials on WGR over the last century…
the 70s and 80s, thousands of local institutions used the power of WGR with
commercials you can’t forget–
The Voices of News on WGR
Sportsradio550 has been Buffalo’s premier source for Bills and Sabres news for decades, but for 80 years— WGR was also the home of some of Buffalo’s most beloved news voices.
We also remember WGR personality and Traffic Reporter Mike Roszman and pilot Herm Kuhn, who died when the WGR Traffic plane crashed between reports in 1993.
Artie Baby Boo-Boo & The Coach
in 1988, Art Wander got Bills General Manager Bill Polian so mad, he told Art
to get out of town.
Instead, Art spent the next decade taking your calls (and East Side Eddie’s calls) on WGR.
Then there was “The Coach,” Chuck Dickerson.
He was a coach for the Bills—until Marv Levy fired him after Super Bowl XXVI for being a little too opinionated.
a decade starting in 1993, Chuck Dickerson was the loudest football fan in
John Otto, Buffalo’s first talk show host
WGR has been heading to the phones as Buffalo’s call-in show pioneer for more than 60 years, starting with John Otto in the early 60s…
And you’ve been a big part of what makes WGR special ever since, taking part in call-in shows with hosts lke JR & Susie, Paul Lyle, Tom Bauerle, Ann Edwards, Clip Smith, and so many more…
But the brilliant and dry-witted John Otto– and his nearly 40 years overnights on WGR– is the stuff of legend.
Some shows were more legendary than others.
Thursday nights it was Desperate and Dateless, with co-host Shane Brother Shane (and later with Tom Bauerle.)
This was a fun project and it was wonderful to celebrate so many great broadcasters and friends, but the truth is– it felt a bit funny.
For the first half of my broadcasting career, WGR was a sworn enemy of the stations where I worked– first as a news competitor at WBEN and then as a sports competitor at the now-defunct WNSA Radio.
But many of the guys I worked with at WBEN and WNSA now work at WGR, so I guess we won 🙂
During the decade I worked at Entercom Radio (2003-2013), I primarily worked at WBEN– although you regularly heard my newscasts on Star 102.5, KB Radio, and 107.7 The Lake.
You also heard me occasionally on WGR, filling in at the sports desk, like in this clip from 2003…
Of course, my biggest on-air contribution at WGR was as the curator of the Haseoke archive.
Bills Safety Jordan Poyer and sportswriter Jerry Sullivan have been going back and forth for a couple of weeks now… But there’s nothing new under the sun.
I recorded this 1997 postgame exchange between Jerry and Bruce Smith at the WBEN studios on Elmwood Avenue from a live feed coming from Rich Stadium.
With the static from our wireless microphones, it’s hard to hear exactly what Jerry is asking Bruce, but most of Bruce’s response is pretty clear. “You a punk ass motherfucker once you get (interference),” said Bruce, to the laughter of the assembled reporters, photographers and players.
“I know you’re going to say it,” said Bruce. “I know you ain’t gonna stop.” The first clear words we hear from Sullivan on the tape are, “(something) stop being an asshole…”
To which Smith replied, “Oh, I’m the asshole! I’m the asshole! Oh yeah,” before turning to another reporter and calmly telling him, “Go ahead, man.”
That year, I produced Bills games on the radio. For years, we’d run the postgame show without a delay. My timing or the exact order of events might be off, but I think we started running a delay on the player press conferences after Thurman Thomas stormed away from the podium microphone one time yelling something close to, “half of you ain’t ever put on a jockstrap,” but with the word “fuck” worked in there somehow.
I think I have that audio somewhere, but I couldn’t find it today.
Anyway, that running live on the radio earned me a strongly-worded note from my boss about trying to make sure to avoid those sorts of words going out on the air if possible.
When this Bruce Smith interview aired live, I was able to “dump” out of delay—so the WBEN audience never heard Bruce Smith call Jerry Sullivan a “punk-ass motherfucker” on the radio. The problem was, with the 1970s technology we were using at the time, there was no way for me to hit dump a second time so quickly and avoid allowing Jerry and Bruce calling each other assholes on the radio.
Back in those days, while there were relatively few ways to hear or see full press conferences, it just so happened one of the local tv stations—I don’t remember whether it was 2, 4, or 7—aired this press conference live on its post-game show.
The complete exchange between Bruce and Jerry was aired live on TV and talked about for weeks on sports radio talk shows on WBEN and WGR—as well as in letters to the sports editor as published every week in the Sunday News.
When I look at old photos of three-year-old me crying or listen to whiny old cassette tapes I made as a five-year-old, it’s pretty clear that I was a sensitive little boy.
Because of that, some things that most people roll with— left me traumatized.
Now I was surrounded by a huge, loving family— but it was also a family which was (and continues to be) filled with every sort of mental illness imaginable.
This was true in close relationships, very close relationships, and very, very close relationships.
In his Sermon on the Mount, Jesus talked about the difference between building a house on a foundation of rock versus building on a foundation of sand.
There was sand in every crevice of my young life.
Things like moving seven times and being in seven different schools by the time I was in sixth grade, just for starters.
As a kid, rolling with it was just fine. I didn’t know any better, even as I stumbled around trying to find my own way.
What seemed everyday normal to me maybe should have had a giant warning sign on it, but it didn’t. And from my perspective at the time, why would it? Isn’t this the way it should be?
The most important skill I learned during that time was to make sure I outwardly looked like all was swell— even as the stormy, weak, and teetering emotional foundation upon which I’d built my life was crumbling and constantly being patched in real time.
I’m happy to say that the space in my head and my heart has been reimagined and refortified, and, while I’ll spend the rest of my life finishing the rebuild and getting used to the new space, I’m feeling more more grounded these days with far less anxiety and far more direction.
Sadly, finding firmer ground for a less chaotic life hasn’t come without cost. Looking back I realize that never having developed a good sense of self, I was always willing to play any role in a relationship I valued— right down to doormat if necessary.
Most of my friends and loved ones are happy to see me strong, healthy, and happy— but a few of the most cherished people in my life couldn’t stand the idea of me standing my ground for my own health and well-being.
Its not easy to stay away from these people, some of whom are dealing with (or not dealing with) their own dilemmas in their own lives. That they can’t make room for me working to make my own life better hurts.
And the hardest part of that is— whatever anger, bitterness, and even hatred some of these folks have for me— I still love each of them with the same intensity and commitment as I always have.
Only now, that estranged love comes with intense and haunting sadness. I love them and wish them well— but if you can’t be part of my new adventures… or at least be happy that I’m happy— well, necessity makes our relationship a memory.
And that aches, but it’s growing pain that’s better for all of us in the long run.
Pop tasted so much better in those 16oz glass bottles.
Coke Pepsi RC Cola… Cardboard eight packs filled with loose glass bottles lined the bottom shelf of the pop aisle at every supermarket in Buffalo and they were always on sale.
But even when they weren’t on sale, buying those 8 packs of glass bottles was the cheapest way to buy the name brand pop.
That’s why Gramps loved ’em and literally filled the hall with them. Grandma Cichon lived a few doors from Seneca Street in a worn out, but grand old house.
When you walked in the front door and looked straight ahead, you looked through the front hall, then a more narrow hallway, and then right into the kitchen.
It was in that narrow hallway where there was always enough pop stacked up to quench the thirst of a small army. With 10 kids, that’s pretty much what Gramps had— and he’d buy all the pop he could when it was on sale whether he needed it or not.
When you look straight past the pop, if Grandma wasn’t at the stove cooking, you’d see her first thing when you’d swing open that heavy front door.
She was always sitting at the head of the worn out white Formica kitchen table— complete with a cup of instant coffee in a gold butterfly mug and Kool 100 burning in the over-full ashtray.
If you creaked open that big door and looked slightly to the right— and he wasn’t working one of the three jobs he still had when I was a kid— Gramps would be sitting in that well-used comfy chair just on the other side of the beautiful leaded glass doors which lead into the parlor.
Grandma generally would see us first, and start to say hello, before Gramps– who was much closer– would take his eyes off of Lawrence Welk or Bugs Bunny to intercept us for a minute.
“Ha’oh dere, son,” Gramps would say in a pretty thick standard Buffalo Polish accent.
I had no idea there was anything to notice about that. Isn’t that how everyone’s Grandpa talked?
“Can I get you a glass of pop or a sandwich?” Gramps would ask reflexively, and immediately piss off my ol’man.
“Jesus Christ, Dad, it’s ten o’clock in the mornin’,” Dad would say, walking toward Grandma in the kitchen.
As we kids run in to give him a hug, Gramps would ignore my ol’man completely and give an inventory in case we were hungry.
“Well help yourself. In the ice box we got two kinds of baloney… Polish loaf… olive loaf… pimento loaf… ham…”
The sound of his voice would trail off as we walked through the narrow hallway filled with pop on the way to the kitchen.
I wouldn’t think anything of this hallway until twenty years later, when the girlfriend-who-became- my-wife asked me about it after visiting Gramps.
In the same way I never thought anything about my grandpa’s Polish accent, I never thought anything about the supermarket end cap worthy pop display.
That’s barely an exaggeration.
The entire length of the ten-foot long walkway had pop cans and bottle pushed up against the wall, stacked two or three deep and two, three, or four high in some places.
It was mystical and mystifying. Gramps’ pop display was far more impressive than what you’d have seen at Quality Food Mart, half a block away at Seneca and Duerstein. Better selection, too.
There were 2-liter and 3-liter bottles; flat, mixed-flavored cases of grocery-store brand cans; some times a wooden case or two from Visniak, but more than anything else, 8-pack after 8-pack of glass bottles.
As I mentioned, Gramps had ten kids— but there weren’t ten kids living there at the time.
Huns, it’s for the kids, Gramps would say as Grandma would yell at him coming home from grocery shopping with more pop when there were already hundreds of servings of soda pop lined up waist high, the first thing you see when you walk into the house.
I’m sure there was something about taking advantage of a good sale… or getting one over on a cashier with an expired coupon… or (put a star next to this one) getting under my grandmother’s skin by buying things she’d say they didn’t need…
But Gramps wasn’t a drinker. Never a beer or a highball, but would relax with a coffee or a pop.
He also really wanted to share his pop, and make sure you knew it was OK to take it. He wasn’t just being polite in offering it. That wall was there to prove, “I got plenty! Go ahead and take one!”
You could expect to refuse a pop at least three or four times while visiting with Gramps, and then one more on the way out.
And of course, this stuff was pop. I don’t think I even heard the word soda until was 8 years old.
“Sure you don’t want a pop, son? Why don’t you take some home? I’ll get you a bag.”
Almost 20 years after the corporate balloon he helped
inflate burst— I still don’t know what to think about Adelphia Communications
founder John Rigas, who died this week at the age of 96.
I worked for him for a couple of years just before he was sent
to federal prison and the company was bankrupted.
It’s was a bizarre moment… sitting in my Adelphia middle
manager’s office watching video of him being lead off in handcuffs on the NBC
Nightly News, with the reporter making reference to “Adelphia’s management
team” being arrested– somewhat chilling, since that could have described me at
I had to lay off a handful of friends and co-workers because
they were hired using the convoluted process that was a part of Adelphia’s
shell game style of bookkeeping.
In the end, my job, and the jobs of all of my friends at the
Empire Sports Network and WNSA Radio were lost. I was mostly unemployed for a
I personally lost thousands of dollars in talent fees and
retirement earnings— many lost much, much more.
But as far as Mr. Rigas himself— the honorific still feels
appropriate— in each of the many personal interactions I had with him, I always
found him to be warm, kind, and humble.
After his arrest, though, little things began making sense.
The story I most often tell about Mr. Rigas is about the
time I went to his office to interview him. He was gracious and welcoming to
me. Also in the room were two executive managers whose salaries were both well
into six figures.
As Mr. Rigas and I made small talk before the interview
started, he excused himself and called a quarter-million dollars’ worth of Vice
Presidents over by their first names and asked, “Can one of you get me a cup of
The two men, with very important high-ranking jobs and
tremendous responsibility within the company, nearly killed each other racing
for the door to be able to get “the boss” his coffee first.
The whole ordeal felt sinister and abusive in the moment,
and it was proven that this incident was reflective of the way the company was
run all the time.
I learned a lot from Mr. Rigas and from working within the
corporate structure he lorded over, and nearly all of it was “the way not to do
There was what I can only imagine to have been genuine
personal kindness to my face— but that doesn’t mesh with the ruthlessness with
which he and his family played with and damaged the lives of their employees,
including many of my friends and many reading this right now.
May perpetual light shine upon him.
May we also learn from the selfishness, greed, and power thirst that knocked him from his great heights.
Religion, Christianity, can be utterly complicated.
But to understand Jesus, one simply has to go find a good
translation of the Bible where Christ’s words are written in red.
Just read the red words. Christ’s words are straightforward.
If that sounds like too much work, read even just the Sermon
on the Mount. (Matthew 5-7.)
If you take this straight forward speech in, ruminate upon
it as new material and apply basic sixth grade level reading comprehension
skills, you’ll come to understand Christ made it unbelievably simple.
Sixth grade reading level is all you need because he’s
No interpretation is needed– unless you’re trying to
squeeze in your own BS.
No gray areas or yeah-buts.
The themes are super easy and laid right out. Points from the
Sermon on the Mount in order.
Know that if you’re blessed somehow– that blessing was
given to the world through you.
Let your light shine.
All of this is equally important—you can’t pick or chose
which to follow.
Before you come before God to pray—be sure your conscience
is clear and you are reconciled with your brothers.
Be merciful in making peace—or you will find yourself in
need of mercy.
The desire to sin is as bad as the sin itself—stay away from
Let your yes be yes and your no be no.
Love your enemies. (Bless them, in fact.)
Do good for the sake of doing good, not a pat on the back.
You can’t serve two masters. You can’t serve God and wealth.
You can’t serve good and evil.
Consume simply. Don’t worry about tomorrow.
Don’t judge because you will be judged by the standards by
which you judge.
Value the things that are valuable in your life.
Treat others the way you want to be treated.
It’s easy to go astray, but following the more difficult righteous
path offers the life you seek.
Good people show goodness. Evil people show evil. Know the
Build your life on these teachings and you will weather the
storm of life.
Add in a couple more of Christ’s teachings–
Love God. Love your neighbor as yourself.
Give away all your possessions and follow me.
People will know you are my followers when they see the way
you love one another.
That’s just about all Christ gave us. That’s it.
Be defiantly good. Defiantly love people. Defiantly don’t be
These ideas are all that the first Christians (the ones taught by Christ himself) knew– and it’s all I need.
It’s only by good luck that I survived driving my first car— an original Volkswagen Beetle. It was a beaten-up, road hazard death trap.
But man I loved it.
Sahara Beige was the color when it left the factory— but it was more primer and bondo by the time I bought it off a front lawn in Niagara Falls for something like 400 or 500 bucks.
It really wasn’t even street legal— back then, a couple of extra bucks could usually get you an inspection sticker whether your car was roadworthy or not.
I loved this car, it was far and away the coolest ride in my high school parking lot.
There was even a scene like from a movie when a cute girl said, “This is a really cool car,” and I felt like looking into the camera like Ferris Bueller and giving the double eyebrow raise.
I learned to drive stick in this car in the Seneca Mall parking lot with my ol’man. In that parking lot, outside the old Penney’s, is where I got pulled over for the first time.
The West Seneca cop saw me driving back and forth and thought I was trying to run over seagulls. Man, my dad was pissed.
Of course, if we’re being honest, the memory of this broken down Beetle is great— but I’m also glad I don’t have to drive it everyday.
If I think about this car long enough, my stomach turns and my nostrils with the once familiar essence of gas fumes, degrading Naugahyde, and some since- discontinued floral Lysol trying to mask the other two.
There were no working gauges (including speedometer and gas), no working heat, and plenty of character.
I daydream about this first car I ever owned often— but I rarely think about my second car.
Man I hated it— but it was the most underrated vehicle I’ve ever owned. The 1987 Dodge Colt (manufactured in Japan by Mitsubishi) was an ugly, generic-looking 80s Japanese hatchback hand-me-down from my parents.
My ol’man had been in two accidents with it and didn’t get it fixed— so it was ugly and busted up.
And it was also embarrassing to drive because the fan belt made a loud, high-pitch squeal the first 15 minutes or so it was driven.
That dented and crunched-up little crap box would actually scream LOOK AT ME, when that’s the last thing I’d have wanted anyone do.
Driving it was a continuation of the disappointing feeling I’d always had for the gold Colt from the very beginning, since it replaced our brown 1980 AMC Spirit as a family car.
The poor Colt never really had a chance. It was a sad final drive with my ol’man, smoke belching from the Spirit form the still solid, American-built tank as we dropped it off to trade in for the light, plastic-y, insect-like Colt. Even the key was a disappointment.
I thought we’d get a cool Dodge/Chrysler key with the iconic 5-point star/pentagon logo on them— but instead this car had giant, odd shaped keys with MITSUBISHI stamped across the top.
Ugly, disappointing, and some serious bad mojo, too.
Dad was rear-ended so hard in the Colt that the bucket seats were permanently bent— and he had to have surgery from the resulting whiplash.
The car would almost certainly be totaled today— and who knows, maybe it was then, but we drove it for years.
I also remember from the passenger seat the time when a kid on a bike cut out in front of my dad on Seneca Street.
The bike wound up mangled, and while the kid bounced off and permanently dented the hood— the teenager was fine.
My dad drove him and his crumpled bike home to Duerstein Street.
Once he dropped the kid off at home, my ol’man, a Parliament with too much ash dangling from his lip, told me if he ever saw me riding my bike like that I “wouldn’t have to worry about a car because he’d grab me and rip my goddamn head off.”
(It was his way of saying he cares 🙂 )
The Colt had been passed around the family for a couple of years— a couple of different uncles drove it— before the short time I used it to get to work and school.
I did my best to upgrade the car which, by this point looked like it had been abandoned in the streets of Sarajevo during the Bosnian War.
I went to Kmart— and bought and installed a radio with a cassette deck, making the music coming out of the single speaker in the middle of the dashboard a bit more tolerable.
I also went to a head shop and bought a bunch of stickers, most of which were for bands I had no interest in— but I had to put SOMETHING on this car to make it less ugly.
One of the stickers was a giant Jerry Garcia Desert Face decal— and while I wasn’t a deadhead, I at least knew who he was and I had Touch of Grey on a few of the mix cassettes that were the vehicle’s sound track… so there was that.
It wasn’t long before I passed this car along to some other desperate-for-transportation family member, and I bought myself a well-used 1986 Volkswagen Golf from a driveway on Kenmore Avenue near the Boulevard.
Anyway, something made me think of the ol’ Dodge Colt, which deserves a second look from someone for something other than that screaming fan belt.
Is there anyone who was alive and aware of what was going on
that day who can’t remember every painful second of the day?
Is there anyone who can sit through a TV news story with
somber music and those too real stories and the archival video from that day
and the days after– can anyone who remembers that day sit through that without
choking back tears and choking back vomit and reliving the bottomless horror
and not being sure whether we’d have a world to wake up to the next day?
I spent the whole day at the controls of a radio station… mostly
running the live airfeed of CNN, and occasionally giving a local station break
or offering important local information. As people went home to pick up their
kids or take care of family or just be swept up in horrific tragedy, I sat mostly
alone in a windowless radio control room… Keeping it together to do my job. Being
completely immersed in it, but processing only what I needed to process to keep
the station on the air.
When I got home after 10 or so hours of that—I collapsed on
the couch as the whole day hit me all at once. Just like every other American
that day, pieces of my soul were shattered and melted and forever changed.
For everyone, for this country—there was before and there
That’s where “never forget” hits me these days. None of us will ever forget that—but part of understanding and remembering and explaining the history lesson of it all, is to try to remember and describe and feel what the before times were like—and how the completely unimaginable murder of 3,000 people shattered every American and shattered the American way of life like throwing a beer bottle against a brick wall.
We say never forget because we want to make sure the next
generation knows. But what America lost that day is so much more horrifying
than even the stories we can tell about brave firefighters and police, of civilian
heroes who punctuated one of the most selfless acts in out nation’s history
with “Let’s roll,” more than the stories of those who made the choice to end
suffering that day on their own terms and seared the image of their final
moments leaping and crashing toward the earth.
Two decades later, those frightful stories are still with us—but
also with us is the memory of those before times. To fully understand the misery
of that day, we have to remember a time before our hearts hardened, our eyes
steeled, and before we carved off portions of the idea what American freedom
means—in order to preserve the rest of it.
We say never forget—but there really aren’t words to help
someone who doesn’t remember the before times understand. They’ve grown up with
the tougher heart and more aware eyes. They will never understand the idea of
American freedom and the American way of life as we knew it when our alarm
clocks rang on the morning of September 11, 2001.
Our trauma has become their way of life. It’s almost too
much to bear. God bless those people whose lives were lost this day twenty
years ago, God bless their families, God bless us and God Bless America—the way
it was, the way it is, and the way it will be.
Just after my birthday, at the end of August… my ol’man would start talking about his birthday coming up.
He was born December 10, 1951,coming a couple of months premature.
In 1951, a couple months premature was usually a death sentence.
The scene would have made that death sentence even more likely.
It was in a long gone, old tenement-looking building behind City Hall, Steven Patrick Cichon was delivered in a 4th floor apartment kitchen during a raging snow storm.
This was the fifth of eleven babies for Grandma Cichon. She put her newborn preemie in the oven to keep him warm until an ambulance could take him the few blocks up Niagara Street to Columbus Hospital.
Nurses quickly christened him right on the spot— not expecting the little oven-warmed human to make it, but the fight was the first of many low-percentage fights he’d win.
Starting with those first few moments, the path laid out for my ol’man was never smooth. He was angry and cranky a lot— but if you could work a conversation into something about his birthday— his favorite day of the year— it was almost always an instant transport back to happier and carefree times.
Once the Fair was over, and my birthday passed, and we were heading back to school, Dad would start reminding us that his birthday was coming up— and that he’d want a BIG PRESENT… those words said with his arms outstretched and his eyes opened wide.
By November, he’d be getting into specifics. Occasionally, he actually needed something, which was great. Otherwise, fraught with danger and anxiety, we’d have to come up with something on our own.
Despite what you might think about someone in your life, rest assured, that my mean, crazy, loving, tender, anti-bullshit, anti-things ol’man was indeed, the most difficult person ever for whom to buy a present.
That is… Until I turned 21.
The ol’man spent the last decade or so of his life barely ambulatory. He was a diabetic, and went through several unsuccessful surgeries to save his foot; the there were several surgeries to remove his leg right below the knee.
His body and his spirits were greatly weakened by all the surgeries, and laying in hospital beds, and never really getting the hang of the prosthetic leg that he only rarely even tried on.
He would have disagreed violently with the idea— but for the last ten years or so of his life, Dad was wheelchair-bound.
He wasn’t a heavy drinker, but c’mon— the guy owned a tavern at point. He liked the occasional, or slightly-more than occasional whiskey.
Never straight, though, that whiskey— he’d mix it with just about anything. Iced tea, Diet 7-up, Diet Ginger Ale. His tastes changed often, but I think Ginger Ale was his favorite.
Even though he’d eat three doughnuts with impunity, he always made sure he had diet pop because of his diabetes.
At his last birthday dinner at his favorite restaurant— a sports bar, really— he tried to order a whiskey and diet ginger ale, but alas, like any other bar/restaurant in America, they didn’t have diet ginger ale.
He ordered something else, and when the waitress went away, he whispered to us, talking out of the side of his mouth, “No diet ginger ale? In a fancy place like this?!?”
“In a fancy place like this” is one of the few PG-rated lines from my dad I repeat often and with growing appreciation.
At home, it was whiskey and diet ginger ale— so long as he had the whiskey. Buying dad a bottle was great. He’d take a quick peek in the gift bag and then put it right back before quietly rolling right down to his office, and once again quietly opening that drawer to slip the booze in the drawer so my mom wouldn’t know. (Yeah, right.)
Anyway, he couldn’t drive anymore and couldn’t make it to the liquor store himself anymore to get himself a little booze.
He was reliant on other people to bring him a taste every once in a while. And in what I now look at as my last great gift to my father, I was his hook up.”Give me a big bottle of the cheap stuff, instead of that little bottle (of the good stuff),” he’d start whispering to me when the leaves started to change. From everyone else, I’d get grief for bringing him a little ‘Old Grandad,’ ‘Kesslers,’ ‘Philadelphia,’ or ‘Old Crow,’ because even a little too much would send his blood sugar out of whack. But it was his last joy in life, and I couldn’t deny him.
He be mildly disappointed when I’d get him the little bottle… but my hope was with that he’d only have one drink at a time to try to stretch it out a little more. That usually worked.
Father’s Day, birthday, Christmas. Dad knew what was coming from me, and part of the gift was giving him reason to devise some sort of ruse to make sure my mother “didn’t know” he’d just gotten some booze.
As he was executing said ruse, he’d quietly, but with the tone implying yelling, ask me why the hell I didn’t get him the big bottle.
Just like with most dads, my ol’man took more than his share of good-natured jibes from the family all year.
But none on his birthday. He loved that— it might have been his favorite part of the day.
He loved even more when someone would let one slip, and he was able to remind, “Not on my birthday!”
Though the polka classic reminds that in heaven there is no beer— on December 10, I know there’s cheap, crappy, blended whiskey in heaven.
And Dad’s drinking it by the gallon with plenty of diet ginger ale. They must have it in a fancy place like heaven.