Tastee Freez

In the spirit of Old Fashion Days. No date attributed to this photo either, but I've got to think, judging by the cars, late 50s, early 60s. The Tastee Freez became the ice cream joint by default for me as the Waldo Family's Frosty Freeze, where this bad fella spent his pre-adolescent days hanging with my o-so-bad Mom and Pop. Because, you know, at eight years old, it was tuff to find a bro who had access to wheels.
The Waldo family was our town's version of an entertainment conglomerate. (If I'm lucky, somebody might read this who knows and will chime in) but, I think next to the Waldos Frosty Freeze were some small, individual size trampolines, possibly there to jump on as you were eating your cone (no real danger there). They were one of those familys who had their finger on the pulse of summertime.
I put some time in at the Tastee Freez, pictured above, in high school when the Dekleva family owned it. After they closed at night, I'd wait to clean the fryers till my buds dropped by and I'd fix 'em a choice burg and some soft serv for dessert. And then people would stop by, who I wouldn't exactly call friends, and I'd spit....just kidding.

YANK-N-BANK

If we're lucky, once a year, one of us puts some time and effort into planning an adventure that neither one of us has experienced. That's the idea anyway. One year it was a hot-air baloon ride, which kind of tanked. Another year, the two of us took a bi-plane ride over Lake Michigan. Then a few years ago we went sky diving. And last year we bought kayaks.
This year, adventure-girl took me down to the air show in Dayton, Ohio. To do what? Well, she kept it to her self as I requested, till we parked. Then she pulled out a gleaming, laminated photo from a folder of a true, Viet Nam era, Bell UH-1 Iroquois, or, as it's more commonly known as, the Huey.
And we were going for a ride.

She kept asking if I was excited and I replied, "Of course, but you know, we got in late to the hotel last night and we got up at 5 to hit the road early, so, you know, I may not look excited, but I am." So we happened over to the gates and followed the signs. It was no small trek to the fenced off field where three US Army Hueys and a Huey Cobra were powering up.

We weren't first but we were close. First we had to sign a release, of course, with one eye on the first group boarding amid the thundering, ground shaking, classic Huey rotor's WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP, that can be heard for miles. Then we went through some seat belt instruction from a veteran of Viet Nam, Huey pilot who chorteled about the emergency landing they had to make a few years back and how if this were to happen again, everyone should stay inside the cockpit no questions asked, until the rotors come to a complete stop.
The funny thing is, there are no doors on these, just a big wide open space on both sides. Which is pretty cool, I think, sort of.
Okay, we're next. And I think I feel a pucker or two. But I don't show it, nosiree.
We duck under the whining, turbo powered rotors that instill a feeling of menace in their own right and they're barely engaged while we're being loaded. From walking across the street- to buckling in-to hovering maybe 80 feet up took about three minutes. They stay in a holding pattern immediatly after lifting off to get their ques from the tower. I of course opt for the seat closest to the big open space thinking this will be a pretty cool view.
Well, less than a minute or two out and it's HHHOOOLLLYYYSSSHHHIIITTTT, the pilot banks to the left and completes a wide circle that lasts like for frikkin ever, than levels off. My stomach is somewhere beside me then HHHOOOLLLYYYSSSHHHIIITTT, the pilot banks to the right this time, completing another wide circle. The crew chief, sitting across from us has a smile on her face. She's more concerned, as should be, with the elderly couple who cut in line in front of us while we waited to board and who now look like they would rather be just about anywhere but in this helicopter.
Remember, it's nothing but wide open space on either side of this warhorse with houses, swimming pools and interstate highway below us. We also declined the earplugs for maximum effect. So this is what Robert Duvall felt like leading the charge.
I casually look around, trying to figure out if we're headed back yet or not when HHHHOOOLLLLYYYYSSSSSHIIIITTTT, this time the pilot points the nose almost staight down and then slowly back up. When we level off again, the top half of me is stretched across my wife's lap. And after the third HOLY SHIT, the crew chief who is seated directly across from us, mouthed the words "Are you okay?" I yelled back, "I bet you hear HOLY SHIT a lot!"
Its weird though, I never felt like I was actually slipping toward the door at any one time. And weirder yet, there is absolutely nothing to hold onto, like bars or handles or anything, so I grab the front of the seat by my crotch with my right hand and just let my left hand hang there...searching.

As we were receiving seat belt instruction on the ground before hand, the pilot also asked who would like to volunteer for the gunner seats. Those are the seats pointing outward at the back of the passenger area. I'm damn glad we didn't take those. Those folks were screaming there asses off, you bunch of Cedar Point wussies (just kidding). It was all pretty cool though, I discovered, after it ended, about an hour later.
And then I ate a hot dog.



credits: profile seat shot from Danie van den Berg, sa-transport.co.za
attack formation from museumofflight.org

The Gerber Guest House

The Gerber Guest House, the site of several torrid, murder mysteries (with dinner included of course), is actually two homes conjoined. The first home, or the west side, was built by Frank and Pauline Gerber during WW I. Then, son Dan and his wife Dorothy, built along side to the east in 1923.
It is said that in the kitchen, of which home I'm not sure, while Dorothy (I guess that might make it the home on the east side) was straining and canning fruits and vegetables for their children, that there may well be a need for such a product in finished form as a handy resource for mothers and their babies. And Gerber Baby Food was born.

I think the idea for murder mysteries, of the Orient Express type, should be resurrected, whether at the GGH or someplace else. Sure, it may not be a novel idea, and it's most likely occurring around here anyway and we just haven't been invited, but what a great way to spend an evening, sharing a wonderful meal, then trying to unravel some messy, cheesy love triangle gone horribly wrong...with your friends.
I mean, how heinous is that?

credits: gerberguesthouse.com

Ryan's Hotel

This place looks like it's straight out of L.A. Confidential. A drug den, or hangout for hoodlums of petty crime. Smokers of crazy weed and such. Or worse yet, the recently divorced. Probably a lot of quick exits out the back window and into the woods.
Doesn't look like the house-keeping team would've been made up of many. This was actually located about where the Harrington Inn is now, or close. Must be something about this particular patch of land that holds something for travelers...gypsies...drifters or Dad, freshly booted out of the house.

credits: Photo From Fremont Historical Archives

Billy F. Gibbons

Billy F. Gibbons is one bad motor-scooter. Dusty is slightly obscured by water cascading down over, oh wait, I guess that's somebody's hair.
Taken by an attendee who waited patiently for an opening, or...perhaps thought that over time, guilt would set in on my part, which it did cuz, you know, hell hath no fury.
I like how the speaker stacks are rigged to look like they are in mid-topple. Frank Beard's drum accoutrements were certainly aggressive against his laid back, shufflin' swing. That's the Top for you though, raw, simple and well dressed.

Thems Handsome Apples

This could have turned into a Homer painting, or Rockwell maybe. This is Lewis from Fremont. That much we can tell. A handsome, hardworking man, sits proudly behind his apple display. What I don't know is if "Wolf" something er other is the brand of apple, or possibly the name of the farm. Wolf Rivers maybe, I don't know.
You Tell me.

Undated and semi-indentified