OP-ED: Thursdays with Carl and Ethel
It was a different time. In fact, the crazy fun we had in the ’70s was like a spin-off from the fun sitcom “Delta House” or the movie “Animal House.” Every Thursday night, we had a standing invitation from our friend Jim to go to Carl and Ethel’s basement. Jim didn’t live there anymore, but the door to his parents’ house was always open to us. “Thursdays with Jim” was a pool party, where we played pool and drank from a refrigerator filled with beer courtesy of Carl, Jim’s dad.
Carl was a tough ole coal miner who would hang around in the basement long enough to teach us a few life lessons. He would share colorful phrases with us like “Fire in the hole” or “Tougher than a two-dollar steak.” Then he would disappear upstairs with Ethel to watch “Bonanza” or “Gunsmoke.”
The “us” at the pool party was a group of teachers from the city schools who were celebrating the day before the last school day of every week. Our group included another Jim who, at 42, was the folk philosopher of the group; the biology teacher, Tim, who was tall, handsome and the dream heartthrob of all of his students; Steve, the math genius; and our host, the other Jim who was in his late 20s.
Our host, the younger Jim, was always happy to share some practical jokes, fun jabs, and his dad’s beer with us. One night I remember vividly, at 23, I decided it was time for me to try some of Carl’s snuff. Because they couldn’t smoke in the mines, the town had plenty of men who used smokeless tobacco. Every time they stopped at a red light, their car doors opened to allow them to dispose of some chew juice.
Jim warned me about that first dip mixed with a few PBR’s (Pabst Blue Ribbon beer), but I still ended up in the basement bathroom “calling Ralph” as my world was spinning like a holiday dreidel.
Those nights obviously ended up producing lifetime memories for us, and we formed bonds that have lasted for nearly a half-dozen decades. The special needs teacher, the band director, the science, math, and English teachers, and the sometimes coaches often did crazier things than their orneriest students. And we could always count on the fact that Jim’s dad never hesitated to “stir the proverbial pot” with challenges that often included impossible shots both on the pool table and in shot glasses.
After our two-hour pool sessions, we often raced each other across town to our favorite teacher hangout, a cozy bar where the evening anchor from the local television station had a stool reserved for himself. The racing part was true because, at the time, liquor laws were only enforced when there was an accident.
One of Jim’s bar tricks was to ask for the incredibly hot pepper in the bottom of the pickled hot sausage jar and eat it like candy. Then he would sit and sweat uncontrollably for at least 10 minutes.
Another favorite memory was a night when we were eating cheeseburgers and pizza and a friend stopped in for a beer. We offered him some food, he shook his head and said, “Are you kidding me? My wife is pregnant. I can’t go home with food on my breath.”
Those crazy Thursday nights were a time of unconditional friendship and would never have happened without the generosity of the Bombatch family (and the local police department).
It was not unusual to see waste baskets outside of classrooms the next day because our hangovers sometimes couldn’t make it to the restroom.
Those were the days, my friend. We thought they’d never end.
Nick Jacobs lives in Windber.