The Unusual History of An Unusual Name

If your name is simple, like Bill or Mary Lou, you may not really understand what it’s like to live with a name like “Phares Glyn.”

So, putting worry about being self-centered aside, I’ve decided to tell you my experiences with my name, and a recent revealing discovery I’ve made.

What Was My Mother Thinking?

I’m not surprised that my mother Ruby was looking for a creative, non-standard name for me.

After all, she had named my three older sisters Twila Ray (who died as an infant), Wanda Louise, and Dolora Jane.

I’m guessing that my father Ray, an accommodating man, agreed with pretty much any name my mother chose.

Well, why not Phares Glyn? My grandmother’s maiden name was “Phares.”

And a good family friend’s name was “Glyn.”

So my mother told Doc Marvel, who came in a horse and buggy to deliver me, that her baby would be called “Phares Glyn.”

Doc Marvel — a man of insight — tried to mount a protest, saying that the name sounded too much like “Paris Green,” a popular insecticide and ingredient in green paint.

But even though she did not like the color green, Ruby was not to be deterred, and so it was.

A Little About My Name

One source said “Phares” is ranked 69,890^th on the list of most used names. Only 219 people have had it in the last 100 years.

The source also said “Phares” meant “lighthouse” or ”beacon” and gave the following description: “Persons with the name ‘Phares’ are seekers of wisdom and possess the abilities that will assist them in being a great teacher in any field.”

I thought this sounded pretty good, but their health analysis said, “Those named Phares are overly fond of heavy foods such as meat, potatoes, breads, and pastries…” So I decided not to look any further.

Also, you can buy your name on the website Namepedia. But it wouldn’t let me create an account or give me the cost.

However, when a=1¢, b=2¢, and z= 26¢, “Phares” is worth 67¢. What a letdown! A name not even worth a buck.

How Did/Do People React To My Name?

For a short time, I thought the kids at my one room country school called me “Fairy Foot” because I was such a fast runner, but I soon figured out a more likely reason.

When our family drew “Ike” from a bowl to get a missing middle name for my dad, he decided give the nickname to me. I was surprised it caught on so quickly.

And I recall the time in high school when I entered a basketball tournament game and the announcer said, ”Phares O’Daffer. That’s right folks, Phares O’Daffer.”

Later, when I had my first opportunity to write a mathematics textbook, the editor at Addison Wesley publishing company asked me (with a little bit of embarrassment) if they could list me on the book as P.G. O’Daffer. This even though my three co-authors on the book were to be listed with their first names and middle initial.

And, of course, there were many questions about my name throughout my life, such as “Is your name Egyptian, like ‘Pharaoh’”?

And there was the letter I received, addressed to “Mrs. Pharesa O’Doffer,” and our befuddled lady friend who introduced my wife Harriet and I at a party as “Harris and Phariet O’Daffer.”

Finally, I must report the results of an informal poll I have taken of the reactions to my name. In general, women seem to like my name.

But if men knew my nickname, they leaned toward calling me “Ike.”

A Redeeming Discovery

It has been interesting looking back at the different reactions to my name.

But even though living with the moniker “Phares” has been a little weird at times, I’ve never thought it caused me much of a problem.

But there’s no doubt that on occasion it was hard to explain my name in a way that made it feel legitimate, and I was never sure what people thought of it.

But recently, this has all changed. All because of a Peanuts Cartoon!

When a good friend of mine handed me the following cartoon and I read the 5th frame, I wasn’t sure Linus was reciting the real Biblical “begats,” or just making his own ‘begats” up.  (Click on the cartoon to make larger.  Click the back arrow of your browser to return to the post.)

But a look at Matthew, Chapter 1, Verse 3 in the King James Version of the Bible cleared it all up.

“Phares” is a Biblical Name!

The Bottom Line

Sure, the New International Version of the Bible uses “Perez” instead of “Phares” in the begats, but one of these is just a derivation of the other.

It’s also true that my mother, to my recollection, never told me that she had seen “Phares” in the Bible.

But given her interest in the Bible, I would guess that, if asked, she would have said, “Of course I saw it. You don’t think I would give you a non-Biblical name, do you?”

So, no more hesitation when someone asks me “Where in the heck did your name come from?

I just pull my miniature King James Bible out of my pocket, show them Matthew 1-3, and confidently say, “Phares is a Biblical name! Don’t you know that Judas begat Phares, and Phares begat Esram?”

Another Slant On Living On A Farm

A wise friend recently said that every time a person tells about his or her experiences as a child, he or she subconsciously revises them just a little bit.

It just came to me that if I tell of my farm experiences maybe one more time, I might finally get the story right.

So, to give my descendants a better feel for “That’s The Way It Was,“ and to stimulate you to think about your childhood again, here is a “revised” thumbnail sketch of what I remember about living on the farm.

How My Farm Life Began

Old Doc Marvel came two miles from Weldon, Illinois to our farm house — in a snowstorm — to deliver me on Feb 3, 1934.

My mother was very pleased with her new baby, and announced that his name would be Phares Glyn—named after her mother Alice Phares.

Phares Glyn, a little later

Doc Marvel expressed immediate dislike for the name — mumbling that “Phares Glyn” sounded too much like “Paris Green” (a very poisonous bright green powder that was used as an insecticide and also as a paint pigment).

But my mother was unwavering, and that was that.

However, for some strange reason, she had a dislike for the color green throughout her life.

What Kind of World Was I Born Into?

If you would have questioned my mother about the world at that time, she might have said, “It is going to hell in a handbasket.”

After all, 1934 was one of the hottest years on record and arguably one of the worst years of the Great Depression.

And with John Dillinger and Bonnie and Clyde running around the country robbing banks and shooting at FBI agents, things looked grim indeed.

Internationally, too, things were in a mess — Hitler was staging a bloody purge of the Nazi party and declaring himself Fuhrer — and Japan was beginning to re-arm its warships as it renounced treaties with America.

But, although my mother probably didn’t know it, there was a lighter and more positive side.

Franklin Roosevelt as
Time man of the year

For example, Franklin Roosevelt — because of his New Deal — was Time magazine’s Man of the Year.

And “It Happened One Night,” the first film to ever win the Oscar “grand slam” (Best Picture, Best Actor, Best Actress, Best Director, and Best Screenplay), directed by Frank Capra and starring Claudet Colbert and Clark Gable, was a hit in 1934.

So was a cartoon, “The Wise Little Hen”starring newcomer Donald Duck

Gable wore no T-shirt in parts of his film, so all the cool males stopped wearing them, too.

Donald Duck wore no pants in the cartoon, but didn’t have the same effect on the population.

Brigette Bardot

Raquel Welch

Pat Boone

Also in 1934, Mae West was in her prime. And Raquel Welch, Brigitte Bardot, and Pat Boone were born.  When we were older, my wife Harriet and I admitted to each other that in our teenage years we were reasonably pleased that these three graced our presence.

And by the way, Ritz crackers were invented in 1934, cost 19¢ a box, and were all the rage.

But not for my family. If my mom and dad somehow had 19¢ to spend, they bought a couple of gallon of gasoline for our old McCormick 10-20 tractor.

What Was The Deal On the Farm?

I have a lot of fond memories about growing up on the farm, and remember that it was trying and a lot of work, but also some fun.

But as I look back on it now, I think we gave more time and attention than one might expect to having food, keeping warm, keeping clean, being clothed, disposing of our waste, and a few extras.

Having food

Our family, led by my mother, put hundreds of hours every year into making a garden and harvesting and preserving the vegetables it produced.

There were a lot of Ball fruit jars filled with everything from green beans to pickles in our underground root cellar after we had finished canning.

We also raised chickens, cows, and pigs, and believed they were on this earth to provide chicken, beef, and pork for us to eat.

Butchering steers and hogs was a yearly community event, and killing and preparing chicken to eat was a daily phenomenon to behold.

And finally, we milked several cows by hand to have plenty of milk to drink and cream to use in cooking.

We even drummed up enough money to buy a used De Laval Separator, that put the milk out one spout and the cream out another.

Keeping Warm

We were pretty concerned about keeping warm in the winter on the farm.

One of my jobs when I got older was to carry cobs into the house every night in the winter to feed our cook stove. We used the cook stove to cook with and also to heat bricks to put in our down comforter when we slept upstairs.

We also carried in coal for the big living room stove. If we got too much coal in that stove the and the wind came up — as it often did in the winter — we tried to control the burning of the coal by trying to shut the flue off. Often we couldn’t do this and the stove would get red hot.

Many a time I was scared to death that the red hot stove would set the house on fire and burn it to the ground.

Keeping Clean

It was pretty hard to keep clean with no running water and no bathtub.

Trying to sit in a small round washing tub to take a bath was a big challenge, but we all tried to do it.

One of the greatest days ever was when my father found someone who was throwing away an old bathtub, with ornamental legs.

We couldn’t hook it up to running water, but we put it on the porch, and delighted in carrying water to pour in it so we could take what we thought was a real honest to goodness bath.

And, of course, we had to keep our clothes clean too.  My mother used a washboard and a ringer to do all of the washing.  She taught her daughters to do it, but it was unheard of in those days for a male to touch this “laundry equipment.”

To do the laundry, you put soapy water in the left tub, and rubbed the soapy clothes up and down on the washboard to get the dirt out.  Then you ran the clothing through the ringer into the rinse tub on the right, followed by a foray into the back yard to hang all the washed clothes on a clothesline to dry.

Hooray for the modern washer and dryer!

A soapy tub and
washboard (on left),a ringer in middle, and a rinse tub on the right.

A close-up of the washboard and ringer

 Being Clothed

As I look back on our clothes situation, I feel that I spent my whole young life in overalls, as this photo of me attests.

And “dressing up” essentially meant taking a bath and changing into clean underwear and overalls.

As for my mother and sisters, they became excited when my dad bought a new sack of feed for our animals.

As you can see, the feed sacks had prints on them and this material was used to make dresses for the women in the family.

 Disposing of Our Waste

I’m not sure why we didn’t get overwhelmed with germs on the farm in 1934, with such deplorable sanitary conditions.

We had an outdoor privy instead of an indoor toilet, so you can imagine the consequences.

We used chamber pots at night if we had to, and endured the olfactory agony of taking them out the next morning.

And it is true — we used the Sears Roebuck catalog as our toilet paper in the outdoor privy, overjoyed when it was at its newest and we could find the mail-order pages that were softer than the hard shiny ones.

We also used corn cobs when the going got rough and we ran out of paper, or visa versa.

A Few Extras

We had no telephone at first, but much later got on a party line. When you made a call, it was much like making a cell phone call today in a public place. All our neighbors could hear every word.

We had no electricity, so no lighting except small kerosene lamps.

Another great day was when my father found enough money to buy an Aladdin Lamp, which had a wick like a modern day camping lantern.  It gave so much more light than a kerosene lamp that we thought we’d died and gone to heaven.

The Aladdin Lamp

We also had a battery radio, but because we had little money to recharge or get new batteries, what we listened to was rationed.  

The Old Battery Radio

The Saturday Night Barn Dance, The Lone Ranger, Lum and Abner, The Green Hornet, and Jack Benny — listened to by millions of people — were also our favorites, and were enjoyed by all.

What Was The Impact of All of This?

The Farm Community! Some problems, some healthy fears, some great joys, and a great place in which to grow up.

 So in conclusion, here’s a picture of my dad, me as a potential farmer, and a poem I wrote that gives my final thoughts about the farm.

Ray Odaffer and son Phares                    

The Farm and Me

 I liked living on a farm, with roosters, ducks, and goats.

And enjoyed slopping hogs and feeding horses oats.

I loved calling cows to come and had milking down pat.

The cows gave lots of milk for us, and plenty for the cat.

We planted the seeds and helped the new plants grow.

And we cut weeds from fields so none would ever show.

At harvest time we gathered grain to fill the larders up.

Satisfied with a job well done, we even praised the pup.

We took in the fresh air and relished most of the work.

Seeing animals meet a new day was yet another perk.

We provided all of our own food with no need for things.

I loved the basic simple life and the security it brings.

But not all was fun upon the farm I tell you for a fact.

As for cleaning barn stalls no one wanted in that act.

Cleaning chicken houses bared smells hard to believe.

With odor as the spreader spread too gross to conceive.

The privy and the potty both were awfully hard to take.

And bathing in a 3-foot tub would even thwart the snake.

Light from lowly kerosene, and warm from cobs and coal.

And bricks in bed to beat the freeze all really tried our soul.

Offing garden fires and snakes called for our every ploy.

And the dredge ditch with its Gypsies gave very little joy.

Shutting off the wild windmill was sure a first class pain.

And a ramming by the bull was like a bumping by the train.

We worked from dawn to dark the day was never done.

When hail or fire ruined crop or barn it wasn’t any fun.

Castrating hogs finally broke the pleasure camel’s back.

And rising at five o’clock was enough to make you pack.

So as I grew up learning and became full of farming lore.

Insight came to me once, and later appeared a lot more.

A farmer I was not going to be, come inferno or a flood.

It was plain as the nose on my face it wasn’t in my blood.

Some Thoughts About Civility

When I was quite small, my mother didn’t tell me about the importance of civility —she taught me.  And the Church backed her up.

I can remember sitting on her lap and being subjected to example after example of what it meant to be a good person and treat people right.

And as I grew up—acutely aware of my shortcomings—I was still pleased when I heard a neighbor say, “He sure is a polite young boy.”

But I think I knew even then that there is much more to civility than politeness. And that seemed important to me.

But could I be making too much of this? Is it really all that important, or is it just the last vestige of a prudish, old-fashioned idea?

Here are some of my thoughts on the subject.

Just What is “Civility” Anyway?

How about, “Civility is treating all others with respect, as you would want to be treated.” *

Or maybe, “Incivility is intentionally using rude and thoughtless words and actions.” *

Or possibly, “Civility is claiming and caring for one’s own identity, needs and beliefs without degrading someone else’s in the process.”**

Or even if it we use the Merriam Webster dictionary definition of civility as “polite, reasonable, and respectful behavior,” I think we all get the picture.

It seems that civility has to do with the way people present themselves and the way they treat others.

In a sense, civility is a chosen way of operating that seems to feature our better selves– a deliberate interaction with life that choses to enrich rather than to degrade.

Some of My Experiences With Civility

In thinking about all of this, I searched for examples of civility that I had noticed as I was growing up.

For example, I grew up in a farming community near Weldon, Illinois. There was a lot of “listening in” on the local party telephone line, so everyone knew everyone else pretty well.

But when serious, personal things came up, the involved party just asked everyone to hang up and give them some privacy, and they did!

I thought this “unwritten telephone law of Weldon“ was an example of civility- polite, reasonable, and respectful behavior as it relates to the needs of others.

Another example was when I was around 7 years old. A neighbor girl about my same age, who didn’t always tell the truth, really got on my nerves. One day I called her a couple of bad names, and ended up with “Liar, liar, pants on fire.”

When she began to cry, I think my mother’s lessons on civility instantly took on a practical reality.

Even though “sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me,” they had.  I realized at that instant that it really was cruel, hurtful, and uncivil to harass people and call them bad names.

Another situation in Weldon when I was around 9 years old dramatically illustrated the force of civility in our community.

I was puzzled by the sudden fury of activity in and around Weldon.

Many men of the community, including the minister and other prominent citizens began having “secret” meetings.

And I couldn’t understand why they started wearing robes made out of white sheets at the meetings.

It seems that some African Americans (The Weldonians used the N word then) had come to our community, and the reaction had been to start a Klu Klux Klan group, with the intention of getting them to leave.

I overheard my mother and father in a heated discussion. My mother knew this was no way to treat human beings, and was not right.

The issue very quickly came to a head, and it was my 9 year old perception that it was my mother, together with some other women in the community who were instrumental in putting a stop to it.

After my parent’s argument, I didn’t see another white-sheet robe. They just seemed to have miraculously disappeared.

People in an otherwise civil community had gotten carried away, and it took the women to forcibly remind everyone that civility- treating others with respect, as you would want to be treated- was so much better than the alternative.

This next example still puzzles me today. Every Sunday afternoon in the town of Weldon, the kids got together for either a flag football game or a basketball game. Nothing unusual about that.

But what was unusual was that all kids who came (Age 8 or so on up), who might have been shooed away so the high school boys could get into a competitive game, were all welcomed and got to play!

To me, this was civility in action.

As an adult, I am blown away—when I think about it—with my parents, children, grandchildren, and relatives, and with the great number of my neighbors, church friends, golf buddies, and many other community friends and acquaintances who were or are, to the core, civil people.

But my experience is only part of the story.

 Do We Have A Civility Problem?

A recent research study, Civility in America, 2013 (KRC Research, by Weber/Shandwick), stated, “Without a doubt, America has civility problems.”   Here is some data. Of those surveyed:

• 70% believe a major civility problem in America has risen to crisis levels.

• 71% believe uncivil behavior is worse compared to a few years ago.

• 81% or those over 50 consider cursing uncivil. 68% of those younger than 50 feel the same.

• 83% believe that politics is becoming increasingly uncivil and that incivility in government is harming our country’s future.

• The average American encounters incivility around 17 times a week (via everyday situations like traffic, on social media, cellphones, online, in the classroom, in the workplace, on TV, etc.).

Why is Civility Important?

Back to my question in the first section, I think most would affirm that civility is not an old-fashioned, prudish, idea whose time has come and gone.

Quite to the contrary, it has a moral and lasting quality about it.

Civility, I believe, is the necessary glue that holds a home, a community, or a country together. It is a way of being that creates a climate of respect and concern for others.

Just imagine if we threw civility to the wind in our country. No army in the world can keep order in a country of people who aren’t orientated toward acting civility. We couldn’t enforce all the laws that would be broken. It would be chaos.

Even though it seems impossible to be 100% civil, I hope my examples from Weldon illustrate that when we are civil, the result is simply a much more satisfying life, resulting in an uplifted community.

 What Can We Do About The Problem?

 As they say about a lot of things that need to be done, “civility starts with me.”

So I guess we can start by being civil as much as we can, reaffirming civility whenever we see it, and finding our own way to stand against and discourage incivility whenever It rears it’s ugly head.

And so I’m off to Weldon, Illinois—back to my roots—to remind myself of what civility can do to make a welcoming, well functioning, and caring community- local, national, and world.

*Adapted from comments given in “Civility in America 2013”, a KRC research study by Weber Shandwick.

** Taken from the Institute for Civility in Government website

The “Great Debate”

On the evening of December 4, 2015, I found myself getting ready for a debate—an unlikely spot for an 81 year old who had never been in a formal debate before in his life.

As I waited to “go on stage,” My mind wandered to thoughts of Bernie Sanders and Maggie Smith.

Maggie is my age, and plays the elderly dowager on the popular TV show “Downton Abbey”—a rerun of which I had recently watched.

Bernie was now 74 years old, and I had heard him speak that very day as a candidate for President of the U.S.

He must know that, if elected, a 2^nd term is a distinct possibility. And he would be my age, 81, before his second term would be over.

So these people — at my age — are or may be taking on some pretty serious tasks, involving thinking, memorizing and speaking. Why do/would they do it, when they could just be relaxing, and basking in their past successes?

That was exactly what I was thinking when Ann White, president of the College Alumni Club, asked me last year to participate in this debate with Wally Mead as a part of the club’s 125^th anniversary celebration.

I asked then, “What would Maggie and Bernie do?” As I was about to step on stage, I was asking “Why would Maggie and Bernie do it?” (Recognizing, of course, that my little role was thousands of times less daunting than theirs.)

So is there a moral to this story — this microcosm of much more serious involvement? Let me paint a picture of the event and how I felt about it, to see if a moral pops out.

Why The Debate?

In the present day, the College Alumni Club members give speeches every month, followed by a discussion.

But in the 1890s, not only did they give speeches, they had debates!

So the Club wanted re-enact “an 1892 debate” in its 125-year Anniversary Celebration and Wally Mead and I got tabbed to lock debate horns with each other.

I guess they chose us “old guys” because the debate had actually taken place a long time ago.

What Was the Debate About?

Not only did they have Democrats and Republicans in the 1892 Presidential Election, but the new Populist party had slipped into the mix too.

And a part of the Populist platform was a position in favor of having a graduated income tax for the United States of America.

So the debate topic we chose was as follows:

Be it resolved that the United States should have a graduated income tax, rather than tax everyone the same.

Wally would argue the pro position, and I would argue the con.

What Were The Challenges in Preparing For The Debate?

Now Wally and I have been around the block a few times in our lives.

And we both knew that everyone involved would be better served if we used a script for the mini-debate, rather that have us two old competitive windbags hold forth extemporaneously.

And to further complicate the situation, the debate was to take up – stretching it quite a little – probably no more that 10-12 minutes of the evening’s program.

So, the first challenge was to create a viable debate script.

After carefully studying the mood and facts of the election of 1892, the key ideas of the graduated (progressive) income tax issue were identified, and a script began to take shape.

Early on, we decided that we needed a moderator for the debate. So we turned to a natural, Judge William Caisley.

And given that both Wally and I enjoy good humor, we decided to try to inject a little in the debate script.

Wally was a member of the Political Science Department at Illinois State University (ISU), so we dubbed him “Wadley Whistleblower.”

And since I was a member of the ISU Mathematics Department, my moniker was “Pervis Polynomial.”

And Bill Caisley was none other than “Judge Felix Fairshake.”

It wasn’t easy, but the script evolved, and became reality.

(Read the script to find out what we felt the important issues were.)

The second challenge was memorizing my script.

I felt it important to “know my part by heart” and I quickly found out that I simply didn’t memorize things as quickly now as I did when I was in high school plays. And I wasn’t nearly as confident that I wouldn’t forget it.

And here’s where I wished I could have talked with Maggie and Bernie.

The Debate Itself

The format of the debate was to have an introduction by the Moderator, an introductory argument by both the Affirmative and Negative, followed by a rebuttal statement by both the Affirmative and Negative, ending with a concluding statement by the Moderator.

Relying on Judy Brown’s well-stocked basement wardrobe, we acquired a hat, vest, and waistcoat from the 1890 era for Wadley and Pervis. Judge Fairshake wore a hat and one of his judicial robes.

And Wadley and Pervis both wore a “Spack-Stash,” an artificial mustache that Advocate Bro-Menn Medical Center had passed out at an ISU football game coached by mustached Brock Spack to commemorate male wellness month.

Left to right: Debater Wally Mead, Moderator Bill Caisley, Debater Phares O’Daffer.

 At the appointed time, we mustered up our best 1892 manner and the illustrious debate began!

Wadley and Pervis were not experienced debaters, but by all accounts they accomplished their purpose, and I think the audience was informed and entertained by it.

Check out this 13 minute video of the debate to see what transpired:

 The Moral of the Story

Aesop said “Adventure is worthwhile.”

I considered doing this debate an adventure. As such, it wasn’t unlike other types of adventures.

It involved planning and work, facing unexpected situations, taking risks, occasional frustration, and it produced a surprising degree of fun and personal satisfaction.

And it was a learning and growth experience. It was worthwhile.

But I didn’t enter into the debate/adventure lightly. When first asked, my little squelcher demons leaped into action.

There was “inherited reticence,” dancing in my mind with “fondness for comfortableness.” And playing the music was “reluctance to do something new” accompanied by “can you really do it?”

And these devious squelchers might have won out if it hadn’t been that I sensed again the spirit of people like Maggie and Bernie.

So if there is a moral to this little story, it would involve extolling the virtue of forgetting how old you are, and jumping at the chance to put all your effort into doing something new to you.

If it makes a tremendous difference to society, all the better. But even if it doesn’t—take the leap and engage in an adventure you haven’t had before. It’ll do you good.

I may be naïve, but I don’t think the “Maggies and Bernies” of this world are doing what they are doing mostly for the money.

I think they do it because have learned the value of new adventure for their own well-being.

And, no doubt, they also want to make a difference.

Thanks to being captivated by the spirit of “Maggies and Bernies,”  I had a great time with the debate. I think Wally did too.

The Cultivation of a Cubs Fan

By all reasonable standards, the Chicago Cubs have had a great year.

No, they didn’t get in the World Series. But with several very young players starting, they played with skill and class, and had some great wins that propelled them into the National League playoffs.

So as the thrill of this year wanes and Cubs fans look to next year, I find myself reminiscing about how I became a fan, and how it has lasted for all these years.

 How It All Began

In the summer of 1941, with not even a dream about the following December 7^th, I went to visit my friend Phil Whiteside, who lived a couple of miles down the road from our country house near Weldon, Illinois.

As a 7 year old, I had never been more than 50 miles away from my farm home, and was pretty green about the world.

I parked my bike, and was told Phil was in the living room.

To my amazed surprise, Phil was not only looking at a photo of a baseball team he called the Chicago Cubs, but, lo and behold, he was listening to them play baseball on the radio!

It was the first time I had ever heard the Cubs play, but by no means the last.

After listening to the game, Phil and I went out to his pasture with ball and bat, arranged dried up cow patties for bases and home plate, and played baseball to our hearts content.

He knew all the player’s names, so we pretended to be Bill Nickelson, Phil Cavarretta, Stan Hack, Peanuts Lowery, and a little guy, named Dom Dallessandro.

I liked Dellessandro and Cavarretta because they were left-handed– just like me.

Many years later, when the Cubs won their division title, I wrote Phil Whiteside a letter. I reminded Phil that I had followed the Cubs ever since that fateful day in 1941, and thanked him profusely for “introducing me to culture,” and for “broadening my worldview.”

In 1941, we had an old battery radio, which was basically only used to listen to the WLS Barn Dance on Saturday night, and possibly to Jack Armstrong and Lum and Abner during the week– if we did our chores.

Even though the battery wore down quickly, I convinced my Dad to let me listen to the Cubs, and a lifetime of being a Cubs fan began.

And How it Got Real Boost

The first time I went to a real Cubs game was when I was 14 years old.

The father and mother of another friend of mine-Terry Glynn– who were more worldly than my parents– invited me to go to Chicago with them and actually see a Cubs game.

I was beside myself with excitement, and it was really fun.

The only catch was that they three of them were all Cardinal fans, so I had to cheer for the Cubs on my own. And it was beginning to look pretty grim.

The Cardinals were ahead 3-1 with two outs in the bottom of the seventh, with Cubs Jeffcoat and Waitkus on base.

Then, as in a dream, Andy Pafko came up and hit a home run over the centerfield wall, putting the Cubs ahead to stay, 4-3.  Click the link below to see the famous box score for that game.

Cubs ’48 game

60 years later, my son-in-law’s father, Chuck Thornquist, met Andy Pafko on a bus of retirees going to St.Louis, and Andy generously autographed his photo for me.

I always felt the autographed photo commemorated that great game in Chicago- my first real Cubs game– when Pafko hit the home run.

Needless to say, my first real game experience clinched it–And I have never waivered from being a Cubs fan!

 How It Continues

Harriet and I attended many Cubs games over the years, laced with some very enjoyable side adventures. And we have watched a lot of enjoyable games on TV.

One great side adventure was the chance meeting and talk in Harry Carey’s restaurant in 2010 with Cubs manager Lou Pinella.

It was a great 80th birthday present for Chuck Thornquist– my son-in law-Bruce’s dad– who was having dinner with us.

Also in 2010, I was able to tour Wrigley Field with my son-in-law Bruce, Chuck Thornquist, and grandson Lee. We greatly enjoyed seeing the locker room, and the inner works of the centerfield scoreboard.

The highlight of my lifetime as a Cubs fan was being able to throw out the first pitch at a Cubs game in 2011. It was a wonderful adventure, and I felt like the Cubs pitcher of the year! (See the blog post on this website for the rest of this story.)

And finally, there was being at Wrigley Field for the exciting third win for the Cubs over the Cardinals on their way to the National League playoffs this year—in October 2015.

It was an electric atmosphere, with everyone waving a W(in) towel and standing up for practically every pitch. The Cubs hit 6 home runs in the game, and everything went the Cubs way.

Of course, the big goal is for the Cubs to win the World Series, which was not to be this year.

But as a Cubs fan for most of my 81 years, I can feel trends “in my bones,” and I’ve no doubt that the Cubs will be World Series Champs again– in my lifetime!

Go Cubs!

The Big Cubs First Pitch Experience

“Sold!” the Illinois Symphony fundraiser auctioneer shouted, and I realized I had just bought 4 box seat tickets to a Cubs game, and would throw out the first pitch.

No big deal, in the scheme of things. But Wow!

I’ve been a Cubs fan for 70 years, and have always wanted to throw out the first pitch at a Cubs game! So you can understand why I was pretty excited!

Getting Ready

I soon found that people generally feel that throwing out the first pitch at a Cubs game is a big deal. “Wow! How did you get to do that?!!!” “Boy, that’s the treat of a lifetime.” “We’ll be there!”

When 45 of my family and friends said they would come to the game, it was beginning to seem kind of important, if you know what I mean.

And then the trouble began. I hadn’t thrown a baseball in a couple of years, and it was shocking what age had done to my arm and my ability to throw a strike from 60 ft 6 inches.

It was harder to release the ball correctly. Hold it too long and you bounce it – let go too soon and it flies high!

“This shouldn’t be happening,” I thought. “I came within a sprained ankle of making the 1951 Illinois State University baseball team.”

“Well, not something that can’t be fixed with arm strengthening and practice,” I allowed, and began to do just that.

Tim Jankovich, the ISU basketball coach with Cubs first pitch experience, didn’t help.

He just had to mention the 14 inch high mound that throws you off, trouble finding the right release point when you’re tight and haven’t warmed up, and the effect of being in front of 40,000 people.

Then my neighbor said he had choked throwing a White Sox first pitch, and bounced it past the catcher to the backstop.

And Hal Lanier, ex-major league player and manager who was managing our local Cornbelters baseball team, said “Throw it from out in front of the mound.” When I rebelled at that, he retorted, with a hint of age prejudice in his eye, “Then throw it high.”

I realized that I needed to do a whale of a lot of positive imaging if I was going to throw a decent pitch.

The Big Day

The big day had finally arrived! After eating breakfast off of special menu entitled “Phares O’Daffer First Pitch Breakfast Menu,” I thought my family had planned a pretty great way to start the day.

Inside Wrigley field, my grandson Henry had made a sign, which read “My grandpa only pitches strikes!” I’m not sure that was what I needed right then, but I appreciated the sentiment behind it.

It was time. Harriet gave me an encouraging word, and I walked confidently through the crowd to the Cubs on-deck circle, with my bright Cubs shirt and hat, and my white shorts.

As I walked with my daughter Sue and son Eric–tossing my ball in my glove– toward the correct aisle, we heard a nearby person a few rows above the walkway ask, “Who is that guy??” I was beginning to wonder that myself.

There were three other people that day throwing out the “first pitch–” two women and a football player for the Indianapolis Colts. The two women were first, and I was relieved when they both bounced the ball to the catcher.

Here it Comes!

As the announcer said, “Phares O’Daffer will throw out the first pitch” over theloudspeaker, I walked confidently to the mound, pounding the new ball they had given me in my glove. I could hear my wife, kids, kids spouses, grand children, and friends cheering, and I saw our daughter Sara doing the video.

On the mound I got into the stretch position, and motioned to the catcher – the Cubs rookie Tony Campana. I was ready to pitch.

Maybe it was the positive imagining, but as I walked out onto the field to the mound, I felt pretty relaxed. I wasn’t nervous, but I was in sort of in a state of enjoying the moment and just doing it.

Raising one leg, I threw that pitch right toward the catcher (or so I thought).

OK, it was a little to the right of the catcher, and as the crowd said “oooh” he did have to make a quick move right and high to catch it.

But it went there on the fly, with pretty good velocity for a senior citizen, and he did catch it.

No bouncing the ball in, like a Cubs first pitch Ronald Reagan made when he was President. He requested, and got, a second try.  At least I didn’t have to do that. And I did pitch from the mound.

It would have been a nice gesture if the football player had thrown his high and wide, but he proceeded to pitch a perfect strike.

But given the response I received from all my family and friends, you would have thought my pitch had been a perfect strike too. And maybe, symbolically, it was.

Basking in The Glory

As I walked back to my seat, not one, but two women asked me for an autograph! The first said, “ You must be somebody important to throw out the first pitch! Would you autograph my daughter’s baseball?”   I think I had a very big smile when I wrote “Ike “Lefty” O’Daffer” on her ball.

I think the second lady simply was nuts over autographs. She would probably have asked one of the Peanut Vendors, should he have wandered by.

Also, as I walked back, several people said “nice pitch!” I checked each one to see if they wore glasses.

Later, in the 10^th inning, with Campana on second and the bases loaded, Jeff Baker hit a single over third base and won the game for the Cubs.

I like to think that the Cubs “starting pitcher,” Lefty What’s His Name, brought them good luck.

Phares O’Daffer, aka Ike “Lefty” O’Daffer       July 24, 2011