The adventures of Jeffry E Herman
At the age of 70, I've embarked on the task of chronicling my seven-decade journey on this earth. Born on August 5th, 1953, in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, to Joseph Earl Herman and Nancy Ann Herman, I overcame a challenging start marked by illnesses, allergies, and dyslexia.
My father's job led us through five relocations by the 6th grade, posing a significant challenge for a shy, red-haired child with social anxiety. Despite these obstacles, I married an incredible woman, raised a beautiful child, apprenticed, started my own business, and retired at 50. Contrary to the notion that retirement is not a dying mans game, it marked the beginning of our adventures—from thrilling trips across Mexico, France, Spain, England, and Napa to hiking the Grand Canyon and kayaking the Colorado River.
I attribute my success to divine guidance, steering me through life's potential pitfalls and presenting countless opportunities. Most importantly, this guidance led me to Kara Ann Dilucido, my soul mate, confidant, partner, and best friend. As we contemplate our last decades and our dream resting place, I am grateful for the keys to success that I believe were bestowed upon me by my creator.
I entered the world at a hospital in downtown Johnstown, Pennsylvania, where we lived in a modest apartment at 732 Pine St. My family's history was intertwined with the infamous Johnstown floods, and stories of my mom's family fleeing to the mountains during these events were etched into our young minds.
My grandfather, Joseph Earl Herman Sr., was an entrepreneur who initially sold calculators before venturing into starting his own hardware store. His dream included plans for a hotel on the property. However, tragedy struck when he passed away at 48. My grandmother, Ethel Viola Herman, sold the property in 1950 for $50,000, a considerable sum at the time. Instead of living a life of leisure, she selflessly gave the money to my father with the condition that she could live with us indefinitely.
My parents were high school sweethearts and faced early challenges when my mom became pregnant with my brother at 17.
Despite my grandmother's offer to raise the child so my father could pursue college, they declined, and I became a companion to my older brother when my parents were just 20. In pursuit of better opportunities, my father initially took a job at a steel mill as a crane operator. However, discovering limited upward mobility, he redirected his path, following in his father's footsteps to sell calculators.
Later, he transitioned to the burgeoning field of computer sales with Control Data, a position he held until his passing. One poignant childhood memory lingers—a day when I arrived at a kindergarten field trip to find what I thought was an empty classroom. The children were hiding under their desks, part of a nuclear bomb exercise, a somber experience that left a lasting impact on my young self.
My father's job at Control Data propelled our family from Johnstown to Pittsburgh, where my grandmothers's financial support afforded us a new home and even a used MG sports car.
Despite the luxuries, accidents marked this chapter of my childhood, leaving me with a scar on my little finger and upper lip that I carry to this day. Memories of our split-level house include the construction of a treehouse by our parents, promising nights of adventure. However, a chilling incident involving a child molester on the loose cut our treehouse escapades short after just 30 minutes. Occasional trips over the mountains to visit our cousins led us to Bird-In-Hand, PA, an Amish community. The sights of horse-drawn buggies and people in traditional garb fascinated kids from the city. Our ventures included barn escapades, jumping into hay piles, and a memorable job at a local chicken factory, chasing escaped chickens for a nickel each.
Another cherished experience was visiting our uncle's farm, where we engaged in manual hay bailing, cow milking, and hunting wild prairie dogs. Outdoor meals at a massive farm table created lasting memories, including the day a wounded prairie dog chased me across the field—a story that became a lively talk at the dinner table. Life in Pittsburgh was a tapestry of adventures, filled with both mishaps and unforgettable moments that shaped the narrative of my formative years.
Cincinnati
Our family's relocation to Cincinnati, Ohio, opened the door to a childhood utopia. Behind our house lay vast forests, the backdrop to my fondest memories.
Sharing a cul-de-sac with only one other house, I found a kindred spirit in my neighbor, Andy, the same age and soon my best friend. Our days were spent exploring the woods, much to the dismay of parents who dreaded encounters with snakes.
In this enchanted world, I discovered a fallen baby robin, nurtured it back to health, and raised it into a companion bird.
Our neighbor's donkey, whose morning brays echoed outside my parents' window, became a quirky addition to our daily routine. One Easter, my parents surprised us with goats, a brief but enjoyable endeavor cut short by tragedy.
Amidst the natural wonders, our collie dog, Bonny, added joy to our lives. Our adventures extended beyond the woods, with my dad's small tractor ferrying us to the local store for penny candy. However, not all memories were idyllic. My near-drowning in a frozen lake became a harrowing experience, averted only by Andy's quick actions. Meanwhile, decadent adult parties at our house left indelible impressions on my curious brother and me. A misguided bet led to my brother's cigar-induced sickness, an amusing outcome of our childhood curiosity. My youth was marked by health struggles, frequent battles with sinus and strep throat infections. While my tonsils eventually vanished by age 20, the journey was not without its challenges, leaving me to ponder their gradual disappearance over the years.
Chagrin Falls, Ohio, a picturesque pause in my father's numerous transfers, felt like a scene from a Hallmark movie—a small Main Street and a captivating waterfall set the stage. Here, my dad gifted us our first .22 rifles, and my older brother, Bob, and I, perhaps too young for such responsibility, spent days in the woods shooting up our model creations.
The town had its share of notable residents, including the comedic talent Tim Conway, who occasionally visited from Hollywood. An intriguing offer for me to audition for a TV series surfaced at a local diner, but alas, it faded into the realm of unfulfilled possibilities.
Bob and I explored the landscape, navigating the old water pipes that connected mills to falls. Our family's standout vehicle, the first Mustang delivered to Chagrin Falls, drew attention, especially when an unfortunate accident became the town's gossip.
My attempt at selling the Grit newspaper met with less success, a humorous reminder of my entrepreneurial missteps. Yet, amid the laughter, a peculiar memory surfaced involving my recorder stuck in an unexpected place after a school concert—a story I never shared with my dad.
Grandma Ethel's decision to move out marked a poignant transition. Fond memories lingered of her selfless support, especially during my struggles with dyslexia. Grandma left me with an indelible legacy of love and guidance. She did moved to Minneapolis after we made our final move.
Our journey led us to the Motor City, where my dad reportedly sold Ford Corporation their first computer—an era that coincided with our introduction to rock and roll. Witnessing the Beatles live downtown in 1964, after their iconic Ed Sullivan show appearance, left me, an 11-year-old, amidst the deafening screams of adoring fans.
Mom and dad fueled our newfound interest, buying us guitars and a colossal Custom amp. Our attempts at rock stardom, marked by noise-induced parental vexation, culminated in a few unsuccessful battles of the bands at Bob's junior high. Amidst the Detroit riots, my brother and I, armed with .22 rifles, felt the tension of the turbulent times.
Our Detroit abode changed twice—first, just north of 14 Mile Road, across from a Catholic school, and later, closer to Birmingham. Snowball battles with Catholic school kids created cherished memories, contrasting with my budding rebellious phase. Christmas brought BB guns, mischief, and the first experience of school-skipping, promptly followed by getting caught.A crush named Kathy Teasel lived around the corner, eventually sharing her poems, inviting my musical interpretation. As my brother obtained his driver's license, Woodward Blvd became our haunt in dad's black Mustang, until a transmission mishap brought a rift between us. To assert independence, I took on multiple paper routes at the tender dawn hours, the scent of freshly printed newspapers accompanying the start of my day. Pedaling through the streets, I experienced the joy of earning my own money, a rite of passage during our Detroit days."
"Navigating school with dyslexia presented constant challenges, as I struggled to keep pace with my peers and often felt unfairly branded as unintelligent. The taunts and judgments from fellow students left a lasting impact, shaping my identity in ways a young boy couldn't fully grasp. A significant turning point occurred during the move from Detroit to Hopkins when I was held back in the 6th grade. This setback, though disheartening, happened between moves, sparing me from facing unfamiliar classmates. This experience fueled a resilient determination to dispel the perception of being "stupid."
This marked the end of our nomadic journey as my dad secured a role at Control Data's headquarters in Bloomington, Minnesota. The hotel at the corner of HWY 7 and Hopkins Crossroad served as our temporary abode, sparking anticipation and curiosity about our new home. Little did I know, just 1.5 miles away awaited both our house and the high school that would shape my future. Finally shedding the label of a "traveling vagabond" at 14, I embraced the prospect of stability in Hopkins, a quaint town where I'd reside for the next 8 years.
Minnesota, with its thousand lakes and mosquitoes as the unofficial state bird, offered a backdrop of extremes — sweltering summers and bone-chilling winters. We joked that if Minnesota summer fell on a weekend, it was BBQ time.
Separated by schools, Bob in High School and me in Junior High, we navigated our two-year age gap. While I struggled with learning and experimented with track, Bob, with his license, gravitated towards friends his age. Our bonding moments included hikes in the woods, summer swims at Shady Oak lake, and fishing escapades at Lake Minnetonka.
The summer of '69 marked a cultural shift with Woodstock, the moon landing, and a wave of drugs. My experiences with hashish, mescaline, and acid unfolded amid laughter and escapades. Bob's suspension from school and subsequent expulsion altered our dynamic, leading him to join the Marines. His influence, evident in schemes like stealing a speaker from a football field scoreboard, left its mark.
Trouble lurked in unexpected places, like the time an acquaintance with a stolen car sought refuge with me. Racing by the golf course led to a collision, dragging me into a situation where innocence met a stolen vehicle and a police stakeout.
Caught picking tiles off the school wall, I found myself on what we dubbed "Looney Lane" — a space for troubled kids, offering unexpected lessons like financial skills and hands-on auto shop projects.
A transformative realization urged me to project goodness, leading me to join the Civil Air Patrol, aid in Cold War-era shelters, and collaborate with the local police. Cruising Main Street, owning a 1969 Road Runner, and working at Chalet Pizza introduced a sense of adventure and rebellion.
