Stream of Consciousness

Since reconnecting on Facebook a few years ago, I had seen Terry’s post regarding the Batavia Airshow. An annual summer event in my original home town featuring high speed aircraft, daredevil stunts, and of course precision flying. Sure to dazzle everyone that attends.

Practically my next-door neighbor growing up, Terry, me, and the rest of the kids in our Southside enclave played together often. Small gangs of working-class Polish and Italians. At times segregated, more often together, playing prisoners base, hide-n-seek, occasionally utilizing the facilities at Kibby or Pringle Park, but always doing something. It seemed like every family had 4 kids and possibly one or two grandparents sharing a very small, modest home.

I attended Sacred Heart Elementary school and it’s adjoining Catholic church. Terry went to St. Anthonys, 100 yards or so west of the iconic Pok-A-Dot restaurant.  Neither school exists in anywhere near its original form. At the corner stood Gioia’s Pharmacy and around the bend was Joe’s Candy Cottage, a reputed “front” for illegal gambling. Nearly all gambling in the 1950’s and 60’s was illegal, except of course bingo.  That had a special dispensation from the Vatican and therefore likely played in heaven. Also, churches, Catholic and otherwise, could pull in a few extra bucks, you know, to make ends meet. Upgrade the wine perhaps.

Local municipalities soon discovered that there was money to be made through other forms of gambling and the New York State Lottery was born. Until then, gambling in other forms retained its position as a vice, forcing it underground. Las Vegas and then Atlantic City becoming notable exceptions.

Today gambling is a free for all. Every gas station, super market and 7-11 offers all the traditional Lottery products, like scratch-offs and Mega Bucks. It permeates all sports at every level and is a big part of the video gaming industry played by millions of children every day.

Side bar: I came across a New York Times Guest essay titled by Joon Lee. Read it. It’s eye opening. I realize my diverting here is not in keeping with my “stream of consciousness” posting. It was not part of my thought process, in the moment. However, it addresses a societal issue that has been flying under the radar far too long. Here are two excerpts:

“Gambling doesn’t just sponsor sports games. It shapes them, deciding which matchups are worth watching and how players are covered. “Gambling doesn’t just buy ads. It owns sports networks, producing shows that prod fans to bet ever more. Today, athletes are getting sucked in, their reputations and even their mental health increasingly damaged by the markets that profit off them. Six in 10 Americans now express skepticism about the integrity of sports, wondering whether players, referees and coaches are throwing games. All the while, gambling addiction is quietly growing, leaving a trail of financial ruin, debt, and shame. Thirty-seven percent of American adults — and 60 percent of avid fans — say they have placed a bet on sports. Nearly half of men ages 18 to 49 report having an online sports betting account.”

“Meanwhile millions of kids are playing Sports Video Games like Madden Football. As early as 2004 the NFL gave Madden the authority to imbed NFL team logos into its video games. This led to led to the ability to sell tickets to kids for random prizes. These so called “loot boxes” and “treasure chests” that encourage children to spend real money, in real time on chance-based rewards, relying on “legal technicalities” yet resemble gambling in very real and alarming ways. Thanks not only to the video game manufacturers but the “NFL, NBA, NHL, MLB, FIFA and others.” Scary. Second chance to read “Gambling is Killing Sports”.

Terry’s last name was Lovria, it’s now Fritz. Her cousin Dick lived down the street and generations of families resided a stone’s throw from one another. Ethnic diversity defined our side of town, the south side. Names like Fragnito, Zajakowski, Ianello, Tolejko, and Delplato were common while Smith and Jones were not to be found. “Wasps” inhabited the north side of Batavia. When I said I “reconnected” with Terry, that was perhaps an understatement. Since graduating Notre Dame High School, we had seen one another only twice. At our 20^th Reunion in 1988 and again around 3 years ago. Terry and her husband were traveling to Aspen, I believe, and knew I had moved to Colorado a few years before. She reached out to me and I jumped at the opportunity to meet in-between connecting flights at DIA.  The years, the distance, the memory fog melted away that afternoon almost immediately after saying hello. Our time was limited, not a moment to spare. We got down to business, covering everything from childhood adventures, High School memories and our lives as they are today. It was wonderful.

Fast forward to 2025 and Terry’s posting for the Annual Batavia Airshow this past summer. A day after a local announcement touting Northern Colorado’s Airshow in the fall. I flagged it as a “must do” and immediately relayed the “good news” to my wife, Deborah. Before I could complete my sentence, she reminded me of the only airshow we had ever attended a dozen or so years prior in Southern California. Oh yah.

In the Air-

It was the Vandenberg Air Force Base (now Space Force) Airshow near Lompoc, California. It was cold, windy as hell and we were both under dressed, wearing shorts and t-shirts. No jackets. Fooled by a bright California sun, doing its best…. Guests of the Lonson’s. Sorry Carol Ann but it was miserable. Our two grandboys, Grady then 5 and Owen 3 were with us. Kid’s, as we have all agreed, do not feel the cold, so we weren’t too worried about them. Although, I did wonder why their lips were so blue.

It took a while for the show to begin, so Deborah and I went to work finding shelter. No easy task in an open field when others were also trying to stay warm. Try saddling up behind a stranger to use them as a wind-break. We made our way toward a small berm perhaps 2 feet high. Walking at an increasingly faster pace, then trotting. With our new shelter a mere 10 yards away, the Air Force-Thunderbirds surprised us from behind. The wind must have muffled their engines and we were only aware of their presence when directly overhead-screaming past at 500 knots. KABOOM. Grady went into full survival mode, grabbing his ears and diving head first toward the berm. Hitting the ground before the rest of us knew what was happening. And this was only the opening.

Regardless of any personal misery, collectively we managed to enjoy, at the very least tolerate, the rest of the show. Their acrobatics, precision flying and sheer power is indeed something to behold. I highly recommend attending one of their airshows or that of the Blue Angels. Then of course there is Wings Over Batavia featuring warbirds, military aircraft, and world champion performers. Getting back to our car was a welcome relief.

Shortly after posting COMMENT ON REMEMBERING WW2, I received an email from Terry:

Hi Paul,

Thank you for sharing Dan’s story. At a very young age, brave men became heroes. 

Almost all our friends have dads who served in WWII. My dad, Michael Lovria, served in the Army Air Corps. He pulled a pilot from a burning plane moments before it exploded. We have pictures of him covered in bandages from head to toe. There were so many men who gave their lives to stop the terrorism that was occurring in the world. My dad was lucky enough to return home. He died from leukemia at the age of 82, the year before his youngest grandchild graduated from high school. 

That was my son who was named after him, Michael S. Fritts, the salutatorian of Notre Dame High School Class of 2001. If my dad had lived, to say he would’ve been proud of his grandson, his namesake, would have 

been a huge understatement.

My dad knew our son wanted to go into the Air Force…and our son Michael did. He has been in the USAF for 20 years.

Lt. Col Michael S. “Hijack” Fritts, F-22 “Raptor” Fighter Pilot. I know my dad is with my son every time he gets into a jet to fly. 

Terry

**Keep writing, Paul. I enjoy your blogs.

Thank you, Terry, for sharing your intimate connection to World War 2 and the Air Force. I now understand your enthusiasm for the Wings Over Batavia Airshow.

Had I remembered two earlier experiences related to the unpredictable weather in Lompoc, we would have come better prepared. This city lies a little north of Pt. Conception, the “official” or perhaps “unofficial” beginning of Southern California.  Seas can be rough, strong currents are ever present and fog is common. Makes me wonder why SpaceX is launching Starlink satellites into space from Vandenberg. Or why there is an Air Force Base there to begin with. FYI, I am not a fan of cluttering up the heavens with soon to be space junk. But that’s a story for another day. Before I forget, when the Space Shuttle program was in full swing in the 80’s and 90’s, occasionally when the weather wasn’t good enough to land a shuttle at Cape Canaveral (formerly Kennedy, formerly Canaveral) they would instead land at Edwards AFB in the Mojave Desert, 140 miles east of Santa Barbara where we lived. Rarely given advanced notice, we still knew when a shuttle was headed for Edwards. The giveaway- A DOUBLE SONIC BOOM. When crossing the coast near Vandenberg headed for Edwards the shuttle slowed by then for landing, was still traveling 2000 mph, nearly 3x the speed of sound.

BOOM…BOOM in rapid succession. The momentary shock always melted into a knowing satisfaction. As if I were part of the mission. I doubt NASA shared my glee. They had to haul the shuttle back to Florida on the top of a modified 747. Not cheap, but once again creating quite a sight for those lucky enough to witness that spectacle.

Lest I forget, in 2011 the Space Shuttle Endeavor was retired, embarking on an historic journey atop a 747 from Florida to Edwards AFB and then on to Los Angeles for permanent display at the California Science Center. They took the scenic route from Edwards up to the Bay area then performed low flyovers of San Francisco/Golden Gate, Silicon Valley, Napa Valley, and Vandenberg AFB where it took it’s left turn toward LA. I was living in Ojai then and was following Endeavors retirement flight progress on tv. I soon realized they would be heading over Santa Barbara along the coast on the way to LA. No time to waste. Deborah and I jumped in the car and headed west to Santa Barbara, normally a 30-minute drive to 101 then another 15 to town. Traffic was light but it’s a windy road and we were running out of time. Our hearts raced while the Pacific coast came in and out of view on the elevated portion of our route. I realized we were not going to make it to the coast in time. Plan B- find the best possible place to stop, get out the camera and hope we see something. Within seconds of parking on the shoulder of the road, we could see one of the F-18 chase planes that accompanied the Endeavor on its journey. Then sure enough, there it was, the Endeavor gleaming atop a 747. Yeah. What a marvelous, indelible moment.

By Sea-

Sometime around 1980 I was asked by Dan Collie to participate in a sailboat race from the Santa Barbara Yacht Club to Pt. Conception and back. Why not? Dan as you may recall is quite the adventurer. A taker of risks. Why take the tried-and-true route when you can set your own course and…go.

I was familiar with Pt. Conception’s reputation for wind and rough seas, but it was warm and sunny here in SB, only 60 miles down the coast from the races half way point. Five of us set out early the next morning, westward bound, loaded with sandwiches, beer, and limited experience, at least three of us anyway. We were headed upwind, tacking as required and surrounded by a flotilla of around 20 other boats. What a sight. Soon the winds picked up, the seas suddenly choppy and our smooth sailing was over. Bam, bam, bam. The sound of our hull rapidly smacking every unforgiving wave. They looked high to me, like 12 feet. But probably 3-5. No big deal, break out the food and beverages. Everyone was chowing down but I felt a little queasy.

It only got rougher as time went on, so I headed below and lied down for a bit. I was soon joined by another crewman. We did not speak. An hour later I was feeling better, and went back to the deck and awaited orders for jibbing, tacking, or jiving. Within moments however I was officially sea-sick. You know what comes next. My head over the side, hanging on for dear life while the now 20-foot waves took their toll. Okay 6-8 foot. Meanwhile, Dan and the others were eating and drinking seemingly unaffected by conditions. That didn’t help matters. I begged the captain to steer closer to shore where I could jump off and swim to shore. Not happening. It seems the captain’s code forbids it. I’ll sign a waiver. No dice.

The sun was setting as we approached Pt. Conception and the seas were unrelenting. We still had to round Hondo, the last oil platform in the Santa Barbara Channel and then we could head for home. Yay! All down wind. We will be home in no time. The seas were now higher than I had ever imagined and we were bouncing around to such a degree as to require being lashed to the side rails, just in case. I was at my post getting ready to help hoist the spinnaker and noticed two things. First, I could not see Hawaii or Japan or anything beyond a huge fog bank up ahead. Secondly, there were no other sail boats in sight. Wow. We must be in the lead and I was ready to claim our trophy.

We remained under sail for a while then realizing the futility of it all turned on the engines and slowly motored into the Santa Barbara Harbor at one o’clock in the morning…dead last.

On Land-

My friend Gunnar roped me into a series of charity bike races back in the early 1990’s. Usually a 50-mile ride in scenic Santa Ynez valley north of Santa Barbara. They were quite pleasurable even if a bit beyond my usual comfort zone. With plenty of rest stops along the way providing water, snacks, and electrolytes. I really liked the bananas. They gave me near instant energy so I would stuff a couple in my pockets.

One of these races, I say races but I was not in it to win a prize, was the CENTURY. A 100-mile ride beginning, you guessed it, in Lompoc. I hesitated because at the time I was mostly riding off-road in the hills behind my home in Ojai. My bike was “clunky,” not sleek or lightweight like road bikes. It was heavy, the tires wide and not equipped with fancy clip in shoes. The ones that take advantage of both your up and downward leg movement. Out of self-respect, I wouldn’t be caught dead in spandex, even if they were guaranteed to shave two-thousands of a second off my time. Even my helmet lacked coolness. My head basically looked like a thumb. In short, I was not a fashionable, streamlined, high- performance cyclist.

Here is my picture captured by the official camera at the Solvang Prelude in 1994. By then I had added toe clips to speed-enhance my performance. If you zoom in, you’ll notice my racing gloves and a bit of a beard.

As with all the charity rides I participated in, I simply wanted some adventure, nice views, and a little untimed exercise. The Century, however, was comprised of hundreds of high performing cycling maniacs eager for a trophy or, at the bare minimum, to set a personal best. Gunnar was one of “them.” At 8 am the (fake) gun sounded and we were off. Did I mention we were in Lompoc, the south coasts “wind tunnel.” Normally sunny, today was overcast, fog lingering off shore with a steady breeze out of the west. Five miles into the race the “fresh breeze” evolved into a “strong breeze” according to the Beaufort Scale. Wind gusts would have been at “Near Gale” levels. That sounds more like it. Gale, not a breeze.

It was the first time in my life I was unable to coast while going down a hill into the wind. To maintain any forward progress, I had to pedal and pedal hard. There were a lot of hills. Needless to say, on the flats traveling west was no fun at all. Anyway, by the 50 mile mark the weather improved. But by then the conditions had taken their toll. I was exhausted. Each rest station could not come soon enough. Yet, unlike other racing events, I was unable to re-fortify. Each mile was a miserable slog. This race could not end soon enough. Wah, wah, wah. Poor baby. Come on TJ, stop whining. Remember the Rosarito (Beach) to Ensenada Bike Ride? Yes, of course. I have no right complaining about my difficulty coping with the weather in a bicycle race.

The “Rosarito Ensenada” is an award winning, scenic bike ride along the Pacific Coast and inland through rural countryside in Baja California. A 50-mile trek with a few gentle hills. I was riding alongside, Gunnar of course when we spotted “that guy.” A long-haired Mexican with biceps Hulk Hogan would be proud to own. He was hard to miss as we swung out and around him (along with others) like a swarm of bees moving in sync, avoiding a collision while providing him a bit of space. It was only then that I could fully see what “that guy” was up to. I was astonished…… Looking down while pedaling up a small hill I watched as “that guy” propelled himself forward, using only his arms and hands. He had no legs and his body/trunk was positioned on a small piece of plywood made mobile by 4 metal casters. I pegged him as ex-military, Special Forces perhaps.  Regardless, he was someone possessing a level of strength, courage, and tenacity you don’t see very often. To this point I wish to retract all my earlier complaints related to my difficulties with riding a bike or sailing a boat. I am grateful for those life experiences. Amen.

Oh yeah. I may have come in dead last, again, in the Century. Tired and hungry. It does not matter. It’s the journey, stupid. Keep having them. Thanks Gunnar.

Oh yeah. I may have come in dead last, again, in the Century. Tired and hungry. It does not matter. It’s the journey, stupid. Keep having them. Thanks Gunnar.

“The captain has turned on the seat belt sign in preparation for landing. Please return your seatbacks into their upright and most uncomfortable position.” Ahhh.

Boy, that was quick. There are the Channel Islands up ahead and the all to familiar oil platforms. One of them sprung a leak, back in 1969, spilling 3 million gallons of crude oil into the ocean and onto the beaches of Santa Barbara. The resulting public outcry led to the establishment of Earth Day and the modern environmental movement. I can make out Ojai in the distance, off to the right. We’re coming up on Montecito, then downtown SB with the Mission in the background. Then over Hope Ranch and Laguna Blanca, where my daughter Natalie went to school, then UCSB and our landing. I love this airport…5 gates with 4 boarding ramps. Easy-Peezy. In and out in no time. I hope my luggage arrives.

Thanks for indulging me yet again. Sorry, if I seemed a bit discombobulated but that’s how my “stream of conciousness” works.

Paul (TJ )Tolejko

Merry Christmas & Happy Holidays

Fun Fact: Reno, NV. Is further west than Los Angeles, CA.