Requiem for Rich

In 1950 my Dad contracted to have a new house built at 1171 Dover Avenue in Akron. We moved there with my new baby brother John; I vaguely remember the open fields across the street. In 1952 the lot directly across from us sprouted a new house, and I met the boy who moved in there -- Richard Robart Wimer.

Rich and I became good friends. We walked to and from Schumacher School together most days. Because of Rich, I remember the elections of 1952. Rich was rooting for Stevenson, but I liked Ike. We stopped by the voting booths that used to sit near the water towers (those are long gone, even!!) and warmed ourselves next to the coal-fired heaters inside.

Summers often found us "camping out". Rich had an old army surplus wall tent that we would set up in the lot (we called it "the field") next to his house, and we would tell scary stories until we fell asleep. We occasionally rode our bikes on distant adventures, riding to Fairlawn to "Wolf Cave" in what is now the Frank Boulevard Park, or to go swimming at White Pond.

Summers also brought out all the other kids who had nothing to do. Rich and I and a few other kids on our street formed the Dover Gang. We had occasional "wars" with the Winton Gang and the Hardesty Gang, in which "wars" we lined up and threw green apples at each other. That is where I learned the magic of the applestick, which could extend my throwing range significantly.

One summer the Dover Gang joined forces with the Winton Gang and the Hardesty Gang to do battle with the Hartford gang. Somebody in the Hardesty Gang had a contraption they called a "nail machine gun" which was spring powered and would shoot nails. It was mounted on a small platform in a tree on a vacant corner lot. Since I was the smallest kid on the block, I was chosen to climb the tree and guard the gun while the others went off to hunt for the Hartford gang.

While they were gone, the lady in the house diagonally across the intersection called the police. When the cruiser arrived, I slithered down the tree and ran around the block to find the guys but they had completely disappeared. Later Rich told me that they had found the Hartford Gang and went somewhere to play baseball.

The summer between second and third grade I found a new friend -- a girl who lived a block away on Hardesty. The details of that summer are a bit fuzzy, since I was mostly into cowboys and Indians, and hunting frogs and crayfish in Mud Run where it used to run through the woods at the northeast and northwest corners of Diagonal and Hawkins. She had a girlfriend she would bring to my back yard, and they wanted to play house and telegraph. When she told us that she was moving to Toledo, I was relieved.

Too soon. As we walked to school on what was to be her last day in Akron, she announced that she wanted to kiss me good-bye. I tried to run, but Rich grabbed me -- he was a lot bigger than I was -- and held me down while she kissed me. I sat there and cried, madder about the betrayal than the kiss. Rich thought it was funny.

That was our relationship. Like brothers, mad at each other one day, and eager to share adventures the next. Then, in 1959, the Wimer family moved to Copley. Dad and Mom took us to their new house that fall, and Rich introduced me to Mike and Andy Wineberg. In a few months, our new house was under construction right across the street from the Wimer's house, and I started 9th grade at Copley in 1960. Dad had to drive me to and from school for a few weeks until we were able to move in.

Rich and Mike built a small plywood "cabin" about a hundred feet from the Barberton Reservoir, and it was frequently used by all of us for sleep-outs and as a base for overnight fishing trips or skinny-dipping parties. It was heated in winter with an old army surplus woodstove, and there were bunks built against the walls. The door had a padlock, and the window was a chunk of hinged plywood.

Rich graduated from high school in 1964 and I followed the next year. He was drafted and was sent to Viet Nam. While there, he wrote me a letter describing his work as a boat driver on the Mekong River. He also was awarded the Soldier's Medal, but he never spoke of it, and I would love to be able to find the citation.

We drifted apart. When we lived in Edmonton, Rich stopped by on his way up the Alaska Highway. He had had a breakdown, and we were able to locate a car dealership that could handle the warranty work that was needed. After we moved back here, Rich and I occasionally crossed paths, but we never really spent any significant amount of time together.

On Labor Day, Rich and his wife went camping. He was not feeling well. Things got worse, and when he got home on Wednesday, he was admitted to the hospital. Exploratory surgery was done on Thursday; the doctors found that his appendix had burst and peritonitis had destroyed him. Rich never woke up; the ventilator was disconnected last Friday morning. He will be buried tomorrow.

Farewell, old friend.