The Myth: Colby Cheese Makes You Fart

Picture: Me and my cousin Wendy, at the house on 615 W. Third Street (1986).

We're doing dishes and my mom is pestering us to turn around for a picture.

************

There was once a time when I didn't like cheese. Now mind you, I liked macaroni and cheese (as in Kraft), and I liked cheese as a garnish. But a hunka chunka cheese by itself?

Yeahhh - not so much.

Until I started spending time with my grandpa.

At his house on Third Street, there would always be a hunk of cheese. Sometimes a half moon, sometimes an entire round wheel. That was his snack. He'd go into the kitchen, unwrap it, cut off of a slab, and sit down in his overstuffed chair, watching the news.

Me: Grandpa. Isn't that gross?

Grandpa: Nope. Best colby cheese in the world.

Me: Don't you need to have some macaroni or a hamburger with that?

Grandpa: Nope. All of that stuff would ruin the taste.

Me: Doesn't it make you have the farts? Grandma says cheese makes you fart.

Grandpa: Your Grandma doesn't know what she's talking about. She thinks everything produces gas.

One day, as he was cuttin' himself off a slab, he cut me one too.

Me: What am I supposed to do with this?

Grandpa: I thought you were the smart one in this family.

So I ate it.

Colby cheese. It had a slightly sourish, but creamy taste to it (remember - my cheese experience to this point had been KRAFT). Interesting. Not a total turnoff. But I didn't say that to him. Nope. It would have been like he was right and I was wrong. I'm not admittin' that.

A couple more times, he would bring me slabs. I ate. Said nothing. Ditto for him.

Then somehow, I was the one fetching the slabs for both of us.

Grandma: Krissie, don't eat too much of that. It'll give you horrendous gas like your Grandpa.

Grandpa: Irene... don't be tellin' the girl that. You're just makin' up stories. In a whisper to me Your Grandma just doesn't have appreciation for cheese. She was born in Ohio - what does she know?!

Me: Giggle. Roll my eyes.

************************************************************************
Next up - it was time for him to introduce me to the place where he purchased his cheese - The Mouse House.

And that's when me, him, and Grandma, would take our walk "down to the bridge" to get some cheese and doughnuts.

This is a birds-eye view of the area.

Walking "down to the bridge" was about walking to the shops that were located close to the Old Wells Street Bridge.

We wouldn't have to walk across it for this particular trip - but that's how they referred to our walking excursion to Richard's Bakery and The Mouse House.

"Let's Take A Walk to The Bridge"

<-This is a picture of my Grandma, standing on the porch of 615 W. Third Street.

My grandpa was a security guard at St. Joe Hospital and his work week wasn't the typical 8 to 5, Monday thru Friday.

In the beginning, he worked second shift and his schedule was like four days on and three days off and then five days on and two days off. Never the same days either!

I never kept up with his schedule. I just knew that when I woke up, if he was sitting in his big, overstuffed chair, that meant it was his work day (he watched his television in that chair).

If he was wandering the house and the yard, it was a day off.

On his days off, he and Grandma used to like to walk together to various places around the neighborhood.

Usually, they'd come find me and say, "Let's Take a Walk to the Bridge".

I knew what bridge they were talking about and I knew what the trip was about. We were going to walk down Wells Street, and pick up some things from The Mouse House and Richard's Bakery.

As you can see from the map, it was a bit of a walk, but I never minded it.

There were sidewalks which were very walkable and crossing over from Third Street to Wells Street was never a big deal.

To Ride or To Walk? That was the Question.

My grandparents lived at 615 W. Third Street a good chunk of my junior high and all of my high school years.

I spent many summers and my entire senior year (and first year of college), living with them at this house.

By the way, that's me over there, to the left. I was visiting my grandparents and someone snapped a picture of me in a "pep band" uniform (white pants - ewww). This was the alley next to their house (and btw - the alley doesn't exist anymore). The house is to the left of this picture.


Their particular mode of transportation was by foot or by bus.

The rule of thumb (on whether you took a bus or whether you walked) was based upon this map I've put together.

There weren't boundaries given to me/us (spoken out loud) - I just remember, based upon where we'd need to go, the typical comments that I would get from either grandparent.

Grandma: We better take the bus. Those crazy driver's come off of the highway and still treat Goshen Road like it's their own personal raceway.

Grandpa: If you and Krissie are going to Murphy's, take the bus. There's too many streets for you to cross at this time of day.

Wells and Third Street - Then & Before Then

PTC Bus Stop

Corner of Wells Street and Third Street

Fort Wayne, Indiana 46808

My Grandparents (my mother's parents) lived in Fort Wayne almost their entire life (with the exception of a few years where they lived in Jackson, Michigan).

My Grandpa was born and raised in Fort Wayne. He always lived in the downtown area - Main Street, Clay Street, DeWald, Union Street.

The last house that my Grandparents lived in (before Grandpa died) was on Third Street. They picked it because it was a duplex, it had a huge yard, and it was within walking distance of everything that they cared about.

I've mentioned before that my Grandparents didn't drive. Ever. They always got around on foot or - sometimes - we took the bus. When they lived on Third Street, this is the bus stop we used to stand next to in order to catch the PTC bus.

As you can see from this picture, it almost looks "park" like. It has two nice benches and beautiful shade trees. I remember when those shade trees weren't tall enough to shade anything. And one day, while waiting on the bus to pick us up, I mentioned to Grandpa that they should have planted bigger trees so we had some shade during the hot weather.

That's when he told me about why these trees were so brand new.

It turns out, that just a few years before, a Firehouse - specifically Firehouse #6 - used to occupy the space that we were standing on.

A Firehouse?! Neat!

Me: But what happened to the firehouse? Did it not have enough fires to put out?

Grandpa: The city needed to put that firehouse out on Coliseum Boulevard. People moved out of the inner parts of our city to the suburbs and in case there are fires out in the new parts of the city, they've got a fire house close by.

Me: How come there can't be both (fire stations)?

Grandpa: Sometimes, when you only have one pot of money to pull from, you have to make a decision - one or the other.

He told me that it was built in the late 1800's and that before there were shiny trucks - there were horses which used to take the firemen and their equipment to whatever establishment needed them.

Me: Wow! Horses used to walk on these streets?!

You can tell, I was easily fascinated as a child :).

As I drove by this spot this weekend, I stopped and took the picture you see at the beginning of this blog entry. I sat on one of the bench's and I thought about the time that I spent in this area as a child. You never think - in the moment - how much time you spend "waiting" for something (and back then - it was a bus) and how those moments are great pockets of opportunities that should never go to waste.

In my case, I was such an inquisitive child and I often wonder - if handheld games and other modern things were around then - would I have turned them off and had these types of conversations with my Grandparents (especially as we walked downtown or waited for the bus)?

Sadly - probaby not. So I guess I'm thankful that my Grandparents didn't drive. I'm thankful that the PTC bus program operated during that time, and I'm thankful that my parents let me spend oodles of time with my mom's parents.

1401 Wells Street - Firehouse No. 6 - 1920

1401 Wells Street - Firehouse No. 6 - 1975

This Is Where It All Began...

* Note: All lyrics from the song, Dare You To Move, by Switchfoot

Welcome to the planet
Welcome to existence
Everyone's here...
Everyone's here...
Everybody's watching you now...
Everybody waits for you now...
What happens next?
What happens next?

When I start to tell the story of how I came into existence, I have to put in lots of qualifiers to situations. Why? Because naturally, my parents weren’t typical (or maybe they were?). They were only statistics because they chose to be. And they chose to be because they were in love.

I was born on October 12, 1966 at 7:48 p.m. in Parkview Memorial Hospital. Those of you who were born in the late 60’s early 70’s probably know that it was called the “baby barn” because it seemed like the only place where babies were surfacing in Fort Wayne, Indiana.

1960's Postcard View

Parkview Memorial Hospital
2200 Randalia Drive
Fort Wayne, Indiana

My mother met my father when she was sixteen and he was nineteen.

He had moved up to Fort Wayne from Straight Creek, Kentucky and he lived in a tiny apartment somewhere close to where my mother and her parents lived.

They met at a laundromat. I believe it was not too far (maybe across the street) from the apartment building that my grandparents managed on Clay Street – but what the name of it was (and I know it no longer exists) – who knows. Side note: I did some research and this one I have plotted in the map to the right - may be the spot where the love connection happened.

The laundromat was owned by someone named Clyde Briggs and Clyde (who I have no memory of), was someone who my grandparents used to help out a lot.

This laundromat had both a jukebox and a pinball machine. It also had one of those cool vending machines with candy and a pop machine that dispensed bottles. (Trying to create the awesome scene – is it working?!)

That’s how my parents met – at a laundromat.

My mother was quite a rebel. It’s something in her I’ve always admired. And have been frustrated by. She hated rules. She hated catholic school. She hated her parents. She was a typical teenager.

She fell in love with my dad. Why? I don’t know, she’s never told me. But the result was that she moved into his apartment and kept quitting school (and my grandparents kept re-enrolling her).

My mom and dad wanted to get married. My grandparents said NO. They were keen on my mother finishing high school (she was only a sophomore) and let’s be “frank”, they really didn’t want their daughter marrying a hillbilly from Kentucky. There were plenty of nice boys who were raised right there in the good ole fort.

Welcome to the fallout
Welcome to resistance
The tension is here
The tension is here
Between who you are and who you could be
Between how it is and how it should be

So my parents decided to send a “screw you” message to my grandparents – they got pregnant on purpose.

This, of course, infuriated my grandparents. And I’ve been told that if abortion would have been legal back then, they would have forced my mother to take that route. Thank gawd for small things like abortion not being legal then.

Defeated, they agreed to let my parents get married and on May 17, 1966, they were married by a Justice of the Peace. I was due on September 4, 1966 which made my mother about four-five months pregnant.

My mother’s doctor, who took care of her while she was pregnant, was someone named Dr. Meyer. I don’t know much about him (I did a pretty thorough search and found a Dr. Herman A. Meyer who might have been the dr. she went to) however, in true fashion, my mother never listened to him either.

Obituary for Dr. Herman A. Meyer

The week I was due, my parents took off for my dad’s hometown (Straight Creek) which sent my grandparents into a tizzy. I have no idea why she did this but I assume that she just wanted to get away from the pressures of life as she knew it in Fort Wayne.

They eventually came back – especially when her due date had passed. By this time, she was gi-normous. Apparently, I just wasn’t ready to come out and greet the world. And back then, I guess, they didn’t freak out if you were over your due date like they do now.

On October 12 (it was a Wednesday), my mother was feeling some discomfort. She went to see Dr. Meyer who said, “You’re in labor – make your way to the hospital”.

Which meant, do the opposite.

She went home. She was craving some beans so she soaked them, cooked them, and ate them. By this time, the doctor, wondering where my mother was, called back to the apartment building and my Aunt Carolyn (her older sister) had to drag her on over to Parkview. I guess she wasn’t convinced that it was time to give birth.

What happened after that – well – I do know – she was taken to the hospital, she was put under, and I was born. I was a whooping 9 pounds – absolutely humongous back in 1966. With today’s knowledge and technology, I shouldn’t have been taken much closer to my original due date.

This is the spot where I would insert a picture of me as newborn however, I don't have one and frankly, I'm not sure if one exists. Side note: I wonder if Parkview keeps archived files of these things???

So, here's one of me, my Grandpa Roy, his mom Grandma Kline, and my mom...outside of Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception. If I was a betting woman, I would guess that I am almost a year old. I'm not sure who took the photo. Maybe my Grandma Roy? Definitely not my dad.


I don’t know where my father was when I was born. Maybe he was there, maybe he wasn’t. My mom doesn’t talk much at all about this time in her life. Or really, any time in her life. Anything I have been able to find out has been because of my grandma, and my two aunts.

Maybe redemption has stories to tell
Maybe forgiveness is right where you fell
Where can you run to escape from yourself?
Where you gonna go?
Where you gonna go?
Salvation is here

Addendum: Good Ole Aunt Barb sent me some other pictures that I didn't have. The first is another high school picture of my mom. The second and third are pics of me less than a year old.

Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal

Twenty years ago today, you drew your last breath.

It was anti-climactic.

I was not there.

I didn’t want to be there.

I couldn’t watch you anymore.

You were out of your head – literally.

Not the man who introduced me to Dairy Queen Blizzards.

Or Colby cheese from The Mouse House.

Or who smoked cigars with the funny-gypsy-looking lady on the box.

Over a very short period of time, you became something that we are all afraid of becoming.

A man trapped inside a body which is physically disabled and cognitively empty.

I know you know that’s why I couldn’t be near you then.

Gosh. Even today, when I stop to write and acknowledge this event which happened half my life ago - the grief comes - floats up from some place not that far away.

How can that be?

I'm still so very angry - at you - at God - at my mom, my dad, my aunts, my friends, my grandma - at the world. I'm angry with myself for not appreciating you as much as I should have. For not soaking in as much of your wisdom and your everyday goodness.

The aching pain in my heart knows no bounds. Although I'm really good at containing it. Squeezing it into a teeny, tiny corner, hiding it from the world so that they don't realize that twenty years later, your absence still affects me like this.

I tried to save you the best I knew how.

All the memories come flooding back to me - Paranoia. Forgetfulness. Short-temper. Falling. Napping. Not making it to the bathroom on time.

Me coming home from working one of my many jobs and grandma telling me that you were at the hospital because you had fallen.

That was two months after I stopped telling people that you were sick. No one believed me. Or maybe I should say, no one wanted to believe me.

Your diagnosis came quickly. The day of surgery is still as clear as day for me. Dr. Kashman came out and said that the tumor was big, cancerous, and deadly. I ran around to the first hall I could find and I sobbed uncontrollably. Noooooooooooooooooooo. I couldn't lose you - the only stable, male role-mode/figure in my life.

And it was SO unfair. And I was tired of life being SO unfair.

My last meaningful conversation with you wasn't meant to be so meaningful.

I didn't think you were lucid. You were plenty doped up. To me, you were already gone. Which is why I just broke down and confessed to you how much I loved you and how broken my heart was and how angry I was and how I didn't believe in God anymore.

Shakily, you grabbed my hand when I wasn't noticing and you said - I don't ever want to hear you say that you don't believe in God.

My tears stopped for just a moment and I searched your eyes - was that really you talking to me?

I lay my head on your chest and you touched my hair. I listened to you fall asleep and I knew that this was the last time that you and I would ever talk as grandfather and granddaughter.

Where the Sidewalk Ends
by Shel Silverstein

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

St. Mary's Catholic Church

St. Mary's Catholic Church

1101 Lafayette Street
Fort Wayne, IN 46803
(260) 424-8231

Photo Credits: Argil Shock

I'm having a difficult time writing this today.

When I went searching for some photographs to use for this entry, I came across many that were related to 1993 fire. silence

You know how sometimes, you intellectually know things but emotionally, you push it back so far in your mind, that you can sometimes fool yourself into thinking that some tragic event really didn't happen?

I think I did that with the fire.

That day - along with events like The Challenger Explosion, 9/11, and the death of my grandfather - are forever etched in the core of my soul. They were pivotal events that changed me - just like earlier generations were affected by the depression or the assassination of John F. Kennedy.

So this memory today - gosh - it'll be all over the map. It's difficult for me to look at any picture of St. Mary's now, and not have a wave of emotions that range from complete happiness and joy (one moment) and then sadness (boy - those tears came FAST) and anger (why did this have to happen?!).

Like many of you FW'ers, I was born and raised Catholic. I have a ton of Catholic-related memories. I was baptised and married at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception. I attended CCD classes and then eventually attended full time school at St. Therese.

My mother's side of the family lived and breathed the Catholic ways in downtown Fort Wayne during the 60's, 70's and 80's.

My grandfather and great-grandmother (even though they were members of Cathedral) enjoyed attending all of the downtown churches, so if I happened to be spending time with them on one of those days where they had the inclination to attend mass (and as you know - that was not just isolated to Sunday's), I usually went along with them.

Of course as a wee youngster, I didn't really understand church much. I was pretty irritated by having to sit still, and, I didn't understand why I couldn't read the funny words in the book or why I wasn't allowed to get up and parade around the church like all of the other people.

I was an obedient child and didn't ask - I just did. I learned the rituals of standing and sitting, and in a very short period of time, I knew exactly when the kneeler was supposed to go down and when the adults would start roaming around. I also knew when I could let myself be distracted by the intricate detailing of the church. I would stare at a window or a ledge and I would wonder things like:

• how big were the arrowheads that were used to do all the cutting and dicing of this stuff?
  


• how many people had to stand on top of each other in order to get that piece of glass up there?

I blame the arrowhead thoughts on my visit to a museum and my human pyramid scenario on the circus :).

I don't remember the first exact time that my grandpa took me to St. Mary's. Often, I would get Cathedral and Mary mixed up. They were in close proximity to each other and they were both grand, sweeping, architectural landmarks.

Where I could distinguish the two was within the interior of the church. St. Mary's was huge - gi-normous (and yes - Cathedral was too - but in a different way). Naturally, its architecture fascinated me. But in particular, it was the dark - gothic nature of the wood and the shape of the windows that held my attention - especially when I had to wait for grandpa or great-grandma to get back to the pew (you know - they were parading around - communion as I later learned it to be) . I was never scared by its grandeur or darkness. Its oldness and formality automatically made me feel right at home. And that smell. How do you describe that smell? It was old but endearing. Comforting and familiar...but special.

St. Mary's was just one place of many in Fort Wayne, where everybody seemed to know everybody. And you know what? That never struck me as strange. And I guess the reason I bring this up is that one of the charms of Fort Wayne for me - even from the very youngest age - was that the city seemed big in space, but small and homey when it came to relationships.

You can say Father O'Connor and immediately - everybody knew who you were talking about. You can mention the Soup Kitchen and automatically, people are reminded of the fact that in Fort Wayne, being down on your luck didn't mean you had to go hungry. You can mention the fire, and people will tell you where they were when it happened and how shocked and saddened they were.

Since the (physical) church I knew, no longer exists, I can't bring myself to go near the area. I know that the new church was built with a lot of love and that Father Tom used its re-building as a time of healing for the community. When all of that was going on, I had already moved to Indianapolis and that principle of out of site...out of mind... is probably why I'm still not over things.