A Life of Words

Sorry I’ve taken a few days off from my five-day West Virginia-Ohio-Indiana-Kentucky trip journal; work, family and fatigue got in the way. Still moving from finish to start, let’s pick up with Day 3 (Saturday, Dec. 30), which began with an 8 a.m. breakfast at Hardee’s in West Huntington, West Virginia with two fabulous Fritzes – father and son Fritz Leicher Sr. and Jr.

I’d met Fritz Sr. – now an inspirational 96 years old – previously and have known him for about 12 years, ever since I was given his name as someone who had worked for 45 years at NBC affiliate WSAZ-TV in Huntington and directed the beloved Saturday Night Jamboree music show during its run from 1953 to 1965.

Fritz and Ralph Shannon, one of the Jamboree’s stars who passed away at 95 in 2021, initially shared memories with me in 2011 of how my birth mother Betty, a gifted singer, performed as a guest on the show a couple of times in the mid-1950s. Fritz and I have been friends ever since, staying in touch mostly by email and Facebook and having lunch together with beloved longtime WSAZ news anchor Bos Johnson during one of my visits to Huntington.

Bos, who died in 2014, was another of the many friends I’ve been blessed to make on my birth family journey, as he did everything he could to help me find residents in his Huntington retirement community who might have known Betty and could share any memories (sadly, without luck). Bos once told me in an email that he was pretty certain he was the last reporter President Nixon told he would not resign before he ended up doing so in August 1974.

The Fritzes and I had an awesome time visiting over breakfast as Fritz Jr. – who’s a heck of a nice guy like his dad – met for the first time. Jr. and his pickleball partner finished second at the National Senior Games in Pittsburgh last summer. His dad, who lost dear wife Mary last January at 91, is doing great at 96. He always emails me story links and political cartoons – let’s just say he has strong political convictions.

After the breakfast gang broke up, I decided to head just east to the Southside area of Huntington where my adoptive family lived when I was a baby until we moved to Houston before I could even walk. I’ve seen our old home on previous trips, but I wanted to see it again and take some photos. I also wanted to knock on the door and see if the current residents might allow me to come in and, explaining my propensity for nostalgia, take a few minutes to look around the place where my family lived during the early months of my life.

My adoptive parents, Clark and Olga Christlieb, who met when Dad was stationed in Panama in the Navy during the early ’50s, had married there in 1953 and moved back to his hometown of St. Paul the following year so he could get his degree at the University of Minnesota. After graduating in 1958, Dad became a lingerie salesman for Hollywood Vassarette and was sent to Huntington to be the Tri-State area rep.

Mom and Dad rented one side of a nice 5,000-plus-square-foot, three-story home at 1221 Kanawha Terrace, built in 1917, and in August 1959, they adopted a boy, my adoptive brother Isaac. Eighteen months later, days after Betty gave birth to me on Feb. 28, 1961, they adopted me. Late that year, Dad chose Houston over Omaha when Vassarette gave him a transfer option.

I stood and stared at the house for a long time, taking a number of photos. I thought about what those days had been like for my adoptive family. I know a bit, because long before he died in 2014, Dad told me they were happy times spent making good friends, going to and hosting parties, Dad playing pickup basketball games with the likes of Hall of Famers Hal Greer and Jerry West at Marshall College (soon to become a university). At some point after we moved to Texas, everything changed, in a way that made life pretty miserable for all of us.

As rain fell lightly with temperatures in the mid-30s, I knocked on the door of our old home, but no one answered.

When I drove off our old street, I soon came across Ritter Park, a beautiful place that opened in 1913 and is viewed by many as the city’s crown jewel. It has an award-winning rose garden, covers 100-plus acres, is Huntington’s most-frequented park and a popular walking destination – one of these days I’ll have time for that too. This time, all I had a chance to do was take a few photos of Christmas decorations at one of the entrances.

I’d been in the Huntington area for not quite two days to attend Dr. Gilbert Ratcliff Jr.’s visitation and funeral and visit several friends and important sites including Betty’s grave. Although I hated to leave, it was time to make my way across the Ohio River into Ohio and 20 miles northwest to the town of Ironton. I’d made plans to visit two friends I’ve known from my birth family journey connections for about 12 years but had never met – and to once again go inside the historic former Marting Hotel where Betty spent several months singing at the Sandbar while pregnant with me in 1960.

The upscale hotel, which opened in 1921, stood vacant for years after its decades-long heyday, and is now called the Park Avenue Apartments for seniors, was placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1999. It features 50 apartments and houses the Ironton Senior Center on the second floor.

Although the hotel’s exterior has changed little since it was built, the interior has undergone extensive changes. But seeing the terrazzo on the first floor and marble on the stairs, it’s not difficult to imagine how grand it looked during the months when Betty was singing there almost 64 years ago. Of course the Sandbar – which from what I’ve been told was a coats-and-ties kind of place – is no longer there, but I walked through a door where it once was and saw what looked like a small gathering space with a pool table.

One of the most remarkable twists to Betty’s time singing at the Sandbar is that Dad told me that during the few short years he and Mom lived in Huntington, they often drove over to Ironton to the Marting, had dinner in the hotel’s restaurant and then went to the Sandbar for drinks and music/dancing. (I’m told the dance floor was pretty tiny.) After I found my birth family in 2005 and learned about Betty singing there during her pregnancy, I asked Dad if he remembered seeing a woman sing there in 1960, and he said he was pretty sure he did. I still marvel at the sheer inconceivability that my adoptive parents sat in the Sandbar watching and listening to the very woman – a single mother of three just months from turning 40 – whose baby they would soon adopt.

During my visit to the old Marting, I also had the chance to meet a young lady named Amanda Cleary, who’s with a nonprofit in town and was working with a colleague on some renovation/painting in the senior center. I told her my story and she was graciously interested, as I also mentioned I had hoped to find the center open that day and talk to some residents to see if I could find anyone who went to the Sandbar in 1960 and perhaps saw Betty sing there. I texted her my name and a bit later as I was in my rental car deciding whether to explore downtown a bit, she sent me the name of a friend whose grandfather also sang at the Sandbar – although quite a bit later than Betty, I’m pretty certain.

I did end up checking out downtown on foot for a while, mostly to see if I could find the building where Betty and my three older siblings lived in a small apartment so long ago, but unfortunately it’s not around anymore.

My next Ironton stop was the home of Ellie Lawless, a sweet friend I’ve known since she read a story about my search in the Huntington newspaper about 12 years ago. Ellie, who turned 11 in 1960, knew Betty and my sibs because her family lived across the street from them. And when my birth family moved back to Huntington that fall when Betty was about six months pregnant, my oldest brother Crys, who was 16 and a junior at Ironton High, stayed behind and lived with Ellie’s family because he wanted to play basketball that season for the Tigers.

Both Ellie and Crys have distinct memories of those months he spent with the Lawless family, with son Butch being manager of the basketball team. Ellie even remembered how Crys loved the salmon casserole her mother used to make – and when I mentioned it to Crys later by text, he said, “It was delicious.” She and I had a great visit, joined by her niece Debbie and Ellie’s adorable poodle Keeva, who wanted as much attention from the unfamiliar visitor as she could get.

After our visit, I drove a few blocks to see Sandra (Sandy) Frazier, a vibrant young (82-year-old) lady who’s lived in Ironton almost her entire life and had recently been calling herself my Ohio secretary because I’d also asked if she could come up with anyone who might have gone to the Sandbar back in the day. She was the sweetest hostess, offering me chocolates from Peru, slices of pumpkin roll and pizza (I didn’t take her up on that one) while we chatted in her front room.

Sandy also asked what kind of music I like so she could have her voice assistant play it for us (I told her I like all kinds, so we ended up playing some Glenn Miller big-band music and the Carpenters). Just before I left, we looked at a wonderful photo of her family, with her late husband, two daughters and six grandchildren. We decided that since we’re 20 years apart, we’re going to think of each other as sister and brother, but later on a FB post she commented that she’s going to be my third mother instead, since I don’t have a living mom. I told her as long as it’s OK with her daughters, it’s OK with me! 😊

My last stop on Day 3 was in Chillicothe, Ohio, about 70 miles north, where I went to visit my birth family paternal cousin Gene Bowen and his wife Jo, arriving in the early darkness. He’s 92 and she’s 91, and we had pizza at their kitchen table and talked about our families, his ’79 MG in the basement (which he plans to give to his great-grandson soon), family history and other topics. We went down to check out the MG, which I’d only seen in photos, and I even managed to squeeze my 6-2 frame into the passenger seat. I should’ve had Gene take a photo of me!

My grandfather Orval Workman, who died in 1937 of a heart attack at 49, was Gene’s maternal uncle (his mom was Lolita Workman Bowen). Gene was born in December 1931, and he says he has memories of meeting Orval on a trip to Indianapolis when he was a young boy. I’m trying to figure that one out, because as far as I know, Orval and his wife Kathryn were living in Huntington around that time and he was working for the C&O Railroad. His death certificate shows he died at the YMCA in West Logan, West Virginia.

I spent that Saturday night with Gene and Jo, waking up early the next morning to drive three and a half hours to attend Sunday service at First Christian Church of Jeffersonville, Indiana, where my church’s former pastor, Jeremy Skaggs, is now leading the congregation.

What an incredible day! ❤

Next up: Day 2