I've related this incident in a story written previously, but it fits this piece nicely: Dad was in the automobile business, and drove a different car often -- sometimes 3 or 4 in one week. About the time that we knew he'd be coming home from work, my brother Bill and I would walk down to the corner, sit on the curb, and wait to get the short ride home. Very often we got the thrill of riding in a brand new car.

One day after Dad had parked the car by the rear sidewalk, we were in the front seat, pulling on the steering wheel, making engine noises, etc., when one of us -- probably me -- pulled the gearshiift lever out of reverse. Our driveway, from the rear sidewalk to the garage, had a very slight decline. Since neither one of us could see over the dashboard, we didn't know the car was rolling 'til it hit the garage. We caught "holy hell," but I don't remember getting a spanking.

Another of my earliest memories is getting an Airedale puppy when it was only 2 weeks old. My brothers and I immediately fell in love with Ted, or Teddy, as we called him, and Teddy grew to love each of us as well.

My parents were told that Teddy's mother, reportedly a thoroughbred, was very particular about its food, and would never eat a meal until she first had a lettuce salad.

Every boy loves his dog, and eventually there were 6 of us to love him, so he never lacked affection. He deserved it all, and he was a treasure.

On the way home from kindergarten one day in 1927, I was walking with my friend, Francis Allen, along the south side of Ingersoll Avenue, which then was a divided thoroughfare with streetcar tracks in the center.

When we were halfway between 41st and 40th, he said "goodbye, I'll see you tomorrow," and darted northeast across the street. He didn't see the eastbound streetcar coming, and I looked over to see his body being pummeled under the car's multiple wheels.

Tears flooded my face, and I remember running frantically home some four blocks away. I was so shaken I couldn't tell my mother what had happened, so she held me while I sobbed.

I couldn't eat lunch, and spent the afternoon in the bedroom crying, and thinking about my dear friend Francis. It took a long time to get over the trauma of the day, and I'm not sure I ever have.

Beginning in kindergarten, one of my friends was Bob McCarthy, who lived one street west of my house and a block north. We often walked to school together, so Bob would cut through my backyard and knock on our door to see if I was still there.

He was the luckiest kid I ever knew. I don't know how many times he would find money as he came through our yard, and he would hold up the coin saying, "finders keepers."

One day on our way to school, it was raining 'cats and dogs,' and we were running with our heads down to keep the rainwater from blurring our vision. All of a sudden, Bob veered off toward the curb, reached down in the torrent of water, and pulled out a small purse. In it was a five dollar bill -- nothing else, no identification -- nothing.

His family moved when we were in the 5th or 6th grade, and we never saw each other again. I hope that Bob continued to be lucky throughout his life.

I always loved cars, probably because my father was in the automobile business, so I remember times such as the 2 incidents I'm going to write about here:

#1 We usually walked to school, which was about 2/3 of a mile. A lady who lived close to the school had gotten to know me because I was interested in her big, beautiful car, which was a Pierce Arrow. On one occasion I had just started my walk, when she saw me, picked me up, and gave me a ride in her fine auto which I have never forgotten.

Incident #2 Another lady who lived near the school owned an electric car -- very tall and with very squared design -- and she gave me a ride to school one day. I remember standing up holding on to the top of the dashboard to see out, and absolutely awed by the smooth silence of the ride. Another unforgettable thrill

Attending St Augustin school, I was in the 4th or 5th grade. One of my classmates was Constance (Connie) Sheridan. The Nun teaching us was out of the classroom for some reason, and Connie was acting up in the usual way. Without trying to sound egotistical, Connie was trying to kiss me, and I wanted no part of it.

I remember grabbing my geography book, because it was the largest, and hitting her over the head with it. The hard cover of the book bent in a crease with the force of my blow, but the thing that stopped her was the return of the teacher.

If I had been a high school student, I might have reacted differently to her advances. In later years I heard she was very attractive to say the least.

During the middle years of elementary school, the Catholic Nuns seemed to enjoy conducting contests in spelling and arithmetic. I was good at both, and often came out the winner in spelling, but never in math. There I had a nemesis in LeRoy Rahm, and always these contests were frustrating.

The finalists would be standing at the blackboard chalking the 3 or 4 digit numbers the teacher would give us, and after 5 or 6 of these she'd give us the "go" signal. Immediately LeRoy would draw the line under the list of numbers, and write the answer. He would have added these in his head as he entered each number on the blackboard.

Many, many years later I was not surprised when someone told me that LeRoy operated a computer related business.

Earlier I wrote about our beloved Airedale, and this is about his fierce loyalty and protectiveness. I was probably 8 or 10 years old, when a large German police dog appeared on the verge of attacking us boys as we were nearing home. Teddy confronted the police dog head-on, and a terrible fight ensued. It didn't end quickly, and became ferocious, and someone called the fire department.

I remember crying, and in fear for Teddy's safety, as 2 firemen using a ladder tried to force the dogs apart. The fight went on and on, and my brothers and I were frantic, pleading with the firemen to do more. It was then that a 3rd fireman turned on a fire hose, and the combination of the water pressure with the separation force of the ladder ended the fight.

People couldn't believe the strength and determination of our Teddy against a larger and supposedly more powerful police dog. My memory has all of us boys crying and hugging Teddy in spite of the blood and torn flesh. But after a trip to the Vet and some healing time, Teddy was as good as new.

My great uncle John Ryan was the Postmaster of Des Moines, Iowa, and he loved my brothers and me as if we were his children. On Sundays he would accompany us to the east side of town to visit our aunt Ann and great aunt Nonie (his sister.)

Once in awhile we'd stop at the main post office, and spend some time in his office. I remember him taking us inside a vault, and uncle John saying, "you're looking at a million dollars worth of stamps." Quite a thrill for a young boy.

Uncle John gave each of us Flanagan brothers, when old enough to appreciate it, a season pass to Ashworth swimming pool, located in Greenwood park. He did this every year for as long as he lived. I believe he showered so much attention on us because he never had children of his own.

Boy, how we all loved that swimming pool. It was probably a mile to the pool from our house, but we would usually walk to and from the pool twice each day throughout the summer -- Memorial Day through Labor Day.

My love for swimming remains to this day, and I'm grateful to live in a homeowners' association with a pool.

Sunday dinner at our house was more often than not: a) a 10 to 12 pound rolled rump beef roast. b) lots of browned potatoes & gravy. c) several vegetables. d) salads of various types. e) and many around the table.

Frequently our aunt Nonie and aunt Annie would have dinner with us and spend the afternoon. So with mom, dad, my 2 aunts, the girl who took board and room with us, my 5 brothers and I, there usually wasn't much in the way of left overs.

When it came time for dessert, one of us boys would be in charge, and if it was your turn it was only fair that you got the biggest piece of pie or cake, or the most cherries -- whatever.

As a growing boy, I remember filling my plate completely with potatoes and gravy, eating half of those first to make room for the other food. Mom was a great cook, which made it all the better. What a joy.

From the time I was 2 years old until I left home 17 years later to be on my own, 623 37th Street in Des Moines, Iowa was my home. It was a 2 story house; living room, dining room, kitchen and play room on the first floor; 3 bedrooms, bath room and a sleeping porch on the 2nd floor; an unfinished basement with laundry room separate from the rest. It had a coal furnace, separate coal storage room, and a manually controlled gas heater for the hot water tank.

Mom and Dad had the largest bedroom; the girl who took board and room, while attending junior college, had the bedroom next to the bathroom, and the 2 oldest brothers had the bedroom next to the sleeping porch. Since I was #3 of the 6 boys, my bedroom was the sleeping porch, which was a semi-enclosed room over an open first floor porch. I say semi-enclosed because for most of the year it had screens for windows (no glass), and we would install opaque plastic on the inside of the screens from November through March. From April through October we had roll-up canvas blinds that we used to keep out the rain. The closest thing to heat for the room was a 40 watt light bulb in the ceilng, and it got mighty cold.

The winter of 1935/1936 was the coldest, when the temperature didn't climb above zero for 30 days. We had a gas hotplate in the basement, using it to heat large rocks, wrapping them in newspaper to help hold the heat, and placing them at the foot of Army bunks which were our beds. By wearing pajamas with feet, stocking caps and gloves, we were set to survive the frigid nights. Today it would be described as child endangerment or cruelty to children by those who didn't experience the great depression.

Besides 3 Army bunks, there was a wrought iron baby bed in the center of the room. My memory is fuzzy on this, but I'm sure the 2 of my brothers who were born in winter were kept in a crib in our parents' room at least until we took off the 'cellotex' (as we called it) from the windows.

As youths and young men, I can't think of a physical ailment by the 4 youngest that could be attributed to the environment of our memorable sleeping quarters.

Christmas eve at our house was unbelievable -- looking back. During the time we believed in Santa Claus we also believed that he put up and trimmed the tree, along with leaving all the presents. It was only after leaving that stage did I learn what our parents went through each year, because it then became our duty to assist them with all these preparations.

These chores would be finished with only time for them to take a short nap before having to get the kids ready for 5am Mass. During elementary school years, we children would either serve as altar boys or sing in the choir, or both, which then required 2 trips to Church on the one day. We called that a "double feature."

Then after going through all this, Mom would start preparing Christmas dinner, which took several hours, and an equal amount of time to clean up after. Talk about an exhausting day; why they did it I'll never know -- they probably thought it a good idea at the time.

My service as an altar boy at St. Augustin Parish was something I was really proud of at the time. It all started, following my training, with serving Mass at the school Convent. While only a little kid, I would trudge through snow and ice in the dark, to arrive in time to serve the 5am Mass. Then home to have breakfast, followed by another trudge through the snow on the way back to school.

Later I became proficient in the Latin and protocol for the most elaborate services: Solemn High Mass, Pontifical High Mass, special Benedictions, Weddings, Funerals and all variations of the above.

Whenever the Bishop or Archbishop would be scheduled at our Parish, I would be the first altar boy they called, because they realized full well I knew the "whole ball of wax."

I often wondered if this was one of the reasons my brothers, in later years, called me the 'white sheep' of the family. It was both an honor and a chore to participate as I did; also I believe it instilled discipline.

The 7th grade baseball team of St. Augustin's was playing the school's 8th grade team. I was playing centerfield for the 7th graders; my friend Ray Hanrahan was our pitcher.

We were holding our own until about the 4th inning when a high flyball was hit to my position. I have congenital nystagmus, but it had never bothered me in my life until then. As I concentrated on the ball in the air, all of a sudden it seemed to move back and forth, and it missed my upheld glove and hit me in the head. What hurt more than the ball was my error resulting in several scored runs, and the ridicule I received from teammates.

In my 78 years plus, I noticed similar nystagmus related problems only about a half dozen times, but as I wrote in one of the stories about my military experiences, the fact that I have it may have saved my life by keeping me out of advanced B-17 training.

If memory serves me, it was at one of these games when I got into a fight with the older of two Haire brothers. He was a big kid, and boy could he punch! It was the only time in my life I was knocked unconcious.

The incident didn't stick with either of us very long, because I remember getting together with him for various events following the day of our fisticuffs.

When I was about 10 years old, I had a job on Saturdays delivering handbills. The thing that concerned me the most was encountering unfriendly dogs, because I never felt at ease in these situations.

Someone told me to carry a pair of pliers with me on my route, which might serve as a defense. So I put a pair of pliers in the pocket of my coveralls, and it turned out to be a very smart move.

As I approached a house to leave the handbill in the door, a Doberman Pincher came charging toward me from around the side of the building. I grabbed the pliers, and holding one handle flung the tool at the dog. The pliers seemed to fly crazily through the air, frightening the dog, causing him to turn and run. Needless to say, a pair of pliers was my "weapon of choice" from then on.

One day at Ashworth pool, about the time that boys begin to notice girls, there was a lot of whispering going on among all the boys of my age who attended St. Augustin's grade school, as I did.

Everyone was talking about a beautiful young woman, who was both an excellent swimmer and diver. However, they weren't talking about her prowess, but her looks, and who she might be.

Most thought she was one of our teachers -- a Sister Dorothy Marie. We agreed for the most part that her facial features matched those of the Sister, but her face was the only physical aspect of her we had ever seen at school.

To this day it remains a mystery, but I think today, as I did then, the gorgeous young woman was Sister Dorothy Marie.

Another day at Ashworth pool, we were all playing tag, and doing things the lifeguard should not have allowed: diving off the boards in pursuit of the 'tagee,' just as an example.

My friend, John Carroll, dove off the side of the board in one of those chases, and not realizing his speed, overshot the water hitting the side of the pool, shattering teeth and bone structure below his nose. This was something we all wished hadn't happened, especially John, but it did instill a safety awareness in everyone present.

Writing about Ashworth pool and Greenwood park brings to mind an incident also involving John Carroll, and this has to do with ice skating.

Stated earlier, this was a favorite winter activity. We would usually cap off the evening's fun, John and I, with a race around the perimeter of the lake. He would always win.

One evening, John asked a favor; could we exchange skates so he could participate in a hockey game? We wore the same size, so we switched, and I wound up wearing a pair of racing skates for the first time.

The next hour or so I noticed that in crossing over (one skate across in front of the other) in a curve, I had to be careful as I seemed to be clicking one skate blade against the other. Eventually I got to the point it wasn't a problem.

When we engaged in the usual race at the end of the session, I easily outdistanced John. I couldn't believe it; I had no idea that the difference in skates could make that much difference in speed.

Probably, if we had ever raced wearing the same type skates, it would have been a tie.