The Colt

The Colt

I am unsure how the Colt Frontier Scout became part of our family, but I suspect either my Great Gramp Doubler purchased it or his brother Dan did. They ran the family farm in Independence, Ohio from the early 1900s through the 1970s, although the farm itself dated back to before 1850.

The Colt is notable to me for several reasons. When Aunt Elaine, Great Uncle Dan's wife, got up in years, she kept the Colt on her lap as she rolled around her old farmhouse in her wheelchair, often shooting at imaginary woodchucks, and possibly a couple of real ones. Whether or not she ever took one out is anybody's guess, but the walls of the kitchen were full of bullet holes. By some miracle she never shot any of us.

When the Doubler farm came to its final demise, my Gram O'Brien flew in from St. Louis and stayed with us in Lakewood for a few weeks getting affairs in order. During that time, my dad and his mom fought bitterly over the Colt and who would retain ownership.

When she left for the trip home, however, she left the gun behind and Dad stowed it away. He may have taken it to events now and then. Guns were not a focal point in our house, but the Colt meant something to him. I do not believe he ever owned another handgun, just old school hunting long guns.

My Great Great Gram Vaughn in front of the farmhouse her daughter in law
would later shoot up on account of imaginary woodchucks

Fast forward a half dozen years or so. I was 15 or 16. It was a Friday night and I went to a party. Later in the evening, a guy offered to walk me home. He was good looking, popular and a couple years older. I was starry-eyed and accepted his offer. When we got to my house, we hung out in the upstairs den. The predictable teenage makeout session ensued, but went south very quickly.

He wanted me to do things I didn't want to do, physically pushing me. I refused, adamantly, and pulled away. I told him he had to leave and headed down the stairs. Surely he would comply with my parents in the next room. He did and left in a huff. I went to bed.

I woke about two or three in the morning only to find the persistent Romeo had returned and was sitting on my bed. He commenced trying to touch me as I blinked awake, which didn't take long. I scrambled from my bed and told him to leave or I'd wake my parents, then I hurried by Mom and Dad's closed bedroom door and down the stairs. Romeo followed.

I wasn't afraid. I was angry. After all, I knew this kid, but had never realized what a creep he was. I honestly felt no need to scream or wake my parents.

He called me some names and then took a beer can he had obviously brought with him and threw it at me before storming out.

The staircase was right by the front door. On one of the risers sat some stuff completely out of place: a bottle of Crown Royal, some cassette tapes and (inexplicably) a couple of small cheap art prints. Had he cased the house before coming to my room? Something was really off. I went to wake Mom and Dad.

"Dad! Dad! Wake up! Someone broke into the house!"

Mom stirred. Dad told me everything was fine and to go back to bed.

"No, Dad, you have to get up!"

At this point of the tale, it is important to note that the beer of choice at Bill O'Brien's house was Stroh's, always.

Hence, when my half-asleep father grumbled down the stairs and spied an upended can of Genny Cream Ale on the floor of the foyer, it got his attention.

"The hair on the back of my neck stood straight up," he would later recall.

The house was checked. Frazzled nerves persisted, particularly when my mother spied Romeo peeking through a front window, watching our movements. He bolted when he realized Mom saw him.

Dad called the cops, who called back about ten minutes later.

"We got him. What do you want us to do with him?"

"Scare the livin' shit out of him and take him home," said Dad.

And so it was.

After that night, Dad permanently located the Colt, now loaded--a complete departure from his previous habits--on his nightstand.

So there's a gun story. You want another gun story? Here.

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Dad and Great Gramp Doubler

circa 1942

circa 1945

circa 1950

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The best shutdown post you will ever read: a national park and the midnight marauders

Portion of Riverview Road in the CVNP where the Doubler Bros. farm once stood.

The Cuyahoga Valley National Park (CVNP) is Ohio's only national park. And while the GOV shutdown has the CVNP closed for business, this place has been on my mind plenty this summer and so I thought I'd blog about it, if for no other reason than to wield whatever power I may have in this nationwide debacle.

Back in the 1970's when the Park Commission came through to organize the CVNP, it was unpopular to say the least among the farmers and families that populated the more than 30,000 acres that would become the park. Their land was purchased under an eminent domain mandate.

Plenty of angered families returned to their property after the deals were signed and the keys were handed over to strip whatever they could from the soon-to-be-demolished structures.

And you can count my family among them.

Great Gramp Doubler had passed on by then and Gram was in a home, but the rest of the clan was plenty ambulatory and then some. I have only vague memories of that night when we all descended on the Doubler farm house and busted in through the cellar, but the event is crystal clear to my mom.

"We took everything we could lay our hands on," she recalls. "We were like a bunch of silly kids." Dad stripped walnut paneling from the dining room. Another faction dug up bushes and flowers. They pulled light fixtures from the walls. I remember roaming around furtively; after all, I was part of an outlaw gang. I wanted so badly to find some remnant--a tiny ceramic figure or mysterious jar, but there was nothing. Who cared about cabinet door pulls? The adults were acting crazy.

"It was one of the funniest things I ever remember doing," says Mom. "We took everything we could find." They filled the back of my cousin's truck and then we situated ourselves atop the loot and sped away gloriously into the night.

So goes history.

Nefarious activity notwithstanding, much of the 275-acre Doubler farm would become a nice chunk of the Cuyahoga Valley National Park, which is a profoundly emotional place for me. And while very few members of my family remain, I am damn glad that hallowed acreage is a park and not a parking lot.

Yeah, yeah. Now for some pix to verify that dirt's history.

That's my great Gramp Doubler, bottom left. His brother Dan is bottom right. Their mom is seated on the left next to some aunts. That's my great great great Gramp Vaughn upper left and my great great Gramp Doubler top right. This photo was taken circa 1895. The house in the background was built around 1850.

That original farm house survived the bulldozers and is still standing. I took this pic in 2007. My great Aunt Elaine (Dan Doubler's wife) lived here when I was a kid. She was in a wheel chair. I used to sit in the kitchen with her while she scooted around telling me stories and pouring glasses of lemonade. Toward the end, Aunt Elaine got a bit goofy and she would fire away at "woodchucks," which were perhaps both real and imagined. The walls were riddled with bullet holes.

That's my great Gram and Gramp Doubler in front of their barn. Great Gram Doubler was born in 1889, so I'd guess this was taken around 1920, give or take a few years. They were married in 1911. Before that, Gramp Doubler played semi-pro baseball.

The barn's long gone, but the stone ramp to the main barn door (you can see it in the pic above) remained until a couple of years ago. The Goat took this pic of me in 2007. At that time, I also took a rubbing of the "signature" on the left.

 

Great Gramp Doubler ran the farm with his brother Dan.

The Doubler Bros. calling card, front and back, which Mom preserved on a decoupaged plaque. To describe the map on the back as "not to scale" is (ahem) generous to say the least.

This was the house great Gram and Gramp Doubler lived in, and the one my kin ransacked back before the Park Commission demolished it. This house was right across the street (Riverview Road) from the barn and original farmhouse pictured above.

Great gram Doubler circa 1972 or '73. She was something: cooked most of her life on a woodfire stove, drank Southern Comfort and loved a good boxing match. I still have her 15" cast iron skillet ...

... and her blood in my veins.

Great Gram Doubler and yours truly, circa 1975 in the kitchen of the big farm house.

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