I first met Mrs. Joyce Wright in ‘74. I had signed up for a creative writing class and on the first day she called roll to see who was there and who wasn’t. (Calling roll on day one? What’s up with that? Cut me some slack.)

When she finished the roll, she asked who hadn’t been called and I raised my hand. She asked for my name and I told her, Dave Keliher. Now I can’t be sure but I thought I saw her wince just a bit. And considering my brother Alan had been wandering the halls of Crestwood for the past two years, I’m pretty sure she had a few opportunities to try and corral him and may not have been looking forward to another one in the school, let alone her class. I wasn’t sure what was next for me. Then she said, “You’re not on my list.”

“I signed up for the class and I’m gonna stay,” I said. “I want to write.”

She grew quiet. She looked at me. I looked at her through the hair hanging over my eyes.

Then she said, “Okay, you can stay.”

For the next eight months, or however long those classes ran, I did my best, and my worst, trying to write. (We also had a teacher strike a few months later. What a freaking mess that was, but at least I got to spend more time drinking Buds.)

I managed to pass enough classes and made it to eleventh grade. I signed up for English (or maybe I didn’t have a choice) but the good news was I had Joyce as my teacher. She and I had sort of a respect for each other by then. I was doing pretty well in the class. And then—Joyce was in the hospital. Just like that. We didn’t hear much. But I did miss her and was hoping she’d get back to us soon. We ended up with Mrs. Jaworski, who was kick ass in her own right. (Can I say “kick ass” in this forum? It is 2023 after all and if we can’t say it, what was the point of Lenny Bruce dying for my sins?)

The summer of ’76 Joyce got better and returned to school. I was in Mrs. Mary Margaret Ziobro’s. class (what a trip that was) and had become good friends with Joyce. I went to visit her at her house over near a golf course in Dearborn many times. We’d have lunch and talk about life—her growing up in a city run by Mayor Orville L. Hubbard and Henry Ford’s family. We also covered world politics, religion, and the meaning of the universe. She told me about going to Albion College, graduating too early…I think she may have been sixteen or seventeen…and then having to go to U of M for a masters to kill time before she began teaching. She got married, owned a donut shop, and had a couple of cool kids before she ended up in the classroom.

As I was saying, we talked a lot. And thankfully Joyce listened. I told her about dreams and goals and challenges. And when I was lost and slipping into the abyss…she was always there—whether it was a phone call, a letter, or a visit to her house…she was there, offering advice, sometimes just sitting there listening because she knew I needed someone to talk to, someone who cared. And sometimes she didn’t need to say anything. And she also had a beautiful smile and loved to laugh and play the piano. (Though she didn’t laugh when she played, which was a good thing. I mean, the only person I know who can get away with that is Donald O’Connor.)

And I know I’m not alone when I write these words about Joyce. There are many, many others who felt and feel the same way. Though she could be a stickler at times, that’s for sure, she was always honest and caring.

Like I said, there is a lot more I could write but I will end this with a story.

I worked at the Dearborn Drive-In Theater from the summer of ’74 until the winter of ’76. For years I thought I had the best job in the world because as a usher, I could walk around at night when the theater was quiet and drink Budweisers as I turned off the speakers in the summer, or picked up the heaters that were still running hot in the winter because people didn’t have the decency to turn them off before throwing them out window with their empty beer cans, Boone’s Farm and tequila bottles, half-eaten hot dogs, popcorn boxes, and condoms. (I guess drinking beers while catching a movie and getting paid for it was pretty cool. Some of that other stuff I could’ve done without.)

The summer of ’76 I asked Joyce Wright if she’d like to go to the Drive-In with me and she agreed. The movie was Gus, the football playing mule with Ed Asner and Don Knotts. (I think Ed played the mule but you may want to check that out for yourself.) I was driving to her house--I think it was on Cherry Hill. I do remember the road had a curve and as I went into it, a guy tried to pass me and clipped my car. I started to honk my horn because he wasn’t stopping. When he did stop and we got out to exchange info, he looked at my long hair and youth and said, “You know, if you push this and the cops get involved, who do you think they are going to believe?” And then smiled.

Instead of hitting him with a shovel I just turned the other cheek and went to get Joyce.

As I pulled into the drive-in Mark Graham was at the booth taking tickets. He leaned over to see who my guest was and he was gobsmacked.

I parked in the fifth row near the projection booth. We watched Gus kick some footballs and I’m pretty sure his team won. I also introduced her to Bob the projectionist and she got a tour of the booth at no extra charge. And I made sure to get her home by eleven.

There is a lot more I could write about her. But this is the important part. Joyce was a very dear friend of mine for forty-two years and she always will be. She was a second mom. (Now I don’t mean any disrespect to my mom. My mom is a great mom! I still talk to her on the phone every night which I have been doing for years. Heck, mom’s been part of my family, well, even before I was born. But that’s another story.)

And to Joyce Elaine Denecke Wright I say thank you, bless you, and I’m looking forward to catching up. We’ve got a lot to talk about.

Peace, Hugs, and Love,
Dave Keliher

I first met Mrs. Joyce Wight in ‘74. I had signed up for a creative writing class and on the first day she called roll to see who was there and who wasn’t. (Calling roll on day one? What’s up with that? Cut me some slack.)

When she finished the roll, she asked who hadn’t been called and I raised my hand. She asked for my name and I told her, Dave Keliher. Now I can’t be sure but I thought I saw her wince just a bit. And considering my brother Alan had been wandering the halls of Crestwood for the past two years, I’m pretty sure she had a few opportunities to try and corral him and may not have been looking forward to another one in the school, let alone her class. I wasn’t sure what was next for me. Then she said, “You’re not on my list.”

“I signed up for the class and I’m gonna stay,” I said. “I want to write.”

She grew quiet. She looked at me. I looked at her through the hair hanging over my eyes.

Then she said, “Okay, you can stay.”

For the next eight months, or however long those classes ran, I did my best, and my worst, trying to write. (We also had a teacher strike a few months later. What a freaking mess that was, but at least I got to spend more time drinking Buds.)

I managed to pass enough classes and made it to eleventh grade. I signed up for English (or maybe I didn’t have a choice) but the good news was I had Joyce as my teacher. She and I had sort of a respect for each other by then. I was doing pretty well in the class. And then—Joyce was in the hospital. Just like that. We didn’t hear much. But I did miss her and was hoping she’d get back to us soon. We ended up with Mrs. Jaworski, who was kick ass in her own right. (Can I say “kick ass” in this forum? It is 2023 after all and if we can’t say it, what was the point of Lenny Bruce dying for my sins?)

The summer of ’76 Joyce got better and returned to school. I was in Mrs. Mary Margaret Ziobro’s. class (what a trip that was) and had become good friends with Joyce. I went to visit her at her house over near a golf course in Dearborn many times. We’d have lunch and talk about life—her growing up in a city run by Mayor Orville L. Hubbard and Henry Ford’s family. We also covered world politics, religion, and the meaning of the universe. She told me about going to Albion College, graduating too early…I think she may have been sixteen or seventeen…and then having to go to U of M for a masters to kill time before she began teaching. She got married, owned a donut shop, and had a couple of cool kids before she ended up in the classroom.

As I was saying, we talked a lot. And thankfully Joyce listened. I told her about dreams and goals and challenges. And when I was lost and slipping into the abyss…she was always there—whether it was a phone call, a letter, or a visit to her house…she was there, offering advice, sometimes just sitting there listening because she knew I needed someone to talk to, someone who cared. And sometimes she didn’t need to say anything. And she also had a beautiful smile and loved to laugh and play the piano. (Though she didn’t laugh when she played, which was a good thing. I mean, the only person I know who can get away with that is Donald O’Connor.)

And I know I’m not alone when I write these words about Joyce. There are many, many others who felt and feel the same way. Though she could be a stickler at times, that’s for sure, she was always honest and caring.

Like I said, there is a lot more I could write but I will end this with a story. 

I worked at the Dearborn Drive-In Theater from the summer of ’74 until the winter of ’76. For years I thought I had the best job in the world because as a usher, I could walk around at night when the theater was quiet and drink Budweisers as I turned off the speakers in the summer, or picked up the heaters that were still running hot in the winter because people didn’t have the decency to turn them off before throwing them out window with their empty beer cans, Boone’s Farm and tequila bottles, half-eaten hot dogs, popcorn boxes, and condoms. (I guess drinking beers while catching a movie and getting paid for it was pretty cool. Some of that other stuff I could’ve done without.)

The summer of ’76 I asked Joyce Wright if she’d like to go to the Drive-In with me and she agreed. The movie was Gus, the football playing mule with Ed Asner and Don Knotts. (I think Ed played the mule but you may want to check that out for yourself.) I was driving to her house--I think it was on Cherry Hill. I do remember the road had a curve and as I went into it, a guy tried to pass me and clipped my car. I started to honk my horn because he wasn’t stopping. When he did stop and we got out to exchange info, he looked at my long hair and youth and said, “You know, if you push this and the cops get involved, who do you think they are going to believe?” And then smiled.

Instead of hitting him with a shovel I just turned the other cheek and went to get Joyce. 

As I pulled into the drive-in Mark Graham was at the booth taking tickets. He leaned over to see who my guest was and he was gobsmacked. 

I parked in the fifth row near the projection booth. We watched Gus kick some footballs and I’m pretty sure his team won. I also introduced her to Bob the projectionist and she got a tour of the booth at no extra charge. And I made sure to get her home by eleven. 

There is a lot more I could write about her. But this is the important part. Joyce was a very dear friend of mine for forty-two years and she always will be. She was a second mom. (Now I don’t mean any disrespect to my mom. My mom is a great mom! I still talk to her on the phone every night which I have been doing for years. Heck, mom’s been part of my family, well, even before I was born. But that’s another story.)

And to Joyce Elaine Denecke Wright I say thank you, bless you, and I’m looking forward to catching up. We’ve got a lot to talk about.

Peace, Hugs, and Love,
Dave Keliher

I first met Mrs. Joyce Wright in ‘74. I had signed up for a creative writing class and on the first day she called roll to see who was there and who wasn’t. (Calling roll on day one? What’s up with that? Cut me some slack.)

When she finished the roll, she asked who hadn’t been called and I raised my hand. She asked for my name and I told her, Dave Keliher. Now I can’t be sure but I thought I saw her wince just a bit. And considering my brother Alan had been wandering the halls of Crestwood for the past two years, I’m pretty sure she had a few opportunities to try and corral him and may not have been looking forward to another one in the school, let alone her class. I wasn’t sure what was next for me. Then she said, “You’re not on my list.”

“I signed up for the class and I’m gonna stay,” I said. “I want to write.”

She grew quiet. She looked at me. I looked at her through the hair hanging over my eyes.

Then she said, “Okay, you can stay.”

For the next eight months, or however long those classes ran, I did my best, and my worst, trying to write. (We also had a teacher strike a few months later. What a freaking mess that was, but at least I got to spend more time drinking Buds.)

I managed to pass enough classes and made it to eleventh grade. I signed up for English (or maybe I didn’t have a choice) but the good news was I had Joyce as my teacher. She and I had sort of a respect for each other by then. I was doing pretty well in the class. And then—Joyce was in the hospital. Just like that. We didn’t hear much. But I did miss her and was hoping she’d get back to us soon. We ended up with Mrs. Jaworski, who was kick ass in her own right. (Can I say “kick ass” in this forum? It is 2023 after all and if we can’t say it, what was the point of Lenny Bruce dying for my sins?)

The summer of ’76 Joyce got better and returned to school. I was in Mrs. Mary Margaret Ziobro’s. class (what a trip that was) and had become good friends with Joyce. I went to visit her at her house over near a golf course in Dearborn many times. We’d have lunch and talk about life—her growing up in a city run by Mayor Orville L. Hubbard and Henry Ford’s family. We also covered world politics, religion, and the meaning of the universe. She told me about going to Albion College, graduating too early…I think she may have been sixteen or seventeen…and then having to go to U of M for a masters to kill time before she began teaching. She got married, owned a donut shop, and had a couple of cool kids before she ended up in the classroom.

As I was saying, we talked a lot. And thankfully Joyce listened. I told her about dreams and goals and challenges. And when I was lost and slipping into the abyss…she was always there—whether it was a phone call, a letter, or a visit to her house…she was there, offering advice, sometimes just sitting there listening because she knew I needed someone to talk to, someone who cared. And sometimes she didn’t need to say anything. And she also had a beautiful smile and loved to laugh and play the piano. (Though she didn’t laugh when she played, which was a good thing. I mean, the only person I know who can get away with that is Donald O’Connor.)

And I know I’m not alone when I write these words about Joyce. There are many, many others who felt and feel the same way. Though she could be a stickler at times, that’s for sure, she was always honest and caring.

Like I said, there is a lot more I could write but I will end this with a story. 

I worked at the Dearborn Drive-In Theater from the summer of ’74 until the winter of ’76. For years I thought I had the best job in the world because as a usher, I could walk around at night when the theater was quiet and drink Budweisers as I turned off the speakers in the summer, or picked up the heaters that were still running hot in the winter because people didn’t have the decency to turn them off before throwing them out window with their empty beer cans, Boone’s Farm and tequila bottles, half-eaten hot dogs, popcorn boxes, and condoms. (I guess drinking beers while catching a movie and getting paid for it was pretty cool. Some of that other stuff I could’ve done without.)

The summer of ’76 I asked Joyce Wright if she’d like to go to the Drive-In with me and she agreed. The movie was Gus, the football playing mule with Ed Asner and Don Knotts. (I think Ed played the mule but you may want to check that out for yourself.) I was driving to her house--I think it was on Cherry Hill. I do remember the road had a curve and as I went into it, a guy tried to pass me and clipped my car. I started to honk my horn because he wasn’t stopping. When he did stop and we got out to exchange info, he looked at my long hair and youth and said, “You know, if you push this and the cops get involved, who do you think they are going to believe?” And then smiled.

Instead of hitting him with a shovel I just turned the other cheek and went to get Joyce. 

As I pulled into the drive-in Mark Graham was at the booth taking tickets. He leaned over to see who my guest was and he was gobsmacked. 

I parked in the fifth row near the projection booth. We watched Gus kick some footballs and I’m pretty sure his team won. I also introduced her to Bob the projectionist and she got a tour of the booth at no extra charge. And I made sure to get her home by eleven. 

There is a lot more I could write about her. But this is the important part. Joyce was a very dear friend of mine for forty-two years and she always will be. She was a second mom. (Now I don’t mean any disrespect to my mom. My mom is a great mom! I still talk to her on the phone every night which I have been doing for years. Heck, mom’s been part of my family, well, even before I was born. But that’s another story.)

And to Joyce Elaine Denecke Wright I say thank you, bless you, and I’m looking forward to catching up. We’ve got a lot to talk about.

Peace, Hugs, and Love,
Dave Keliher

Posted on: Jun 20, 2021 at 7:59 PM

Posted on: Jun 19, 2021 at 7:30 PM

Posted on: May 30, 2021 at 11:13 PM

One summer Tim had a social gathering somewhere over near the thumb of Michigan while we were still in high school. It was a campground or cottage or compound. Pretty sure it was something that began with a C.

Bill Gedert and I hitchhiked from Dearborn Heights, down the 94 freeway to gods only know where. And we hung out for a while with Tim and others, and then I told Bill I was gonna go home. I’m quite sure Tim told us we were welcome to crash at his pad but I didn’t want to overstay my welcome and declined. So Bill and I hitchhiked back home.

On our return I began to wonder if I we were going to live to see the next day. The sun was setting and as we traveled down the 94 through Detroit in whatever ride that had stopped for us. We couldn’t be too choosey, right? But the ride we were in had a driver that was a bit sketchy so when we saw a sign that said Outer Drive we said this is our stop. I figured even if we couldn’t get another ride we could walk home.

What we didn’t know then is that part of Outer Drive runs through Dearborn on the westside and then it curves around through Detroit and over near Chandler Park.

As we exited the car and started to walk I knew immediately we were not in Kansas anymore. We heard someone shout at us and we ran back toward the entrance ramp to the freeway and prayed as only an atheist can (which is not very good, by the way) that we’d get a fast ride fast.

Three days later we arrived back in Dearborn Heights. When I saw the Dearborn Drive-In Theater I fell to my knees and cried. Bill said, “What are you crying for? Drive-Ins are just a freakin’ dying fad. You knew that when we started to work here that one day it was going to be a Target.”
I said, “What’s a Target?”
He said, “I don’t know. It just looks like a great place for a strip mall.”

Well, Tim, I don’t think we ever saw you that trip in ’75 and in case you were wondering, we’re still alive and glad to see you are too.
-dave

That is a beautiful story! I mean about the parade. It made me laugh out loud. I love to laugh, but I don’t laugh out loud very often. Thank you. 

We have come so far in our treatment of people of all kinds. I am glad he benefited from that. And Underdog Rocks! 

Peace.

by the way, a while back I had the opportunity to read my book, Where Does Time Go? at Vroman's Bookstore in Pasadena. It's a short book. But a great book.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Uura8zWvhA
There's a link on youtube.
Peace.

Posted on: Sep 24, 2018 at 12:46 PM

i posted a memory for Mark Reid but this site isn't set up to send notifications when you post on someone else's site. I don't know html well enough so it could take a lot of new code and links to make that happen and I don't want to create more work. I'm glad this site is here and I recommend sending in a few bucks to support it. (I believe I had to send a check. Perhaps there could be a link to send in donations to for support?) Anyway, here is what I wrote about Mark Reid:

On this quiet Sunday morning my mind has drifted to Mark Reid. I don’t know of anyone who did not like him and appreciate his sense of humor. He was a funny guy.

One of my best memories was in…I think it was 8thgrade. (Hey, it’s been a while.) We had to debate the pros and cons of smoking pot. I was given the honor of extolling its virtues and he had to demonize it.

On the morning of the debate I stopped outside the Dearborn Drive-in, out front where the sign was, and amongst the shrubs and whatever was growing there, smoked a joint with some friends. (I thought at the time it would give me insight and bolster my argument. It didn’t.)

I don’t remember the outcome of the debate. (Hey, I was high, what can I say?) But a few years later Mark and I would be sharing a joint at some party or other and I’m glad I got to know him and appreciate his love of Monty Python and more.

Peace.