Posted on: Aug 15, 2024 at 10:16 AM
Hey there, Roy! Nice to see your picture. Hope you are well and happy. :-)
Posted on: Apr 23, 2024 at 7:18 AM
Congratulations on your retirement, Rick! Enjoy.
Rachel, So sorry to hear of your loss.
Have a wonderful day my friend.
I've known Scott since our elementary school days. Never once did I see him angry, upset only when it was justified from more than his own vantage point ... always considering others, even when we were kids. Always had a new idea to share, laugh to instigate a belly laugh, and love abounding. It is no surprise his life was full and rich -- he knew it and shared that with me last year. He deserved it, but didn't desere to leave us so soon. Bless all of his family and friends, the luckiest people on earth to have been a part of Scott's life. Please accept my deepest sympathies and my wish for comfort, strength and peace. His smiling face will always be in my memory and in my heart.
Posted on: Jan 05, 2024 at 7:59 AM
I know this is a long shot but did you know the Martin family? They lived on Kingsbury closer to Warren Ave. I graduated in 1972 and their daughter Vickie Martin was my best friend since 3rd grade in Highview. Over the years I’ve tried to find her so this is another effort to locate her. Thank you for any help you may have.
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
Hi Gail. Happy belated birthday. I hope you're doing well.