The Art of Being in the Right Place

THAT’S MY STORY!

the art of being in the right place at the right time

Jim Ackerman

CONFIDENTIAL

Preliminary Draft Manuscript

December 10, 2003

N.A. Rights ©Copyright MMIII • All Rights Reserved The content of this manuscript is the intellectual property of the author and may not be reproduced in any manner without the author’s written permission Jim Ackerman

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dedication ...... 3 Acknowledgements...... 4 Introduction ...... 5 Prologue ...... 8 Chapter One — God’s Acre...... 12 Chapter Two — From Laufersweiler to Ligonier ...... 16 Chapter Three — From Ligonier to Lima ...... 26 Chapter Four — From Lima to Lafayette ...... 44 Chapter Five — From Lafayette to Lieutenant ...... 51 Chapter Six — From Lieutenant to Lois ...... 65 Chapter Seven — From Lois to Loan Officer ...... 81 Chapter Eight — From Loan Officer to Leesville ...... 94 Chapter Nine — From Controller to Credit Cards ...... 108 Chapter Ten — From Credit Cards to Cable TV ...... 124 Chapter Eleven — From Cable TV to Communications Advisors ...... 155 Chapter Twelve — From Broker to Becker ...... 166 Chapter Thirteen — Becker’s Birth & Cardinal’s Creation ...... 188 Chapter Fourteen — Indianapolis Cablevision ...... 200 Chapter Fifteen — From Indy Cablevision to Investment Banking ...... 220 Chapter Sixteen — From Cardinal Communications to Cardinal Ventures ...... 242 Chapter Seventeen — Once a Boilermaker… ...... 256 Chapter Eighteen — A Member In Good Standing ...... 272 Chapter Nineteen — Driving It Home ...... 285 Chapter Twenty — Family and Future ...... 295 Conclusion ...... 306 Appendix ...... 308 Index ...... 309

2 That’s My Story!

DEDICATION

To my wife and life’s partner, Lois and to my family, past, present and future

3 Jim Ackerman

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to express my thanks to the following individuals and institutions without whose assistance the creation of this book would not have been possible:

Peter Weisz, my collaborator

Lois Ackerman, my wife

Barbara Nicholoff, my daughter

Robert Schloss, Omega Communications

The Cable Center, the University of Denver, Denver Colorado

The Federal Communications Commission

Kansas State University Telecommunications Center

The Indiana Historical Society

The Indiana Jewish Historical Society

Ancestry.com genealogy website

INTRODUCTION

t’s been said that we all have but one life to live, but I don’t buy it. I feel

that if a person is willing to open a book and read, there is no limit to the I number of lives that may be lived. I invite you to read the pages of this book, to sit in my place and, for a time, see the world through my eyes. Why do I want you to do this? That’s a darned good question.

I did not write this memoir to satisfy my ego or to boast of my success. As you will discover, most of my good fortune in life was the result of being in the right place at the right time. In other words…luck. Certainly I made decisions that helped me to take advantage of these lucky situations. But I really don’t believe that my story is suitable as a blueprint to be followed by someone wishing to achieve business or personal success. If it does so, that’s fine, but establishing myself as some sort of role model is not the main purpose of this book.

I did not write this biography to reveal insider gossip about some of the well- known individuals I’ve known over the years. I’ll leave that to the tabloids and to others.

5 Jim Ackerman

Except for a bit in the Conclusion, I’m really not interested in expounding on my political and religious views or promoting my personal philosophy of life. This book is no manifesto. It’s simply one man’s story. One very fortunate man.

My true and fundamental purpose in putting pen to paper and chronicling my life is this: I want my family to know who I am and, in some way, to learn who they are as well. Our family background can be traced back to the early Jewish communities of central Europe. This fact doesn’t make me any better than anyone else, but it does provide a context of where I stand in the flow of history. I believe it’s important for all people to understand how they are linked to those who went before. I hope this book will serve this purpose for the members of my family and any others who may be interested.

In the mid-nineteenth century, our family immigrated to the United States and settled in the unique Midwest community of Ligonier, Indiana. Unique because at one point, the town’s population was nearly fifty percent Jewish. I possess precious childhood memories of this vanished world and I believe they are worth sharing. I hope that you’ll agree.

Like many young Americans, after having completed military service during

World War II and the Korean War, I saw myself standing at the threshold of a new era; one full of promise and opportunity. Like many of my peers who sought to establish a new postwar reality, I became part of what some have called the Greatest Gen- eration. I married Lois, my life partner, and began raising a family. As I established my business career I soon came into contact with an emerging technology that would serve to influence the remainder of my life, Cable Television. As my activities in this

6 That’s My Story! industry led me into the world of finance and investment banking, I was fortunate to have a ringside seat to one of the most explosive business phenomena in American history. As a result, I hold memories of unforgettable episodes that I wish to preserve in an honest historical record. This book seeks to fulfill that purpose.

Finally, I have a few personal reasons for creating this testimony of my life’s odyssey. Like most men who reach age eighty, I have started to consider my own mortality. If an interest should exist, after I depart this world, in my life and in my career, I’d like to be the author of what future generations read about me. Not because

I’m trying to sweep anything under the rug, but because I believe that no one can better tell my story than me. I have tried to be complete and concise in recounting my life’s journey. I’ve included both the good times and the not so good and can honestly say, I’ve presented the whole story. As you hold this volume, it’s no exaggeration to say that: “My life is in your hands!”

So, thank you for trying on my life for the short time it will take you to read these pages. I hope that you’ll find it stimulating and of some value. And, if any of it sounds unbelievable…as it says on the cover, That’s My Story…and I’m sticking to it.

Jim Ackerman

August 2003

7 Jim Ackerman

PROLOGUE T

he backseat was our domain. My little brother, Danny, and I had by now surveyed ev-

ery square inch of the big Buick’s spacious backseat — from the armrests to the ash-

trays. While we could, if we so chose, listen in on Mom and Dad’s conversation in

the front seat, we somehow believed that the backseat was our private territory and

that they were unable hear our chatter. As a curious nine-year old, I was constantly

bouncing from one side of the Buick’s backseat to the other, — pointing out a water

tower on the right, a painted barn on the left to Danny, five years my junior.

By now, the road had become a familiar one. I knew almost every turn of the 104-

mile journey from our home in Lima, Ohio to the Indiana hamlet of Ligonier where

our family had first laid down roots after emigrating from Germany back before the

Civil War. My Dad, Joe Ackerman, would pack us all up on the second Saturday of

each month to make the three-hour trip to visit his parents, Ferd and Blanche back in

Ligonier. Although as I got older, this monthly ritual became something of a chore, at

this point I was excited by the lure of the open road and considered it an adventure. In

those days before auto A.C., I loved feeling the wind in my face as the Buick sped

westward along Highway 33 through Ft. Wayne and towards Ligonier, a picture post-

8 That’s My Story! card of a town that seemed, even to my young eyes, to have been more or less untouched by the ravages of the Great Depression.

Pulling up to the house, I could see my grandfather waiting for us on the porch.

He’d instruct us to wash off our road dust and hurry to the kitchen where my grandmother had laid out her home-baked cookies and coffee cake. Both Dad and Grandpa were businessmen — descended from the Schloss and Mier families who were among the founders of Ligonier’s renowned Jewish community. Along with the Straus family they had founded a large portion of the town’s business, financial and civic institutions. Grandpa Ferd had traded in real estate until his early retirement some eighteen years earlier. Dad was a merchant like his uncle Ben who ran the Ackerman Mercan- tile Company, a mini-department store in nearby Albion, the Noble County seat. Dad was in the wholesale seed business, doing business with the local farmers in Lima,

Ohio. Both men shared a passion. They loved to invest in the stock market.

So it was that after downing the last cup of coffee and some of Grandma’s delicious “schnecken” (round yeast cakes), both men would retire to the parlor and dis- cuss Wall Street and share their latest investment tips. I loved listening in on these chats and although there was much I didn’t understand, I got the general idea. First you picked an industry and studied it. It helped if was an industry you worked in, but part of the fun was making money in businesses you’d never get mixed up with like motion pictures or cattle breeding. Next you selected a few companies and studied them from top to bottom. You might even buy a single share just so you’d be sent the company’s quarterly reports. Then you studied the numbers: the P & L, the balance sheet, the history of the stock price, how much money the president was paid and so

9 Jim Ackerman on. Finally, you selected a stock and held on to it. There were no hit-and-run profits here. If you bought a stock that meant you believed in the company and you were in it for the long haul.

I guess I absorbed a thing or two sitting there listening to Grandpa and Dad every month because by the time I was fifteen I had saved up enough money from my magazine route to make my first purchase — twenty shares of Sinclair Oil. It turned out to be a good investment — just as I had anticipated — and I was delighted when I was able to sell it years later at a substantial profit.

Those Saturday afternoons in my grandparents’ parlor ignited a passion within me that burns to this day. It’s the excitement you feel when you’ve picked your favorite team and they score the winning point. It’s the thrill you feel when you’ve spotted something that others have overlooked — and that something turns out to be prof- itable. It’s learning that sometimes you play a hunch and other times a hunch plays you. And it’s believing that as long as you put a limit on your downside and place no limit on your upside, anything is possible.

And of course, what made the whole process so fascinating was the unknown ele- ment. No matter how much you prepare and study, when you put your money at risk, you have to expect the unexpected. And that requires a share or two of luck. I soon discovered that sometimes being lucky was better than being smart. The trick was always to maximize your odds of getting lucky by positioning yourself properly. I learned to cultivate my good luck by being receptive to it. I came to learn that you can’t expect something to fall into your lap if you’re always standing up looking the other way.

In the years to follow I would often exercise the investment principals I first absorbed from my family in Ligonier. These principals served me well and contributed to whatever financial success I have managed to achieve over the years. How much of that success was due to sound thinking and how much to sheer luck, I’ll leave that for you to decide. As you read the pages that follow, you’ll discover that at several key points I managed to be in just the right place at just the right time. That much was, of course, good luck. But, recognizing my good fortune at the time and then acting upon it— well, maybe that required some skill and even a bit of what may be termed art.

I was a fortunate son in many ways. I was blessed with parents who I loved and respected and who taught me values that have served me well in life. They ingrained within me a strong work ethic and a sense of common decency that molded me into the man I was to become. As I reflect on the business deals in which I participated over the years — mergers, IPOs, acquisitions — I can’t help but think back to that couch in Grandpa’s parlor where I sat listening and wide-eyed and developed my earliest appreciation for the art of being in the right place at the right time.

11 Jim Ackerman

CHAPTER ONE — GOD’S ACRE

ike many American families, ours is deeply rooted in the earth of central Eu- Lrope. Exactly how and when the first Ashkenazi Jews arrived to the fertile Al- sace region of what is now Germany is not clearly known although a Jewish presence is believed to date back to Roman times. The oldest Jewish tombstone from the area is dated 1224. Agriculture was developed by this time and many of the French and

Germanic words spoken by Alsatians derived their meanings from the cultivation of the soil. The German word “acker” referred to the amount of cultivated land a single ox could plow in a single day. “Acker” is the equivalent of the English word “acre” and in modern German means “plowed field.” The courtyard surrounding a German church became known as “Gottsacker” or God’s Acre. Although it was the word

“acker” that our family selected as the basis for a required family name during the first decade of the 19th century, it was unlikely that they and the other Jews of Kerch- berg, Lindenscheid, Colmar, Gemünden and other villages near Cologne actually engaged in much plowing of the earth. Since the Emancipation decree of 1791, which

12 That’s My Story! allowed Jews to once again reside in the cities, they were giving up their agrarian pur- suits and transforming into small merchants. By the time that the Jews of Alsace were ordered by Napoleonic decree to adopt so-called “Christian” names to facilitate the state’s ability to tax them,“Ackerman” was already an established surname.

While in some parts of Europe Jews were required to “purchase” a surname, in the

Germanic regions of Alsace this was not the case. In the spirit of the Emancipation,

Jews were permitted to freely choose a name from an approved list. These names were intended to meld Jews into the Germanic population and were often common

Christian names. So when our family’s earliest known ancestor, Joseph of Kerch- berg, selected the name Ackerman, it was probably not because he worked at plowing the fields. He probably liked the sound of the name. Or quite possibly he was demon- strating his disdain for the whole practice and simply selected at random one of the first names on the alphabetically arranged list. Whatever his reasons, Joseph Acker- man’s name appeared on the tax records of Kerchberg, Germany beginning in 1808.

With the exception of a few years in the 1970’s during which time I was able to enjoy the tax sheltering benefits of the Cable TV business, the Ackermans have been paying taxes ever since.

Sadly, the history of the Jews of Alsace is written mostly in blood and tears. Since their arrival to the region during Roman times, through the persecutions of the middle ages up through their decimation during the Holocaust, the Jews of this region have endured more than their share of religious hatred and abuse. One of the earliest recorded outrages actually took place twice. The entire Jewish population of Rufach, some 650 souls, was massacred by sword and fire on January 13, 1298 and again on

13 Jim Ackerman

Jan. 25, 1338 after the community had been re-established. The killing ground where the bloodletting took place is still known as Judenmatt Meadow today.

On February 14, 1349, St. Valentine’s Day, the entire Jewish population of Stras- bourg, 2,000 men women and children, were publicly burned alive. A few managed to save themselves by agreeing to be Baptized. Children were snatched from the flames by onlookers and Baptized on the spot. A similar mass murder had taken place in Colmar on December 29 of the prior year.

Between 1336 and 1339 a terrorist band of peasants, under the leadership of a vi- cious Jew-hater who dubbed himself Koenig Armleder (King Leather-arm), attacked and plundered Jewish communities throughout Alsace.

For the next five hundred years the Jews of Alsace, along with their fellow Jews in many areas of Europe, endured alternating waves of acceptance and repression at the hands of their Christian neighbors. Pogroms, blood libel, inquisitions forced Jews out of urban areas into the countryside where they could secretly construct synagogues and continue their traditions in hiding. During these long centuries, political control of Alsace changed hands many times between Germany and France, with the region falling under French control in 1648 under the Treaty of Westphalia.

It was into a period of relative tolerance into which Joseph Ackerman, my great- great grandfather was born. Under the Emancipation, in the wake of the French Revo- lution, Jews were, for the first time, to be afforded citizenship, although their rights to own property and enter into certain professions was still highly curtailed.

Joseph Ackerman no doubt witnessed the construction of Kerchberg’s first synagogue — one of the over 175 such “shuls” to go up in the area during this period.

While Jews continued to gain more civil rights during the first half of the 19th Centu- ry, they were still subjected to religious hatred and discrimination. They also became subject to taxation, military conscription and other unpleasant aspects of their new- found citizenship. Instead of being “emancipated,” most Jews began to feel chained down by the limits imposed on their economic freedom. By the 1840’s, oppressed

Jews from throughout central Europe began a wave of migration that brought 150,000

German Jews to the shores of the “goldeneh medinah” — known as America.

Most immigrants from Alsace were young, educated and entrepreneurial members of established families, not the transient poor known as the Betteljuden (begging

Jews) that filled the steerage compartments of the transatlantic vessels of the day. Ris- ing anti-Semitism in Germany after the Revolution of 1848 fueled an expanding exo- dus of Jews from all strata of European society. Jewish flight from central Europe was also hastened as a result of the Irish potato famine in the mid 1840’s. Starving

Irish immigrants flooded the towns of Alsace and were given jobs that had been taken away from Jews. Finally, the Matrikel laws prevailing in southern Germany set a quo- ta on the number of Jews permitted residence in any given district, forcing those who wished to start a family to leave their home communities. In all likelihood, it was one or more of these factors that prompted one of Joseph Ackerman’s sons, Isaac, my great-grandfather, to bid farewell to the Old World and to join the “huddled masses, yearning to breathe free.”

15 Jim Ackerman

CHAPTER TWO — FROM LAUFERSWEILER TO LIGONIER

saac Ackerman was born in 1836 in the town of Kerchberg that, by this time, I was considered part of Prussia. He arrived to the U.S. in 1850. Given his youth it may be presumed that he was fleeing conscription into the Prussian military that was known to forcibly induct Jewish boys as soon as they reached the age of 14. The migration from Isaac’s community to America had begun two years earlier, in 1848, when two men, Solomon Mier from Kerchberg and Frederick William Straus of nearby Laufersweiler, first arrived on American soil.

While many German Jewish immigrants (about 65,000) settled along America’s

Eastern seaboard, wealthier émigrés could afford to probe further inland, avoiding the crowded cities and seeking out cheap farmland and this bustling new land’s many other economic opportunities. Mier and Straus quickly understood that the country’s rapidly expanding railroads were carrying the future of the American economy. They believed that fortunes could be made by following the long steel tracks that paved the

16 That’s My Story! path of America’s westward expansion. At this point the major industrial centers of the country were being linked by a new network of railroad lines. The two newcom- ers observed that the rail route from New York to Chicago had reached Toledo and had to now pass through northern portion of a place called Indiana — so that’s where the two headed. Selecting a region of the state that reminded them of the topography and climate of their Alsatian homeland, Mier and Straus settled on the relatively flat, lake-studded region of northeast Indiana, probably arriving first to Fort Wayne where the town’s first formal synagogue had just opened its doors in 1848.

Once settled, the two men sent for their families and as word spread back in Alsace of the vast opportunities available in the new world, they were soon joined by other

Jewish pioneers — among them, my great-grandfather, Isaac Ackerman.

Working as business partners, Mier and Straus began as pack peddlers, calling on the remote farmhouses that dotted the Indiana landscape. Young Isaac joined the enterprise and soon met Solomon Mier’s attractive young sister, Harriet, who had recently arrived to America from Lindenschied. The two would marry before the outbreak of the Civil War, but not before an important event would profoundly effect the direction of their transplanted community.

One hot summer’s day in 1853 the two young and ambitious pack peddlers, Mier and Straus, found themselves in the small village of Wawaka, Indiana. Having both studied English while still in Europe, they were able to read the local newspaper with no difficulty. The headline heralded the news that the Lake Shore and Michigan

Southern Railroad, currently constructing a rail line towards Chicago, would soon

17 My Great Grandfather Isaac Ackerman's US Naturalization Certificate. July, 1860. Jim Ackerman open a depot station in nearby Ligonier. Advertisements solicited railway workers to help build and work at the new station. It appeared to Mier and Straus that tiny Ligo- nier, population 300, could easily become a staging area for Chicago’s burgeoning meat processing industry. Ligonier was going to become the next railroad boomtown.

This was their opportunity to “get in on the ground floor” and they decided to investi- gate. Solomon Mier and F.W. Straus walked the six miles to Ligonier and after one look decided to move their little German Jewish colony to this sleepy village — soon to be awakened by the whistle and rumble of steam locomotives. The two peddlers arrived in Ligonier in 1854, along with family members and countrymen — including

18-year-old Isaac and his bride-to-be, Harriet, my great-grandparents—and thereby founded a Jewish community that was to flourish for the next hundred years.

The village of Ligonier itself had been founded by a German Mennonite or Amish farmer by the name of Isaac Cavin in 1835 who named the new town after his birth- place, Lingonier, Pennsylvania. (the latter having been named after the commander of British military forces during the French and Indian War). Amish westward migration, driven by the search for affordable farmland, had brought them to Northeast In- diana where their descendents still live today. Mier and Straus’s assessment of Ligo- nier’s growth potential turned out to be correct. The railroad, connecting Toledo to

Chicago, was completed in 1857 and spurred rapid agricultural and industrial expansion. By 1865 the town’s population had almost quadrupled to 1,100.

The German Jewish families who re-settled in Ligonier found an atmosphere of religious tolerance among the Amish of Noble County. This fact, no doubt, had influ- enced Mier and Straus’s decision to settle there. As the town grew, F.W. Straus soon

18 That’s My Story! opened a small general store on Calhoun Street and by 1860 his enterprise had grown sufficiently to allow him to bring his brothers Mathias and Jacob to Indiana from

Prussia.

Meanwhile, Isaac Ackerman, continued peddling pots and pans to the rural resi- dents situated around Ligonier. My father used to tell the story about the time his

Grandpa Isaac called upon the Yoder farm one day. Isaac, who had been suffering with a lame horse, spotted a fine healthy animal belonging to Farmer Yoder.

“Why not we trade horses, Mr. Yoder,” suggested Isaac.

“Sure, why not?” came the reply. “Of course, you’ll have to pay me a little something to make up for the difference in value.”

“Oh, sure,” said Isaac. “What about two dollars?” Yoder agreed to the price and

Grandpa Isaac wrote out an I.O.U. slip and handed it to Mr. Yoder. Yoder looked at it and handed it back to Isaac with a laugh saying: “I don’t need a blessed thing to remind me when somebody owes me money. You better keep that slip to remind yourself and make sure you don’t forget my two bucks!”

As the Jewish community of Ligonier grew, so did its assimilation into the mainstream civic and cultural life of the city. Instead of engendering resentment, as it had done in Europe, the Jews’ growing prosperity gained the respect and admiration of their gentile neighbors. This excerpt from a tome called A History of Noble County written in 1882 by a Weston A. Goodspeed (?) illustrates the prevailing attitudes of the day:

Soon after the growth of the village underwent a revival thanks to the … railroad that now passed through town, quite a number of the shrewdest and

19 Jim Ackerman

business-like and prosperous class of people, known as Jews, established themselves at Ligonier and the population and business within five years quadrupled. The Jews with plenty of money have continued to come until no town in Indiana of the same size contains as high a number of these excellent people. The beauty, amiability and grace of the (Jewish) Ligonier ladies is proverbial. Myers (sic) and Straus dealings in clothings and dry goods began business about 1854.

Like F.W. Straus, Solomon Mier also opened a dry goods store directly across the street from Straus’s. Arriving to town as business partners in 1854, the two founders of the Ligonier Jewish community had a falling out during the early 1860’s and became bitter rivals and lifelong enemies. Both achieved success and prosperity during the Civil War and by 1868, the Straus brothers founded the Citizens Bank of Ligonier on Cavin Street. Not to be outdone, Mier countered with the Banking House of

Solomon Mier just a half-block south and catty-cornered from Citizens Bank. The two men eventually became the city’s foremost financial figures as their rivalry fueled the town’s economic and cultural development. As the Straus Brothers Co. moved into real estate; so, too, did the Mier-Ackerman-Schloss contingent. Later both parties began to manufacture carriages and buggies - and just after the turn of the century the Strauses moved on to newfangled automobiles — producing the classy

“Runabout” touring car.

The rivalry between Mier and Straus took a personal turn. There were no mar- riages between first and second-generation members of the two families. While the

Straus good fortunes were largely due to the joint efforts of the three brothers, Mier was not assisted by any family members until his sons reached maturity and instead formed alliances with other immigrant families — most notably the Ackermans and the Schlosses.

Great-grandfather Isaac Ackerman became successful at buying and selling farm real estate and soon sent for his brothers Solomon, Michael and Simon to join him in

America. In 1865 Isaac was elected Vice-president of the newly founded synagogue,

Congregation Ahavath Shalom (Lovers of Peace) which aligned itself with the emerging Reform movement in America. Reform Judaism is a progressive denomination that does not demand strict observance of Jewish Talmudic law and seeks to adapt historic Judaism to the needs of the modern world.

Despite the feuding during this period, with the Straus family on one side and the

Mier-Ackerman-Schloss families on the other, both factions managed to agree on their devotion to Reform Judaism and were instrumental in building, in 1871, a small frame synagogue on Main Street. In 1888, they again underwrote the $15,000 construction cost of a larger and more elaborate brick temple. Today the Temple building houses the museum of the Ligonier Historical Society. The Mier and Straus families each donated one of the four stained glass windows that may be seen in the building today.

Isaac and Harriet Ackerman settled in nearby Spencerville where they raised six children including my grandfather, Ferdinand, who was born in 1862. Ferd’s two brothers were Simon and Ben and his three sisters were named Hattie, Tillie and Fan- ny. Ferd and brother Simon continued in their father’s farm real estate business and became quite successful during the years leading up to World War I. They operated in

Indiana, Ohio, Michigan and Canada with their headquarters office in the Penobscot

Building in Detroit. Shortly before the outbreak of the Great War, Ferd, at age 51, de-

21 Jim Ackerman cided to retire from the business. He walked into Simon’s office one summer’s day in

1913 and announced:

“I’m getting out, Simon. I’m cashing in my chips and going fishing.”

“But, why!?” asked his incredulous brother.

“Lots of reasons, but mainly because of the McClinton Farm deal up in Canada,” replied Ferd.

“What do you mean?” demanded Simon.

“We just brokered a sale of the place for $250 an acre. We also loaned the buyer

$200 an acre to buy the place and took back a mortgage note.”

“So what’s the problem?” asked Simon.

“The land is only worth $125 an acre! We made a great sales commission, but now we’ve got all this exposure. If the buyer should default we’ll be left holding the bag.

You can keep this up if you want to, but I don’t want to take these kind of risks with my money.”

Ferd was as good as his word. He cashed out for $25,000 and spent the next 27 years fishing at nearby Lake Wawasee. Between fishing trips, Grandpa built up his net worth by making a series of smart investments in the stock market throughout the

Depression years. He left behind a small fortune that enabled his widow, Blanche

(née Schloss) to live in luxury until her death in 1961. Simon was able to stay in business without his brother Ferd for only two more years before going bankrupt.

Blanche was Grandpa Ferd’s second wife. Ferd’s first wife was Blanche’s sister,

Bella — my biological grandmother. Ferd married his first wife, Bella Schloss on

June 21, 1892. One year later, almost to the day, Bella gave birth to my father, Joseph

Ferdinand Ackerman in Ligonier. Eight years afterward, on February 3, 1901, Bella, aged 31, was set to give birth to her second child. As Ferd and little Joseph waited for the new arrival, they sat in the family parlor listening to Bella read aloud from her favorite novel, Little Women by Louise Mae Alcott. Bella stopped reading suddenly, put down the book and gave Ferd a look that said “Now’s the time.” Ferd sent for the doctor who arrived and, after examining Bella, quietly advised Ferd that there were serious complications. Given the state of medical science at the time and the re- sources they had at hand, there was little hope. Neither mother nor baby survived the childbirth.

Bella was survived by her two twin sisters, Blanche and Hattie Schloss. The three sisters were the daughters of Leopold and Amelia Schloss. Amelia was born Amelia

Straus in Gemunden, Germany and was the cousin of F.W. Straus, one of the founders of the Ligonier Jewish community. Amelia married Leopold Schloss who had been born in Lindenschied in 1842 and emigrated to Ligonier during the 1850’s

— in the same wave that brought my other great-grandfather, Isaac Ackerman, to

America. Leopold Schloss was actually born Leonard Schloss, but upon his arrival to

American soil he was informed by an immigration official that the name Leonard was

“too Germanic.” The officer advised Leonard to change it to something more Ameri- can-sounding and suggested the name “Leopold.” Great-grandpa agreed and from then on became known as Leopold Schloss. After a few years in America, Great-

23 Jim Ackerman grandpa Leopold invited his brother to join him. The brother soon arrived from Prus- sia and made his way to Ligonier where Leopold Schloss introduced him to the community as his newly arrived brother named…Leopold Schloss! Born as “Leopold and

Leonard” back in the old country, here in America both brothers now were named

Leopold. Evidently the situation became entirely too confusing and, after a few years,

Leopold the Second returned back to Europe.

In the wake of their anguish over the loss of their daughter, Bella, during childbirth, Leopold (the First) and Amelia maintained a close relationship with their wid- ower son-in-law, my grandfather Ferd Ackerman. They encouraged Ferd to become friendly with one of their remaining twin daughters, Blanche. In a twist on Jewish

Talmudic la w that requires an unmarried man to wed his brother’s widow, Grandpa

Ferd courted and married the sister of his late wife. Ferd married Blanche Schloss two years after Bella’s death. They had one child together, my uncle Alfred.

Now here’s where it gets a bit confusing. Ferd’s brother and erstwhile business partner, Simon Ackerman, decided to marry the other Schloss twin sister, Hattie. So, at the end of the day, two brothers wound up marrying three sisters, two of whom were twins. And, oh yes, Hattie Ackerman became her very own sister-in-law! (see family tree in Appendix).

With the passing of Mier and Straus, leadership at their respective banks passed to their sons. A.B. Mier took over as president of his father's bank, which had been renamed Mier State Bank. It proudly announced in November 1919 that it had become a "million dollar bank," with assets of $1,005,486. Likewise, Isaac ‘Ike’ Straus, son of Jacob, became president of Citizens Bank.

In a move that finally ended the long rivalry, Citizens and Mier State Bank announced on Nov. 29, 1928, that the two institutions would merge to form the Ameri- can State Bank with assets of approximately $2 million.

The two leading officers of the new bank were A.B. Mier, who was named president, and bachelor Abe Ackerman serving as chairman of the board. Abe, born in

1867, was the son of Isaac Ackerman’s brother, Solomon. Interestingly, Abe was aligned with the Strauses at Citizen’s Bank and not with the Mier family. Their joining forces marked the end of an era of animosity. It also served to produce a very strong financial institution. The new American State Bank, unlike many of similar size, remained solvent and kept its doors open through the darkest days of the Depres- sion.

It was during this period that Abe’s brother, Ben Ackerman, born in 1879, expand- ed the family’s business activities to the town of Lima, Ohio, 104 miles to the east of

Ligonier. It was there that he, along with a cousin, Max Hyman, founded the Acker- man Seed Company, a wholesale grain elevator that purchased wheat, corn and seed from local farmers and re-sold it to buyers across the country. It was this company that would draw our family to Lima, Ohio — the town where I was born.

25 Jim Ackerman

CHAPTER THREE — FROM LIGONIER TO LIMA

tarting in the 1920’s the “Diaspora” or dispersion of Ligonier’s Jewish commu- Snity picked up speed. As the second and third generations reached maturity, and as their families developed the means to send their children to boarding schools and universities, fewer and fewer chose to remain at the Ligonier homestead. My father, Joseph, always hungered to get out and see the world. As a teenager he would ride horseback the 15 mile stretch to Albion, the county seat, to visit with Grandpa

Ferd’s brother, Ben (not to be confused with cousin Ben Ackerman in Lima, Ohio) and his family. Ben operated a very successful department store in Albion, the Ackerman

Mercantile Company, and that’s where Dad picked up much of his strong salesman- ship ability. After attending Howe Military Academy in Howe, Indiana during his final year of high school, Dad was drafted into the U.S. Army in 1917. He was sta-

26 That’s My Story! tioned at the remount station in San Antonio, Texas where he was responsible for breaking in horses for the U.S. Cavalry.

After the Great War, Dad spent one year at the University of Illinois in Champagne and then went to work for one of the family businesses, the Wertheimer Seed Compa- ny. The Wertheimers followed founders Mier and Straus to Ligonier in 1854. They had married into the Mier family and prospered in the grain, seed and wool trades.

Their business territory stretched across Indiana and Ohio and Dad was sent out on the road selling seed and feed grain to Midwestern small-town grain elevators.

In 1922 Dad found himself calling on buyers in the hard-bitten farm town of Defi- ance, Ohio. As he did in most towns he visited, the young man sought out whatever

Jewish community he could find. In Defiance he met an older seed dealer, Daniel

Lieberthal. Mr. Lieberthal, aged 66, had emigrated from Minsk in Latvia as the second wave of Jewish immigration, this time from Eastern Europe, reached America’s shores in the late 1880’s. He traced his family roots back to Holland where they were known by the name Van Lieberthal. At some point the family settled in Latvia where the name was changed to Vonlieberthal and upon coming to America, Daniel dropped the “von” and the name became simply Lieberthal.

Sadie, Daniel’s wife, aged 58, was born in Syracuse, New York as Sarah Wendell.

They wed in 1880 in Michigan City, Michigan and lived for a time in remote Iron

Mountain where Daniel operated a department store. The couple found the climate in

Iron Mountain disagreeable and made their way to Defiance, Ohio where they set to work building a successful seed business. Dad was impressed with Mr. Lieberthal’s varied business activities that included trading in cattle hides and scrap iron as well as

27 Jim Ackerman his interests in scrap paper. As Dad and Mr. Lieberthal roamed the large scrap iron yard behind the expansive family home, Dad learned that Mr. Lieberthal’s brother was the well-respected Chicago dermatologist, Dr. David Lieberthal, and became even further impressed by this family’s many achievements since arriving in Ameri- ca. But Dad was most impressed by one of Daniel and Sadie Lieberthal’s three children — their strikingly beautiful 24-year-old daughter, Miriam — who would become my mother. Joe was smitten with this small-town beauty with her polished and cosmopolitan demeanor. Miriam, for example, was an accomplished classical pianist and was quite proud of the fact that she had studied at the famed Chicago Conservatory of

Music.

As Dad got to know the family he became familiar with some of Mr. Lieberthal’s habits. As they strolled and chatted, Dad observed Mr. Lieberthal’s ever-present tobacco pouch emerge at regular intervals from the older man’s pocket. Mr. Lieberthal smoked the equivalent of three packs of cigarettes daily, deftly rolling each one by hand. Despite this lifelong habit, Grandpa Lieberthal reached the ripe age of eighty- eight.

Dad learned that the senior gentleman still made the daily walk to his office and warehouse some two blocks from his home. He would walk home for lunch and take a quick nap before returning to work in the afternoon. Most evenings Mr. Lieberthal, a 33rd degree Mason, would stroll over to the Masonic or to the Elks Lodge where he would play cards until 10 or 11 PM. Upon returning home, he would often engage

Sadie in a round of pinochle for another hour or so before retiring. One evening, as

Dad and Mr. Lieberthal were strolling back to the house, Dad asked for Miriam’s hand in marriage.

“Aren’t you rushing things a bit?” asked Mr. Lieberthal as he grabbed a clump of

Turkish tobacco and rolled it into a piece of tissue thin paper.

“I’m almost thirty years old, sir and Miriam just turned twenty-four,” Dad replied,

“I figure it’s about time for both of us to settle down.”

“She’s used to a pretty comfortable life and loves new clothes, Joe. She’s not going to be cheap to keep up with. Do you have any prospects?”

“Well, sir,” answered Dad, “I’ve got quite a bit saved up and there’s an opportunity for me to buy into a terrific grain dealership in Lima. It’ll be a lot of work, but if it’s handled right, it could turn into a real gold mine.”

Grandpa Lieberthal thought highly of the earnest young man who had proven himself to be hard working and honest in all their dealings. He gladly extended his blessings to the young couple without hesitation.

Within six months of their meeting, Joe had married Miriam in Defiance and they settled in Lima, Ohio. Two years later, on March 12, 1924, Mom gave birth to me, their first son, James Ferdinand Ackerman. I was a third generation American on my mother’s side and a fifth generation on my father’s — I guess that made me the Al- l-American boy. My Dad soon began calling me Jim and it stuck. I’ve been just plain

Jim ever since.

As he had discussed with Grandpa Leiberthal, Dad had bought out the interests of his cousin, Max Hyman in the Lima grain elevator business. Thus he found himself in

29 Jim Ackerman partnership with another cousin, Ben Ackerman and together they renamed the operation the Ackerman Seed Company. The company dealt in farm seed such as clover, timothy and alfalfa and soon became respected as an industry leader and innovator. In the 1930’s the Ackerman Seed Company was one of the first to import soybean seeds from China and Manchuria. A move that launched an entirely new American agricultural market as the wonders of this product were uncovered.

After the fall harvest, local farmers in and around Lima would typically sell off the seeds they did not require for their own use to a nearby small-town grain elevator.

The Ackerman Seed Company purchased this product from dozens of small-town dealers and then stored it in their large storage elevator in Lima. There it would be cleaned, processed into 180 lb. bags and placed into their storage bins for the winter.

As the market for seeds re-emerged in the spring, the company sold its inventory to national distributors such as Scott Seed as well as back to the same elevators they bought from. to growers around the country. Normally, the re-sale price contained a profit margin that covered their expenses and left them a small profit. Farm seed, however, was a commodity item. This meant that the business was always exposed to market fluctuations. There were several years when seed prices would drop dramati- cally over the winter leaving my Dad and his partner with a painful loss for the year.

Eventually the company branched out into grain, purchasing corn, for example from local growers and re-selling it to large food processors like Kellog’s. A Christ- mas gift package from the Kellog’s company was annual fixture in our kitchen as I was growing up. The Ackerman Seed Company also offered a grain cleaning, sizing and separation service. For seed to become suitable for sale or storage it first had to

30 That’s My Story! be processed. Farmers would pay a service fee to have their grain, which was often mixed with unwanted other grain as farmers switched crops, rendered uniform. Bits of earth, small pebbles, plant and insect waste, seed cases and the like were also fil- tered out.

While Lima may have been a tough place to be a seed and grain dealer, it was a terrific place to be a boy. One of my earliest memories is watching the circus come to town each summer. I’d wake up at 4 am just to watch the wagons make their way past our home to the big field near the grain elevator. I would then join the other kids as we watched the circus crews pitch the big top tent. Wandering the circus grounds with my buddies, I was totally mesmerized by the panthers, elephants and other exotic animals.

Our family’s first home in Lima was half of a double on High Street. It was tiny with no room for even an upright piano. This was not really a problem since my mother had abandoned her visions of becoming a concert pianist and Dad, I’m afraid, was not much of a music lover. When I was two years old we moved to a three-bedroom home located at 720 State Street. It was a typical post-war American home, across the street from a gigantic city park. The 1930 Federal Census appraised the value of that home at $10,000 making it the most valuable one on the block. The census report also revealed the fact that we owned a radio and that my parents were both literate and able to speak English. It listed my Dad’s profession as “Jewish

Proprietor” and his business as “Grain Elevator.” The census incorrectly reported the ages and birthplaces of both my parents and went on to state that my father was not a veteran, when, in fact, he served in the U.S. Army during World War I.

31 Jim Ackerman

In 1930 Lima, Ohio, the county seat, enjoyed a population of over 40,000 with over 100,000 living in Allen County. The town was originally settled in 1831 and in- corporated in 1842. Located in a fertile farm area 70 miles north of Dayton, it soon became known as a processing and marketing center for grain, dairy and meat products. The town’s first synagogues, Temple Beth Israel, a Reform congregation, as well as the Orthodox Shaare Zedeck synagogue both opened their doors in 1903. The two congregations merged in 1966. Lima had been a major oil and natural gas producing center at the beginning of the twentieth century, but this industry declined as richer oil fields were discovered in Texas.

Our life in Lima could only be described as mainstream, middle-class and, for a young boy growing up, mostly marvelous. I had a cadre of loyal school chums who stuck together and looked out for each other. Most of my friends’ had parents who worked for one of the big companies in Lima such as Sohio Refinery, Buckeye Pipe- line, Lima Locomotive or Westinghouse.

Our home on State Street was situated near a series of open hills that my buddies and I would attack with our snow sleds every winter. Flying down the snow-covered slopes with my pals every winter remains one of my warmest childhood memories.

Summertime brought a steady schedule of softball with games held in the city park.

There was no such thing as Little League in those days — in fact, no parental in- volvement at all — and that’s the way we liked it. Teams were decided by choosing up sides from among the 15 to 20 neighborhood boys that would show up each day bearing their treasured baseball mitts. Disputes were settled the old-fashioned way — by the kid who owned the ball. Summer was also a time for building elaborate tree

32 That’s My Story! houses — sometimes stretching two to three stories — in the park across the street. In the fall, our baseball diamond was converted to a football field and things proceeded pretty much the same way.

As described in the Prologue, regular monthly visits to my Grandpa Ferd and

Grandma Blanche’s large white home in Ligonier were a consistent part of my childhood experience. In addition, we religiously spent another weekend each month calling on my mother’s parents back in Defiance, some 38 miles away. As it happened,

Grandma Sadie’s birthday was on Christmas Day and of course, we were bound to visit her on her birthday. This always resulted in some serious grumbling from me and my brother since we would have much rather stayed at home playing with our new Christmas toys.

While it wasn’t an uphill hike both ways, I still walked or rode my bike to and from Lowell Grade School each day — regardless of the weather. I was considered a good student and managed to skip fifth grade altogether. This got me into Lima Cen- tral Junior High a year ahead of my classmates which was fine with me. Throughout

Junior High and High School, I developed strong friendships with my classmates, only a few of whom were Jewish. I can honestly say, that despite the worldwide epi- demic of anti-Semitism that plagued the world during those years, in our little corner of it, we remained untouched. After five generations in America, our family had become so assimilated into mainstream American life, we could not discern much difference between our lifestyle and that of our gentile neighbors. My boyhood experiences were identical to that of my friends. Some kids were Catholic, some were

Methodist and a few of us were Jewish. It simply meant that we went to a different

33 Jim Ackerman house of prayer on the weekends. Although it was common knowledge that membership in the Shawnee Country Club was “restricted” and that meant “No Jews,” I can recall no cases of discrimination directed at our family or me during those years. We received no differential treatment despite the fact that Father Coughlin and others were broadcasting their venomous anti-Jewish diatribes on the radio on a regular basis. Of course, we heard about the suffering of Europe’s Jews after Hitler came to power, but all that seemed a world apart from the innocent Andy Hardy lives we were living in Lima.

In those days we were legally able to obtain a driver’s license at age fourteen, but I was in too much of a rush to wait that long. I convinced my Dad to teach me to drive as soon as I was tall enough to reach the pedals. He agreed to let me behind the wheel of the family’s big LaSalle roadster, but only on the backcountry roads where we were less likely to collide with another car. He would often let me drive during our regular monthly visits to a family farm owned by my grandfather Ferd in nearby Yo- der, Indiana, located south of Fort Wayne — some 70 miles from Lima. My Dad and my uncle would inherit the farm upon Grandpa Ferd’s death in 1940, each brother receiving a fifty percent interest. Dad and Uncle Al owned and operated the farm for the next twenty-five years — leasing it to a tenant farmer who raised feed corn and milk cattle.

In 1966, Dad rather suddenly decided that it was time to sell the farm. He pres- sured Uncle Al to agree and finally convinced him to place it on the market. After the farm was sold, Dad confided in me and explained his reasoning for the sale. Dad said he realized that after his death, I would inherit an interest in the farm along with my

34 That’s My Story! brother, Danny, and Uncle Al’s two sons. He reckoned that I would be saddled with the job of managing the farm since my brother and cousins did not have much know- how in this area. Dad felt that this situation would become a burden for me and decided the best thing to do was to liquidate now. Shortly after the sale, Dad was strick- en by a stroke and succumbed on June 15, 1967. I believe that the sale of the farm in- dicated Dad’s perhaps subconscious understanding that his health was waning and his desire to get his affairs in order before the end.

About the time that I started at Central High school, we moved again to a four-bedroom brick home at 1700 Lakewood Avenue, located about two miles from the school. I would either ride my bike to school in the morning or Dad would drive me on his way to work. On those days I would trek back home on foot after school. Once a week, due to Mom’s regular Thursday Bridge game, I was instructed to walk the 5 or 6 blocks to Lima’s downtown area and buy my lunch. Mom would give me 25 cents that I would use to purchase two hamburgers and a milkshake for 20 cents. With the remaining nickel I would purchase a Coke at the soda fountain located inside

Matthews Drug Store across the street from Lowell Grade School.

Since I was a year younger than most of my classmates, I never became much of an athlete in high school. I managed to make it on to the freshman football team as a second-string guard, but I didn’t see much active duty. Despite all this, I still held a passion for sports and worked hard to become the student manager of both the varsity basketball and baseball teams for several seasons. My love of sports drove me to take a position on The Mirror, the school newspaper, where I served as sports editor during my senior year.

35 Jim Ackerman

Although Dad made a comfortable living in the seed and grain business, it never really turned into the gold mine he had envisioned. My familiarity with the business was put to good use in 1946 when I was working towards graduation at Purdue Uni- versity (see next chapter). I was offered the opportunity of receiving six credit hours if I submitted a suitable thesis and thereby earn my diploma a full semester ahead of schedule. The title of my thesis was: “Analytical Business Study of the Wholesale

Seed Industry” and it examined the financial records of the Ackerman Seed Company over the years 1922 through 1946. The study revealed that the company earned a meager average net profit of only 3 percent per year and suffered through wide up and down swings in earnings. So, it was not too surprising that in 1947 Dad and his partner, Sheldon, who had taken over from his father, Ben Ackerman, decided to sell out to the Northrop King Seed Company (now named Novartis Seed) for the sum of

$100,000. Northrop King changed the name of the company to Central States Seed

Service. As a relatively small operation, Ackerman Seed Company could not effec- tively compete against the farm bureaus and farm co-ops whose profits were distributed to its members and therefore not subject to federal income tax. After selling the

Ackerman Seed Company, Dad went to work as a commercial real estate broker in

Lima for a company called Fishel & Fishel.

My working life began at age fifteen when I applied for and was accepted as a sales clerk at the Leader Store, Lima’s largest department store. I worked every day after school and all day on Saturdays. I learned to sell shoes and men’s clothing in the store’s haberdashery department and assembled bicycles in preparation for sale. My pay was fifteen cents per hour and this simply did not bring in enough money each

36 That’s My Story! week to suit me. I found that I could supplement my income by taking on a magazine route. In those days magazine subscribers received their issues hand delivered to their homes, rather than through the mail. I would sell subscriptions and then deliver copies of the Saturday Evening Post, Ladies Home Journal and Country Gentleman to dozens of neighboring homes. This job added an additional one dollar per week to my income.

Both my parents stressed the importance of hard work and thrift, but the most lasting and profound value they transmitted to me had to do with ethics. My parents certainly were not paragons of moral rectitude in the conventional sense. As a child during Prohibition, I snuck peeks after my bedtime as my parents drew the shades, joined friends and enjoyed some bathtub gin…that they had cooked up in our own bathtub.

My father believed in demystifying alcohol to me and so, after Prohibition was re- pealed, he invited me to join him and mother whenever they would partake in a cock- tail or a cordial at home. He believed, correctly, that by allowing me to have a drink with him in our living room, I would be less inclined to engage in wild drinking when

I was away from the house. Evidently the strategy worked since I cannot recall ever having drank to the point of intoxication.

Neither was my parents’ moral code defined by strict religious observance. In fact,

I recall my Dad pronouncing on several occasions that if Rabbi Dorfman continued inserting more Hebrew into our Temple services: “…I’m going to quit that place and join a Unitarian Church!”

Our family’s lack of adherence to Jewish ritual sometimes resulted in problems.

For example, we were pressed to conceal our family Christmas tree if we were ex-

37 Jim Ackerman pecting to a visit by Rabbi Dorfman. Concealing that tree reminded me of a “family legend” that I had heard many times as a child. As the story goes, back in Ligonier, whenever Great-grandpa Leopold Schloss would come to visit his daughter and son- in-law for dinner, Grandma Blanche would rush to conceal the big baked ham they normally kept in the kitchen. They say she used to cover it with a dishtowel and then shove it under the sink.

Despite our family’s distance from Jewish tradition, my parents, nevertheless enrolled me into the Temple’s Sunday School program. We were taught a bit of Hebrew along with teachings from the Old Testament. In 1939 I was “Confirmed” along with the other 4 Jewish boys in my Confirmation Class. This ceremony marked the com- pletion of my Judaic studies and was celebrated in lieu of a Bar Mitzvah. Bar and Bat

Mitzvah observations were not in fashion at Reform congregations in those days, so it was my Confirmation that marked this traditional life-cycle passage from childhood to adolescence.

While I learned some valuable lessons through Sunday School, the moral compass

I inherited from my parents was not forged through sermonizing or religious training but rather by example. In my father, I observed a businessman who treated everyone fairly and with decency and respect. He could easily have taken advantage of the une- ducated farmers whose seed and grain he bought and sold. He taught me that dishon- esty — even if you get away with it — was dishonorable. Based upon his example, I entered young adulthood believing that it was possible to achieve success while at the same time conducting your business affairs in an ethical manner. I still believe it today.

The Ackerman Seed Company managed to hang on during the darkest days of the

Depression. But like everyone else, our business and family were deeply affected by the nation’s “hard times.” When my parents could no longer afford to pay the three dollars per week salary to our live-in Catholic housekeeper, Monica, for example, she agreed to stay on just for the room and board we provided. The one hardship that stands out in my mind is a childhood memory of my father’s refusal to buy me a pair of coveted long pants. I was forced to continue wearing childish knickers until my job at the Leader Department Store provided me with enough money for a $3 pair of tweed trousers.

As related in the Prologue, it was during this time that I was introduced to the stock market through my father and grandfather’s passion for investing. Thanks to the thrifty habits transmitted by my parents, I was able to save most of my salary and soon had accumulated enough money to make my first purchase: twenty shares of

Sinclair Oil when I was 15 years old. In those days stocks were not purchased for speculation or anticipated appreciation. Rather a winning stock was considered one that paid out a handsome dividend to its shareholders. As the profits of Sinclair Oil grew — and were distributed — over the ensuing years leading up to World War II, I enjoyed a steadily growing return on my investment.

While school and work consumed most of my early adolescent years, I did find time for a two-week visit every summer to scenic Lake Wawasee, near Ligonier.

Fishing, boating and hiking with my Dad and Grandpa Ferd provided some of the most idyllic and cherished memories of my youth. The rustic living quarters, nestled

39 Jim Ackerman in the lush pines surrounding the Lake, implanted a sense of connectedness to the soil of this region that would stay with me for life.

I entered high school in 1936 as a fun-loving typical all-American kid. The world would be a much different place when I graduated four years later. Like most teenagers, the most important part of my life was the relationships I enjoyed with my pals and buddies. We formalized our little circle of friends by creating a high school social club and adopting the preposterous name (partially borrowed from the “Amos

‘N Andy” radio show) of “The Royal Order of the Mystic Knights of the Brotherhood of Screwballs,” known simply as The Screwballs for short. The club’s membership consisted of 13 boys and every year we would elect a senior girl as the club mascot.

Affinity among the Screwballs was so tight, that we even engaged in group dating.

Beginning in our Sophomore year, one of us would call a different girl for a date every weekend. If a girl accepted the date she was told simply that “One of the Screw- balls will pick you up at 7:30 P.M., Saturday evening.” She would never know with whom she had agreed to go out until her Screwball date — randomly drawn by lot — showed up at her doorstep.

The Screwballs were a real amalgam of the American melting pot. Arnie Green- berg, Phil Holstein and I were the only Jewish members while most of the kids, including my next-door-neighbor and best friend, Larry Kidder, were Protestant. There were a several Catholic boys in the group as well. Aside from Arnie, Phil and me, the

Screwballs consisted of Dick Hill, Wally Renz, Paul Newman (no, not that Paul

Newman), Bob Baker, Bob Gilmore, Dan Sullivan, Bob Zumbrum, Bob Parmeter and

Bill Hire. The Screwballs demonstrated that people of differing backgrounds and religious heritage could get along amazingly well.

In 1940, during the summer between my Junior and Senior years at Central High, I traveled by bus to Doylestown, Pennsylvania — a rural community ten miles north of

Philadelphia, near Quakerstown. I had agreed to spend the summer working on a six- ty-acre farm owned by my cousin Helen (Ackerman) Caro and her husband, Bernie. I was hoping to build myself up physically in order to qualify for the football team when I arrived at college. Helen, who was cousin Simon Ackerman’s sister, worked full-time as the Women’s Clothing Manager at the celebrated Gimbel’s Department

Store in Manhattan where she commuted by train every day. Bernie was a journey- man butcher who managed the working farm in her absence. I was told that the well- known author, Pearl S. Buck, owned the neighboring farm. The area was dotted with farms owned by the Mennonites, or Pennsylvania Dutch, easily identifiable thanks to the decorative hexagons that marked their barns.

The Caro farm’s primary crops were corn, asparagus and poultry. I received no compensation other than room and board and worked six days a week from sun-up till sundown. The work was rigorous and often monotonous. Candling the chicken eggs each morning was one of my daily tasks. Each egg had to be inspected, by shining a light through it, in order to detect any impurities or fertilized embryos. I was also put to work regularly mucking out the barn where the animal manure had accumulated and hardened into a rock-hard consistency.

My most disagreeable experience was harvesting the farm’s twenty acres of asparagus. The harvest period lasted for six weeks beginning in late June. My job in-

41 Jim Ackerman volved getting down on my hands and knees in order to snap the asparagus spears off one inch below ground level — careful not to break off any spears that were under a quarter inch in diameter. These smaller spears were left in the ground for re-fertiliza- tion. I also had to avoid any plants that were wilted or rusted. The variety of asparagus we raised was a hybrid called “Jersey Giant” and yielded over 1,000 pounds per acre. After a day’s cutting, the asparagus then had to be wrapped and transported to the City Market in Philadelphia for sale. It was back-breaking work that provided me with a deep sympathy for farm laborers. As I sweated, crouched down like some beast amid the asparagus furrows, I knew that by the end of the summer I would be returning to my comfortable home back in Lima. Realizing that there were many whose lives were filled with this type of work year in and year out, gave me a true appreciation of how fortunate I was. The experience also had another profound effect upon me. I have been completely unable to eat asparagus to this day.

The summer at the Caro farm had its desired effect. I returned to my senior year tanned, healthy and considerably more muscular. I became more studious and serious about my school work and managed to graduate fifth in a class of 212 students in

May of 1941. During that year I corresponded with a number of colleges that offered advanced agricultural programs. Cornell and Purdue University were considered the top Ag schools in the country at that time. As I scoured the catalogs I focused on those schools offering a wide range of Agricultural Economics courses. I imagined that, once out of college, I would be joining my father in the seed and grain elevator business. A college degree in the Economics of Agriculture would be of great value.

By the time I graduated from high school I had received acceptance letters from both

Ohio State and Purdue Universities and was required to choose between the two. Ulti- mately, I rejected Ohio State because I did not care to live in a big city like Colum- bus.

That summer of 1941 was — for both me and for America — the final season of innocence. While war had erupted in Europe and in the Pacific, our gang was living the dream of isolationism. It is hard to imagine from today’s vantage point, but much of Jewish secular and religious leadership did not favor the U.S.’s entry into the war.

Our own Rabbi joined many of his colleagues and argued against US intervention — this despite the knowledge that the Jews of Europe were suffering unprecedented per- secution. To most Jews, Franklin Roosevelt was seen as a friend and a protector. To vocally advocate American intervention in behalf of European Jews might be viewed as betraying Roosevelt’s paternalistic protection of the vulnerable community of

American Jews. So as the storm clouds gathered in faraway places, our family clung to the familiarity of our everyday lives.

43 Jim Ackerman

CHAPTER FOUR — FROM LIMA TO LAFAYETTE

arrived at the West Lafayette, Indiana campus of Purdue University in early Sep- Itember, 1941 — one of 6,000 students. I quickly discovered that less than 400 of those students were women and that none of the women were Jewish. I could see that it would require some ingenuity to maintain a social life under these circumstances.

I was invited to join, among others, the Jewish fraternity at Purdue, Sigma Alpha Mu, also known as Sammy. I declined and opted to live in Cary Hall located on the northern edge of the campus. The decision not to join Sammy was only in part a financial one — residing at Cary Hall cost only $800 per year including all meals. My major objection was the fact that at Sammy I would be forced to spend each night in a drafty, noisy common dormitory hall. Private rooms were large enough for only two desks and were used for study, not sleeping. At Cary Hall I had a spacious room with a desk, a bed, a closet and a nearby kitchenette. It just seemed like a much better deal.

During my sophomore year I was asked to pledge the Reamers and gladly accepted. The Purdue Reamer Club was an honorary student support organization that assisted the school’s athletic department in making the arrangements for football and basketball games, as well as other sporting events. Membership in the Reamers was restricted to independent men; those unaffiliated with any fraternity. Greek men, as they were called, had a similar organization known as the Gimlets. The women’s group was called the Gold Peppers. As a member of the Reamers, I would assist with parking cars during big games and, as explained below, maintain the “Boilermaker

Special.” Since, despite my summer at the Caro farm, I was not selected to join the

Purdue football team, working with the Reamers was a great way to stay plugged in to Purdue sports. And I’ve stayed plugged in to this day.

Each morning I would trek the mile and a half to my first 7 AM class at the Agri- culture school located on the opposite end of the campus. As the weather turned cold, this hike went from invigorating to challenging and seemed to get longer with each passing day. At the Ag school I took courses in Farm Management, Animal Hus- bandry, Agronomy, Horticulture and the like. My class schedule also included liberal arts and economics courses, such as Genetics, Physics, Math, English, Sociology, and

Labor Law. These classes were held on the north side of the campus, closer to my dorm room at Cary Hall. While I declined to join a social fraternity, I was inducted into honorary societies such as Alpha Zeta, which is the Agricultural equivalent of

Phi Beta Kappa, and Ceres, an Agronomy honorary association.

45 Jim Ackerman

During my first two years on campus, I took a job waiting tables in order to make ends meet. This experience helped to fill my pocket, and, at times, fill my stomach as well.

In addition to working as a waiter and my participation in the Reamers, my after- class activities included working on the staff of “The Exponent,” the school’s daily newspaper. Again, my interests turned to athletics and by my Junior year, I was named Assistant Sports Editor, working under the editor, Senior Joe Dawson. I eventually was named Sports Editor and became responsible for meeting deadlines and for proof-reading and approving all of the paper’s sports coverage. It was intense, but very rewarding work and the experience gave me a strong appreciation for the work performed by professional journalists and editors. I was proudly inducted into the honorary society for journalism, Sigma Delta Chi. My work on The Exponent also served as my first introduction to the world of mass communication — a field that would play an important role in my life during the coming years.

During my matriculation at Purdue, I developed an ingrained love for the school that has remained a part of me to this day. I became familiar with the school’s found- ing when in 1865, the Indiana Legislature voted to participate in a Federal program under the recently-passed Morrill Act. The new law offered to turn over public land to any state that would construct upon it a college to teach “farming and the mechanic arts.” Needing money to construct the campus, the State, in 1869, accepted a

$150,000 gift from John Purdue which, combined with $50,000 thrown in by

Tippecanoe County, underwrote the costs of constructing the first school buildings.

Mr. Purdue made it a condition of the gift that the college be built near his home in

Lafayette.

John Purdue was a 67-year-old business and financial leader who had arrived in

Lafayette from Ohio in 1837. He went into business with a Moses Fowler and the two men opened a general store on the public square. The business flourished and by

1860, Purdue had sold his interest and used the proceeds to found a farm equipment enterprise, the Lafayette Agricultural Works. After its establishment, John Purdue visited the university from time to time. It was during one of these visits, on Septem- ber 12, 1876 — the first day of class of the new school term — that John Purdue was found lying dead at the Lahr house where he was staying. He departed this Earth on the grounds of Purdue University, the school he founded and loved.

Purdue’s athletic teams are known as the Boilermakers with uniforms bearing the school’s black and gold insignia colors. As a Reamer, I was involved in preserving a tradition that has lasted and grown to this day. It was determined that the school needed some colorful way to transport the Reamers and the Gold Peppers into the stadium during football games and so was born the first “Boilermaker Special,” built to resem- ble a miniature locomotive with an attached coal car. Maintaining the “Special” and making sure it appeared at the games was the responsibility of the Reamers. We mounted a loud train whistle and used the “Special” to lead throngs of fans into the stadium in order to boost school spirit. A descendent of our “Special” is still being used at games today. The current vehicle is the size of a true steam locomotive — mounted on a GM auto chassis — and can carry upwards of 20 passengers. There is a

47 Jim Ackerman smaller “Mini-Special” that is used during Purdue basketball games and both of them are brought out during football games.

I would say that my most meaningful and lasting experience during my years at

Purdue was taking classes under Dr. Earl L. Butz. I enrolled in every course taught by

Dr. Butz, such as Farm Management and Ag Economics. He was a dynamic and in- spiring instructor and he and I have enjoyed a lifelong friendship.

While in college I developed a personal habit that has persisted to this day; no matter where I am, I take a brief nap each day after lunch. Unfortunately, I sometimes wound up snoozing during one of Dr. Butz’s 1 PM classes. If he spotted me dozing, he would usually fling a piece of chalk at my head in order to gain my attention.

Dr. Butz’s teaching methods were innovative and somewhat unusual. For example, as students, we were never issued textbooks in any of Dr. Butz’s classes. All reading assignments were from books that we were expected to find in the library. Likewise,

Dr. Butz did not believe in waiting until the final exam to measure our knowledge of the semester’s course work. At the end of each week we would be given a written exam, eighty percent of which covered the prior week’s material. The balance of the exam was drawn from older material from any point in the course to date. By the end of the term we were being tested on the entire course’s subject matter. This method was very effective in forcing us to absorb new information while retaining the old data. In Ag Economics class, Dr. Butz would set up a mini-economy to teach us the fundamentals of the free marketplace. Students would be issued script which we would exchange as we bought and sold imaginary commodities, equipment and real estate. Dr. Butz was an opponent of any form of government regulation such as ra-

48 That’s My Story! tioning, and a staunch advocate of “Laissez Faire,” the principal by which govern- ments keep their hands off of business. He correctly understood that rationing a commodity, such as gasoline via the issuance of stamp booklets, only resulted in the creation of a black market.

I don’t know if it had anything to do with my affinity for the man, but his family and mine both settled on the same soil in Northeastern Indiana. Earl Butz was born on a small farm between my family home in Ligonier and Albion, the Noble County seat. He attended Purdue University where his cousin was a star football player. Dr.

Butz graduated from Purdue in 1932 and earned his Ph.D. in Agricultural Economics in 1937 — at which point he joined the Purdue faculty.

During the 1950’s Dr. Butz served as Assistant Secretary of Agriculture in the

Eisenhower administration. Returning to Purdue in 1957, he was named Dean of the

School of Agriculture. In December of 1971, Earl Butz was appointed United States

Secretary of Agriculture by President Nixon. In that role he became a champion for farmer’s rights and a devout advocate of the free marketplace. He submitted his resig- nation to President Ford in 1976 during a flap caused by a news report that Secretary

Butz had repeated a politically incorrect joke — one containing an offensive racial slur.

In 1999, Dr. Butz donated an unrestricted gift in the amount of $1 million to Pur- due’s Ag Economics Department. Today, at age 94, he serves as Dean Emeritus of the Purdue’s School of Agriculture. Aside from my own parents, I don’t believe anyone was more of a positive influence in my life than Dr. Earl L. Butz. I owe him a great debt.

49 Jim Ackerman

I was studying for Dr. Butz’s Economics class one Sunday afternoon in my dorm room when another student rushed in and told me to switch on the radio. We huddled around the box as reports of a Japanese sneak attack against the U.S. in a place called

Pearl Harbor filled the airwaves. I recall that it was a disorienting experience — and to a man we all reacted in the same way. The men donned their ROTC uniforms and went outside to the Quadrangle’s large courtyard. There we assembled en masse, ready to enlist — right then and there — into the military service for which we had been training. All male students at Purdue were required to take ROTC (Reserve Offi- cer Training Corps) classes with the understanding that when we enlisted into the military, we would enter as officers. But at this particular moment, none of that mat- tered. All that did matter was that our country had been viciously attacked and we were needed to defend her. The outpouring of patriotism that I witnessed on Decem- ber 7, 1941 remained unmatched in my experience until the tragic events of Septem- ber 11, 2001.

As I solemnly stood in the courtyard with hundreds of other uniformed men, — a skinny seventeen year old Jewish kid from Lima — all of us dressed and ready to serve our country, on that sunny and uncertain Sunday afternoon, I recall looking sky- ward and wondering “What’s next?” One moment before, my life was planned and all neatly laid out in front of me. I would complete my studies, join my father’s business, get married and settle down in Lima. Suddenly, and like millions of other young

Americans swept up in the winds of this war, I now had no inkling of where the road ahead would take me. I was soon to find out.

CHAPTER FIVE FROM LAFAYETTE TO LIEUTENANT

, and the other Purdue men who stood ready to fight in that Purdue courtyard on IDecember 7th, were not to get our chance for a bit longer. We were forced to wait until there was an opening in the horribly under-staffed Officer Candidate Schools

(OCS). All through 1942 we trained and marched as we continued our studies at Pur- due. I knew I would be called up at any time, so I tried to avoid making any long-term plans and followed the war’s progress in the newspapers and on the radio.

Finally, in March of 1943 the orders came down. I was called up for active duty and sent to Fort Bragg in North Carolina along with a contingent of other Purdue students. We were to receive 13 weeks of basic combat training before being sent to

OCS. The training was rigorous, and the drills were tougher than what I experienced at Purdue ROTC, but I can honestly say I enjoyed the experience. My rank was PFC and I made up my mind early on that military life was going to be fun. Right from the start, I adopted a positive mental attitude that served me well. Some of the fellows

51 Jim Ackerman were despondent about having their schooling interrupted and about facing combat in

Europe or the Pacific. Evidently I impressed my superiors because, after several months, I was advised that I should consider enrolling at West Point Military Acade- my. I was told that given my high grades at Purdue and my positive personality, I would be an ideal candidate for training as a career soldier. I was flattered and excited by the prospect and phoned my Dad in Lima to give him the news.

“Dad, they want me to go to West Point,” I announced excitedly.

“That’s great, Jim” he said. “Do you want to go?”

“I don’t really know. On the one hand it would mean more money down the line and mean getting ahead faster,” I explained, “but I would have to say good-bye to my buddies here and who knows when I’d ever get back to Lima again. That’s why I called you. What do you think?”

“I’ll tell you,” he said with a catch in his voice, “but first I want to let you know one thing. Mom and I are really, really proud of you. Here’s something you might not have thought about. If you go to West Point, you’ll probably be the only Jewish guy there. Those upperclassmen could make your life a living hell. Think it over. You’re a grown-up now and Mom and I will support you no matter how you decide.”

Of course, Dad was right. I decided to stay with my unit. Interestingly, my best friend and fellow Screwball, Larry Kidder was accepted to the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis, Maryland and wound up serving on a Naval submarine.

After our stint was up at Fort Bragg, we were told that there still were not suffi- cient OCS openings, so we were sent to Columbus, Ohio and billeted at Ohio State

University for the next ten days. We were actually put up inside OSU’s enormous football stadium in space normally reserved for the football team’s living quarters — underneath the bleachers. After examining the OSU campus, I decided that, while it was very nice, I had made the right decision by going to Purdue. And that’s exactly where I was headed next.

Rather than keep us waiting indefinitely, the Army instructed us to go back to Pur- due and resume our studies until we could be enrolled at OCS. There was no comfortable dormitory room in Cary Hall this time. I wound up living in the basement of an old off-campus apartment house. We all attended class in our uniforms. Our tuition was paid by Uncle Sam and we each received a salary of $21 per month.

After completing another semester of study towards my degree, I was finally shipped off to OCS at Fort Sill, Oklahoma. For the next sixteen weeks I was trained in all aspects of military leadership. I learned how to organize a battalion in the field as we conducted ongoing bivouacs and troop maneuvers. I worked with the supply battery and the firing battery. We lived in Quonset huts — ten men crowded into each tiny unit. In July of 1944 I was given my gold bars as I received my commission and became a Second Lieutenant. D-Day had just taken place in Europe and we assumed that we would be needed in the European theatre. Although we were never told, our training methods seemed to indicate Europe over the Pacific as well.

In September of 1944 I was assigned to the 769th Field Artillery Battalion stationed at Camp Bowie outside of Abilene Texas. Initially, it was my duty as a Second Lieu- tenant to serve as a forward observer during battery field tests. I would venture out to-

53 Jim Ackerman wards the enemy line in order to gain a view of how our Howitzers were hitting their targets. My job was to radio back reports to the gunners who would use that information to adjust their trajectories and improve their aim. While the other artillery batter- ies were using the 105 mm. Howitzers, our battery employed the larger and more powerful 155 mm. weapon.

Soon after arriving at Camp Bowie, I was approached by the battalion Colonel.

“Lt. Ackerman, I need you for an important assignment,” he said without looking up.

“Yes, sir,” I got out, thinking that this might be my orders to ship out for combat.

“I need a good man to run all of the battery mess halls. “ he explained. “On top of that, you’ll be in charge of operations and purchasing for both non-com clubs and the

Officers’ Club.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied taken aback. “But, but why me?”

“You’re the only officer with accounting training on your record, so you’re it. Dis- missed.”

So, while my outfit stayed in the field learning how to accurately blast the enemy with heavy artillery, I went back to the camp. I was provided with an office, a staff sergeant, a 3/4 ton pick-up truck and a jeep all at my disposal. In addition to purchasing mass quantities of food, I was also responsible for buying all the liquor consumed at the Officer’s Club. This task was made rather challenging since this part of Texas was all “dry” — which meant the sale of alcoholic beverages was against the law in this county. In order to obtain the booze, it was necessary for me to borrow another

54 That’s My Story! officer’s car and drive most of the day to a town located in a “wet” county. Once there, I was required to engage in a bizarre procedure in order to avoid being victim- ized by a little scam I had been warned about.

First off, I would check in to a hotel and then visit a liquor store to fill our order — traveling to the store via taxi so as not to reveal my car’s license plates to the liquor store owner. The next step was the tricky part. I brought all the liquor back to my hotel room and began stuffing the bottles into specially prepared garment bags I had brought along for this purpose. The bags contained padding to cushion the bottles and once they were filled with my cargo, I would pack them into the backseat and trunk of the car and head back to camp. The bags looked just like ordinary luggage.

All of this subterfuge and these elaborate smuggling tactics were necessary in order to make it back to camp safely. If I had attempted to cross into the next county, which was “dry,” with the liquor in plain sight in my own car, the liquor store owner would have observed my actions and taken down my license plate number. His next step would be to call ahead to the sheriff in the neighboring dry county and alert him that a soldier was driving through his territory carrying a load of hootch. He would then pass on my license plate number. I would have been stopped by the sheriff, given a reprimand and had all the liquor confiscated. Half the booze would have wound up in the possession of the dry county sheriff and the other half would have gone back to the liquor store owner who would now be able to sell the stuff for a second time.

While I was picking up the liquor, I “schmoozed” the owner about how my large purchase was needed for a party we had planned back at the hotel. He would never sus- pect that I was intending to take the stuff over the county line. This technique worked

55 Jim Ackerman flawlessly and I was able to transport my liquid cargo across “dry” territory many times in this way without incident.

Another problem I faced as the chief food and beverage procurement officer for the battalion was an odd one. I discovered that we were drowning in pork. For some reason, the normal army distribution channel was sending us nothing but pork and not an ounce of beef or any other type of meat. The men ate pork chops, pork cutlets, pork sausage — even pork soup until some of them were starting to oink! We were getting a lot of complaints of “Where’s the beef?” and so I decided to take action. My sergeant and I loaded up the pick-up with all the pork we could carry and headed into

Abiline. We visited one butcher shop after another trading pork for beef – one pound for one pound. We were so desperate for beef, we even picked up beef bones from the butcher’s bone can and delivered them to the non-com clubs. They were able to sal- vage enough beef from them to make hamburgers for the grateful and hungry non- com officers.

I was eventually assigned to the motor pool and then back to my duties as a battalion observer. I had learned that the job of forward observer officer is one of the most hazardous in the Army. The fatality rate in combat for forward observers was a daunt- ing two out of three!

While I certainly was no coward, these figures made me stop and think. I saw no harm in taking steps to try and improve my chances for survival once we hit the battlefield. Further research uncovered the fact that artillery pilots suffered a casualty rate of only one out of three. I immediately volunteered to undergo basic pilot train-

56 That’s My Story! ing and was accepted. In so doing I had instantly doubled my odds of coming back alive.

Once enrolled in the pilot training program, it was the same Army routine of “hurry up and wait.” I had to hurry to get to the flight training school and, once there, sit and wait my turn before I could commence aviation training. But while I was waiting,

I remained stateside and did not get shipped out to Europe.

I finally arrived to Shepherd Field in Wichita Falls, Texas in April of 1945 as the war in Europe was in its final days. At Shepherd Field I was given basic pilot training. I recall that on my first solo flight in an L3 Piper Cub, I came down rather hard during landing, actually dropping the plane 20 feet onto the ground. The impact smashed the fuselage to pieces and I was required to sign a charge statement accept- ing financial responsibility for the full cost of the airplane — $1,500. I never heard about it again, so I suppose I still owe the U.S. Army this outstanding debt.

My flight instructor evidently believed that learning to fly a plane was akin to learning to ride a horse — if you get thrown, the right thing to do is to get right back in the saddle again. He immediately sent me back up into the wild blue yonder in another plane. This time I brought it down correctly and it was a smooth flight from that point forward. At the end of the course, which included five hours of helicopter training, I was pleased to be one of the fifteen, from our class of twenty-five, to have earned his wings.

Now that I knew the basics of flying, I needed to learn how to put that knowledge to use on the battlefield. I was sent back to Fort Sill for further training as an artillery liaison pilot. My job this time around was similar to what I had done as a forward ar-

57 Jim Ackerman tillery observer — only this time I had a much better vantage point perched several hundred feet up in the sky.

In order to qualify for this type of flight training, a pilot was not allowed to weigh more than 170 lbs. This was because it was necessary to send up a two-man team — one to fly the plane and the other to act as the observer. The weight limit applied to the observer as well. It was the observer’s task not only to assess the accuracy of our artillery, but also to report on enemy troop activity as well as anything else of importance he may spot. These observation planes were, of course, prime targets for enemy anti-aircraft fire, making the job a very risky one. As a result, we were taught all sorts of evasive maneuvers as well as how to maintain control of the aircraft while under enemy fire.

One of the most unusual maneuvers we mastered was taking off from and landing a plane on a cable wire attached to an LST landing vessel. We practiced barnstorming tricks such as flying under bridges and touching our wheels onto the water’s surface to make them spin as we cruised over a nearby lake. This last trick was in preparation for the five hours of training we would undergo in flying pontoon planes, designed to take off and land on the water. Thanks to this constant repertoire of aerial acrobatics, the class dubbed itself “Colonel Shank’s Flying Circus” named after our chief instructor, Colonel Henry Shank.

All of us were taught how to fly a plane at night with limited visibility and next to no instruments to guide us. Actually we only had seven instruments in our cockpits: a fuel gauge, a barometer, a speedometer, an altimeter, a tachometer, a thermometer

58 That’s My Story! and a compass. We learned how to perfectly execute exotic evasive flying maneuvers such as the Barrel Roll. One of the most effective was called the “Split-S” that made use of the L-series planes’ dive flaps and aileron boost. It involved pointing the aircraft straight up and then banking around quickly, going in to a dive and then pulling out before hitting the ground. The enemy attacker you were trying to evade would be unable to keep up with you and might even wrongly conclude that he had hit you and move on. For obvious reasons it was recommended that this maneuver be employed only as a last resort at altitudes under 3000 feet. Trying a Split-S at a lower altitude could permit the enemy pilot to follow you down and prevent you from pulling out in time.

During our days at flight school back at Shepherd Field we always had a flight instructor in the back seat. If a student pilot did anything too risky, the instructor could intervene and avoid a disaster. Now at Fort Sill, we were on our own. People have asked if I found it frightening to perform such dangerous stunts while flying through the air at top speed. The answer is “Yes, I was often scared when I had to go up. But I was definitely more scared of what would happen to me if I refused to go.” Actually,

I learned that it was unwise to let yourself get too tense before a flight. Those young men who worked their stomach into knots worrying were the ones who wound up flunking out of the program.

As I mentioned, I had to keep my body weight under 170 lbs. to avoid being grounded. My normal weight in those days was a strapping 172 lbs. so I invariably faced a bit of a problem. The solution I found might be considered an odd one, but it worked. I discovered that if I consumed a full pint of gin the night before a flight, I

59 Jim Ackerman would tip the scales at exactly 169 lbs. the next morning. I think it has something to do with the alcohol causing dehydration, but whatever the reason, the night before each flight saw a group of us sitting around downing shot after shot of cheap rotgut gin or Prince George bourbon, aged 30 days in wood chips, as part of our routine weight control program. I’m not sure about the others, but this evening ritual did not seem to impair my ability to pilot my aircraft the next morning.

Unlike an armored division whose tanks and APC’s keep firing as it relentlessly advances on the enemy, an artillery battalion’s job was to take a position, hold it and then set up the Howitzers. The artillery was then used to devastate or drive the enemy into retreat. Once the objective was reached, the process would be repeated over and over again.

Each of the five battalions stationed at Fort Sill were assigned two aircraft and crews for use as forward observers. As discussed, each crew was composed of a pilot and an observer. The observer, who had not undergone flight training, was merely a passenger. His main task was noting where our shells were landing and reporting this information by radio back to the battery commander where it would be analyzed. The observer was also expected to report on enemy positions and troop movements. In other words, the observer and I served as the eyes and ears of the battalion feeding it critical information that would determine the course of the battle.

After mastering the L-4 Piper Cubs that cruised at 65 mph, we received training in open cockpit Stearman bi-planes. These Stearmans, used these days mostly for crop- dusting, had a much more extensive instrument panel than the L-series we had been flying. We were required to master the art of landing a Stearman using “instruments

60 That’s My Story! only.” This feat was accomplished by means of a hood, connected to the dashboard, which was placed over the head affording the pilot a view of only the instruments and nothing else.

In April I was re-assigned to Camp Barkely located in Brownwood Texas and, eight months later, I was moved to a battalion at Fort Jackson in South Carolina. Be- tween flights at Camp Barkely, we liked to relax by playing baseball in one of the big fields that lined the road in to the Fort. It was during one of these games, in May of

1945 that I recall being interrupted by an announcement coming over the P.A. system.

We were told that a peace treaty between the Allies and Germany had been signed and that the war in Europe was officially over. We marked V-E day by throwing our mitts and caps in the air and letting out a big cheer – after which we resumed our baseball game. Life goes on.

In August, we got the news that America had dropped something called Atomic

Bombs on two Japanese cities and that this had resulted in Japan’s immediate surrender. I later learned that had the surrender not taken place, a D-Day-like assault on the

Japanese mainland was planned for early 1946. The projected casualties for such an operation was one million American lives and there was a very good chance that one of those lives would have been mine.

I was given a week’s leave before I was required to report for duty at Fort Jackson.

I arrived home to Lima and after catching up with my family, went to work looking for a car I could purchase with my saved-up Army pay. I wound up purchasing a

1935 four-door Pontiac for $350 and driving it all the way to Fort Jackson. Amazing-

61 Jim Ackerman ly, after my discharge, I managed to sell the car for a whopping $450! I haven’t come out that well on a car deal since.

Arriving at Fort Jackson near Columbia, South Carolina in January of 1946, I continued my pilot training as we managed to get more and more daring in our aerial ex- ploits. We practiced landing on football fields, inside stadiums and other unusual venues. Our aircraft never ascended over five thousand feet and so did not require pressurized cabins or supplemental oxygen. While at Fort Jackson, I also managed to earn my commercial pilot’s license, although I’ve never had occasion to use it.

Soon after my arrival, I befriended a fellow pilot by the name of Captain Jack

Sprague and the two of us were assigned to conduct a cross-country flight as part of our training. We left Columbia, South Carolina in our aircraft, a Stinson L-5 that cruised at 105 mph. Our first destination was Atlanta and from there we headed north to Chicago. Unfortunately, we became lost while flying over the Appalachian Moun- tains when I spotted what looked like a railroad station directly below us. I circled round and buzzed down low until I could make out the name of the town on the sign hanging in the depot and from that we were able to determine our location. We continued into the evening hours, following the railroad tracks in the moonlight — using the rails to guide us across the unfamiliar landscape. Once we had successfully made it to Chicago we headed back to South Carolina. I couldn’t resist showing Jack my hometown and so I set our course to take us over Lima, Ohio. I couldn’t get over how lovely it looked and how much affection I had for the town as I viewed it for the first time from high in the air.

During the war, Jack Sprague had earned both the Silver and the Bronze Stars for heroism. Flying a mission over Italy, he was being chased down by two German

Messerschmidts. He executed a perfect Split-S evasive maneuver that resulted in both of his attackers crashing into the Italian Alps.

He earned the Silver Star while assigned to one of General Patton’s battalions in

France. A platoon was pinned down by German machine gun fire coming from behind a hill. Sprague was working as the battalion’s liaison pilot and he was assisting the gunners in zeroing their Howitzer fire to the precise enemy position. Jack continued radioing information back to the artillery battery identifying the German’s position and trying to assist them in pinpointing their fire towards the target. But despite his best efforts, our troops could not seem to reach the machine gun nest. Jack became so frustrated, he buzzed down low enough to get into firing range of the Ger- man gunners. Ignoring the fact that they could easily have knocked him out of the sky with their machine guns, Jack hurled his pistol at the machine gun nest managing to hit one of the weapons. Evidently, the Germans mistook the pistol for a grenade and quickly scattered. Before they were able to return to their post, Patton’s troops easily overran the hill and continued its forward assault.

I lost touch with Jack Sprague after our tour was over, but I cherish my memory of him as one of the bravest and most colorful individuals I’ve had the honor of know- ing.

One of my final assignments before my tour of duty ended was a shining example of military mentality. The Piper Aircraft company had provided small aircraft to the

Army as part of the war effort. They were concerned that these army surplus aircraft

63 Jim Ackerman not be dumped on the US market after the war, thereby driving down the price of their product. As a result, these planes were disassembled in Europe after they were no longer needed and then shipped to Fort Bragg in South Carolina. At Fort Bragg they were then reassembled and made ready to fly. At this point, I, and my fellow pilots, were ordered to fly the planes to Fort Sill in Oklahoma where they were all burned. I was required to bring back the scorched serial number plate from my plane as evidence that the aircraft had indeed been destroyed. Why the planes could not have been torched in Europe, or at Fort Bragg, for that matter, will forever remain a military mystery.

I was discharged from the Army in May of 1946 with the rank of Second Lieu- tenant and headed straight back to Purdue to complete my education under the provi- sions of the G.I. Bill. In looking back at my military experiences during the war, I concluded that I had indeed been very fortunate. Had I not requested a transfer to flight school, I would have undoubtedly been shipped to either Europe or the Pacific as soon as my artillery training was completed. As it turned out, by the time my flight training was over, the war in Europe had ended. I can’t be certain, but I believe that my ongoing flight training during the summer of 1945 meant that I was destined to serve in the Pacific theatre. But, once again, before I could be shipped out, President

Truman ended the war by releasing a “rain of ruin” on the Japanese mainland.

How much in my case was luck and how much was due to my own initiative? It’s hard to say, but I’d propose that it was a combination of the two. In the case of flight school, I wasn’t trying to avoid service in Europe altogether. I was merely trying to

64 That’s My Story! improve my chances of survival once I got there and, by so doing, I was fortunate to wind up, for the first of many times, being in just the right place at just the right time.

65 Jim Ackerman

CHAPTER SIX FROM LIEUTENANT TO LOIS

y first priority upon discharge was completing my interrupted studies and Mreceiving my degree from Purdue as quickly as I possibly could. Classes did not begin until September, 1946 so I spent the summer working at Ackerman

Seed in Lima. I only needed another thirty-six credit hours to earn my bachelor’s degree and I learned that if I submitted a written thesis, I could earn six of those hours.

This was too good an opportunity to pass up. By spending the summer writing a thesis, I would be able to receive my degree after one semester at Purdue instead of two.

Since I was working in a family business that was directly involved in Agricultural

Economics, it made perfect sense for me to select a topic that would allow me to draw upon information I had readily at hand. I decided to conduct a detailed case study drawing upon the business records of the Ackerman Seed Company over the previous twenty-five years. I presented an in-depth analysis of the economic trends and forces that impacted on the business over the prior quarter century and then drew certain

66 That’s My Story! conclusions. Titled “An Analytical Business Study of the Wholesale Seed Industry,” the thesis painted a picture of a rather unstable “feast or famine” industry, constantly exposed to variable and uncontrollable market conditions. I concluded that the prof- itability of the wholesale seed industry was not commensurate with amount of risk business owners were asked to assume. I predicted that because of this, large-scale consolidation would have to take place if the industry was to survive. The thesis earned me a top grade and the six needed credit hours, not to mention the satisfaction of being proven correct in my prognostications.

Evidently my Dad agreed with my conclusions because, as explained in Chapter

Three, he and his partner, Sheldon Ackerman, sold out to the Northrop King Seed

Company as I was finishing my studies at Purdue. This move obviously forced me to revise my plans of joining the family business in Lima and I immediately began making contacts with campus recruiters.

Although my stint in the Army was fulfilled, I elected to continue my military con- nection as a member of the Army Reserve. This decision was based on my feeling that I owed the Army a certain obligation. They had invested a great deal into my training — training that I was never asked to put to use. Although World War II was over, the Cold War had just begun and I felt that America might be back on the battlefield again before too long. And if that happened, I wanted to be trained and ready.

My course load at Purdue was substantial to say the least. I carried thirty credit hours in order to complete my studies as rapidly as possible. I was planning to get my degree in February of 1947 and then start earning a living. In my family it was cus- tomary for a man to establish himself financially before he considered starting a fami-

67 Jim Ackerman ly. That’s why most of the Ackerman and Schloss men didn’t marry until they were in their late twenties or thirties. I guess I thought pretty much along those same lines as well — until I met a very beautiful girl who changed my thinking prompted me to break with tradition. A girl named Lois.

As mentioned, as graduation loomed closer, and since joining the family business was no longer an option, I became intent on securing employment as soon as I was out of school. As part of this process, I met with recruiters on campus and traveled to potential employers to sit for interviews. It was for this reason that I frequently found myself in the state capitol, Indianapolis, during the winter of 1946-47. During those visits I was put up by my aunt, Julie Ackerman, and her husband, Uncle Al. Aunt

Julie’s mother regularly played poker with a delightful woman named Bea Rosenthal.

Bea passed away suddenly in November, 1946 and Bea’s unmarried 23-year-old daughter, Lois, and Lois’ older brother, Lester, were now living with their elderly grandparents, Max and Mary Snellenberg. Aunt Julie knew about Lois’s situation from her mother. She had met Lois and found her to be a lovely, sensible young lady.

On one of my visits to Indianapolis, after I had been a guest at their home a few times before, Aunt Julie asked me if I’d like to meet someone special. I agreed and she immediately phoned Lois.

“Lois, this is Julie Ackerman,” she began. “I wanted to let you know how much we all miss your dear mother, Bea, and that my mother and I think of her and speak about her often.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Ackerman,” she replied. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, I don’t know if you are aware of it, but I have a nephew who lives in Lima,

Ohio named Jim. Jim is about to graduate from Purdue and he’s been coming down to Indianapolis to go on job interviews with several big companies here.”

“No, I didn’t know about that,” answered Lois, starting to get the drift.

“Well, we’ve gotten to know Jim pretty well because we put him up when he’s in town and he’s just a wonderful guy,” Aunt Julie explained. “He’s a lieutenant and an

Army pilot. He’s about to get his degree in economics from Purdue. He’s here in town today and I just thought you two might want to get together.”

“ Well you know I’m dating someone right now, Mrs. Ackerman,” Lois replied,

“but tell me more about Jim. How old is he?”

After a bit more discussion, Lois agreed to accept a phone call from me that day.

She asked Aunt Julie to instruct me to wait a few hours before calling since she was expecting to go out on a date in a few minutes. As it turned out, the date never materi- alized because Leonard, her so-called boyfriend, had dozed off and forgotten to pick her up. When I phoned Lois a few hours later, as instructed, I introduced myself and she quickly agreed to go out with me that very night. After she hung up with me,

Leonard finally called to apologize. He explained that he had overslept and asked if could come over now. Lois knew what to say.

“I’m sorry, Leonard, but I’m getting dressed for another date.” In a classic case of

“if you snooze, you lose,” Leonard’s sleepiness paid off wonderfully for me. Pulling up to her home in the big Chevrolet I had borrowed from my cousin, Bill Schloss

(who never drove it), I knocked on Lois’s door and was delighted to see that she was

69 Jim Ackerman even more beautiful and sophisticated than Aunt Julie had led me to believe. She told me the story about her drowsy boyfriend as we drove downtown to a local movie theatre. I suspected that Lois had agreed to go out with me mainly to teach Leonard a lesson. But that detail did not put a damper on things. In fact, I got the feeling that fate may have intervened in my behalf and that perhaps it was our destiny to be together.

Whatever her motives for agreeing to go out with me, the evening turned out to be wonderful. After the movie, we stopped off at Meyer’s Bar for a nightcap and the conversation became more relaxed and less formal. I learned that her family background was very similar to my own — German Jewish. Lois was the sole support of her elderly grandparents and had a promising career working at Baldwin & Lyons, the city’s leading insurance agency. I was taken with Lois’s cosmopolitan charm coupled with her down-to-earth sensibilities. She carried herself well — sporting a dainty chapeau that made her look stylish and stunning.

I explained to Lois that I probably would not be back in Indianapolis until after my graduation in February and only if I accepted a job offer from an Indy company. I told her that if things worked out that way, I’d get in touch then. Although I really enjoyed myself in Lois’s company, I felt that we would probably never go out together again. Thinking it over as I hitchhiked back to Purdue, I recognized that she had agreed to our date just to upset her regular boyfriend and she’d no doubt be back together with him soon. Despite my pessimism about the future of our relationship, I found it difficult to stop thinking about Lois over the coming weeks.

Shortly before my graduation at semester’s end, I accepted a job offer from an In- dianapolis advertising agency, Bozell & Jacobs (see next chapter). In February I bid farewell to my beloved alma mater and headed south to the capitol. I again stayed with Aunt Julie for a short time until I was able to locate a small room to rent. Within a few days of my arrival I phoned Lois and asked if she would care to accompany me to a dance being held back at the Purdue Student Union Building in West Lafayette on Saturday night. I mentioned that the music would be provided by Dick Jergens and his Orchestra — one of the more popular bands of the “Big Band” era. I was delighted when she agreed.

As Saturday arrived, I again picked up Lois in the borrowed Chevy and was again impressed with her appearance and obvious good taste. She had a sparkling look that

I found very appealing. As we made the one hour drive up to West Lafayette, I explained that I was going to start working in Indianapolis soon and that we’d be able to see more of each other in the future. Lois seemed to consider this as good news.

The Dick Jergens Orchestra was terrific and we began dancing a bit closer and more “cheek-to-cheek” with each passing tune that emerged from the bandstand. At around midnight, we bundled up in the car for our long drive home. Somewhere between West Lafayette and Indianapolis — somewhere around Lebanon, I suppose —

I popped the question. I wasn’t planning on proposing marriage that night. I had brought no ring and, since I was driving the car, I could not get down on bended knee.

I simply decided that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Lois. I can’t say that I was surprised when she accepted. I could sense that we had both hit off extremely

71 Jim Ackerman well. The idea of marriage just seemed right to Lois, in the same way that it just seemed right to me.

“There’s just one thing, Jim,” she said softly.

“What’s that, Lois?”

“I want to wait. I don’t want to get married just yet,” she explained.

“That’s fine with me. How long do you think we ought to wait?” I asked.

“You know I just lost Mama in November. I think it’s proper for me to wait a year before getting married. It will give you some time to settle in to your new job and for us to save up some money, too.”

I was again impressed with Lois. Her quiet respect for her late mother and her basic common sense were attributes that I found very appealing. Although I was not expecting to wait that long, I could not, given the circumstances, come out against her wishes in this matter.

“That’s just fine, Lois, “ I said. “Let’s wait till after November. How about New

Year’s Eve?” Lois seemed to like this idea, as did I — and we wound up getting pretty darn close with the date we selected: December 29, 1947.

While we weren’t really trying to hide anything, over the next few months we really did not publicize our decision to get married. I had gotten to know Lois’s brother and her grandparents and I really liked them all. Lois and I had traveled back to Lima together at which time Lois met my parents and my younger brother, Danny. Lois and my dad hit if off right from the star. The two of them developed a close relationship that was to last until his death in 1967.

I introduced Lois to my family as my sweetheart, my girlfriend, my steady girl — but not as my fiancée. As mentioned earlier, my dad did not believe that a man should get a wife until he could afford to keep her. In our case, things were a bit different.

Lois was earning more each week than I was and I was afraid that Dad might accuse me of marrying her for her money. I was sure that Dad did not consider me old enough for matrimony at the tender age of 23. So I was understandably reluctant to give him the news. Of course, this not sit too well with Lois. On a visit to Lima in

May, 1947, she took me aside and put her foot down.

“Jim, either you tell your parents that we’re getting married or I will!” I figured that I had to face the music sooner or later, so I agreed and broke the news to both

Mom and Dad. In a word — they were thrilled. They both admitted that they were very fond of Lois and were hoping that I’d get around to asking for her hand.

“Speaking of hands,” Mom said, “where’s the ring?”

“I haven’t got her one yet,” I admitted rather sheepishly.

“Well, you’d better get busy, son,” Dad advised me. That very day Lois and I visited the jewelry shops of downtown Lima and selected a small, but lustrous, diamond to grace her finger.

Because Rabbi Froelich, the clergyman who would marry us, was leaving for Flor- ida on the first of the year, we set our wedding date for December 29, 1947 and decided to hold the ceremony with just a few friends and family present. The guests included Lois’s grandparents, her brother and her sister, Sophie Greenbaum, who had flown in from California. Lois’s father, Lester Rosenthal, had separated from her

73 Jim Ackerman mother years before. He was, at the time of our wedding, living in California and was completely estranged from both of his children.

After the ceremony, we hosted a brief reception and then immediately departed for our honeymoon destination, the Buena Vista Resort in Biloxi, Mississippi to ring in the new year. We traveled by rail, first to Louisville and then changed trains for our southbound trip to Biloxi. The Buena Vista was a lovely facility and we both enjoyed a “dream come true” honeymoon — but the Buena Vista had not been our first choice. We were denied access to our first honeymoon destination, the Greenbrier

Country Club in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, because of something I thought we had just fought a war to eradicate: anti-Semitism.

Nineteen forty-seven was the year that filmmaker Elia Kazan directed his classic study of American anti-Jewish bigotry titled “Gentlemen’s Agreement” starry Grego- ry Peck. In the film, Peck plays a courageous reporter who poses as a Jew in order to experience anti-Semitism in our society on a first-hand basis. The film became a landmark, winning the Academy Award for Best Picture of the Year, and is credited with helping to actually alter prevailing attitudes about the role of Jews in America.

In one memorable scene, Peck’s character, Phil Green, is subtly denied admission to a lavish country club by a snotty desk clerk who asks Peck if he is of “the mosaic per- suasion.” It was reported, at the time, that the country club depicted in the film was patterned after the Greenbrier Resort. Ironically, we encountered a similar experience that same year. I had written to Greenbrier in August requesting a honeymoon reser- vation beginning on December 29th. A few weeks later, Lois learned from her next- door neighbors that a couple of characters had come around during the day knocking

74 That’s My Story! on doors and asking questions about Lois and about me. The neighbors assumed that they were from a financial agency investigating our credit worthiness. But that’s not who they were at all.

“What sort of questions did they ask you?” Lois asked her neighbor.

“Oh, they wanted know about how much money you both make and what kind of car you drive. Stuff like that,” she replied. “They asked about your religion and I told them that you and Jim were both Jewish. That’s right, isn’t it?” Lois just nodded.

Within a few days we received word from Greenbrier. No accommodations were available at the time we had requested. They were full up. As was pointed out in the film, it wasn’t anything written down or anything you could ever prove. It was just an insidious “Gentleman’s Agreement” that always seemed to be at work behind the scenes.

While it might seem strange by today’s standards, I did not get upset or react in any way when I discovered what had happened. I simply regarded this episode as a routine part of life in America and I decided I wasn’t going to let it dampen our honeymoon plans. Shortly after we were married, the Greenbrier changed its “exclusivi- ty” policy (perhaps because of public reaction to the film) and today counts many golf-loving Jews among its membership. I always find it a bit amusing when I spot an ad or solicitation from Greenbrier in the mail these days. “You had your chance, fellahs, but you chose to bar the door.”

After our honeymoon, we returned home and arranged for me to move in with

Lois, Lester and their grandparents at 3103 Central Avenue. The rent was only $31.50

75 Jim Ackerman per month and splitting it so many ways made it pretty affordable. I knew that this arrangement did not make my parents very happy, but it nevertheless helped to ease some of the financial pressure we were enduring. My father had given us a generous

$2000 wedding gift that towards furnishing our home. We purchased a new refrigera- tor to replace the out-dated icebox, a new bedroom suite and pair of “his and hers”

Lazy-Boy recliners.

Our neighborhood, centered around the thirty hundred blocks of north Central Av- enue, was considered, in the late forties, to be a somewhat upscale and decidedly Jew- ish part of town. Koehler’s Drug Store, at 30th and Central, with its long shiny soda fountain, was known for its delicious milk shakes and was something of a meeting spot for much of the Jewish community. In fact, for a time, my brother-in-law,

Lester, worked for Mr. Koehler as a sales clerk. The Beth-El Temple, the afternoon

Hebrew school (the J.E.A.), the Kirschbaum Community Center and the Bornstein

Old Age Home were all centered around the intersection of 34th and Central.

Lois continued to advance her career at Baldwin & Lyons and enjoyed playing ten- nis at the nearby elementary school in her free time. Lois always was a terrific athlete and she eventually became very proficient at the game. After we both took up golf,

Lois became a powerhouse and was able to beat me regularly, winning the women’s championship title at the Broadmoor Country Club.

Thanks to the influence of her grandmother, Lois had received a rather respectable

Jewish upbringing. Grandma Mary Snellenberg had insisted that little Lois regularly attend Sunday School at the I.H.C. Temple on Delaware Street. This fact was note- worthy since Grandma had been born Mary Kimbel and was a devout Catholic. Mary

76 That’s My Story! understood the value of religious education and believed that people should be knowl- edgeable about their own religion — regardless if it was Catholicism, Judaism or whatever. Mary’s husband, Max Snellenberg — Lois’s grandfather — was a member of the family that had founded Snellenberg’s Department Stores in Philadelphia. Max worked as a buyer of millenary products for the chain in Baltimore until their daughter, Bea, moved to Indianapolis in order to pursue one of her husband, Lester Sr.’s, employment opportunities. Bea refused to relocate to Indianapolis unless her parents were able to come with her, so Mary and Max, Lois’s grandparents, re-settled in the

Midwestern capitol so they could remain close to their daughter and grandchildren.

But Lester Sr. suffered from a bad case of itchy feet and soon moved from Indianapo- lis leaving his children, his wife and his in-laws behind. This left Max and Mary in

Indianapolis where they were able to dote on their two grandchildren, Lois and

Lester, Jr. After growing to adulthood, Lois and her brother were able to reciprocate by caring for the couple after their daughter, Bea, passed away in November, 1946.

When I married Lois, I wasn’t just marrying her — I got the whole package. I became the newest member of a household that consisted of Lois, her brother, Lester Jr. and her grandparents, Max and Mary. Lester continued living with us after Max and

Mary had passed away. Lester, Lois and I all lived under one roof for nearly five decades as we moved through a series of homes in Indianapolis. Lester eventually moved out after he got married — at age seventy! Fortunately, Lester and I got along perfectly. I don’t recall a single cross word being exchanged between us in all the years we lived together. Lester typically worked in sales, serving for many years as the sales director for the large Kittle’s Furniture chain.

77 Jim Ackerman

Lois and I built our first home on Riverview Drive in 1954 where we lived for some 14 years. Our next home was on Galahad Drive, behind the golf course at the

Broadmoor Country Club where we remained through 1997. In both homes, we built an extra bedroom for Lester and made sure he had private access to the house. All of us shared the kitchen, most often eating our meals together. While this arrangement might have raised some eyebrows, I can honestly say that it worked out exceedingly well — primarily because we all got along with each other and because we respected each other’s private space at all times. Once we began to have children, having Uncle

Les around became a real benefit since the kids all loved him and he could stand-in for me when my work kept me away from school plays, Little League games and the like.

As mentioned, I decided to maintain my affiliation with the Army Reserve. After moving to Indianapolis, I became attached to Battery C of the 424 th Field Artillery

Battalion headquartered at Fort Benjamin Harrison on the city’s east side. As a lieutenant, I was entitled to visit the camp’s officer’s club and I must admit that one of the reasons I remained in the Army Reserve was because the officer’s club offered the best steaks in town for only $1.65 each.

I was required to report to Fort Harrison for one evening twice each month for my

Reserve training. We were paid a $50 per month stipend, which wasn’t much but came in might handy.

While my dad may have joked that I married Lois for her money, the fact was that she was earning $165 per month while I was only bringing home $110. In those days it was very unusual for a wife to earn more than her husband — unless she was a

78 That’s My Story! movie star. But my ego wasn’t bruised. I was happy that she was advancing and we certainly could use the money. Coupled with the $50 per month I was receiving from the Army Reserve, we were able to make ends meet and even succeeded in saving a bit.

Eventually Lois was appointed office manager with a much wider scope of respon- sibilities at Baldwin & Lyons. She reported directly to the owners, Voris Lyons and

Harry Baldwin. Each day at noon, the two partners would lunch together a the downtown Columbia Club — an oak-paneled Indianapolis institution located on the city’s famed Monument Circle. Mssrs. Baldwin and Lyons would invariably invite Lois along with them for lunch. The three of them soon developed a pattern of ordering king-sized Manhattans before lunch — a habit that Lois carries with her to this day.

Occasionally the trio would stop at another hallowed Monument Circle establishment, the Canary Café. Lois continued with the firm until we began raising a family in

1955. Her career at Baldwin & Lyons represented her first job and the only job she has ever held. Today Baldwin & Lyons is a publicly traded insurer of truck fleets and high-risk auto drivers. The firm employs nearly 300 employees and enjoys revenues over $100 million per year. I believe that Lois’s work in the early days of the company helped to lay the foundation for Baldwin & Lyons’ success today.

Of course, Lois’s most demanding and challenging job was that of mother to our three children. Our oldest, Barbara, was born in 1955. John came along in 1958 and

Leslie was born in 1963. Lois clearly did an outstanding job in this role since all three of our children have grown into adulthood and brought us both enormous pride and satisfaction. (see Chapter Twenty).

79 Jim Ackerman

Over the years, my partnership with Lois has proven to be one of my most prized business assets. Her particular skill in quickly assessing a person’s character and abilities proved to be a very valuable tool throughout my business career. While at Mor- ris Plan (see Chapter Seven), I would often be assigned to feel out prospective new employees. My most common method was to invite them over for dinner, either at home or at a restaurant — but always with Lois in attendance. Afterwards, Lois would pass judgment and I never discovered her to be mistaken when it came to sizing up a person’s character. If she said “That fellow’s a phony,” you could take that to the bank. Bill Schloss, who made the final hiring decisions, would sometimes decide to bring someone on board against my (actually Lois’s) recommendation. In each of these cases, Lois’s judgment would be vindicated as the new hire failed to measure up after a few months on the job. This talent for quickly getting a read on a person’s character became even more valuable to me as I was called upon to assess a potential borrower’s or business partner’s abilities and financial integrity. I learned to heed Lois’s advice and if she cautioned me to steer clear of someone, I did so and never wound up regretting it.

Lois also was an enormous asset during the many business conventions and con- claves I was required to attend. During my tenure as Vice President of the National

Commercial Finance Association, Lois and I participated in every national conven- tion. Much of the business of Cable TV was, and still is, conducted at regular industry get-togethers. With Lois at my side, I could actually be doubly efficient in making contacts at these events. Often Lois would work one side of a room or exhibit floor while I worked the other. We would then meet up and compare notes. I would

80 That’s My Story! follow up with anyone who caught Lois’s interest. It was almost like being in two places at once.

Lois was also my constant traveling companion on pleasure trips and vacations over the years. Our marriage is studded with memories of the exotic and exciting places we visited together over the years. From our first overseas trip in 1983 to

Japan and Hong Kong to Purdue Alumni trips to places like Australia and New Zea- land, Lois was the world’s greatest traveler. Of course much of our traveling involved golf. Our love of the game propelled us on visits to some of the world’s finest courses from Scotland to Honolulu. Through it all, my travels with Lois have provided me with some of the most treasured and colorful memories of my life.

Looking back, it’s obvious that I’ve enjoyed more than my share of good fortune.

But in ranking my blessings, I honestly feel that my lifelong love affair with Lois is the most fortunate thing that ever happened to me. In pondering this relationship, I find myself asking over and over: “How lucky can one man get?!”