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Dale Credico

Yeah!

 

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Joe Roark

December 01, 1962 The Paul Anderson Youth Home moved to its current location.

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Joe Roark

December 02, 1961 Hermann Saxon died. Born March 17, 1882. Some notes from my files:

 S&H Mar 1962 p 21  The last of the Saxons, obit- Hasse
                       born Mar 17, 1882  died Dec 2, 1961
S&H  May 1962 p 13  @ cremated; ashes were placed in his Mother's grave.
                       Appeal for donations for a marker

Another source says he passed on the 12th.

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Joe Roark

December 03, 2015 Larry Powers died age 76. Real name Larry Cianchetta.

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john corlett
15 hours ago, Joe Roark said:

December 03, 2015 Larry Powers died age 76. Real name Larry Cianchetta.

He had Steve Reeves-like pectoralis major development commonly referred to in the bodybuilding mags as "square pecs".

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Joe Roark

December 04, 1965 Leo Stern's Gym, the annual Bench Press and Curl contest. Below is the 198 lb class results

                                    BP            Curl     Total

198     L. Herzog     381.75    165      546.75

            G. Fisher      324          192      516

         T. Youngs       358          154      512

         Roosbach      330          165      495

      D. Thomas       335          143       478

         D. James      308          143       451

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Ed Mines
19 hours ago, Joe Roark said:

   T. Youngs       358          154      512

Tyrone Youngs placed 7th in the 1973 Mr. America. A few years later he won the natural Mr. America.

Could this be the same guy?

That G. Fisher was publicized in MD. An almost body weight, contest quality curl is fantastic. 

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Joe Roark
58 minutes ago, Ed Mines said:

Tyrone Youngs placed 7th in the 1973 Mr. America. A few years later he won the natural Mr. America.

Could this be the same guy?

That G. Fisher was publicized in MD. An almost body weight, contest quality curl is fantastic. 

I think so.

                      YOUNG(s), TY
        IM Jul 1974 p 20 wins Mar 30, 1974 Mr. Pacific Coast- Bencze
             Jul 1978 p 14 wins first annual amateur Natural Mr. A-Gallucci
             Mar 1980 p 20 wins Yorton's pro Natural Mr. A- Dillon


       DIG Jun 1980 p 35 Conversations with Ty- Caswell


        MD Aug 1978 p 32 wins amateur div of Yorton's first natural  phy contest- Gallucci


       MTI Aug 1971 p 36 pho as 1971 Sr. Mr. Calif
              Aug 1980 p 26 Ty in seminar- Metz


        LN Jun 1966 p 24 at Feb 26, 1966 So. Cal WL Chps won 198 via:  270-240-320= 830

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Joe Roark

December 05, 1913 Don Dorans was born. Died January 25, 1999

Don wrote for H&S 1957-1963, BAWB 1953-1955, IM 1953-1954

His series of articles for H&S included:
Bodybuilding for Beginners
Home Bodybuilding
How to Build A Better Body
Basic Bodybuilding
 

Don Dorans.jpg

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Joe Roark

December 06, 1991 Bert Goodrich died. Born December 26, 1906, age 84

Based on the June 10, 1939 contest in Amsterdam, New York, some people refer to Bert as the first Mr. America. But he was a pro, not an amateur, so I consider  when Roland Essmaker won the AAU Mr. America title that he was the first Mr. America. Plus the AAU was involved when Essmaker won.

Besides, the official title of the contest won by Goodrich was "America's Finest Physique'. Goodrich edged out Elmer Farnham by one point.

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Joe Roark

December 07, 1968 Steve Michalik won the Mr. Western New York contest.

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Ed Mines
16 hours ago, Joe Roark said:

December 07, 1968 Steve Michalik won the Mr. Western New York contest.

Do you know where that contest was held?

 When I lived in Rochester they had a Mr. Western New York contest  accompanying the Mr. Rochester; it was an open to anyone, you had to have some connection with the Rochester area to enter Mr. Rochester.

I've heard Buffalo also had a Mr. Western New York contest.

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Joe Roark
2 hours ago, Ed Mines said:

Do you know where that contest was held?

 When I lived in Rochester they had a Mr. Western New York contest  accompanying the Mr. Rochester; it was an open to anyone, you had to have some connection with the Rochester area to enter Mr. Rochester.

I've heard Buffalo also had a Mr. Western New York contest.

 

Dec 7, 1968 Rochester Central Y Mr. Western New York

1. Steve Michalik

2. Ken Huntley

3. Pete Grymkoski

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Joe Roark

December 08, 1948 David Chapman was born. David has written several books connected to the iron game, but may be best known among ironheads for his biography on Eugen Sandow.

He is currently at work on a book about Peplum films, or muscles in the movies.

https://www.amazon.com/David-L.-Chapman/e/B001H6NOA4%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share

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Joe Roark

December 09, 1908 Josef Grafl won his first World Wrestling Championship. He also won the next year.

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Joe Roark

December 10, 1955 Amy Banta Hise (mother of Joseph Curtis Hise) died at age 74 at 10:27 am, after having a heart attack two days before.

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Joe Roark

December 11,  2017 Shawn Perine passed at age 51. He was editor at Muscle and Fitness at the time, and a genuine and great person. He was a friend, but then he had hundreds of friends, and so far as I know, no enemies. Well regarded by all reports.
He was the original owner of the IronAge forum.
How much we will be missing because he is missing!

Rest in Peace, Shawn!

 

https://www.ihrsa.org/improve-your-club/industry-news/remembering-muscle-fitness-editor-shawn-perine-1966-2017/

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Joe Roark

December 12, 1964 Dick Hathaway, in Tulsa, Oklahoma won Mr. Tulsa, and another contest called Mr. Olympia- the AAU version, not the IFBB which began in 1965.

I have seen some of these contests reported as Mr. Olympia and some as Mr. Olympics- can anyone help with the proper title?

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Joe Roark

I am resuming this feature, after a lengthy lapse.

February 01, 1929 Charles Rigoulot, on his tenth attempt managed to Clean and Jerk 402.25 lbs. (or 402.34 lbs)

lso this same day he performed a RH snatch with 253.53 lbs, and a LH snatch of 221.56 lbs. [ see Super Athletes page 98]

 

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Joe Roark

February 02, 1957 Anita Gandol was born.

https://www.girlswithmuscle.com/images/?name=Anita+Gandol

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Joe Roark

February 03, 1999 Doyle Kenady died. Born August 29, 1948.

     Aug 29, 1948               KENADY, DOYLE                 Feb 3, 1999
        MF      Nov 1986 p 82 History's greatest DL- Hatfield


        PLUSA   Mar 1999 p  8 DK mountain man from Orgeon-Rethwisch
                      May 1999 p 22 DK- one man's remembrances- Gallagher
 

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Thomas Klose
9 hours ago, Joe Roark said:

February 03, 1999 Doyle Kenady died. Born August 29, 1948.

     Aug 29, 1948               KENADY, DOYLE                 Feb 3, 1999
        MF      Nov 1986 p 82 History's greatest DL- Hatfield


        PLUSA   Mar 1999 p  8 DK mountain man from Orgeon-Rethwisch
                      May 1999 p 22 DK- one man's remembrances- Gallagher
 

0A40850A-9C22-4142-A591-C5F4FADC4A4D.thumb.jpeg.fa8895d4b48d5fe7926bcce53ecc45e3.jpeg

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Joe Roark

February 04, 1915 Jim Witt born. Died April 03, 1993.

Not sure where I copied this from:


    Witt, Jim  his daughter wrote:
    At my Father’s funeral in April of 1993, I had them play, “My Way,” a song made
 popular by Frank Sinatra and later sung by Elvis Presley.  If you know the song, you have
 an idea of the type of man my father was; he did everything his way.  It was his way or 
“the highway.”  Also, if you know the television series in the late 60’s, early 70’s, 
“All in the Family,” in which Archie Bunker played the father, a white-haired white man
 living in the Bronx in New York City, you have a small glimpse of my father.   Archie 
was a bigot, and everyone laughed at his bigotry.  My father made Archie look tame and 
no one laughed at Jim Witt or at least to his face.  Sometimes, I think my father’s 
bigotry is what pushed me way over to the liberal left, in order to avoid being like him. 
 Even as a child, I knew all people deserved equal rights. 

 

Another story to explain the type of person my father was is the one where he was behind 
someone at a yield sign.  My father was looking back and saw that there was no traffic 
coming from the opposite direction so he stepped on the gas, assuming that the driver in
 front had done the same, but he hadn’t.  My father crashed into him; minor fender bender,
 right?  My father was so angry he went up and dragged the other man out of the car and 
urged him to fight.  Not sure how old the other man was but young, between 25 and forty 
or so; my father was well into his sixties, and even though my dad had manhandled him, 
possibly hit him, the other young man would not hit him out of respect.  My father told 
this entire story truthfully; admiring the young man with a rueful shake of his head.  
Now I say truthfully, and truly, when you were listening to my father, you had no idea
 what was the truth.  He loved to embellish stories, and they were always in his favor  
which is what made me think the car crash story was true, as the young man actually looked 
better than Daddy in it.  My father was born in the hills of Tennessee and I found out later
 in life that he came honestly by the storytelling ability as the acorn didn’t fall far from 
the tree, and his mother liked to weave a yarn herself, telling me when she was 98 that Bill
 Clinton appeared at her door asking her to vote for his re-election.  Yeah, right, Mammy Witt!

 

In our house, children were to be seen and not heard….ever.  No dinner table conversations 
saying what was good and bad about your day.  My father would even grunt and point at the
 salt which meant that we were to pass it to him.  Don’t get me wrong, even though he had 
not completed high school and only had 2 years of a “business college” (trade school) degree, 
he was an extremely smart man.  Conversation with children just wasn’t necessary.  So I grew
 up thinking that I was insignificant.  There were times that I would walk in from school
 having been gone all day and my father, sitting at the dining table, reading the newspaper,
 would not raise his head to acknowledge my presence.  I wouldn’t say anything either,  just
 creep slowly into my bedroom hoping not to waken “the sleeping giant.”  Yes, my father had a 
temper, but truly, rarely raised his voice, didn’t have to; anger emanated from him.  It wasn’t
 until much later in life perhaps even after his death, that I began to piece together the reasons
 for his anger.

 

James Knox Polk Witt, the II was born in Etowah, Tennessee to Birdie Hicks Witt and 
Elisha Peeler Witt in 1915.  When he was 18, his father was killed in what I vaguely 
remember as a car chase gone wrong.  My siblings who might know can correct me on this 
but Peeler, my paternal grandfather,  as my grandmother called him was a law enforcement 
officer and was chasing moonshiners.  It was 1933, prohibition.  My father was the oldest
 of eight children, some of the boys named after Presidents, my uncle “C” being Calvin 
Coolidge Witt, and not sure about Uncle John’s full name, or Eugene’s.  Uncle Bo’s name 
was Kimsey Peeler Witt.  I always wondered if Birdie had hoped that one of her boys would
 be President.  The girls were Dorothy, Gladys, and Allie.  Being the oldest, my father
 went to work to help my grandmother out.  Not sure what he did; that part of his life is 
sketchy although I now know that he married once with no children, divorced, and married 
again, a woman named Polly with whom he had a son, Jimmy, before he met my mother. 
 Those were “family secrets” that I didn’t learn until my half-brother, Jimmy, showed 
up on our doorstep when I was fourteen to find his father, which I thought at the time 
was very “romantic,” but created quite a stir in the family as you can imagine.

 

Sometime during the time my father was 18 and when he joined the army around 25, he boxed, 
and therefore boxed in the service, was named regimental boxing champion at Fort Jackson 
South Carolina.  My father went into the Army as a buck private around 1942, and was a 
second lieutenant when he was discharged, honorably, with a war wound.  I know now that
 purple hearts are given for that, but never knew that my father had one.  Daddy was a
 paratrooper in the Army and jumped out of a plane over France during the D-Day invasion.
  The only story I ever heard about that was from my mother who explained to me why my
 father didn’t ever eat chicken.  She told me that while his unit was foraying through 
France fighting the Germans that they had killed a chicken in a barnyard and cooked it 
over a spit.  Starving, they took it off the fire before it was done, and ate it hurriedly, 
but it was ½ raw.  After that, my father couldn’t eat chicken.  As a child, I accepted that 
story at face value, but wonder now if eating chicken reminded him of more than raw chicken?  
After seeing “Saving Private Ryan” and the graphic horrors of WWII, I imagine that my father
 just wanted to put all of that out of his mind, and chicken was a reminder.

 

To back up a bit, as detailed in another chapter, my father met my mother at the army base 
in South Carolina where he and my maternal grandfather were stationed.  My father was 27
 and my mother 17, a strike against them to begin with, but he had also been married twice
 and divorced, and I can just see my maternal grandmother’s pursed lips when she heard that.
 (Mam-maw as I called her would “purse” her lips when she was angry or upset as if to keep 
them shut and from saying something she shouldn’t).  My parents were permitted finally to
 marry, and I suspect I had a lot to do with that.  Helen Marguerite Brooks Witt and James
 Knox Polk Witt remained in love until they were parted by her death in 1989 (and actually,
 I’m positive, forever after).  They had six children.   I do need to add that my younger
 sister and I have commented on the difference in my father’s parenting to the three oldest 
and the three youngest children; he had mellowed evidently.

 

Jim was shot in the leg while in France, and then, wounded soldiers were shipped home instead 
of patched up and sent back in.  He never had a noticeable limp and as he never wore any kind 
of shorts, not even “Bermuda,” his scar didn’t show.  Occasionally, he would pull his pants
 leg up to scratch it or rub it.  I’m convinced that the horrors of war started my father on 
his path of drinking.  I didn’t know as a child what the problem was, but would be mightily
 embarrassed when he would come home down the alley after a bender singing at the top of his 
lungs and waking the neighbors.  The next day he would go out to find his car.  When I was fourteen,
 my mother said something once about “he had lost the car again” and with my smart mouth I said
 something like, “Serves him right if he doesn’t find it.”  My mother, his chief enabler, was
 horrified that I would say such a thing.  When I was 12, the drinking ceased abruptly except 
for the aforementioned time when I was 14, and we were visiting in Tennessee and he had gone
 out drinking with his brothers.  I found out many years later that he had attended AA meetings
 for six months, and then remained what the program calls “dry” meaning that he wasn’t drinking 
but also not working on the underlying problems that Alcoholics drink over.  Dry meant that he was
 irritable, angry, and discontent.  He remained abstinent for over twenty years, and when he did
 drink again; only drank on Saturday nights.  (The same night he took his “bath”; must have been 
a product of growing up as I only remember my father bathing once a week when I was growing up, 
and bathing not showering, although I can never remember him “smelling.” Maybe he washed important
 parts in between).

 

After the war, even though my father was a young man, he never really found himself career wise. 
He became a jack of all trades, master of none.  He drove a taxi, managed a parking garage, took
 a few salesman’s jobs on commission.  It was a good thing that my mother went out to work everyday, 
and to my knowledge there was no fighting over any of this.  I rarely saw any disagreements between
 my parents until I left home, and even then there was no thought of leaving each other.  My mother
 waited on my father hand and foot, which led to my decision that I would never let a man “tell me 
what to do like that.”  The reason, I’m sure, that I’ve been married and divorced twice and remained
 single.  My father was a night owl like me,  or rather, I am like him, and would stay up all night
 and sleep ½ the day.  My mother would not plan to go anywhere on the week-ends until he got up and 
she could fix his breakfast.  It drove me crazy!

 

At age forty, my dad “found himself” mid-life when he started weight training and working out.  
He studied it, wrote a book, “The ABC’s of Weightlifting” in 1970, at which time he also became
 the first powerlifting chairman of the Amateur Athletic Union.  He placed first, second, and 
third in over 200 competitions and was named Heavyweight Powerlifting Champion of Texas seven
 times.  When he was in his fifties in the 1960’s I was able to brag that he was Texas HeavyWeight
 Lifting Champion.  He entered and won competitions until he retired in 1985 at the age of 70 from 
lifting and was elected into the Powerlifting Hall of Fame in 1978.  My boyfriends were always very 
respectful of my father it goes without saying.

 

Prior to all of this, in the early 1950’s, my father and several friends began working out in the
 two car garage behind our home.  At night, the light from the lone light bulb created a path for
 me from the back door to the side door of the garage.  I would creep out, crouch down and watch 
these Masters of their Universe, heave-ho the giant barbells, sometimes dropping them onto the 
concrete floor with a CLANG which reverberated and caused me to clap my hands over my ears.  I
 was fascinated by the bulging muscles and sweat dripping off their backs.  My curiosity with their 
commitment to hurting themselves never fully satisfied.  At times, my mother would have me carry out
 Texas size glasses of lemonade.  Under the he-men’s attention and gratitude, I felt very flattered. 
 When I was 12 or 13, my father opened a franchise of gyms in Oklahoma City, Okla, as well as
 Texarkana, Tex.  It seems to me there was a third in Dallas, but not positive about that. 
 He would travel between the gyms and was gone from home a lot, which I have to admit was 
a relief for me because of the aforementioned anger, and “walking on eggshells.”  After about
 six months, suddenly, all the gyms failed, and I surmised from listening to my parents that
 he had opened too many simultaneously.  I often have wondered what our lives would have been
 like if he had opened only one in Dallas at a time when bodybuilding and weightlifting had 
just become of interest?

 

About the time I started high school, Hercules Health Club was opened on Jefferson St. in Oak 
Cliff, Texas, the suburb of Dallas that we lived in.  Many a well known weightlifter visited 
that gym, including my father’s friend, Paul Anderson.  When my parents moved to East Dallas,
 the gym was moved to the large building behind my parent’s home.  My father had enough of a
 following that he made a slight living, still subsidized by my mother’s income.  At the time
 of her death in 1988 when they had been married 46 years, she was assistant Branch Manager of
 Weyerhauser Mortgage.

 

Mine and my father’s relationship was tenuous at best; I had a lot of repressed anger mainly
 directed at him that I was not allowed to express, even to my mother.  Fortunately, when I was
 in high school, my peers and I were able to commiserate together about the “state of our lives.” 
 The only time I ever remember my father applying corporal punishment to me was when I was a senior 
in high school and had stayed out all night, drinking with friends (believe me, quite brave of me 
to even go home after that).  My father was so angry that he took off his belt and made me turn
 around and whipped me across the top ½ of my back as I had on a sundress (what we called them) 
with a full skirt and lots of petticoats, and hitting me lower would have been fruitless.  After 
a few whallops he stopped because I refused to cry and rather than making him mad, he admired that. 
 Yes, that is one of his qualities that for good or bad I have kept, stubbornness  in the face of all
 reality!  I used to be really angry of course, that he had whipped me, and I still don’t think 
children deserve that, but I also deserved to be punished (albeit a different way) for staying out all night.

 

When I was twenty six and finally felt strong enough to argue with my dad when he was mad at 
me over something, I asked him, “Why he had never liked me?”  Notice I didn’t say love.  I do
 think it’s true, that my father didn’t like me much as a young adult but now I believe it’s
 because he saw too much of himself in me.  At age 34, I was suddenly freed of the power my dad 
had over me.  It was a truly insignificant event, but changed my life forever.  I was at my parent’s
 home with my children, and my eighteen month old son had thrown something on the floor. 
 I bent over to pick it up, and my father said, “Make him pick it up!”  with the same anger I had
 heard all my life.  I looked up at my father from my stooping position, looked over to my innocent
 son’s face who was frozen with fear and looking up at his grandfather, and I said, “No, that’s ok,
 he doesn’t have to learn that yet,” calmly so as not to alarm my baby.  Then I picked my baby up
 and hugged him as my father stomped out of the room, angry at his lack of control over me.  From 
that moment on, my father’s anger had no power over me.

 

My father and I tolerated each other because we both loved my mother.  My mother did tell me 
that he said one time when I had invited them over on Christmas Eve, “Why does YOUR family always
 want to drag us out of our home on Christmas?”  Honestly, it was like he thought I was my mother’s
 younger sister or something (of course, my mother shouldn’t have told me that he said that either).. 
 It made me mad and laugh at the same time.   At the same time, when I was 36, and had surgery 
in which they broke my sternum (no, not open heart as they didn’t operate on the heart, but the
 same procedure to get into the chest cavity), both my parents were at the hospital at 7 am to 
see me as I went into surgery.  My mother hugged me, and my father took my hand and said,
 “If I could do this for you, I would.”  And I knew he meant it.  Fast forward to after my 
mother’s death in 1988.  My mother had been the “glue” of the family always keeping the peace 
and keeping us together, so I was very surprised when my father began to keep in touch.  You may
 find this hard to believe, but until after my mother died, I had never answered the phone, and 
heard my father’s voice as the person who was calling ME.  I may have talked to him on the phone 
(not much) but either I called “the house” and talked to my mother and him (he never answered the
 phone) or my mother put him on the phone, trying to meld a relationship between us.

 

When my father was in the hospital in early 1993, and we were told it was “Congestive Heart Failure”
 and while the doctors were very conservative and wouldn’t put a date on it, I knew it was a short
 period of time that we would have him.  My sister, Susan and I pretty much split up taking care of
 him with the help of sitters and eventually hospice.  My father told my sister in law that he was
 surprised about me.  I suppose surprised that I had “stepped up to the plate” given our tumultuous 
relationship.  After all, I was the oldest child, isn’t that what we are supposed to do?  I will 
remain eternally grateful that I “did my duty.”  It was one of the most healing experiences of my life. 
 My father and I never had a cross word after that.  The tension of the years melted away. 
 I supervised his care, and though working full-time and teaching part-time and having a teen-ager 
at home as a single parent, I still managed to visit him mornings and evenings.  Susan and I split
 the week-ends.  When he died April 2nd, 1993, after four months of incapacity, I grieved him, and 
still miss him today.  I often think I would have robbed myself of that if I had not put our differences
 aside.

 

Today is Father’s Day, June 21, 2009; my father has been gone sixteen years, and I hope that those
 who read this will see it as a tribute to him.  I also wrote another short story (blog) about him called Hercules.
 

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Liam Tweed

Very honest interesting reflection on a father / daughter dynamic Joe

i wasnt expecting that in your daily  posts 

Good to have you back posting again 

one never knows what jewels of iron history one will find in this thread 

Especially useful to help me get through these seemingly endless nights during my recovery from surgery where sleep no longer comes easy 

Liam 

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