Pokemon just too much fun to let Go - Columbus Dispatch

Yes, I still play Pokemon Go.

I started because I wanted to play a game with my kids that included going outside. They have moved on. I still play because the augmented-reality game that allows you to see creatures superimposed over the real-world landscape encourages me to visit new places, meet new people and have new adventures.

Schiller Park in German Village is a great place to play. It has ample gyms (where your team can battle an opposing team for supremacy) and Pokestops (where you can restock your virtual supplies). My favorite gym there is the Umbrella Girl fountain. I listened to much of an outdoor theater production of Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” one evening while circling the park catching Pidgey and Pikachu.

The Statehouse and the Scioto Mile also are great places to play. The Statehouse is loaded with gyms and Pokestops that teach you a little bit about history as you pass by a marker regarding Abraham Lincoln’s visit to the Statehouse, the Ohio Holocaust and Liberators Memorial and assorted cannons. The Scioto Mile offers a variety of Pokemon to catch and is the perfect place to stretch your legs on a long walk.

Hands down, though, Ohio State University is my favorite place to play. You can walk an endless loop around the Oval or explore the whole campus. The many gyms there include the Thompson Library, University Hall, and, appropriately, the Billy Ireland Cartoon Library and Museum. I never miss the gym — or the donuts — at Buckeye Donuts. There even is a Pokestop in the center of Ohio Stadium.

I have met many interesting people while playing Pokemon Go. We have a group at work that meets for raids. We talk about Pokemon, of course, the newest releases and who is going to Pokemon Go Fest in Chicago, but we also talk about family events, job transfers and new babies and grandchildren.

I have had adventures while playing Pokemon Go, too.

Last autumn, I learned the location of a new legendary Pokemon. I needed it, so I stopped, even though the area was sketchy. There were four guys there, all with facial jewelry and tattoo sleeves. But folks don’t seem so intimidating when they are giving you tips on the best Mewtwo counters. Not only did we beat the raid boss in control of the gym, all five of us captured it.

At RiverScape MetroPark in Dayton, I nearly walked between a man on his knee and a woman with her hands to her mouth. He was proposing to her. I didn’t see the couple until it was almost too late. Like many Pokemon Go players, I walk with my face looking down at my phone too much of the time.

I will admit to a few brushes with the law, too. Pro tip: Coffman Park closes at dark, and the Dublin police aren’t shy about letting you know.

Another time, I was in a group raiding at Catfish Biff’s at Ohio State when a Columbus police cruiser pulled up. Over the loudspeaker they asked us what we were doing. We replied that we were playing Pokemon Go. Both officers got out of the cruiser, pulled out their phones and helped us beat the raid boss.

And once, when playing at the Statehouse, I saw a man with a holstered handgun chasing a down-on-her-luck-looking woman. He quickly caught her and forced her to the ground. Concerned, I moved a bit closer and asked him what was going on. He shouted that he was a bail-bondsman and asked me to call 911, which I did. The Ohio Highway Patrol and Columbus police were there almost immediately. Apparently, the woman had jumped out of the bounty hunter’s car while it was moving — and while she was handcuffed. The police took her to the Franklin County jail.

So I will continue to play — to get my steps in, meet new people and support local law enforcement.

Randy Imwalle, 57, lives in Hilliard. His next quest is sure to take him to see the movie “Pokemon Detective Pikachu.”

This essay originally appeared in the Columbus Dispatch on May 18, 2019.

Love of music yields stream of crushes through years - Columbus Dispatch

My first musical crush was Stevie Nicks, all scarves, tambourines and husky come-hither voice.

As a high-school freshman, I obsessed over Stevie’s voice on Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours” album.

Was she singing to me?

... but listen carefully to the sound of your loneliness, like a heartbeat drives you mad, in the stillness of remembering what you had, and what you lost.

The analogy wasn’t perfect, though: I hadn’t had a girlfriend yet to lose.

My relationship with Stevie eventually cooled, as all infatuations do. And although you never forget your first crush, you usually have another.

In my case, it was five — the five women in the Go-Go’s. Not only did all five sing; they also played their own instruments. Nothing beats girls with guitars.

They were all I could talk about. To humor me, a buddy (thanks, Brian) went with me to see them in concert in 1983. I’ll never forget the crowd at Miami University’s Millett Hall in Oxford dancing to “Our Lips Are Sealed” and “Skidmarks on My Heart.”

The group disbanded after just three albums. Without new music to keep me interested, we drifted apart.

Through the years, my musical crushes came and went: Maria McKee, lead singer/guitarist in Lone Justice, had a smile that made my stomach feel funny; the photogenic Shania Twain could sing and play the guitar (and I knew she shouldn’t have married Mutt Lange); and the women of the Dixie Chicks were smart and attractive and played their own instruments, but we had a falling-out over politics.

Needing a break, I started listening to Irish music. I really enjoyed the three sisters from the Corrs and whoever played fiddle for Gaelic Storm at the time, but I never got the squiggly feeling that defines a crush.

Maybe I was getting old.

Then CD102.5 lifted me out of a decade-long funk. The FM station started playing an upbeat, dreamy song with jangly guitar. About a week later, I caught the name: “Plimsoll Punks” by Alvvays.

While driving home one December evening, I heard disc jockey Lesley James announce that caller No. 5 would win two passes to see Alvvays in the Big Room. I called repeatedly but never got through. I was devastated.

Then I thought: “Don’t quit. The young me wouldn’t have given up.”

A few minutes later, I called again, and Lesley answered. In one breath, I explained my big crush on Alvvays and how I tried to call to win passes but hadn’t gotten through and was there any way she could just let me in?

She laughed and said, “Sure,” leaving me shuddering in delight.

To be honest, though, I knew little about the band except the one song. Was I rushing things?

I asked one of my sons to go with me. I knew the music wasn’t something he would normally listen to, but he agreed (thanks, Ben).

I found love at first sight.

At the start of the live-on-the-air show, the DJ interviewed lead singer Molly Rankin, who held a Fender Duo-Sonic guitar. She was funny and self-deprecating in explaining that her dad was in the Rankin Family of Irish-music fame, but that she’d started a band only after she failed at everything else she’d tried.

Molly’s lyrics and singing exhibit a certain vulnerability and sadness, but her music is so upbeat that it compels a smile.

I am smitten.

Randy Imwalle, 55, lives in Hilliard.

Originally published in the Dispatch on March 10, 2018

Giving blood an easy way to aid others, reward self

I got serious about donating blood after 9/11.

Before the terrorist attacks of 2001, I had given only sporadically.  After the tragedy, I reasoned that giving blood was all I could do to help those injured in New York and Washington, D.C.

On September 12, I joined the crowd of folks outside the Statehouse and waited for hours.  The weather was as pleasant as he day before, but the atmosphere was saturated with uncertainty and unease.  Conversations were subdued.

When I finally made it inside the donation bus, the Red Cross workers were pleasant but serious.  They were eager to collect as many donations as possible in the time available

Keyless Car Leaves Drive Feeling Adrift - Columbus Dispatch April 30, 2016

I recently rented a car for a business trip to West Virginia.

After filling out the paperwork, I walked around the vehicle with the agent to inspect it for damage. Finding none, I began to reach for “the keys.”

The agent asked whether I had driven a car with a keyless ignition. I said no.

He explained that the car didn’t have a key. To start the car, he said, I just needed to have the fob inside the car and push the start/stop button; to turn it off, I had to push the button again.

What could be easier?

I hopped in and got on my way. Three hours later, I arrived in Charleston without any problems.

Nicknames

His birth certificate said his name was Frederick.

The priest who baptized him called him Ferdinand.

His siblings called him Freddy.

As a teenager, he liked to drive fast - "going like Barney Oldfield," as the saying went back then - so his friends (and eventually his wife and her family) called him Barney.

At work he was Fred.

When he died in 1986, his tombstone read Fred R. Imwalle.

I just called him Dad.

Originally published by The Columbus Dispatch on August 17, 2015.

In His Home, 13 Is An Age Flush With Anticipation

Thirteen is a childhood milestone — an age that, for some young people, marks a beginning or ushers in a tradition.

Jewish children, for example, celebrate a bar or bat mitzvah. Many Roman Catholic children receive the sacrament of confirmation.

At the Imwalle household in Hilliard, the milestone carries a new responsibility: cleaning a bathroom.

With 10 children, including six still at home, my wife, Lisa, and I view self-sufficient offspring as a necessity.

Which explains why, by age 3, our children have learned to put their dirty clothes in a hamper and clear their dirty plates from the table.

Such training also helps each Saturday, popularly (or maybe not so popularly) known as “job day.”

My Dare Devil's Pizza T-Shirt

The Columbus Dispatch

March 7, 2013

“What are you doing?  You can’t wear it!”  I said very quickly.  Lisa’s face did not hide her feelings – it was clearly just a shirt to her.  With a puzzled frown, she took it off.  I gently returned it to its place.  The shirt in question was not just any shirt though.  It was the first shirt I ever bought at Dare Devil’s Pizzeria in Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina.  The peach-colored t-shirt had been my favorite since the moment I bought it twenty years ago.  The graphics were great, and I could feel the summer sun on my back whenever I wore it.

We were on our first trip to the Outer Banks in 1992.  One evening Lisa’s parents agreed to watch the kids while we went out.  We walked to Dare Devil’s Pizzeria.  The name is derived from

Unborn Humans Deserve Protection

The Columbus Dispatch
Letters To The Editor
September 18, 2012

Unborn Humans Deserve Protection

The symbol of the United States, the bald eagle, is protected by law. This protection extends to the bald eagle's nest and eggs (16 U.S. Code, Section 668). Shouldn't the people of the United States be given as much respect as our nation’s symbol?

An unborn human being deserves as much protection as an unborn bald eagle. Consider this when you vote on Nov. 6.

RANDY IMWALLE

http://www.dispatch.com/content/stories/editorials/2012/09/18/unborn-humans-deserve-protection.html

Photo Ops Extend Visit to Grand Canyon - Columbus Dispatch

Originally published in the Columbus Dispatch.

Photo Ops Extend Visit to Icon

The cliche holds true: The essence of the Grand Canyon cannot be captured in a single photograph.

The length, breadth and depth make a representative shot impossible.

Not that I didn’t try.

In fact, during an adventure-filled 25th-anniversary trip with my wife recently, every moment seemed to become a photo opportunity.

Lisa and I spent one day hiking on the Grand Canyon Rim Trail before eating dinner in the Arizona Room of the Bright Angel Lodge.

Being "Unselfish" Essential - Columbus Dispatch

Originally published in the Columbus Dispatch

Being 'Unselfish' Essential
Saturday, January 2, 2010

By RANDY IMWALLE

Most people have heard of Raiders of the Lost Ark and Pirates of the Caribbean, but I hadn't heard them mentioned at Mass. Deacon Andrew, a young man studying for the priesthood at the Pontifical College Josephinum, began a homily back in 2006 by relating a story about the monkeys used in those movies. Hunters capture such monkeys by making a trap that allows one of the animals to reach inside and grab a nut or a shiny bauble. The hole isn't large enough, though, for the monkey to pull out its nut-laden fist. The monkey could drop the nut at any time and run away, but it doesn't - even when the hunters return. It can't bear to let go of the treasure.

Tying the story to his life, Deacon Andrew told the congregation at St. Brendan church in Hilliard that what he found difficult to let go was the idea of a wife and children. He knew he wanted to become a priest, but

A Buckeye In Need Finds A Friend, Indeed

I planted the sapling with little ceremony but much love. I watered and fertilized it under the supervision of the family arborist — my wife, Lisa — and directed our children not to play around it. It is a special tree, I told them — a buckeye. Despite the care and warnings given, the tree barely survived its first year. Somehow, the leader — the branch that the next year would become the trunk — had broken off. The sole clue to the damage: a blue and
yellow ball lying next to the branch. The kids said they hadn’t seen the ball before. Everyone knows how resilient a buckeye is, though. And so, with at least a bit of hope, I spent a long, gray Columbus winter praying that the little tree would survive.

When the redbud blossoms finally broke winter’s grip, I realized that the little tree had sprouted a new leader. It had lost a year’s growth in height but otherwise seemed to be flourishing. (I secretly told myself that

Father of 10 Turns Bath Time Into A Career

I was sitting recently on the side of the bathtub, studying my knees. Were those calluses? Before long, the answer dawned on me: The hardened spots had resulted from kneeling near the tub while bathing my children.

Early in our marriage, my wife, Lisa, and I tacitly agreed that I would be responsible for baths. Through the years, the chore became another task I do with little introspection. I still don’t tend to nearly half the work at home, even when I’m there, so I’m not complaining.

The calluses did make me wonder, though, how many baths I might give in my “career” as a father. (I’m a baseball fan, so statistics intrigue me.)

I bathe the kids about every other day (with Lisa pinch-hitting for me when I am on the road). Conservatively

EVEN NON-IRISH BLESSED WITH GOOD FORTUNE
By Randy Imwalle

Originally published in the Columbus Dispatch on March 14, 2009.

No Irish blood runs through my veins, but I have long considered St. Patrick's Day special. Luck seems to find me. When I was younger, I looked forward to the holiday as a continuation of my birthday (on March 16). Later, I learned about the real St. Patrick and developed a passion for Irish music.

Patrick was born in Scotland to Roman parents about A.D. 387. As a boy, he was kidnapped and taken to