Jul 21, 2002 9 min read

Today, we conclude our series about the late Brownsville High School educator and coach, Charlie Slick. His former students, athletes and colleagues have described Mr. Slick as tough and demanding. But what was he like at home? When I spoke with Charlie’s daughter, Lee, in her Church Street home, I asked her if her father was difficult to live with. “Did your dad demand that you excel academically?” I asked Lee.

“No, he actually didn’t,” Lee answered. “People probably expected that would be the case, but I can honestly say my dad never pressured me scholastically. I remember coming home crying with a B on my report card, and he said to me, “Lee, as long as you tried your best, you have nothing ever to worry or be ashamed about.”

“So he wasn’t quite as tough on his only child as he was on his students and athletes?” I asked.

“She could get anything from him,” laughed Charlie’s widow Ruth, who had joined the conversation.

Of course, a critical test of any father’s patience comes when he begins to teach his daughter to drive.

“Where did your dad teach you to drive?” I asked Lee.

“On the streets of Brownsville,” Lee said, rolling her eyes. “And I kept telling myself, ‘If you can learn to drive a manual transmission car going up and down the hills of Brownsville, you can drive anywhere.’

“My biggest fear was that I would be following someone up High Street hill who would want to turn left at Angle Street. You’d have to stop on the hill and use the clutch to hold the car from drifting backward as you tried to get going again.”

“Was your Dad a calm driving teacher?” I asked.

“Well, I couldn’t quite get the hang of working the clutch at first.

‘Dad would try to be patient, then he would finally shout in exasperation, “Lee! Lee! Can’t you tell when the clutch is going to take hold?”

Lee and Ruth both laughed. “So, mom took me out until I learned how to operate the clutch properly.”

“I guess you’re implying that your dad had a temper?”

“Oh, yeee-ah,” Lee drew the word out as she shared a smile with her mother. “Dad had a temper. I always told him he mellowed as he got older, but if something would tee him off, he would let it out.”

“What words do you think would best describe him?”

“Determined. Strict. A very focused person. But deep down, a very caring person. My dad really did love kids, and he would do anything with kids.

“I’ll give you an example of how my dad’s image as a tough guy wasn’t always quite accurate. When Dave Simon’s family moved to Brownsville, they lived on Pearl Street in the Craft Apartments. My dad and Dave were good friends, and one evening my dad was visiting at the Simon’s, who had two little girls.

“Dad was sitting on the couch in front of their living room window, and Dave’s two-year old, Susie, had climbed up on the back of the couch. She had a comb, and she was just combing my dad’s hair every which way!”

“A woman who’d had my dad as a teacher was standing across the street,” Lee laughed, “and when she looked across at the Simon’s window, she exclaimed, ‘Oh, my God, you won’t believe this! That is Mr. Slick in there, and Susie’s up there on the couch combing his hair!’

“The lady couldn’t believe it, of course, because it really didn’t fit her image of my dad.”

Leslie Addis of Seattle, Wash., also remembers Mr. Slick as being different from his popular image.

“My dad, Edwin Addis, coached at Brownsville High School with Mr. Slick,” Leslie told me, “and my dad had a very high regard for Mr. Slick as a coach and as a friend. When we would visit the Slicks, I remember how patient they were with me as they allowed me to bang away on the piano in their dining room.”

Charlie Slick? Patient?

“We were next-door neighbors of the Slicks for many years,” Ruthie Cooper Klodell told me from her home in Girard, Ohio, “and they were a wonderful family. Many times Mr. Slick would drive me to the high school when I was a student. He was a very nice, low-keyed kind of individual, very mild mannered and a hard worker.”

Low-keyed? Mild mannered?

Charlie Slick seems to have had a different personality when he was not in school or on the athletic field.

Gail Schwartz Gurin, Carol Schwartz Franko, and Debbie Schwartz Pechersky were also neighbors of the Slicks. They lived with their parents, Edith and Theodore Schwartz, in a yellow brick house at 21 Shaffner Ave.

“Our neighborhood included Louise and Harriet Walker, the Moskovitz family, Paula and Mike Orsog, the Coopers, and the Cichettis,” the three former Schwartz girls recalled. “We still remember Mr. Slick as a friendly man who regularly mowed his lawn with a ‘push’ mower. Even though he was our neighbor for many years, we always called him Mr. Slick. When the Slicks moved to a bigger house on Church Street, Mr. Slick planted an even larger garden.”

“Tomatoes!” exclaimed Lee, when I asked her what her dad planted in that garden. “Cabbage, peppers, onions, beets. One year I counted over 100 tomato plants in the garden. He would give to all of the neighbors, then mom and I would do as much with tomatoes as we possibly could.

“The ground in the yard is all clay, but he spaded it up himself every spring. It was like digging in cement, and he would come in wringing wet from perspiration, but he enjoyed it.”

“It was a workout for him,” I said.

“That’s right,” agreed Lee. “Even after he retired from California State College at age 60 in 1978, Dad remained physically active. He would get up early every morning and go to the college to work out, come home and read the paper, then return to the college at 9:30 to swim with the swim club.

“Dad enjoyed being with his friends. He was secretary at the Elks for many years, and he would go down there to play cards with guys like Tom Liston and Joe Fenwick. Nazzareno Cicchetti was another good friend of his, and Dad would go over and help him with his beer distributorship during the summer.”

On Aug. 1, 1982, a lot of those friends held a testimonial dinner for Charlie at the Hiller Fire Hall. They called it a “Roast,” and it turned out to be a real roast when the fire hall’s air conditioning gave out. The crowd had a great time though, as the lineup of speakers didn’t let up for a minute, keeping everyone in stitches with nonstop stories about their honored guest.

“Dad laughed right along with them,” Lee said, “and as each one spoke, Dad scribbled down a note or two. My dad wasn’t one for making speeches, but when his turn finally came, he went on for a hour. I couldn’t believe it. He went right down his list and made sure he got in a zinger or two on each of his friends who had roasted him. It was a great evening for everyone.”

Charlie spent 17 happy years in retirement with his wife Ruth, tending his garden, swimming daily, golfing and playing cards with his friends.

In 1995, at the age of 77, Charlie Slick died.

Bert Sutton, the youngest of seven brothers to play football at Brownsville High School, was the master of ceremonies at Charlie’s 1982 testimonial dinner. Bert, who now lives in North Versailles, summed up his feelings about Charlie Slick.

“I had the pleasure of knowing Charlie Slick very well,” Bert told me. “He coached me in baseball and football, and later he was a fellow coach, a teaching colleague, my principal, and my friend.

“Charlie Slick excelled in every position he held. He was always kind and compassionate to me and my family, and I considered it an honor to be the emcee at his testimonial dinner. Charlie was one of the finest men I have ever known. He served his community and his country with distinction. I will always miss him.”

“When Dad died,” Lee said, “Don Bartolomucci, the current high school football coach who loved my dad, and Jeff Petrucci, the college football coach for whom my dad was an assistant coach, give the eulogies. They were just great. They had the people laughing and crying with things that happened with my dad. After the funeral, the Rev. Clark, who knew him only as a quiet man who came to church every Sunday, said to me, ‘I never knew that side of Mr. Slick.’

“The funeral was on a Sunday at Skirpan’s,” Lee continued. “On Saturday afternoon, Dad was in one of the front rooms, and the other front room was empty. During visiting hours, I looked over in that other room, and there were 15 or 20 fellows, all dad’s former players, fellow coaches and friends, having a great time telling ‘Charlie stories.’ Dad would have been in his glory.”

Charlie Slick’s name will forever be linked with Brownsville. But despite his many years working and living in the community, Charlie is not buried anywhere near Brownsville.

“Dad attended the Presbyterian Church in Brownsville faithfully,” said Lee, “but he had always kept his membership back in the Lutheran Church in Osterburg, where he was born and raised. That is where he is buried.”

Many of us can name one or two individuals in our lives who stand out as having made a difference for us. For a remarkable number of people, Charlie Slick was one of those individuals.

“To this day,” said Lee Slick, with a smile, “people will come up to me and say, ‘Let me tell you about Charlie . . .'”

And, then, the stories begin.

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Glenn Tunney may be contacted at 724-785-3201, glenatun@hhs.net or 6068 National Pike East, Grindstone, PA 15442. Comments about these weekly articles may be sent to Mark O’Keefe (Managing Editor – Day), 8 – 18 East Church Street, Uniontown, Pa. or e-mailed to mo’keefe@heraldstandard.com. All past articles are on the Web at http://freepages.history.rootsweb.com/~glenntunneycolumn/