By John Carlson—
You know how it is. You’re mindlessly scanning some obituaries and, suddenly, one jumps out at you.
Maybe you even loose an involuntary gasp.
That happened to me recently, learning of the death of “Mr. Phil.”
When Nancy and I were his customers, Phil Christy was the second-generation owner and director of Muncie‘s first private daycare facility, Pla-n-Stuf, a down-to-earth and friendly place where he seemed a larger-than-life presence.
Phil Christy in younger days at Pla-n-Stuf. Photo provided
Pla-n-Stuf was a single-story building in a quiet neighborhood on the near north side. Pictured now in my mind’s eye, I see a place bordered by thick trees with rambunctious kids coming and going. We adults who walked in were working parents looking for a safe haven for our children. Later, I think most of us realized we were also seeking comfort and reassurance for ourselves.
Maybe there were some parents who didn’t need that, parents for whom putting kids in daycare was no big deal.
They weren’t the Carlsons, though.
The matter of a child’s daycare could be a troubling one, maybe even one that sent you hitting your knees at night, seeking divine guidance that you made the right decision. It was a relief, then, to walk into Pla-n-Stuf. Enter the building and you’d immediately spot the office where Mr. Phil was as much a fixture as Honest Abe on Mt. Rushmore. This was the perfect place for him to keep an eye on all who came and went.
Furthermore, a Bible always lay open before him on his desk. This wasn’t just for show. He was an “avid” Bible scholar, as his obituary noted. Still, by my recollection he was never pious or preachy or in the parents’ faces to follow his religious convictions.
He also loved dogs, which says most of what I need to know about a guy.
As it was, from our first visit we felt safe in trusting our son and daughter to him, plus the cadre of kindly women – invariably addressed by the courtesy title Miss – who made up his staff.
While our sweet Katie was enrolled at Pla-n-Stuf for a couple years before heading off to Yorktown schools, our son Johnny was there even longer. When I picture him back then, it’s usually as a cute little kid in a faux leather jacket sewn with all sorts of patches featuring jets and other flashy military images. From the first day Johnny wore it, he earned a special nickname from Mr. Phil.
“There’s Top Gun!” he’d be greeted, as he stepped through the doorway.
Speaking of stepping through the doorway, Pla-n-Stuf always had an attractive, colorful, well-scrubbed vibe that seemed reflective of the mood of the children who were enrolled. Kids had fun there, learned to get along there, and made friends whose orbits intersected those of fellow Pla-n-Stuf kids for years to come.
But there was more to the place than that.
Mr. Phil and company also instilled some other important lessons in the children. Having served with the Army in Vietnam and Thailand, he taught them respect for our country’s flag, plus the importance of following the Golden Rule and, as his obituary noted, the value of getting a leg up on those “ABCs and 123s.” Over time these lessons were taught to literally thousands of children overseen by Mr. Phil, Miss Arlene, Miss Tina, Miss Debbie, Miss Peggy, and others.
Driving by the place recently for the first time in thirty years, I saw the site remains another daycare center, one where new generations of kids are undoubtedly making friends and memories.
But given Mr. Phil’s death, I couldn’t help but be struck by the passage of time, particularly how quickly it flies. Those little kids I’d see running in and out when dropping off or picking up my own children? They were cops and nurses and teachers now, lawyers and factory workers and doctors and firemen and soldiers and secretaries and a thousand other amazing, grown up things we couldn’t have imagined back then.
Maybe even race car drivers.
Or, maybe not.
OK, I don’t know if a Pla-n-Stuf kid ever raced, let alone logged some laps around the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, but that seems unlikely. Still, come every May, the children got a taste of the Hoosier classic’s excitement as tiny riders on Big Wheels and tricycles raced their own quick laps around the circular entrance out front.
Just last week our son found a partial photograph from his Little 500. It was a ripped photo because one of his dogs had decided it needed some cropping. Shown to Nancy and me during a FaceTime call from his home in Nashville, we could still see a bit of Pla-n-Stuf pictured, some kids in the background, and that race’s winner astride his tricycle, excitedly taking in the scene of his triumph through pipe-cleaner goggles.
And yep, it was Johnny.
In the wake of his win he received the usual plaudits of the spectators, and undoubtedly some celebratory punch and cookies. There was even a newspaper photographer there to record the event. And somewhere in that scene was a cute little dark-haired girl named Stephanie, watching the proceedings. Or maybe she was too busy talking to her girlfriends and anxious to get back to her crafts and her classroom to pay much attention to the race, or even the handsome youngster who won it.
Either way, twenty years down the road, that boy with the fake goggles would become her husband.
Like I noted, it was amazing how those Pla-n-Stuf children’s orbits intersected over time and that special place.
As for Mr. Phil, I think he approved.
John’s weekly columns are sponsored by Beasley & Gilkison, Muncie’s trusted attorneys for over 120 years.
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A former longtime feature writer and columnist for The Star Press in Muncie, Indiana, John Carlson is a storyteller with an unflagging appreciation for the wonderful people of East Central Indiana and the tales of their lives, be they funny, poignant, inspirational or all three. John’s columns appear on MuncieJournal.com every Friday.
