During my time in Boy Scouts we had a Jamboree each year. It usually involved a two or three-day camp and troops from all over our part of the state would attend. There were competitions between troops and chances to earn merit badges.
I remember one Jamboree in particular. Terry and I always shared a tent together at the Jamborees and at Camp Eastman. Most of the time we got along, but Terry loved practical jokes. That was good as long as we were doing it to someone else but I didn’t like it much when he would do it to me.
Late at night we would sometimes sneak around and loosen tent stakes. When the wind picked up tents would fall over on sleeping campers. Foil dinners in the campfire were big then and Terry was good at thinking of new thing’s to spike others dinners. He was skilled at getting a rock or a stick in someone else’s dinner without being detected. We short sheeted beds and put creatures in sleeping bags.
I remember one Jamboree that was held one fall somewhere near Wapello. It was in a huge rolling pasture full of grass and cow pies. Friday night was fine and on Saturday morning our orienteering team, Terry and I and two others, won the entire event by successfully navigating the entire course and returning to the starting point with a flag from each point. We had taken just under two hours and the next closest team was over 30 minutes behind us. Some teams didn’t finish until after lunch and others never did finish. Terry was driven to excel at Scout events and that we did. We got some kind of prize for finishing first and we were “big stuff” in the camp that day.
After a beans and hot dog lunch the Iowa Highway Patrol came and gave a tear gas demonstration. They set off a tear gas canister out in a low spot and then invited anyone who wanted to walk or run through it. I declined after watching kids screaming and rubbing their eyes while they buried their heads in the pillows.
The problem that day was that there was no wind and gradually the tear gas spread out across the camp and just seemed to hang there. We were soon all miserable with no sign of a change anytime soon. By suppertime we prepared our foil dinners through teary eyes. The gas had dissipated considerably but was still there, in our clothes and in our hair. The Highway Patrol had long since deserted us and the Scouts and the leaders were mad.
By eight o’clock that night it became obvious that we weren’t going to be able to sleep that night. It had turned cold and the thought of crawling in the tear gas smelling sleeping bag wasn’t all that pleasant no matter how faint the odor. After some consultation we all packed up and headed for home, as did most of the other groups. I guess this time the joke was on all of us!
Monday, June 26, 2006
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Meet the Principal
Play fighting was a popular activity by the time I was junior high age. We honed our skills as play fighters and delighted in making in all look real. We would throw punches and then sprawl across the ground when we were play hit. We even threw in sound effects when we could.
On balmy summer nights we would play fight on the parking of White street east of the school building. I don’t know why we chose that spot except that my parents probably couldn’t see us through the Elm trees that were abundant then. At about dusk we would wait for a car to start down the street and then we would engage in what was to appear as a horrific brawl.
Cars would honk and slow down but it was rare to get one to stop. I imagine because the fight did not look nearly as real as we thought it did. On one occasion a car did stop and the driver got out. We, of course, high tailed it out of there. We ended up under the big evergreen on the west side of Saunders. Breathless, we rolled on the ground giddy with our perceived success. There were comments like, “Did you see that guys face!” and “We got that guy!”
It was only later that I found out that the driver had known what we were up to all along and had jumped out and yelled to try to scare us. He told my Dad that we ran like “scared rabbits!” I never did tell the rest of the guys what had really happened.
At the junior high kids would often greet each other with a fake belly punch or a kerpluuee to the jaw. I don’t know what compelled us to do it but it was very common in those days. Actually, it is pretty common in these days, too. I have seen many elementary students play fight and bring the supervisors rushing over. We finally had to ban play fighting at Longfellow.
My first close encounter with the junior high principal came right after a play-fighting event in the boys’ bathroom. I had unleashed a series of belly punches to Gilbert Galyon when the principal walked in. I immediately stopped and the bathroom cleared. The principal walked up to me as I explained that we were just play fighting. He said, “How would you like it if I did that to you?” He shoved me back into the coat rack and threw several very convincing fake punches.
He stepped back and said, “How does it feel when it happens to you?” I said, “Fine! I don’t see why you had to make such a big deal out of it!” That was a big mistake on my part! He got very red in the face and escorted me by the nap of my neck to a chair outside his office. He left me there to ponder my fate while I think he went off to plan his next steps. It was sitting there that I first felt the pain in my back. The pain from him shoving me into to coat rack at the very beginning of the encounter.
After what seemed like hours but was only about 20 minutes he came back and took me into his office. What followed was a long and somewhat confusing lecture. He said he knew all about me and that I was a real troublemaker at Saunders. I was baffled by that and wondered if he had me confused with someone else at first. I didn’t say one word and in time he calmed down. He began talking about my sisters and then my parents. Then he suddenly stopped and said, “Get to class!” and I left.
That was the one and only encounter I had with the principal in junior high. He was an elementary principal in the district during my entire teaching career in Mt. Pleasant and served on the school board there for a time. He was on the interview team when I interviewed for a principal job in Mt. Pleasant. I didn’t get the job but I doubt it had anything to do with our junior high play fight.
On balmy summer nights we would play fight on the parking of White street east of the school building. I don’t know why we chose that spot except that my parents probably couldn’t see us through the Elm trees that were abundant then. At about dusk we would wait for a car to start down the street and then we would engage in what was to appear as a horrific brawl.
Cars would honk and slow down but it was rare to get one to stop. I imagine because the fight did not look nearly as real as we thought it did. On one occasion a car did stop and the driver got out. We, of course, high tailed it out of there. We ended up under the big evergreen on the west side of Saunders. Breathless, we rolled on the ground giddy with our perceived success. There were comments like, “Did you see that guys face!” and “We got that guy!”
It was only later that I found out that the driver had known what we were up to all along and had jumped out and yelled to try to scare us. He told my Dad that we ran like “scared rabbits!” I never did tell the rest of the guys what had really happened.
At the junior high kids would often greet each other with a fake belly punch or a kerpluuee to the jaw. I don’t know what compelled us to do it but it was very common in those days. Actually, it is pretty common in these days, too. I have seen many elementary students play fight and bring the supervisors rushing over. We finally had to ban play fighting at Longfellow.
My first close encounter with the junior high principal came right after a play-fighting event in the boys’ bathroom. I had unleashed a series of belly punches to Gilbert Galyon when the principal walked in. I immediately stopped and the bathroom cleared. The principal walked up to me as I explained that we were just play fighting. He said, “How would you like it if I did that to you?” He shoved me back into the coat rack and threw several very convincing fake punches.
He stepped back and said, “How does it feel when it happens to you?” I said, “Fine! I don’t see why you had to make such a big deal out of it!” That was a big mistake on my part! He got very red in the face and escorted me by the nap of my neck to a chair outside his office. He left me there to ponder my fate while I think he went off to plan his next steps. It was sitting there that I first felt the pain in my back. The pain from him shoving me into to coat rack at the very beginning of the encounter.
After what seemed like hours but was only about 20 minutes he came back and took me into his office. What followed was a long and somewhat confusing lecture. He said he knew all about me and that I was a real troublemaker at Saunders. I was baffled by that and wondered if he had me confused with someone else at first. I didn’t say one word and in time he calmed down. He began talking about my sisters and then my parents. Then he suddenly stopped and said, “Get to class!” and I left.
That was the one and only encounter I had with the principal in junior high. He was an elementary principal in the district during my entire teaching career in Mt. Pleasant and served on the school board there for a time. He was on the interview team when I interviewed for a principal job in Mt. Pleasant. I didn’t get the job but I doubt it had anything to do with our junior high play fight.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Colorblind
Being colorblind is a frustrating thing! Just the other day I told someone I was colorblind and they immediately begin holding up or pointing at things and saying, “What color is this?” It is a refrain that has been repeated to me, and I suppose other colorblind people, a thousand times over the years. It is as if they don’t believe you and you have to prove it all over again.
I have even had people argue with me and say “You are not colorblind!” or “How do you know?” I wonder if they would treat a blind person the same way? The Army confirmed I was colorblind in 1968. When I went for my physical they made me go though the colorblind test six times and finally the guy said, “You’re colorblind.” I asked him if that would keep me out of the service and he said, “No, colorblind people make good snipers!”
Let me just say that we do see something, just not in the same way as you. When you say, “What color does this look like to you?” I can only say what it looks like red, green, or whatever, because it has always been that way for a colorblind person. Blended colors or colors side by side are hard for us to distinguish, so red next to green might look all green or vise versa.
When I was 12 years old I didn’t know what was wrong. More than once someone said, ‘Don’t you know your colors?” The first time through kindergarten my teacher thought it was just immaturity. They second time through some thought I just wasn’t quite right. “It’s too bad! His sisters are such bright girls! I guess they got all of the brains.”
I am actually quite skilled at hiding it. I only share my secret with those I think I can trust. Unfortunately, the world is color-coded, so I can’t always get away with it. I wish that people wouldn’t laugh when they find out but they usually do.
Now, lest you think I was terribly scarred by this it is not so. I learned to compensate for it and am probably a better person for it. I would never consider trading what I see for what you see. I am just looking for a little tolerance here. In truth, everyone in the world sees things a little differently and that is a good thing. We should celebrate that!
I have deuteranopia. Wanna see what I see? Check http://www.vischeck.com/examples/. In case you want to know the first two look exactly the same to me. There are entire websites now about colorblindness and even several about how to design things so colorblind people won’t have trouble reading it.
Growing up I didn’t understand all of the fuss about color TV. I just really didn’t see a lot of difference and what I did see didn’t look like real life. Things that seem to be the most difficult are things like: weather maps are hard to read because so many of the colors blend together; traffic lights aren’t too bad because you can almost always tell which one is lit, but it is difficult to determine if a flashing light ahead is red or yellow; people who get too much sun don’t look much different from anyone else; matching clothing can be hard if not impossible; crayons with the color name on them are very helpful; fall leaf colors, except for yellow, aren’t all that different from any other time; and I need help determining if meat is fully cooked. Directions that include colors like, “Look for the green house on the right.” can be tough, too.
At least one in ten men is color blind in one way or another. I have heard of many who are a lot worse off than me. Think about us when you use colors.
I have even had people argue with me and say “You are not colorblind!” or “How do you know?” I wonder if they would treat a blind person the same way? The Army confirmed I was colorblind in 1968. When I went for my physical they made me go though the colorblind test six times and finally the guy said, “You’re colorblind.” I asked him if that would keep me out of the service and he said, “No, colorblind people make good snipers!”
Let me just say that we do see something, just not in the same way as you. When you say, “What color does this look like to you?” I can only say what it looks like red, green, or whatever, because it has always been that way for a colorblind person. Blended colors or colors side by side are hard for us to distinguish, so red next to green might look all green or vise versa.
When I was 12 years old I didn’t know what was wrong. More than once someone said, ‘Don’t you know your colors?” The first time through kindergarten my teacher thought it was just immaturity. They second time through some thought I just wasn’t quite right. “It’s too bad! His sisters are such bright girls! I guess they got all of the brains.”
I am actually quite skilled at hiding it. I only share my secret with those I think I can trust. Unfortunately, the world is color-coded, so I can’t always get away with it. I wish that people wouldn’t laugh when they find out but they usually do.
Now, lest you think I was terribly scarred by this it is not so. I learned to compensate for it and am probably a better person for it. I would never consider trading what I see for what you see. I am just looking for a little tolerance here. In truth, everyone in the world sees things a little differently and that is a good thing. We should celebrate that!
I have deuteranopia. Wanna see what I see? Check http://www.vischeck.com/examples/. In case you want to know the first two look exactly the same to me. There are entire websites now about colorblindness and even several about how to design things so colorblind people won’t have trouble reading it.
Growing up I didn’t understand all of the fuss about color TV. I just really didn’t see a lot of difference and what I did see didn’t look like real life. Things that seem to be the most difficult are things like: weather maps are hard to read because so many of the colors blend together; traffic lights aren’t too bad because you can almost always tell which one is lit, but it is difficult to determine if a flashing light ahead is red or yellow; people who get too much sun don’t look much different from anyone else; matching clothing can be hard if not impossible; crayons with the color name on them are very helpful; fall leaf colors, except for yellow, aren’t all that different from any other time; and I need help determining if meat is fully cooked. Directions that include colors like, “Look for the green house on the right.” can be tough, too.
At least one in ten men is color blind in one way or another. I have heard of many who are a lot worse off than me. Think about us when you use colors.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Pee Wee and the Bay of Pigs
The Old K-line was a railroad that ran from Keokuk to Salem, crossed the Skunk River near Oakland Mills and followed what is the present day Oakland Road to Big Creek. It ran up through the woods to Saunders Park on what is now the road on the west side of the park. It kept going north and crossed old highway 34 near what is now a car dealership on one side and Jennings Tire on the other. It continued north and crossed a trestle over West Monroe. It crossed Madison and Henry and ended joining the CB& Q railroad.
On the spot where that car dealership is now, for many years there, was Biggs’ Hatchery. Henry Biggs, our neighbor owned the hatchery. On the west side of the hatchery was the Dream Drive In. Gary (Pee Wee) Warner’s parents owned that place and lived in a trailer behind it.
Many times when I was going to Pee Wee’s house we would walk west on Madison Street and then walk down the K-line and the across the trestle. This was pretty much the country in those days but we preferred to call it “uninhabited wilderness.” At the hatchery we would turn west and go behind the building to Pee Wee’s. Walking the trestle was pretty exciting! Occasionally a train would come down from the main line and drop off cars at the hatchery. By this time the railroad stopped right there. The rails had been pulled up all the way from Highway 34 to Keokuk.
One Friday night in late April of 1961 I was spending the night with Pee Wee. We were 12 years old and almost out of 6th grade. We considered ourselves quite mature. That day we took our usual route to Pee Wee’s. Not hurrying to his place we lingered on the rails near the hatchery, balancing on them and talking over the issues of our lives and the world.
The United States had joined in an attack on Cuba at a place called the Bay of Pigs. There was a lot of talk about the country going to war. Balancing on a rail and spitting into the air Pee Wee said, “If we go to war I’m going!” He spit again as he slipped off the rail. He told me about how young men almost our age had lied and joined the army during World War II. I wasn’t excited about the thought and I think he realized it. Standing between the rails he turned straight toward me, spit on the ground with passion and said, “I don’t care what people say! I’m gonna do it and my parents can’t stop me!” He spit again.
Now, if you didn’t already know, Pee Wee was short for his age, thus the nickname. The thought of him being able to pass for eighteen was a stretch for even my vivid imagination. I sought only to contain my disbelief as to not damage our friendship, much less our plans for the night and all the free ice cream I would be getting. I managed to change the subject and we soon headed for Pee Wee’s house.
Pee Wee’s family sold the Dream Drive In and moved to Ottumwa that summer. I did go and stay with him for a week, but we never discussed the Bay of Pigs again. I forgot this incident until 911 and was reminded of it when I saw a TV interview of a young man who had decided to join the army.
On the spot where that car dealership is now, for many years there, was Biggs’ Hatchery. Henry Biggs, our neighbor owned the hatchery. On the west side of the hatchery was the Dream Drive In. Gary (Pee Wee) Warner’s parents owned that place and lived in a trailer behind it.
Many times when I was going to Pee Wee’s house we would walk west on Madison Street and then walk down the K-line and the across the trestle. This was pretty much the country in those days but we preferred to call it “uninhabited wilderness.” At the hatchery we would turn west and go behind the building to Pee Wee’s. Walking the trestle was pretty exciting! Occasionally a train would come down from the main line and drop off cars at the hatchery. By this time the railroad stopped right there. The rails had been pulled up all the way from Highway 34 to Keokuk.
One Friday night in late April of 1961 I was spending the night with Pee Wee. We were 12 years old and almost out of 6th grade. We considered ourselves quite mature. That day we took our usual route to Pee Wee’s. Not hurrying to his place we lingered on the rails near the hatchery, balancing on them and talking over the issues of our lives and the world.
The United States had joined in an attack on Cuba at a place called the Bay of Pigs. There was a lot of talk about the country going to war. Balancing on a rail and spitting into the air Pee Wee said, “If we go to war I’m going!” He spit again as he slipped off the rail. He told me about how young men almost our age had lied and joined the army during World War II. I wasn’t excited about the thought and I think he realized it. Standing between the rails he turned straight toward me, spit on the ground with passion and said, “I don’t care what people say! I’m gonna do it and my parents can’t stop me!” He spit again.
Now, if you didn’t already know, Pee Wee was short for his age, thus the nickname. The thought of him being able to pass for eighteen was a stretch for even my vivid imagination. I sought only to contain my disbelief as to not damage our friendship, much less our plans for the night and all the free ice cream I would be getting. I managed to change the subject and we soon headed for Pee Wee’s house.
Pee Wee’s family sold the Dream Drive In and moved to Ottumwa that summer. I did go and stay with him for a week, but we never discussed the Bay of Pigs again. I forgot this incident until 911 and was reminded of it when I saw a TV interview of a young man who had decided to join the army.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Elementary Teachers
I was in kindergarten twice. It was half day. Fern Melby was my teacher both years. She was a kind women and a classic kindergarten teacher. She had incredible patience and loved children. She never forgot a student and would go out of her way to talk to me long after I had graduated from high school and then college. Mrs. Melby’s husband was the band director at the high school but was retired by the time I got there. They lived on the south side of town and were on my paper route. They were always very generous to me on Christmas.
Since kindergarten was half day the room was used for art with Ms. Iquita one day and Mrs. Evans for music another. It was in the basement room of the older part of the building. That room also served as the lunchroom until they started busing the hot lunch kids over to the high school for lunch.
After being retained in kindergarten I did not have much confidence and my first grade teacher didn’t have much confidence in me either. She was young and got married that year and after that left education, I think for good. I was in desperate need of her attention and support and she didn’t have it to offer or didn’t want to offer it. I don’t think I learned much that year. I have left her name out of this because she still lives in the Mt. Pleasant area.
Mrs. Hoffman was my second grade teacher. Her husband was the high school woodworking teacher. They lived down near the pool and were family friends largely because my Dad and Mr. Hoffman shared an interest in arrowhead hunting. Mrs. Hoffman was strict! She worked hard with me to help me learn how to decode text. The Hoffmans ran the Snack Shack at the swimming pool so I was around them for many years.
I did make up a lot of lost ground in second grade but still went into third grade significantly behind my peers. Mrs. Nelson was my third grade teacher and she was also building principal. Everyone, even the teachers were afraid of her. After a year in her classroom she determined that I should be retained. That didn’t sound so good to my mother and me. Fortunately, she would have nothing of it. She said, “He is already the oldest child in the room!” She vowed to work with me and help me do better in school. Mrs. Nelson reluctantly gave in on the promise that I would attend summer school not only that summer, but the next summer, too. I viewed it as a prison sentence.
My fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Craig lived on the corner of White and Henry streets. She was a compassionate teacher and someone that served as a role model for me. I replaced her as fourth grade teacher at Saunders in 1971. I tried to tell her once the positive impact that she had had on me but I am not sure she understood. At the end fourth grade Mrs. Craig didn’t really think I needed another year of summer school but Mrs. Nelson, the principal, had mandated it.
Mrs. Thompson was my fifth grade teacher but part of the time we went next door to Mrs. Crouse, the 6th grade teacher, for some of our classes. I think Mrs. Thompson taught us reading and social studies and Mrs. Crouse had the science and math. I think someone told me Mrs. Thompson’s husband died in the war. I don’t know for sure. I know she struggled as a teacher and us kids didn’t help much. By now Billy Jackson was a handful and we did all we could to urge him on.
The switch between teachers worked the same way in 6th grade. Mrs. Crouse was a short kindly woman. I liked her and she had a better temperament and much better control over her students. She had a daughter in my sister’s grade. I don’t know anything about her husband or any other family. I don’t think I ever saw her again after 6th grade.
There were others. Mrs. Hite was my remedial reading teacher. Remedial reading class was held on the stair steps between the second and third floor. I can remember Mrs. Hite just shaking her head after working with me. I think I got special recognition for being the kid that was in remedial reading the longest. Mrs. Stansbury was the school nurse. She was large and jovial and someone I was always glad to see. She gave us lectures on health and hygiene.
Although I struggled with some of these teachers they all had a positive impact on me in one way or another. In those days I think they were underpaid and didn’t have the training they needed to deal with kids like me. All in all they did a pretty good job!
Since kindergarten was half day the room was used for art with Ms. Iquita one day and Mrs. Evans for music another. It was in the basement room of the older part of the building. That room also served as the lunchroom until they started busing the hot lunch kids over to the high school for lunch.
After being retained in kindergarten I did not have much confidence and my first grade teacher didn’t have much confidence in me either. She was young and got married that year and after that left education, I think for good. I was in desperate need of her attention and support and she didn’t have it to offer or didn’t want to offer it. I don’t think I learned much that year. I have left her name out of this because she still lives in the Mt. Pleasant area.
Mrs. Hoffman was my second grade teacher. Her husband was the high school woodworking teacher. They lived down near the pool and were family friends largely because my Dad and Mr. Hoffman shared an interest in arrowhead hunting. Mrs. Hoffman was strict! She worked hard with me to help me learn how to decode text. The Hoffmans ran the Snack Shack at the swimming pool so I was around them for many years.
I did make up a lot of lost ground in second grade but still went into third grade significantly behind my peers. Mrs. Nelson was my third grade teacher and she was also building principal. Everyone, even the teachers were afraid of her. After a year in her classroom she determined that I should be retained. That didn’t sound so good to my mother and me. Fortunately, she would have nothing of it. She said, “He is already the oldest child in the room!” She vowed to work with me and help me do better in school. Mrs. Nelson reluctantly gave in on the promise that I would attend summer school not only that summer, but the next summer, too. I viewed it as a prison sentence.
My fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Craig lived on the corner of White and Henry streets. She was a compassionate teacher and someone that served as a role model for me. I replaced her as fourth grade teacher at Saunders in 1971. I tried to tell her once the positive impact that she had had on me but I am not sure she understood. At the end fourth grade Mrs. Craig didn’t really think I needed another year of summer school but Mrs. Nelson, the principal, had mandated it.
Mrs. Thompson was my fifth grade teacher but part of the time we went next door to Mrs. Crouse, the 6th grade teacher, for some of our classes. I think Mrs. Thompson taught us reading and social studies and Mrs. Crouse had the science and math. I think someone told me Mrs. Thompson’s husband died in the war. I don’t know for sure. I know she struggled as a teacher and us kids didn’t help much. By now Billy Jackson was a handful and we did all we could to urge him on.
The switch between teachers worked the same way in 6th grade. Mrs. Crouse was a short kindly woman. I liked her and she had a better temperament and much better control over her students. She had a daughter in my sister’s grade. I don’t know anything about her husband or any other family. I don’t think I ever saw her again after 6th grade.
There were others. Mrs. Hite was my remedial reading teacher. Remedial reading class was held on the stair steps between the second and third floor. I can remember Mrs. Hite just shaking her head after working with me. I think I got special recognition for being the kid that was in remedial reading the longest. Mrs. Stansbury was the school nurse. She was large and jovial and someone I was always glad to see. She gave us lectures on health and hygiene.
Although I struggled with some of these teachers they all had a positive impact on me in one way or another. In those days I think they were underpaid and didn’t have the training they needed to deal with kids like me. All in all they did a pretty good job!
Sunday, May 21, 2006
A Walk Around the Block
Imagine walking out the front door of our house in 1960. Saunders School is directly across the street. Turn right and head east on the sidewalk in front of our house and you come to the alley.
Just across the alley is Mrs. Hall’s big barn. Behind it on the alley is a chicken coop. There is now a house where the barn used to be. In the time I lived there I never got inside that barn. Jim McCabe and I did throw rocks and break windows out of the chicken coop. We blamed it on Jim’s brother, Pat, and I think he was forever scarred by the experience. Moving on past the barn and Mrs. Hall’s big yard is the house. It faces White Street. To me it is a big house and the only house on the block I was never in.
Moving clockwise around the block turn the corner and walk past the front of Mrs. Hall’s house and the next house is the Baptist parsonage. Reverend Troxell lived there with his family about this time. His son, Ronnie, the child nearest my age. I don’t suppose it would be a good idea to tell about the folks who have lived there during my childhood so I will just move on.
Just past the parsonage is Taylor’s Hatchery. Then on the corner is Taylor’s house. It faces Monroe Street. Their youngest daughter, Barbara was famous when I was growing up. There was almost nothing she couldn’t do. I shot baskets with her a few times and didn’t stand a chance. Barb was the kind of person who went after her goals and achieved them. In spite of the odds she became an architect.
Heading west past the front of Taylor’s you come to Mrs. Nelson’s house and then the alley. As I mentioned in a previous piece, I mowed this yard. I don’t remember much about Mrs. Nelson. I was always impressed with this house and thought she must be rich.
We are now about half way around the block. Across the alley is Wauneta Hobby’s house. Mrs. Murphy lives in the upstairs apartment. This is the friendly house. As many times as I walked by this house and saw the folks living there they were always friendly. It still seems to be true. Wauneta still lives there.
The Clarks live on the corner of Monroe and Van Buren. I don’t know much about this family. When I was growing up they were an older couple. I wrote previously about stealing the flower bulbs from their garden. We wouldn’t have done it but they made perfect hand grenades.
Dan Winter’s house was next. Dan was a mailman and close family friend. By 1960 his children had grown up and his wife was no longer living. I don’t know what happened to her. I know Dan was a nice man and my parents admired him.
Next was the Wendell’s. Their property bordered the very back of our yard. They had children that were closer to Nancy’s age. Pearl was a baker and had emphysema. He had a bakery on the North side of the square and one in Keokuk. Loween was a close friend of my mother. She was an Avon Lady and got my Mom started in the business.
The Hodsons lived on the corner of Madison and Van Buren streets. Charlie was a tall, thin man and a heavy smoker. Gladys was rather large and loved to laugh. In the summer they sat on their porch almost every evening. If you went over to say “hi” it was almost impossible to get away.
And then you are back at our house again. It is much smaller in 1960. The kitchen and dining room addition hadn’t been thought of yet. Dad is, this year (1960), paying off Melvin Smith for putting on the new siding. It is slate and many people thought that was unusual. It was a brighter yellow than it is now.
The block has changed some since then. Hall’s barn and the hatchery are gone. The barn and Hodson’s house have been replaced with a newer home. The parsonage no longer belongs to the Baptists and has been added on to considerably. The block is not all that different but my mother is the only one left of those who lived on the block in 1960.
Just across the alley is Mrs. Hall’s big barn. Behind it on the alley is a chicken coop. There is now a house where the barn used to be. In the time I lived there I never got inside that barn. Jim McCabe and I did throw rocks and break windows out of the chicken coop. We blamed it on Jim’s brother, Pat, and I think he was forever scarred by the experience. Moving on past the barn and Mrs. Hall’s big yard is the house. It faces White Street. To me it is a big house and the only house on the block I was never in.
Moving clockwise around the block turn the corner and walk past the front of Mrs. Hall’s house and the next house is the Baptist parsonage. Reverend Troxell lived there with his family about this time. His son, Ronnie, the child nearest my age. I don’t suppose it would be a good idea to tell about the folks who have lived there during my childhood so I will just move on.
Just past the parsonage is Taylor’s Hatchery. Then on the corner is Taylor’s house. It faces Monroe Street. Their youngest daughter, Barbara was famous when I was growing up. There was almost nothing she couldn’t do. I shot baskets with her a few times and didn’t stand a chance. Barb was the kind of person who went after her goals and achieved them. In spite of the odds she became an architect.
Heading west past the front of Taylor’s you come to Mrs. Nelson’s house and then the alley. As I mentioned in a previous piece, I mowed this yard. I don’t remember much about Mrs. Nelson. I was always impressed with this house and thought she must be rich.
We are now about half way around the block. Across the alley is Wauneta Hobby’s house. Mrs. Murphy lives in the upstairs apartment. This is the friendly house. As many times as I walked by this house and saw the folks living there they were always friendly. It still seems to be true. Wauneta still lives there.
The Clarks live on the corner of Monroe and Van Buren. I don’t know much about this family. When I was growing up they were an older couple. I wrote previously about stealing the flower bulbs from their garden. We wouldn’t have done it but they made perfect hand grenades.
Dan Winter’s house was next. Dan was a mailman and close family friend. By 1960 his children had grown up and his wife was no longer living. I don’t know what happened to her. I know Dan was a nice man and my parents admired him.
Next was the Wendell’s. Their property bordered the very back of our yard. They had children that were closer to Nancy’s age. Pearl was a baker and had emphysema. He had a bakery on the North side of the square and one in Keokuk. Loween was a close friend of my mother. She was an Avon Lady and got my Mom started in the business.
The Hodsons lived on the corner of Madison and Van Buren streets. Charlie was a tall, thin man and a heavy smoker. Gladys was rather large and loved to laugh. In the summer they sat on their porch almost every evening. If you went over to say “hi” it was almost impossible to get away.
And then you are back at our house again. It is much smaller in 1960. The kitchen and dining room addition hadn’t been thought of yet. Dad is, this year (1960), paying off Melvin Smith for putting on the new siding. It is slate and many people thought that was unusual. It was a brighter yellow than it is now.
The block has changed some since then. Hall’s barn and the hatchery are gone. The barn and Hodson’s house have been replaced with a newer home. The parsonage no longer belongs to the Baptists and has been added on to considerably. The block is not all that different but my mother is the only one left of those who lived on the block in 1960.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Boy Scouts
My Troup met on Monday nights in the basement of the Methodist church on Main Street. I would usually walk over towards Terry’s house and then we would walk over to the church together. I think I learned a lot on the way to and home from scouts. Terry usually filled me in on the mysteries of life. He was a year older than me and felt obligated to mentor me. He had older brothers who had done the same for him
There were things we knew about and things we thought we knew about. Sex, of course, was one of those things we thought we knew about but actually didn’t understand at all. Terry would tell me jokes his brothers had told him and then just laugh like crazy. I would laugh, too, although I often didn’t get it. I made the mistake a few times of trying to tell one of those jokes and then not being able to explain it when someone pressed me about why I was laughing so hard. I’d try repeating the punch line a couple of times but after that I was helpless.
I learned about the black market in Scout camp. If somebody wanted comic books you could get a premium price if you had them to sell. I came home from Camp Eastman one summer with more money than I took. Of course, I was out of comic books but I thought I was rich anyway.
In Scouts I mastered lanyard-braiding way before I was supposed to. Boys in OA (Order the Arrow) were the only ones who were supposed to make the twisted and round braid lanyards. Somehow I figured it out early and made quite a bit of money selling those, too. That really annoyed some, but the senior Scouts protected me because they wanted me to make one for them, too.
I am ashamed to say it but one summer Billy bought a package of cigarettes at the corner gas station for me. He told them they were for his parents and they were used to him coming in and doing that so they didn’t think anything of it. I sold the cigarettes for a dollar a piece and was sold out after the first night at camp.
Our adult leaders were Dr. Kral and Al Riepe. They were men of remarkable patience and they also cared a lot about kids. They willingly gave up a lot of their own time for us. Both of them had boys in Scouts… Gerry and David Kral, and Mike and Jerry Riepe. I know we kept those men up many nights with our shenanigans at camp. They never seemed to get too mad at us. Maybe that was because their sons were often in on the trouble with us.
Our tents weren’t bad. There was room for two cots that sat on top of a wooden floor that was a couple inches above the ground. You could put gear under the cot and not worry about it getting wet. The tents were tall enough to stand up in and your stuff usually kept dry even in heavy rains as long as you didn’t touch the ceiling of the tent. That would start a drip.
One rainy afternoon Van Carter, Joe Hunsaker, and Terry and I were sitting two to a cot and having a comic book trade discussion. Joe was casually sticking his knife in the floorboard between us and pulling it out. Somehow my foot got in the way and knife went through my shoe and popped out and landed on the floor. We all looked in shock as the front half of my tennis shoe turned red. The blade had gone deeply into the soft tissue of one of my toes. The scar is still there.
Joe wrapped up my foot with a bandage and we told no one. He thought he would be in trouble and I thought I would be singled out at mealtime. There, anyone who had carelessly cut himself with a knife had to come up front and they put a big sign that said “Tenderfoot” around his neck. Then everyone sang a silly song about how careless the poor fellow had been. The humiliated person had to wear the sign for the next twenty-four hours.
We changed the bandage regularly and I went on a ten-mile hike the next day. It bled quite a bit but somehow it healed fairly quickly and none of the adults ever found out.
We had many great adventures in Scouts. I will write about some more of them another time.
There were things we knew about and things we thought we knew about. Sex, of course, was one of those things we thought we knew about but actually didn’t understand at all. Terry would tell me jokes his brothers had told him and then just laugh like crazy. I would laugh, too, although I often didn’t get it. I made the mistake a few times of trying to tell one of those jokes and then not being able to explain it when someone pressed me about why I was laughing so hard. I’d try repeating the punch line a couple of times but after that I was helpless.
I learned about the black market in Scout camp. If somebody wanted comic books you could get a premium price if you had them to sell. I came home from Camp Eastman one summer with more money than I took. Of course, I was out of comic books but I thought I was rich anyway.
In Scouts I mastered lanyard-braiding way before I was supposed to. Boys in OA (Order the Arrow) were the only ones who were supposed to make the twisted and round braid lanyards. Somehow I figured it out early and made quite a bit of money selling those, too. That really annoyed some, but the senior Scouts protected me because they wanted me to make one for them, too.
I am ashamed to say it but one summer Billy bought a package of cigarettes at the corner gas station for me. He told them they were for his parents and they were used to him coming in and doing that so they didn’t think anything of it. I sold the cigarettes for a dollar a piece and was sold out after the first night at camp.
Our adult leaders were Dr. Kral and Al Riepe. They were men of remarkable patience and they also cared a lot about kids. They willingly gave up a lot of their own time for us. Both of them had boys in Scouts… Gerry and David Kral, and Mike and Jerry Riepe. I know we kept those men up many nights with our shenanigans at camp. They never seemed to get too mad at us. Maybe that was because their sons were often in on the trouble with us.
Our tents weren’t bad. There was room for two cots that sat on top of a wooden floor that was a couple inches above the ground. You could put gear under the cot and not worry about it getting wet. The tents were tall enough to stand up in and your stuff usually kept dry even in heavy rains as long as you didn’t touch the ceiling of the tent. That would start a drip.
One rainy afternoon Van Carter, Joe Hunsaker, and Terry and I were sitting two to a cot and having a comic book trade discussion. Joe was casually sticking his knife in the floorboard between us and pulling it out. Somehow my foot got in the way and knife went through my shoe and popped out and landed on the floor. We all looked in shock as the front half of my tennis shoe turned red. The blade had gone deeply into the soft tissue of one of my toes. The scar is still there.
Joe wrapped up my foot with a bandage and we told no one. He thought he would be in trouble and I thought I would be singled out at mealtime. There, anyone who had carelessly cut himself with a knife had to come up front and they put a big sign that said “Tenderfoot” around his neck. Then everyone sang a silly song about how careless the poor fellow had been. The humiliated person had to wear the sign for the next twenty-four hours.
We changed the bandage regularly and I went on a ten-mile hike the next day. It bled quite a bit but somehow it healed fairly quickly and none of the adults ever found out.
We had many great adventures in Scouts. I will write about some more of them another time.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Football
We played football at Saunders School…tackle football. Saunders produced the likes of Herb Holler, Stan Kerr, Tim Proctor, and Terry Ross. All were starters and impact players in high school. Those guys and many others got their start on the football field on the northeast corner of the playground. We thought we were the only elementary school where kids played tackle football. We were “tough!”
Those football games not only produced a lot of football players but also a lot of injuries. A school year didn’t go by without a broken arm or two. I remember a broken leg and collar bone, too. I, fortunately, never had worse than a black eye or a bloody nose. I remember having my breath knocked out a couple times, too. Tackle football was sort of a sacred thing at Saunders so no one ever let a few injuries stand in the way of playing the game.
Football games would go on every recess for days. Sometimes the sides were fair and sometimes not. Kids tended to pick their friends and as new kids would join the group they would end up on one side or the other. My favorite thing was to be on the side that no one thought would win and then surprise everyone. Danny Welcher was tall and faster than most of us. Gary Challen was fearless and even though he was small he could take a hit with the best of them.
One of the toughest players was Tom Dorothy. He would run right over kids. Terry said he had a steel plate in his head. I don’t know but I thought he had steel plates in his knees. He would get his legs churning and knock kids out of the way like bowling pins. I tried to stop him a few times and couldn’t even slow him down.
Terry decided we had to do something about it if Tom was not going to be on our team. His plan was to sacrifice his body for the team. He decided he would just hurl himself though the air and hope to slow Tom down so the rest of us could tackle him. It was a suicide mission but Terry was determined to do it.
So when we lined up the next recess we knew what to do. When Tom took the ball Terry crashed into him and the rest of us grabbed Tom’s legs. In a moment the dynasty was over. The giant had been defeated and there was again parity of the playing field. Not for long though, because then Tom decided he wanted to be on our team.
Some kids just didn’t like physical contact. They would do all they could do to avoid contact when we played. Others just didn’t play at all. One of the schools bullies lost all of his credibility because he wouldn’t play tackle football. While kids like me seemed to gain confidence, kids like that just seemed to disappear into the woodwork. It’s funny how someone so prominent in your life can just fade out like that.
Somehow the teachers who supervised the playground let this go on. The truth was that the teacher who had recess duty didn’t venture far from the building. They just walked around on the blacktop so they missed out on anything that happened out on the playground.
Those football games not only produced a lot of football players but also a lot of injuries. A school year didn’t go by without a broken arm or two. I remember a broken leg and collar bone, too. I, fortunately, never had worse than a black eye or a bloody nose. I remember having my breath knocked out a couple times, too. Tackle football was sort of a sacred thing at Saunders so no one ever let a few injuries stand in the way of playing the game.
Football games would go on every recess for days. Sometimes the sides were fair and sometimes not. Kids tended to pick their friends and as new kids would join the group they would end up on one side or the other. My favorite thing was to be on the side that no one thought would win and then surprise everyone. Danny Welcher was tall and faster than most of us. Gary Challen was fearless and even though he was small he could take a hit with the best of them.
One of the toughest players was Tom Dorothy. He would run right over kids. Terry said he had a steel plate in his head. I don’t know but I thought he had steel plates in his knees. He would get his legs churning and knock kids out of the way like bowling pins. I tried to stop him a few times and couldn’t even slow him down.
Terry decided we had to do something about it if Tom was not going to be on our team. His plan was to sacrifice his body for the team. He decided he would just hurl himself though the air and hope to slow Tom down so the rest of us could tackle him. It was a suicide mission but Terry was determined to do it.
So when we lined up the next recess we knew what to do. When Tom took the ball Terry crashed into him and the rest of us grabbed Tom’s legs. In a moment the dynasty was over. The giant had been defeated and there was again parity of the playing field. Not for long though, because then Tom decided he wanted to be on our team.
Some kids just didn’t like physical contact. They would do all they could do to avoid contact when we played. Others just didn’t play at all. One of the schools bullies lost all of his credibility because he wouldn’t play tackle football. While kids like me seemed to gain confidence, kids like that just seemed to disappear into the woodwork. It’s funny how someone so prominent in your life can just fade out like that.
Somehow the teachers who supervised the playground let this go on. The truth was that the teacher who had recess duty didn’t venture far from the building. They just walked around on the blacktop so they missed out on anything that happened out on the playground.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Lawn Mowing
When we can find someone to do it, my Mother pays twenty-five to thirty dollars to have her lawn mowed. My sister, Nancy, says she got paid a quarter for mowing the yard with a hand mower. The price has grown at least one hundred fold since she was a child.
I got more than a quarter for mowing it but nothing close to twenty-five dollars. I mowed several lawns and for ours I got a dollar. I mowed Aunt Ethel’s and earned another dollar for it. Fortunately we had a power mower by the time I got old enough to do it. I hated mowing yards and was happy to have any other job I could find. I really think that knowing I wouldn’t have to mow all of those lawns motivated me to get a job at the pool when I was only 14 years old. I still had to mow Aunt Ethel’s and ours but none of the others.
Aunt Ethel’s lawn on North Jackson had a very small front yard. You could mow it in a few minutes but the back was a different matter. It was wide open and extended all the way to the alley. There was one big apple tree in the back that I had to mow around and that was it. For a couple summers we put a big portion of the back into garden and shared the space with a neighbor. That cut the mowing considerably. I was sorry when it went back to grass.
The Hodson’s lived just west of our house. Their old house has been replaced with a new one on the corner of Madison and Van Buren. Charlie was a TV and radio repairman and had his shop in a room in the house. I remember the room has packed full of disassembled TVs and radios. How he could find anything let alone fix it was beyond me. Charlie was a chain smoker and always reeked of tobacco. Gladys was a large, jovial woman. She was always very friendly to me. She took in washing for several families and had a big clothesline behind the house to dry all of the clothes.
I remember the day Gladys asked me if I would mow their yard. I had to do it on a certain day each week so I wouldn’t be mowing when there were clothes on the line. Their lawn was an easy mow and they never complained. There were others who did, however.
Mrs. Nelson lived at the top of our alley and was a stickler when it came to her lawn. She actually came out and inspected it each time after I mowed. If there was a blade of grass anywhere I had to cut it. She even complained if the mower wheels made rut in the ground when it was soft. I once had to bring so dirt from home to fill in a place where the mower turned and made a rut next to her flowerbed.
Another particular customer was Mr. Clark who lived on the southwest corner of our block. He didn’t come out and inspect. He just watched my every move from inside the house. He would make comments when I went to get paid like, “You didn’t put the eve spout back, “ or something else that convinced me I was being watched all the time. It was kind of creepy mowing that yard.
The Wendell’s, our neighbors across the back yard, were particular, too. They had me cut their lawn in a different direction each time. Mr. Wendell thought the grass would look better if you did that. I don’t know if it did but he would be out there directing me like a traffic cop with the new direction for that mow.
Getting paid was always an issue. No one ever seemed to want to pay to have his or her lawn mowed and, whatever the price, it was always too much. I hated asking for the money almost as much as mowing. In the spring I was very busy but by July the lawn growth had really slowed down. If I went and did a weekly mow and the homeowner didn’t think it needed it I was sometimes not paid. If I didn’t go and mow they would call and complain that I hadn’t been there.
There were other yards that I mowed from time to time. You don’t see many kids mowing yards now days. I don’t know why that is? I still don’t like to mow my yard but covering it with concrete doesn’t seem to be an option. I do have a riding mower now so it is a little easier. If I ever have a kid mow my yard I am going to pay him promptly and not complain about his work.
I got more than a quarter for mowing it but nothing close to twenty-five dollars. I mowed several lawns and for ours I got a dollar. I mowed Aunt Ethel’s and earned another dollar for it. Fortunately we had a power mower by the time I got old enough to do it. I hated mowing yards and was happy to have any other job I could find. I really think that knowing I wouldn’t have to mow all of those lawns motivated me to get a job at the pool when I was only 14 years old. I still had to mow Aunt Ethel’s and ours but none of the others.
Aunt Ethel’s lawn on North Jackson had a very small front yard. You could mow it in a few minutes but the back was a different matter. It was wide open and extended all the way to the alley. There was one big apple tree in the back that I had to mow around and that was it. For a couple summers we put a big portion of the back into garden and shared the space with a neighbor. That cut the mowing considerably. I was sorry when it went back to grass.
The Hodson’s lived just west of our house. Their old house has been replaced with a new one on the corner of Madison and Van Buren. Charlie was a TV and radio repairman and had his shop in a room in the house. I remember the room has packed full of disassembled TVs and radios. How he could find anything let alone fix it was beyond me. Charlie was a chain smoker and always reeked of tobacco. Gladys was a large, jovial woman. She was always very friendly to me. She took in washing for several families and had a big clothesline behind the house to dry all of the clothes.
I remember the day Gladys asked me if I would mow their yard. I had to do it on a certain day each week so I wouldn’t be mowing when there were clothes on the line. Their lawn was an easy mow and they never complained. There were others who did, however.
Mrs. Nelson lived at the top of our alley and was a stickler when it came to her lawn. She actually came out and inspected it each time after I mowed. If there was a blade of grass anywhere I had to cut it. She even complained if the mower wheels made rut in the ground when it was soft. I once had to bring so dirt from home to fill in a place where the mower turned and made a rut next to her flowerbed.
Another particular customer was Mr. Clark who lived on the southwest corner of our block. He didn’t come out and inspect. He just watched my every move from inside the house. He would make comments when I went to get paid like, “You didn’t put the eve spout back, “ or something else that convinced me I was being watched all the time. It was kind of creepy mowing that yard.
The Wendell’s, our neighbors across the back yard, were particular, too. They had me cut their lawn in a different direction each time. Mr. Wendell thought the grass would look better if you did that. I don’t know if it did but he would be out there directing me like a traffic cop with the new direction for that mow.
Getting paid was always an issue. No one ever seemed to want to pay to have his or her lawn mowed and, whatever the price, it was always too much. I hated asking for the money almost as much as mowing. In the spring I was very busy but by July the lawn growth had really slowed down. If I went and did a weekly mow and the homeowner didn’t think it needed it I was sometimes not paid. If I didn’t go and mow they would call and complain that I hadn’t been there.
There were other yards that I mowed from time to time. You don’t see many kids mowing yards now days. I don’t know why that is? I still don’t like to mow my yard but covering it with concrete doesn’t seem to be an option. I do have a riding mower now so it is a little easier. If I ever have a kid mow my yard I am going to pay him promptly and not complain about his work.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Marbles
When Ronnie Eischerman moved away he gave me his marbles. Ronnie was at least 10 years older than me and lived in our neighborhood. Ronnie was always very kind to me and when his family moved to Omaha he left me his marbles and a few other things including some iron toys that I still have. I still have most of the marbles, too.
Ronnie had a large collection of clay marbles and older glass marbles. He also had quite a few of the newer glass, cat’s eye, marbles that were popular at the time. The older clay and glass marbles were considered antiques in 1960. My mother said I shouldn’t play with those so I didn’t, although I did show them off on more than one occasion.
Mom made me a bag for my playing marbles out of part of a leg from an old pair of jeans. It was as big around as a baseball and about 10 inches long. Packed full of marbles it was a load to carry around. It wasn’t uncommon to see a 5th or 6th grade boy proudly walking around with a bag of marbles strapped to his belt. The size of the bag reflected the prowess of the boy at playing marbles…a harbinger of things to come with adolescence. My bag was too big to carry that way.
With the playing marbles that I had and those that Ronnie gave me I was well stocked and ready for battle. The basic game we played was a one-on-one shoot out. It was always determined what marble or marbles we would be playing for before the game. Each player would throw a marble out on the ground and then they would take turns taking shots at each other. When a player hit the other player’s marble he was the winner and collected his spoils and moved on to another game. In reflection, it was clearly gambling and that’s why it was discontinued later on.
There were a lot of variations to the game. The traditional marbles was played with several marbles in a circle drawn in the dirt. If you knocked another players marble out of the circle he was out of the game. If, on the other hand, you missed and went out yourself you were out of the game. Several kids played at one time and the last one in was the winner. It took some precise shooting to be the winner in this game. We mostly played the one-on-one shoot out.
There was a terminology surrounding marbles. There were “hits” and “nicks”. A “hit” was a solid strike that moved the other marble some distance. A “nick” was a ricochet and was sometimes not counted. A player would often shout, “No nicks’ at the beginning of the game meaning those didn’t count. One player would also shout “keepsies” making it clear the game was for keeps. The other choice was “funzies”. Nobody played for fun.
There were boulders, steelies, clackers, and the cat’s eyes I mentioned earlier. A boulder was any marble larger than the regular marbles. Boulders were often used a shooters and could be as big as a ping-pong ball. I do recall some that were as big as golf balls. A direct hit from a boulder could shatter a cat’s eye. The steelie was a steel ball bearing and came in all sizes. They were highly prized by the players. A clacker was a variation of the boulder and got its name from the sound it made when it hit another marble. The cat’s eye was the standard marble you would buy in the store. It was glass, came in regular and boulder sizes, and, of course, resembled a cat’s eye in some remote way. There were solid color marbles, too, but they were not as common.
The basic shooting technique was the thumb shot. The marble was placed in the curled index finger and propelled forward with a flick of the thumb. To do it properly, the player should do it with his knuckles on the ground. A version of thumb shot was to swing your arm and the flick the marble at the same time. It sometimes turned into and underhand shot without the thumb.
There were two other common shots…the bomber and the spatsie. The bomber was simply standing directly over the opponent’s marble and holding the marble next to your eye and then dropping it on the other marble. It was often fatal but if you missed your marble was usually left perilously close to your opponent. The spatsie was an overhand shot much like throwing darts.
So, in the spring you might see pairs of boys setting the stakes or playing marbles before and after school and almost any other opportunity they might have. You would hear “Keepsies! No bombers or nicks!” and the game would begin. Occasionally, you heard the clack of a hit and the moans of someone who just lost their favorite marble.
I out grew playing marbles by junior high but have kept my marbles to this day. Sometime in my teenage years an overzealous Saunder’s parent decided it was gambling and marbles kind of disappeared from the playground. She was convinced we would all grow up to be gamblers.
Keepsies!
Ronnie had a large collection of clay marbles and older glass marbles. He also had quite a few of the newer glass, cat’s eye, marbles that were popular at the time. The older clay and glass marbles were considered antiques in 1960. My mother said I shouldn’t play with those so I didn’t, although I did show them off on more than one occasion.
Mom made me a bag for my playing marbles out of part of a leg from an old pair of jeans. It was as big around as a baseball and about 10 inches long. Packed full of marbles it was a load to carry around. It wasn’t uncommon to see a 5th or 6th grade boy proudly walking around with a bag of marbles strapped to his belt. The size of the bag reflected the prowess of the boy at playing marbles…a harbinger of things to come with adolescence. My bag was too big to carry that way.
With the playing marbles that I had and those that Ronnie gave me I was well stocked and ready for battle. The basic game we played was a one-on-one shoot out. It was always determined what marble or marbles we would be playing for before the game. Each player would throw a marble out on the ground and then they would take turns taking shots at each other. When a player hit the other player’s marble he was the winner and collected his spoils and moved on to another game. In reflection, it was clearly gambling and that’s why it was discontinued later on.
There were a lot of variations to the game. The traditional marbles was played with several marbles in a circle drawn in the dirt. If you knocked another players marble out of the circle he was out of the game. If, on the other hand, you missed and went out yourself you were out of the game. Several kids played at one time and the last one in was the winner. It took some precise shooting to be the winner in this game. We mostly played the one-on-one shoot out.
There was a terminology surrounding marbles. There were “hits” and “nicks”. A “hit” was a solid strike that moved the other marble some distance. A “nick” was a ricochet and was sometimes not counted. A player would often shout, “No nicks’ at the beginning of the game meaning those didn’t count. One player would also shout “keepsies” making it clear the game was for keeps. The other choice was “funzies”. Nobody played for fun.
There were boulders, steelies, clackers, and the cat’s eyes I mentioned earlier. A boulder was any marble larger than the regular marbles. Boulders were often used a shooters and could be as big as a ping-pong ball. I do recall some that were as big as golf balls. A direct hit from a boulder could shatter a cat’s eye. The steelie was a steel ball bearing and came in all sizes. They were highly prized by the players. A clacker was a variation of the boulder and got its name from the sound it made when it hit another marble. The cat’s eye was the standard marble you would buy in the store. It was glass, came in regular and boulder sizes, and, of course, resembled a cat’s eye in some remote way. There were solid color marbles, too, but they were not as common.
The basic shooting technique was the thumb shot. The marble was placed in the curled index finger and propelled forward with a flick of the thumb. To do it properly, the player should do it with his knuckles on the ground. A version of thumb shot was to swing your arm and the flick the marble at the same time. It sometimes turned into and underhand shot without the thumb.
There were two other common shots…the bomber and the spatsie. The bomber was simply standing directly over the opponent’s marble and holding the marble next to your eye and then dropping it on the other marble. It was often fatal but if you missed your marble was usually left perilously close to your opponent. The spatsie was an overhand shot much like throwing darts.
So, in the spring you might see pairs of boys setting the stakes or playing marbles before and after school and almost any other opportunity they might have. You would hear “Keepsies! No bombers or nicks!” and the game would begin. Occasionally, you heard the clack of a hit and the moans of someone who just lost their favorite marble.
I out grew playing marbles by junior high but have kept my marbles to this day. Sometime in my teenage years an overzealous Saunder’s parent decided it was gambling and marbles kind of disappeared from the playground. She was convinced we would all grow up to be gamblers.
Keepsies!
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Howard
Howard was there one day and gone the next. We were friends and played together at recess. Things were a blur after it happened. I don’t know exactly what did happen but either Howard was hit when he got off the bus or when he was waiting to get on, I just don’t remember that part for sure.
I do remember exactly where I was standing on the playground when I heard what happened. I don’t know who told me but someone did. They said Howard was dead. At that age I had never known someone who had died. I just couldn’t imagine it. Kids just kind of wandered around in disbelief.
Howard’s desk was gone by the time we all got in the classroom that day. I didn’t think it was right that they would take that desk out of there right away like that. I just vaguely remember the teacher telling us what happened even though we all already knew about it. I know she cried and had to stop many times. Most of the kids went to the funeral. I think I did, too, but don’t remember much of it.
Howard had a great sense of humor and was a hard working kid. I can still see his hands. He worked on the farm and his hands were calloused and dry. He told us about working with his father and brother. They raised hogs and I don’t know what else, but I do know Howard loved it. He worked just as hard at school and took it all very seriously. He was tough as nails when we played football. Even though he was just my size he was very difficult to stop.
When you are almost twelve years old and something like that happens it seems so unfair. How could you be in just that spot at just that time when just that car would come by? I can’t explain it but all of Howard’s friends were in shock for quite awhile. I just really expected to see him walk up with that smile and we could play baseball or something. I can’t imagine what his family must have went through.
Howard lived about three miles east of town. Even now, 45 years later, I cannot go by that spot without thinking of him. It was around the end of March and I know Howard was looking forward to the spring planting. I look out across the fields when I go by and wonder if he is out there somewhere.
So what does happen to people who die too early? What could have been or what could have happened? For those we can only wonder.
What happens when you die too early?
What happens when you die too young?
What dreams are never realized?
Victories never won?
How would the world be different?
What things wouldn’t get done?
What babies wouldn’t be born?
Would they be daughters or sons?
What poems won’t be written?
What stories not told?
What artwork not created?
What songs never sung?
How would your friends be different?
How would they make their way?
How would they do without you?
Really, no one can say.
What happens when you die too early?
What happens when you die too young?
What dreams are never realized?
Victories never won?
We have missed you, Howard!
I do remember exactly where I was standing on the playground when I heard what happened. I don’t know who told me but someone did. They said Howard was dead. At that age I had never known someone who had died. I just couldn’t imagine it. Kids just kind of wandered around in disbelief.
Howard’s desk was gone by the time we all got in the classroom that day. I didn’t think it was right that they would take that desk out of there right away like that. I just vaguely remember the teacher telling us what happened even though we all already knew about it. I know she cried and had to stop many times. Most of the kids went to the funeral. I think I did, too, but don’t remember much of it.
Howard had a great sense of humor and was a hard working kid. I can still see his hands. He worked on the farm and his hands were calloused and dry. He told us about working with his father and brother. They raised hogs and I don’t know what else, but I do know Howard loved it. He worked just as hard at school and took it all very seriously. He was tough as nails when we played football. Even though he was just my size he was very difficult to stop.
When you are almost twelve years old and something like that happens it seems so unfair. How could you be in just that spot at just that time when just that car would come by? I can’t explain it but all of Howard’s friends were in shock for quite awhile. I just really expected to see him walk up with that smile and we could play baseball or something. I can’t imagine what his family must have went through.
Howard lived about three miles east of town. Even now, 45 years later, I cannot go by that spot without thinking of him. It was around the end of March and I know Howard was looking forward to the spring planting. I look out across the fields when I go by and wonder if he is out there somewhere.
So what does happen to people who die too early? What could have been or what could have happened? For those we can only wonder.
What happens when you die too early?
What happens when you die too young?
What dreams are never realized?
Victories never won?
How would the world be different?
What things wouldn’t get done?
What babies wouldn’t be born?
Would they be daughters or sons?
What poems won’t be written?
What stories not told?
What artwork not created?
What songs never sung?
How would your friends be different?
How would they make their way?
How would they do without you?
Really, no one can say.
What happens when you die too early?
What happens when you die too young?
What dreams are never realized?
Victories never won?
We have missed you, Howard!
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Kiwanis Travel and Adventure Series
For several years in a row my family got tickets to the Kiwanis Travel and Adventure Series. The Kiwanis was the local sponsor for this program they were held in the Chapel at Iowa Wesleyan College. For the price of a ticket you could attend four or five programs each year. They were usually held during the winter months.
The presenter would project a movie on a big screen on the stage and then would narrate as the movie went along. Usually the movie would take us to some exotic place in the world. There were trips to Jamaica, the Sahara, or the frigid artic. It was like National Geographic was coming alive right in front of us.
Growing up we assumed these would be places we would never get to visit so we were going there vicariously through the presenter. When Becky and I were in Jamaica high up in the Blue Mountains a few years ago we saw a spot along a narrow, remote mountain road that I know I have seen before. There, out of the side of the mountain, was a tube with a jug under it. As the water dripped out it would fill the jug. People of the area would come along and leave their empty jug and take the full one. That would happen over and over again all day long. I think I had seen that before…in the Travel Adventure Series.
When we went to the shows I always liked to sit in the balcony. Mom and Dad usually sat down stairs and encouraged me to sit down there, too. There was usually someone there my age so I usually talked my parents into sitting in the balcony with that person. When my sister didn’t go my parents would let me bring along a friend. In the balcony, we watched the presentation and didn’t feel like we had to sit still or even be real quiet.
We also watched the bats swoop down into the light scooping up insects that were drawn there. I believe the bats are still there.
There was usually an intermission. We would go downstairs and use the restroom in the basement and then stop and get a drink at the drinking fountain. There was always a long line there and sometimes the show would start up before you could get your drink and get back to your seat. Why no one ever thought of selling food and drink at these events I don’t know. It would surely have been profitable.
Now, if it was a boring presentation, it was hard for a boy not to get a little restless. One of our regular pass times was to flick paper wads off of the balcony rail. A good flick would carry almost to the front row. Then we would giggle uncontrollably as the person who was hit would look up toward the bats and wipe the spot where they were hit vigorously. More than once we had to make a quick move to another spot in the balcony and put on our most innocent face.
Once in awhile we would crawl down an empty row to a point directly behind people watching the program and then listen in on what they had to say. Holding back my laughter sometimes was more than I could stand and air would squeeze out between my lips leaving me embarrassed. Sometimes we would quietly sit in the seat behind them and then suddenly cough real loud usually getting the intended reaction we were looking for and then sit there and act like we had no idea why the person was scared.
The best trick was to switch something from one person to another. Women’s’ purses were an easy target because they were always on the floor below the persons seat. It was no problem to move one down a few seats or switch some around. Then, of course, we would have to wait until people started to leave to see the puzzled reaction.
So, the Kiwanis Travel and Adventure Series was often an adventure for my friends and me.
The presenter would project a movie on a big screen on the stage and then would narrate as the movie went along. Usually the movie would take us to some exotic place in the world. There were trips to Jamaica, the Sahara, or the frigid artic. It was like National Geographic was coming alive right in front of us.
Growing up we assumed these would be places we would never get to visit so we were going there vicariously through the presenter. When Becky and I were in Jamaica high up in the Blue Mountains a few years ago we saw a spot along a narrow, remote mountain road that I know I have seen before. There, out of the side of the mountain, was a tube with a jug under it. As the water dripped out it would fill the jug. People of the area would come along and leave their empty jug and take the full one. That would happen over and over again all day long. I think I had seen that before…in the Travel Adventure Series.
When we went to the shows I always liked to sit in the balcony. Mom and Dad usually sat down stairs and encouraged me to sit down there, too. There was usually someone there my age so I usually talked my parents into sitting in the balcony with that person. When my sister didn’t go my parents would let me bring along a friend. In the balcony, we watched the presentation and didn’t feel like we had to sit still or even be real quiet.
We also watched the bats swoop down into the light scooping up insects that were drawn there. I believe the bats are still there.
There was usually an intermission. We would go downstairs and use the restroom in the basement and then stop and get a drink at the drinking fountain. There was always a long line there and sometimes the show would start up before you could get your drink and get back to your seat. Why no one ever thought of selling food and drink at these events I don’t know. It would surely have been profitable.
Now, if it was a boring presentation, it was hard for a boy not to get a little restless. One of our regular pass times was to flick paper wads off of the balcony rail. A good flick would carry almost to the front row. Then we would giggle uncontrollably as the person who was hit would look up toward the bats and wipe the spot where they were hit vigorously. More than once we had to make a quick move to another spot in the balcony and put on our most innocent face.
Once in awhile we would crawl down an empty row to a point directly behind people watching the program and then listen in on what they had to say. Holding back my laughter sometimes was more than I could stand and air would squeeze out between my lips leaving me embarrassed. Sometimes we would quietly sit in the seat behind them and then suddenly cough real loud usually getting the intended reaction we were looking for and then sit there and act like we had no idea why the person was scared.
The best trick was to switch something from one person to another. Women’s’ purses were an easy target because they were always on the floor below the persons seat. It was no problem to move one down a few seats or switch some around. Then, of course, we would have to wait until people started to leave to see the puzzled reaction.
So, the Kiwanis Travel and Adventure Series was often an adventure for my friends and me.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Paper Boy
I was a paperboy. I had Route #5 for the Mt Pleasant News. It was on the southwest part of Mt. Pleasant. We averaged about 152 subscribers. My assistant, Bill Griest, and I delivered the papers every weekday evening and on Saturday morning. We were responsible for collecting the money from subscribers and soliciting new subscribers when we had a chance.
During the summer of 1959, Carter Challen, 3 years my elder, approached me and asked me if I was interested in helping him with his paper route. After talking to my parents and thinking about it for a while I decided to do it. Carter trained me and I carried about half of the paper for a while and he did the other half. By the time fall rolled around Carter decided he was going out for football so I took over the route and Bill became my assistant.
I needed a better bike so Dad took me to the Firestone store. I picked one out and worked out a deal with them that I would pay them $2.50 a week until it was paid for. It took a little over 6 months to pay it off.
Each day after school and on Saturday mornings the paperboys would gather at the newspaper office. There in a room that contained the huge printing press we would wait for our papers while we watched the big press print fold and cut each paper. When each carrier received his papers he would fold each one into a five by five inch square and then tightly pack them in their paper bags. Bags full, each boy carried them out to his bike and warped each of the bags around the handlebars. It took some practice to learn to ride your bike with that heavy load.
Rain or shine, day in and day out, we carried our papers. Even in the deepest snow, when you couldn’t ride your bike we trudged along with a paper bag over each shoulder. If the roads were the least bit cleared we always took our bikes because we so preferred that over walking which took up to three or four times longer.
Generally, our customers were good to us. At Christmas time they often gave us gifts. Collecting was hard sometimes and customers wouldn’t answer the door or just wouldn’t pay. When that happened the paperboy had to pay for the papers anyway and so we often lost money. The newspaper itself wasn’t much help when that happened. There were customers who yelled at you if you rode on their yard or didn’t place the paper in exactly the right spot. If the papers got wet from rain the customers were often upset as well. The only thing you could do was go back to the newspaper office and get them a dry one.
The newspaper office filled out a complaint form if someone called about a problem. The worst thing that could happen was that a paper got lost or wasn’t delivered. I didn’t get many complaints and I was proud of that. Some carriers got four or five complaints every day. They didn’t last long!
On my bike I could carry my half of the route, about 75 papers, in 30-40 minutes. Walking, especially in deep snow, could take up to two and a half hours. I could fling a paper from the street and hit the front porch of a house at full speed. Sometimes I had to stop and put the paper in a box or a special place like inside the screen door so I lost a lot of time on those.
Henry County Hospital was on my route. I had to deliver the paper to the receptionist desk so it meant parking my bike, walking down some steps and then entering the building. There was a restroom just inside the door so I often stopped to use that and on bitter cold winter days I would stay in the restroom or lobby to warm up a little bit before I finished the route. By the time I was done I had covered all the subscribers south of the highway between Jackson and Van Buren and the area between West Clay and the highway.
The winter of 1959-60 was cold and snowy. My Dad’s daily journal describes the bitter cold and heavy snow that winter. He also made a note every time he went along to help me. Since he worked until five each day the only day he could help was Thursdays, his afternoon off, and he was with me on almost every one.
During the summer of 1959, Carter Challen, 3 years my elder, approached me and asked me if I was interested in helping him with his paper route. After talking to my parents and thinking about it for a while I decided to do it. Carter trained me and I carried about half of the paper for a while and he did the other half. By the time fall rolled around Carter decided he was going out for football so I took over the route and Bill became my assistant.
I needed a better bike so Dad took me to the Firestone store. I picked one out and worked out a deal with them that I would pay them $2.50 a week until it was paid for. It took a little over 6 months to pay it off.
Each day after school and on Saturday mornings the paperboys would gather at the newspaper office. There in a room that contained the huge printing press we would wait for our papers while we watched the big press print fold and cut each paper. When each carrier received his papers he would fold each one into a five by five inch square and then tightly pack them in their paper bags. Bags full, each boy carried them out to his bike and warped each of the bags around the handlebars. It took some practice to learn to ride your bike with that heavy load.
Rain or shine, day in and day out, we carried our papers. Even in the deepest snow, when you couldn’t ride your bike we trudged along with a paper bag over each shoulder. If the roads were the least bit cleared we always took our bikes because we so preferred that over walking which took up to three or four times longer.
Generally, our customers were good to us. At Christmas time they often gave us gifts. Collecting was hard sometimes and customers wouldn’t answer the door or just wouldn’t pay. When that happened the paperboy had to pay for the papers anyway and so we often lost money. The newspaper itself wasn’t much help when that happened. There were customers who yelled at you if you rode on their yard or didn’t place the paper in exactly the right spot. If the papers got wet from rain the customers were often upset as well. The only thing you could do was go back to the newspaper office and get them a dry one.
The newspaper office filled out a complaint form if someone called about a problem. The worst thing that could happen was that a paper got lost or wasn’t delivered. I didn’t get many complaints and I was proud of that. Some carriers got four or five complaints every day. They didn’t last long!
On my bike I could carry my half of the route, about 75 papers, in 30-40 minutes. Walking, especially in deep snow, could take up to two and a half hours. I could fling a paper from the street and hit the front porch of a house at full speed. Sometimes I had to stop and put the paper in a box or a special place like inside the screen door so I lost a lot of time on those.
Henry County Hospital was on my route. I had to deliver the paper to the receptionist desk so it meant parking my bike, walking down some steps and then entering the building. There was a restroom just inside the door so I often stopped to use that and on bitter cold winter days I would stay in the restroom or lobby to warm up a little bit before I finished the route. By the time I was done I had covered all the subscribers south of the highway between Jackson and Van Buren and the area between West Clay and the highway.
The winter of 1959-60 was cold and snowy. My Dad’s daily journal describes the bitter cold and heavy snow that winter. He also made a note every time he went along to help me. Since he worked until five each day the only day he could help was Thursdays, his afternoon off, and he was with me on almost every one.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Swimming Lessons
Ba…ba…ba, ba…bubble! Chaaaatttttttteeerrrrrr! The roar of bubblers punctuated with the sound of chattering teeth are all around me. I look up from my bubbles to see the blue lips of the boy next me bobbing on his toes in wiggling shivers. It’s Beginners’ swimming lessons at the Mt. Pleasant Pool. Whoever decided that swimming lesson should be held at 9 o’clock in the morning must have wanted little kids to hate swimming.
My earliest recollections of swimming are really just of wading. There was a wading pool down in Saunders Park. It was on the flat ground between the road and the creek. It seemed large to me. It had a big fountain in the middle. Its deepest part was only a few feet. I remember wading around the outside with my mother holding my hand. There was an 8’ X 10’ shed nearby that served as a place to pay and to buy snacks. After the new pool was built on the hillside near Clay Street the wading pool was turned into a lily pond and lasted for many years. The little shed lasted even longer and served as a mower shed until it was finally torn down. All that a now remains there is a slab of cement and that, too, may now be gone.
It was at the new swimming pool that I was finally old enough to take swimming lessons. Lessons usually begin in the last two weeks in June and lasted through July. Obviously, in those first few weeks the water and the morning, for that matter, could be pretty cool. It was almost cruel to make a kid get in the water. The instructors rarely got in themselves.
The kids were usually lined up on the deck of the pool and were given instruction. I remember sitting there listening with my knees pulled up to my chin trying to stay warm under a too small towel. Then the instructor would have us get in the water and hold on to the side with both hands. There we practiced our kick and blowing bubbles. Few of us could touch the bottom in the three feet of water and held on to the side with a death grip. Then we would get out and stand on the deck. Cold and wet we would try to dry off but soon the towel was as cold and wet as we were. The instructor lined us up on the side and practiced moving our arms as you would doing the crawl stroke. So shivering cold, we were waving the cool air like a field full of windmills.
I failed beginners that first year. I just never got warm enough to be in the water that summer. To pass you needed to be able to swim across and back in the deep end of the pool without assistance. I didn’t care to try it.
The next year we had a much warmer summer. I actually passed Beginners a little over half way through the six weeks. Passing beginners meant you could go off the diving boards and swim anywhere in the pool you wanted. The floodgates were open for me! The next year I took Intermediate as soon as I could and begged to be let into the Swimmers class a year early. The instructor relented and let me take it but because of my age couldn’t give me a certificate so I took it again the next year. I had found a place where I could excel.
I joined the AAU swimming team that practiced at the pool every afternoon. We competed with other towns that had their own teams. When it came time for the annual Mt. Pleasant Pool Swimming Meet I signed up for every event I could get in.
When I told someone I had taken all of the courses I could take they said, “What about Advance Swimmer?” I asked Mrs. Carper, head of the local Red Cross Chapter and the swimming coach at Iowa Wesleyan, if I could take that class. She said they really didn’t have anyone qualified to teach it. The course focused on perfection in each stroke. She had me get in the water and show her some of my strokes. After awhile I got out and asked her if I could take it. She said, “Yes” and she would teach it. She said I needed to get a few others to take it just to make it worth it so I did.
I took the course from Mrs. Carper, who had to be at least 60 years old by that time. She did get in the water with us and demonstrated often. Of the four of us who took the course I was the only one who passed.
Later, came Junior and Senior Lifesaving, Water Safety Instructor training, National Aquatic School and Handicapped Swimmer Instructor Training, and Swimming for Iowa Wesleyan College. Those stories are yet to be told.
This ends the official Sardine Chronicles, the stories of the first 12 years of my life. There are many more stories to tell about that period but I am moving on to the next 10 years, the 60s. I may still, from time to time, add stories to this part but there are many to tell about the next 10 years as well.
My earliest recollections of swimming are really just of wading. There was a wading pool down in Saunders Park. It was on the flat ground between the road and the creek. It seemed large to me. It had a big fountain in the middle. Its deepest part was only a few feet. I remember wading around the outside with my mother holding my hand. There was an 8’ X 10’ shed nearby that served as a place to pay and to buy snacks. After the new pool was built on the hillside near Clay Street the wading pool was turned into a lily pond and lasted for many years. The little shed lasted even longer and served as a mower shed until it was finally torn down. All that a now remains there is a slab of cement and that, too, may now be gone.
It was at the new swimming pool that I was finally old enough to take swimming lessons. Lessons usually begin in the last two weeks in June and lasted through July. Obviously, in those first few weeks the water and the morning, for that matter, could be pretty cool. It was almost cruel to make a kid get in the water. The instructors rarely got in themselves.
The kids were usually lined up on the deck of the pool and were given instruction. I remember sitting there listening with my knees pulled up to my chin trying to stay warm under a too small towel. Then the instructor would have us get in the water and hold on to the side with both hands. There we practiced our kick and blowing bubbles. Few of us could touch the bottom in the three feet of water and held on to the side with a death grip. Then we would get out and stand on the deck. Cold and wet we would try to dry off but soon the towel was as cold and wet as we were. The instructor lined us up on the side and practiced moving our arms as you would doing the crawl stroke. So shivering cold, we were waving the cool air like a field full of windmills.
I failed beginners that first year. I just never got warm enough to be in the water that summer. To pass you needed to be able to swim across and back in the deep end of the pool without assistance. I didn’t care to try it.
The next year we had a much warmer summer. I actually passed Beginners a little over half way through the six weeks. Passing beginners meant you could go off the diving boards and swim anywhere in the pool you wanted. The floodgates were open for me! The next year I took Intermediate as soon as I could and begged to be let into the Swimmers class a year early. The instructor relented and let me take it but because of my age couldn’t give me a certificate so I took it again the next year. I had found a place where I could excel.
I joined the AAU swimming team that practiced at the pool every afternoon. We competed with other towns that had their own teams. When it came time for the annual Mt. Pleasant Pool Swimming Meet I signed up for every event I could get in.
When I told someone I had taken all of the courses I could take they said, “What about Advance Swimmer?” I asked Mrs. Carper, head of the local Red Cross Chapter and the swimming coach at Iowa Wesleyan, if I could take that class. She said they really didn’t have anyone qualified to teach it. The course focused on perfection in each stroke. She had me get in the water and show her some of my strokes. After awhile I got out and asked her if I could take it. She said, “Yes” and she would teach it. She said I needed to get a few others to take it just to make it worth it so I did.
I took the course from Mrs. Carper, who had to be at least 60 years old by that time. She did get in the water with us and demonstrated often. Of the four of us who took the course I was the only one who passed.
Later, came Junior and Senior Lifesaving, Water Safety Instructor training, National Aquatic School and Handicapped Swimmer Instructor Training, and Swimming for Iowa Wesleyan College. Those stories are yet to be told.
This ends the official Sardine Chronicles, the stories of the first 12 years of my life. There are many more stories to tell about that period but I am moving on to the next 10 years, the 60s. I may still, from time to time, add stories to this part but there are many to tell about the next 10 years as well.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Vacations
Vacation trips were unusual when I was growing up. They were expensive and we just didn’t have money for that. Usually, when my Dad had his vacation week he would just work around home or go arrowhead hunting. Sometimes he took his vacation time during Old Threshers so he could work in the church food tent or show his arrowheads in the antique building. That wasn’t much of a vacation!
I can remember three significant vacations during those early years. Mom, Dad, Loretta and I went to South Dakota. We went to visit Nancy when she lived in Washington, DC, and I went with the Liechtys to New York City and then to Washington, DC. I really can’t do these trips justice here but will give a brief overview of each.
I remember the trip to South Dakota! I remember the long trip across South Dakota. David had told me about Wall Drug and so I watched for the signs. Wall Drug was famous for its signs. They were spread out all the way across the state. Each one designed to get your attention and convince you to stop when you finally got there. We did! Dad was convinced it was a tourist trap and he was right! From there we crossed the Bad Lands and then into the Black Hills. I remember Mt. Rushmore and the Passion play at Spearfish. This trip was part of Loretta’s preparation for the ministry because she endured my torment all the way there and back. She truly got a glimpse of what hell is like.
We also went by train to Washington, DC to visit Nancy and Bill. I loved the train ride! It was an overnight trip and the click clack of the train put me to sleep that night. Once, in the middle of the night, I woke up. The train had stopped somewhere in Pennsylvania. It was half in a long tunnel and half out on a high bridge. Why it was stopped I don’t know but they let Dad and I get off briefly and look down into the deep gorge. Then we were on our way again.
Nancy lived on MacArthur Boulevard in a nice second floor apartment. She secretly kept a rabbit in the apartment the whole time she was there. She took us on grand adventures to the Capitol, the Washington Monument, Jefferson Memorial, the U.S. Mint, and the Smithsonian Museum. I was awestruck most of the time. We even got a tour of the White House and met our Representative, Fred Schwengal, who gave me a newly minted penny. Then and every time that I met that man after word he treated me like I was his best friend.
Max Liechty was a rural letter carrier and their annual convention was in Washington, DC. He planned a family trip that included a week in New York City and then a week at the convention in Washington. For some reason, his sons, Joe and Jerry, decided that I should go along. My parents reasoned that I could see New York City and then spend a week with my sister and that I might as well go.
We drove straight through to New York in the Liechty’s car. Max and his wife were in front seat and us three boys were in the back. It was not exactly the most comfortable ride I have ever had. Sleeping was pretty much out of the question. I remember seeing the lights of New York long before we got there. I was amazed at how bright they were and how they lit up the sky.
We stayed in a hotel in downtown New York while we were there. We could see the Empire State building from the window of our room. That week we went to the top of the Empire State building and the Statue of Liberty. I bought a disappearing coin trick and a magic shop. I still have it! Mrs. Liechty and Max were on the TV show Queen for a Day and won everything but the final question. They asked Max to say the Boy Scout oath and his mind just went blank. Month’s later crates of the prizes they won were shipped to their house. It included clothing, kitchen appliances, and furniture.
We left New York and the Liechtys dropped me off at Nancy’s apartment in Washington. I was there for about five days. I was very tired from my week in New York and not real excited about doing anything. I think after the first day or so Nancy was ready to send me on my way. She did take me many places including a trip to Chesapeake Bay for a day of swimming and playing in the sand. We also went to an outdoor concert in a park.
At the end of the week the Liechtys loaded me up in their car and we headed for home. I don’t remember much about the trip and only remember being exhausted when we got home. My Mom said I slept for two days after that trip.
I can remember three significant vacations during those early years. Mom, Dad, Loretta and I went to South Dakota. We went to visit Nancy when she lived in Washington, DC, and I went with the Liechtys to New York City and then to Washington, DC. I really can’t do these trips justice here but will give a brief overview of each.
I remember the trip to South Dakota! I remember the long trip across South Dakota. David had told me about Wall Drug and so I watched for the signs. Wall Drug was famous for its signs. They were spread out all the way across the state. Each one designed to get your attention and convince you to stop when you finally got there. We did! Dad was convinced it was a tourist trap and he was right! From there we crossed the Bad Lands and then into the Black Hills. I remember Mt. Rushmore and the Passion play at Spearfish. This trip was part of Loretta’s preparation for the ministry because she endured my torment all the way there and back. She truly got a glimpse of what hell is like.
We also went by train to Washington, DC to visit Nancy and Bill. I loved the train ride! It was an overnight trip and the click clack of the train put me to sleep that night. Once, in the middle of the night, I woke up. The train had stopped somewhere in Pennsylvania. It was half in a long tunnel and half out on a high bridge. Why it was stopped I don’t know but they let Dad and I get off briefly and look down into the deep gorge. Then we were on our way again.
Nancy lived on MacArthur Boulevard in a nice second floor apartment. She secretly kept a rabbit in the apartment the whole time she was there. She took us on grand adventures to the Capitol, the Washington Monument, Jefferson Memorial, the U.S. Mint, and the Smithsonian Museum. I was awestruck most of the time. We even got a tour of the White House and met our Representative, Fred Schwengal, who gave me a newly minted penny. Then and every time that I met that man after word he treated me like I was his best friend.
Max Liechty was a rural letter carrier and their annual convention was in Washington, DC. He planned a family trip that included a week in New York City and then a week at the convention in Washington. For some reason, his sons, Joe and Jerry, decided that I should go along. My parents reasoned that I could see New York City and then spend a week with my sister and that I might as well go.
We drove straight through to New York in the Liechty’s car. Max and his wife were in front seat and us three boys were in the back. It was not exactly the most comfortable ride I have ever had. Sleeping was pretty much out of the question. I remember seeing the lights of New York long before we got there. I was amazed at how bright they were and how they lit up the sky.
We stayed in a hotel in downtown New York while we were there. We could see the Empire State building from the window of our room. That week we went to the top of the Empire State building and the Statue of Liberty. I bought a disappearing coin trick and a magic shop. I still have it! Mrs. Liechty and Max were on the TV show Queen for a Day and won everything but the final question. They asked Max to say the Boy Scout oath and his mind just went blank. Month’s later crates of the prizes they won were shipped to their house. It included clothing, kitchen appliances, and furniture.
We left New York and the Liechtys dropped me off at Nancy’s apartment in Washington. I was there for about five days. I was very tired from my week in New York and not real excited about doing anything. I think after the first day or so Nancy was ready to send me on my way. She did take me many places including a trip to Chesapeake Bay for a day of swimming and playing in the sand. We also went to an outdoor concert in a park.
At the end of the week the Liechtys loaded me up in their car and we headed for home. I don’t remember much about the trip and only remember being exhausted when we got home. My Mom said I slept for two days after that trip.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Smoking
When I was growing up Madison Street was paved to a spot about two blocks west of our house. There it turned to gravel. That was the edge of town and beyond there were farmhouses and countryside. The gravel road led down a long hill and crossed a bridge over Saunders Branch. Saunders Branch is a small stream that runs from the north edge of town. On it’s way to Saunders Park and then to Big Creek, it fills and overflows Coles Pond. The creek, all along its path, was a big attraction to young boys.
I wandered down to that creek and we played war and cowboys in that area many times. We floated boats down the stream and built dams with the rocks in the creek bed. I probably fell in that stream a hundred times. Under normal conditions it was only a few inches deep. After a big rainstorm it could be a raging disaster. I saw the water raise over the road at the bridge many times. A boy in that water would be dead. I knew it and was terrified by the thought and stayed away when it was like that.
So when some of the boys stole cigarettes from their parents and said they were going to smoke them under the Madison Street bridge I knew exactly where they were talking about. Most of these guys were people I didn’t play with often. My cousin Terry was part of the group and Billy Jackson decided to join in for this adventure. Billy had already stolen a smoke or two from his parents and he thought he could give some advice.
I went along, too, although I was not tremendously interested in it. After school we made our way down Madison, over the hill and down to the bridge. There we left the road and went down on the sand and gravel under the bridge. It was a big concrete bridge with walls about two feet high on the sides. It was dark and damp under the bridge. You couldn’t stand fully upright without hitting your head on the bottom of the bridge. It was usually wet and slimy.
When we got there, one of the boys, Mike, dug down into his pocket and pulled out a half crinkled package of cigarettes. The pack was about half full. He pulled out a cigarette that was bent and smashed. Tom pulled out some big stick matches and looked around for a stone to scratch it on. The stones in the creek bed were too damp but he found one on the bank that looked dry and he tried to strike the match on it. The first match broke before it would light. Matches were not quite as reliable then as they are now. The second match burst into yellow flame and Tom extended his arm toward Mike.
Mike drew the cigarette to his mouth and stuck the other end in the flame. Mike puffed and the air filled with a cloud of smoke. Next the cigarette was passed from boy to boy. Each of us tried to look as natural as possible when our turn came. We didn’t really know what we were doing. It must have dawned on Gary how ridiculous we looked and he started laughing hysterically and pointing at each kid as he tried to smoke. That annoyed the more seasoned among the group.
Mike stopped sharing his cigarette. When it was gone he lit up another and smoked it all by himself. Then he gave one to Tom who didn’t share his either. The rest of us lost interest and wandered off to find something more interesting to do. Only a small group stayed behind. That group was punished about a week later when the principal got wind of what had occurred. Those of us who had wandered off were somehow not implicated.
I wandered down to that creek and we played war and cowboys in that area many times. We floated boats down the stream and built dams with the rocks in the creek bed. I probably fell in that stream a hundred times. Under normal conditions it was only a few inches deep. After a big rainstorm it could be a raging disaster. I saw the water raise over the road at the bridge many times. A boy in that water would be dead. I knew it and was terrified by the thought and stayed away when it was like that.
So when some of the boys stole cigarettes from their parents and said they were going to smoke them under the Madison Street bridge I knew exactly where they were talking about. Most of these guys were people I didn’t play with often. My cousin Terry was part of the group and Billy Jackson decided to join in for this adventure. Billy had already stolen a smoke or two from his parents and he thought he could give some advice.
I went along, too, although I was not tremendously interested in it. After school we made our way down Madison, over the hill and down to the bridge. There we left the road and went down on the sand and gravel under the bridge. It was a big concrete bridge with walls about two feet high on the sides. It was dark and damp under the bridge. You couldn’t stand fully upright without hitting your head on the bottom of the bridge. It was usually wet and slimy.
When we got there, one of the boys, Mike, dug down into his pocket and pulled out a half crinkled package of cigarettes. The pack was about half full. He pulled out a cigarette that was bent and smashed. Tom pulled out some big stick matches and looked around for a stone to scratch it on. The stones in the creek bed were too damp but he found one on the bank that looked dry and he tried to strike the match on it. The first match broke before it would light. Matches were not quite as reliable then as they are now. The second match burst into yellow flame and Tom extended his arm toward Mike.
Mike drew the cigarette to his mouth and stuck the other end in the flame. Mike puffed and the air filled with a cloud of smoke. Next the cigarette was passed from boy to boy. Each of us tried to look as natural as possible when our turn came. We didn’t really know what we were doing. It must have dawned on Gary how ridiculous we looked and he started laughing hysterically and pointing at each kid as he tried to smoke. That annoyed the more seasoned among the group.
Mike stopped sharing his cigarette. When it was gone he lit up another and smoked it all by himself. Then he gave one to Tom who didn’t share his either. The rest of us lost interest and wandered off to find something more interesting to do. Only a small group stayed behind. That group was punished about a week later when the principal got wind of what had occurred. Those of us who had wandered off were somehow not implicated.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Sledding
We had two primary hills for sledding when I was growing up. There were others that we used on occasion but none as regularly as these two. One was across the street from my house on the north side of Saunders School. The other was the hill in Saunders Park near the big stone fireplace.
The school hill got heavy use and some of the neighborhood kids even groomed it to make it better. Kids sledded on it during the day at recess times. It was busy after school until about 5:30 and then everyone went home for supper. By 6:30 or 7:00 many kids were back and would sled well into the evening. I can remember my mother calling in a high-pitched voice, “Perrrrreeeeeee!” when it was time for me to come home.
These were the days before we knew about wind chill and would often stay a lot longer than we should and come home frostbit and shivering. I remember someone saying to me, “Are you cold? Your cheeks are bright red!” and I shrugged and said, “Not that cold.” and stayed out until my mother called. I did hate when the snow got packed in the space between the top or my gloves and the sleeve of my coat. It would get packed tight in there and my arm would feel like it was broken it would hurt so badly!
The school hill was long and gentle. It was surprising how far down the hill you could go on the packed snow. The type of sled we used most were the ones with runners. I did have a saucer sled but it didn’t work well on a gentle hill. Runner sleds would cut ruts in the snow and so we would often add snow and pack it down. If it would melt a little and then freeze hard then it would be really good. You could go a long way!
I loved it there at night in the twilight, with the air crisp, and the night still. It was as if time stopped and you could soak in the experience. Somehow you are warm all over and there is a calmness that comes over you.
I had that same experience at the hill in Saunders Park. There, they would sometimes build a roaring fire in the big stone fireplace and kids would hover around and share hot chocolate. The social aspect made it a big draw to the kids of the community.
The hill in the park is longer and steeper than the one at the school. It attracted people from all over town. It was kind of a gathering place on winter evenings when there was snow on the ground. The fragrant smell of burning wood wafted from the fireplace and the park is a beautiful setting.
A trip down the hill could take you all the way to the creek, nearly a hundred yards! Climbing back up was always a challenge because the hill was steep and slippery and you had to avoid other kids walking down. We had two simple rules. One was to always walk up the outside and the other was that when you come to a stop you need to get up and get out of the way. It was next to impossible to get kids to follow either.
It seemed as though you could tell a kid a dozen times to walk up the outside and he would still get up and walk right up the middle. Invariably he would get clobbered and blame the sledder. Some kids would slide down the hill and then just sprawl in the snow. They, too, would get hit and more than one lip got bloodied. So among the squeals of joy and excitement you would hear, “Walk up the outside!” or “Get out of the way!”
Occasionally someone would hit a tree or the fireplace and a trip to the hospital on the other side of the park would be necessary. I can think of two or three people who were seriously injured on that hill. I, fortunately, avoided any serious accidents there.
What draws us to want to slide I don’t know? I did learn as a teacher and a principal that it is all most impossible to stop kids from sliding on ice or down a hill with or without a sled. Something about us doesn’t want to be earth bound.
The school hill got heavy use and some of the neighborhood kids even groomed it to make it better. Kids sledded on it during the day at recess times. It was busy after school until about 5:30 and then everyone went home for supper. By 6:30 or 7:00 many kids were back and would sled well into the evening. I can remember my mother calling in a high-pitched voice, “Perrrrreeeeeee!” when it was time for me to come home.
These were the days before we knew about wind chill and would often stay a lot longer than we should and come home frostbit and shivering. I remember someone saying to me, “Are you cold? Your cheeks are bright red!” and I shrugged and said, “Not that cold.” and stayed out until my mother called. I did hate when the snow got packed in the space between the top or my gloves and the sleeve of my coat. It would get packed tight in there and my arm would feel like it was broken it would hurt so badly!
The school hill was long and gentle. It was surprising how far down the hill you could go on the packed snow. The type of sled we used most were the ones with runners. I did have a saucer sled but it didn’t work well on a gentle hill. Runner sleds would cut ruts in the snow and so we would often add snow and pack it down. If it would melt a little and then freeze hard then it would be really good. You could go a long way!
I loved it there at night in the twilight, with the air crisp, and the night still. It was as if time stopped and you could soak in the experience. Somehow you are warm all over and there is a calmness that comes over you.
I had that same experience at the hill in Saunders Park. There, they would sometimes build a roaring fire in the big stone fireplace and kids would hover around and share hot chocolate. The social aspect made it a big draw to the kids of the community.
The hill in the park is longer and steeper than the one at the school. It attracted people from all over town. It was kind of a gathering place on winter evenings when there was snow on the ground. The fragrant smell of burning wood wafted from the fireplace and the park is a beautiful setting.
A trip down the hill could take you all the way to the creek, nearly a hundred yards! Climbing back up was always a challenge because the hill was steep and slippery and you had to avoid other kids walking down. We had two simple rules. One was to always walk up the outside and the other was that when you come to a stop you need to get up and get out of the way. It was next to impossible to get kids to follow either.
It seemed as though you could tell a kid a dozen times to walk up the outside and he would still get up and walk right up the middle. Invariably he would get clobbered and blame the sledder. Some kids would slide down the hill and then just sprawl in the snow. They, too, would get hit and more than one lip got bloodied. So among the squeals of joy and excitement you would hear, “Walk up the outside!” or “Get out of the way!”
Occasionally someone would hit a tree or the fireplace and a trip to the hospital on the other side of the park would be necessary. I can think of two or three people who were seriously injured on that hill. I, fortunately, avoided any serious accidents there.
What draws us to want to slide I don’t know? I did learn as a teacher and a principal that it is all most impossible to stop kids from sliding on ice or down a hill with or without a sled. Something about us doesn’t want to be earth bound.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Arthur Murray Dance Studio
When I was in third grade around our house I began to hear a lot about someone named Arthur Murray and his dance studio. I really didn’t know what it was all about and I certainly wasn’t interested in dancing.
My mother decided that my sister Loretta would benefit from some dance lessons since she would soon be going into junior high. My mother arranged 6 weeks of lessons that winter at the Arthur Murray Dance Studio in Burlington. Kind of as an after thought Mother decided I might was well take them, too, as I would be going along anyway.
On the trips I remember being relegated to the back seat. I had to wear my best church outfit. It was a jacket, shirt, tie, dress pants and some very uncomfortable shoes. I would ride along and listen to my Mother and sister chatter. By then they were talking about things older people talked about and I wondered if that would ever happen to me. Sometimes my mother stayed and watched and sometimes she went and visited my Aunt Lucille who lived in Burlington.
In was on the third trip I finally asked when Arthur Murray would be there? Our teacher was a rather unfriendly woman and I was looking forward to a change. Mother and Loretta just laughed. I didn’t realize there were Arthur Murray studios all over the country.
The studio was on the 3rd floor of a building in downtown Burlington. It was a very large room with a wooden floor. All around the outside of the room was a bench that was fastened to the wall. There were no other chairs in the room. A row of support posts was evenly spaced down the center of the room. Next to one of the posts was a small table with a record player on top.
So, we would all gather on the bench along the wall and the instructor would start talking. She was strictly business and wasted no time. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to do this if it was so serious. She didn’t seem like someone who could ever have fun. She was a tall, thin woman who scowled every time she looked at me. She would tell about some dance step, then cue a record and grab someone to demonstrate it with her. I dreaded the day that she would pick me. It didn’t come until near the end and all she could say as she jerked me around on the floor was ‘loosen up!” I figured if I did I would break my neck!
Once she had demonstrated the step she expected us to pair up and dance all over the floor. Loretta, of course, was mortified at the suggestion of dancing with her little brother and so she always paired up with someone else and left me orphaned in the middle of the floor. My choices were limited!
I usually ended up dancing with a very unattractive girl. She was at least a foot taller than me and had big feet. She was kind of cubby and wore thick glasses. I really hated putting my hand on her waste. She had very bad teeth and breath to go along with it. I must have danced with her twenty times and she never once looked at or spoke to me. I don’t think I ever knew her name or her mine. I imagine her out there today dancing in that stiff legged way and never looking anyone in the eye.
I actually did learn a few steps but with no place to practice them for years after that I soon forgot everything. There are still Arthur Murray Dance Studios out there. Just thinking about it makes me nervous!
My mother decided that my sister Loretta would benefit from some dance lessons since she would soon be going into junior high. My mother arranged 6 weeks of lessons that winter at the Arthur Murray Dance Studio in Burlington. Kind of as an after thought Mother decided I might was well take them, too, as I would be going along anyway.
On the trips I remember being relegated to the back seat. I had to wear my best church outfit. It was a jacket, shirt, tie, dress pants and some very uncomfortable shoes. I would ride along and listen to my Mother and sister chatter. By then they were talking about things older people talked about and I wondered if that would ever happen to me. Sometimes my mother stayed and watched and sometimes she went and visited my Aunt Lucille who lived in Burlington.
In was on the third trip I finally asked when Arthur Murray would be there? Our teacher was a rather unfriendly woman and I was looking forward to a change. Mother and Loretta just laughed. I didn’t realize there were Arthur Murray studios all over the country.
The studio was on the 3rd floor of a building in downtown Burlington. It was a very large room with a wooden floor. All around the outside of the room was a bench that was fastened to the wall. There were no other chairs in the room. A row of support posts was evenly spaced down the center of the room. Next to one of the posts was a small table with a record player on top.
So, we would all gather on the bench along the wall and the instructor would start talking. She was strictly business and wasted no time. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to do this if it was so serious. She didn’t seem like someone who could ever have fun. She was a tall, thin woman who scowled every time she looked at me. She would tell about some dance step, then cue a record and grab someone to demonstrate it with her. I dreaded the day that she would pick me. It didn’t come until near the end and all she could say as she jerked me around on the floor was ‘loosen up!” I figured if I did I would break my neck!
Once she had demonstrated the step she expected us to pair up and dance all over the floor. Loretta, of course, was mortified at the suggestion of dancing with her little brother and so she always paired up with someone else and left me orphaned in the middle of the floor. My choices were limited!
I usually ended up dancing with a very unattractive girl. She was at least a foot taller than me and had big feet. She was kind of cubby and wore thick glasses. I really hated putting my hand on her waste. She had very bad teeth and breath to go along with it. I must have danced with her twenty times and she never once looked at or spoke to me. I don’t think I ever knew her name or her mine. I imagine her out there today dancing in that stiff legged way and never looking anyone in the eye.
I actually did learn a few steps but with no place to practice them for years after that I soon forgot everything. There are still Arthur Murray Dance Studios out there. Just thinking about it makes me nervous!
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Things
Three things happened to me over the summer between my fifth and sixth grade years. It is funny how three minor events could blend together to change my life in ways I would never expect. Coming into that summer I hadn’t been successful about much of anything except swimming. I was pretty much considered to be a momma’s boy that no one took seriously. It was clear I wasn’t very smart and was mostly a follower. That was all to change.
Fankhauser’s Dairy was having a great baseball season. We were pretty much riding on the pitching of Bill Griest. He was “packin’ lightning” as they used to say. Dad said Bill came from a long line of great pitchers. Dad had stories of when Bill’s uncle played for the team in Trenton. I was a mediocre second baseman and I seldom got a hit in games. That summer we won our division and were in a play off with the other division winning team. All of my friends said we would get clobbered.
The game stayed tight down to the last inning. At that point we were tied 8 to 8. We held the other team to one run in the top of the inning. We managed to load the bases and the batter before me drove in one run to tie the game again. The man running to second was our second out of the inning. So with two outs and a runner on first and third I stepped up to the plate not realizing the magnitude of what was about to happen. The coach said, “walk!” A big hitter followed me in the batting order.
The first pitch was ball and I let it go by. The second was a strike and I swung. Nothing but air. I stood for the third pitch and the umpire said strike two. Desperately not wanting to strike out and lose the game and the championship for my team I swung at the fourth pitch. My Dad said it was a hard drive right between first and second base. I didn’t see it, of course, cause I was running to first.
I was mobbed at first base. It was pandemonium! The team was screaming and jumping all over me! The fans were yelling and there were people all over the field. I asked someone what happened and above the din I heard him say we had won the game. I was a hero for driving in the winning run.
We went on to play the All Star team and again my friends were sure we would get beat. Although, I didn’t do anything of note in that game we clobbered the All Stars and I played with a new confidence. That was the first.
In May of that year the second thing happened. I had seen the advertisements in comic books for bodybuilding and told my Dad I wanted some weights for weigh lifting. We had no money for that but he suggested I make my own. He helped me with the first part. We filled a large coffee can with cement and propped a pipe upright in the center. After it hardened in that can I filled a second can and stuck the other end of the pipe in the wet concrete. When it hardened I had my barbell.
I don’t know how heavy it was but would guess it to be between twenty and thirty pounds. I lifted that bar bell almost every day that summer. I didn’t know anything about what I was doing but would usually lift until I couldn’t do it anymore and then do it again in a little while. I got so I could lift that bar bell over my head 50 or 60 times without stopping. So between swimming and the weigh lifting I got plenty of exercise that summer.
In August the boys from my class got together one Saturday morning. We were walking around filling in each other on all we had done that summer. Of the group, only a couple knew about my baseball success. So when I told about it some thought I was just bragging. They hadn’t yet figured out I was the new confident Perry. We wandered up towards town and ended up in Danny Welcher’s back yard. His house was in the alley behind what is now Home Furniture. There in the back yard was Danny’s brother’s weight set. It included a bench and all of the weights for a perfect set up.
There were all kinds of badgering about who was strong and who wasn’t. Danny loaded the bar with a twenty-pound weight on each end. The bar, itself, weighed about 20 pounds so the total was probably around 60 pounds. Each person took a turn at lifting the bar doing a bench press. Everyone expected Danny to do it but he screamed and had us lift it off his chest. No one could budge it. I was last to try and everyone scoffed believing if they couldn’t do it I never could. We were all surprised when I lifted it off my chest with ease once, twice, and then three times. I set the bar on the rack and got up. That was the third thing!
None of this really changed anyone else but it changed me. Confidence can be a good thing and sometimes a not so good thing. I’ll tell you more about that another time.
Fankhauser’s Dairy was having a great baseball season. We were pretty much riding on the pitching of Bill Griest. He was “packin’ lightning” as they used to say. Dad said Bill came from a long line of great pitchers. Dad had stories of when Bill’s uncle played for the team in Trenton. I was a mediocre second baseman and I seldom got a hit in games. That summer we won our division and were in a play off with the other division winning team. All of my friends said we would get clobbered.
The game stayed tight down to the last inning. At that point we were tied 8 to 8. We held the other team to one run in the top of the inning. We managed to load the bases and the batter before me drove in one run to tie the game again. The man running to second was our second out of the inning. So with two outs and a runner on first and third I stepped up to the plate not realizing the magnitude of what was about to happen. The coach said, “walk!” A big hitter followed me in the batting order.
The first pitch was ball and I let it go by. The second was a strike and I swung. Nothing but air. I stood for the third pitch and the umpire said strike two. Desperately not wanting to strike out and lose the game and the championship for my team I swung at the fourth pitch. My Dad said it was a hard drive right between first and second base. I didn’t see it, of course, cause I was running to first.
I was mobbed at first base. It was pandemonium! The team was screaming and jumping all over me! The fans were yelling and there were people all over the field. I asked someone what happened and above the din I heard him say we had won the game. I was a hero for driving in the winning run.
We went on to play the All Star team and again my friends were sure we would get beat. Although, I didn’t do anything of note in that game we clobbered the All Stars and I played with a new confidence. That was the first.
In May of that year the second thing happened. I had seen the advertisements in comic books for bodybuilding and told my Dad I wanted some weights for weigh lifting. We had no money for that but he suggested I make my own. He helped me with the first part. We filled a large coffee can with cement and propped a pipe upright in the center. After it hardened in that can I filled a second can and stuck the other end of the pipe in the wet concrete. When it hardened I had my barbell.
I don’t know how heavy it was but would guess it to be between twenty and thirty pounds. I lifted that bar bell almost every day that summer. I didn’t know anything about what I was doing but would usually lift until I couldn’t do it anymore and then do it again in a little while. I got so I could lift that bar bell over my head 50 or 60 times without stopping. So between swimming and the weigh lifting I got plenty of exercise that summer.
In August the boys from my class got together one Saturday morning. We were walking around filling in each other on all we had done that summer. Of the group, only a couple knew about my baseball success. So when I told about it some thought I was just bragging. They hadn’t yet figured out I was the new confident Perry. We wandered up towards town and ended up in Danny Welcher’s back yard. His house was in the alley behind what is now Home Furniture. There in the back yard was Danny’s brother’s weight set. It included a bench and all of the weights for a perfect set up.
There were all kinds of badgering about who was strong and who wasn’t. Danny loaded the bar with a twenty-pound weight on each end. The bar, itself, weighed about 20 pounds so the total was probably around 60 pounds. Each person took a turn at lifting the bar doing a bench press. Everyone expected Danny to do it but he screamed and had us lift it off his chest. No one could budge it. I was last to try and everyone scoffed believing if they couldn’t do it I never could. We were all surprised when I lifted it off my chest with ease once, twice, and then three times. I set the bar on the rack and got up. That was the third thing!
None of this really changed anyone else but it changed me. Confidence can be a good thing and sometimes a not so good thing. I’ll tell you more about that another time.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Expectoration
Gary Warner could spit! My mother viewed spitting as ungentlemanly and unnecessary. She didn’t allow it around our house so I did not see my Dad spit often, either. I guess I didn’t think about it much. The only exception she allowed was my Grandfather Perry who chewed tobacco. He could do that outside but she did not allow it in our house.
I didn’t learn much about spitting until I met Gary. Boy, could he spit! Gary was the shortest kid in our class and was nicknamed “PeeWee” which he much preferred over his given name. His parents owned the Dream Drive In and he lived in a trailer behind the place.
Pee Wee had a different spit for each occasion. There was the general “speeuee” which he used almost constantly when were just walking around. It was almost as if he was marking his territory. As Gary approached he would spit once on the left and then quickly once on the right. When he stopped he would spit one “speeuee” in front almost right between his toes.
He would launch into conversation and to punctuate his sentences he would use a special spit. He would draw his lips back tightly to his teeth, open his mouth only slightly and propel spit between his upper and lower teeth. It was kind of a bullet spit always up into the air and off to his right. It was a “tu”.
Spitting is like yawning. Once somebody started doing it everybody starts doing it. When the guys gathered on the playground and Pee Wee came over it wasn’t long before the ground around us was covered and there was the constant “tu” or “speeuee” or “sperat” or “dut” as the boys cleared their mouths of all moisture. It was no wonder we were so thirsty after recess. If we had thought of it and timed in right we could have made our own kind of music out there.
More than once the teacher on recess duty would walk by looking down at the ground and say, “Is it starting to rain?” We would all giggle and move away as quickly as we could.
Occasionally, a spitter makes a mistake. I have seen it happen more than once. A spitter will be walking down the hall at school. Meeting one of his friends he will instinctively spit on the floor and then realize what he has done. Quick glances up and down the hall assure him that his secret is safe this time. Once in awhile, even today, when I see a wet spot on the floor of the hall in one of the schools I know what has happened.
Another spitting faux pas is spitting on yourself. That is something that you don’t ever want to happen and if it does you don’t want anybody to know about it. That sometimes happens when the spit is sort of strung out. This is really considered to be bad form and to be avoided at all cost.
Strange as it may sound spitting on someone else is also considered inappropriate under any but exceptional circumstance. Even in the heat of battle a self-respecting spitter would not spit on another except as a last resort. Then it would be a “touee” which is intended to sound bad and actually carries little spit.
So there ya have it! Pee Wee inspired our spitting through most of fourth and fifth grade. Most of us gradually moved out of that stage but occasionally I still catch myself offering out a “tu” or “speeuee”.
I didn’t learn much about spitting until I met Gary. Boy, could he spit! Gary was the shortest kid in our class and was nicknamed “PeeWee” which he much preferred over his given name. His parents owned the Dream Drive In and he lived in a trailer behind the place.
Pee Wee had a different spit for each occasion. There was the general “speeuee” which he used almost constantly when were just walking around. It was almost as if he was marking his territory. As Gary approached he would spit once on the left and then quickly once on the right. When he stopped he would spit one “speeuee” in front almost right between his toes.
He would launch into conversation and to punctuate his sentences he would use a special spit. He would draw his lips back tightly to his teeth, open his mouth only slightly and propel spit between his upper and lower teeth. It was kind of a bullet spit always up into the air and off to his right. It was a “tu”.
Spitting is like yawning. Once somebody started doing it everybody starts doing it. When the guys gathered on the playground and Pee Wee came over it wasn’t long before the ground around us was covered and there was the constant “tu” or “speeuee” or “sperat” or “dut” as the boys cleared their mouths of all moisture. It was no wonder we were so thirsty after recess. If we had thought of it and timed in right we could have made our own kind of music out there.
More than once the teacher on recess duty would walk by looking down at the ground and say, “Is it starting to rain?” We would all giggle and move away as quickly as we could.
Occasionally, a spitter makes a mistake. I have seen it happen more than once. A spitter will be walking down the hall at school. Meeting one of his friends he will instinctively spit on the floor and then realize what he has done. Quick glances up and down the hall assure him that his secret is safe this time. Once in awhile, even today, when I see a wet spot on the floor of the hall in one of the schools I know what has happened.
Another spitting faux pas is spitting on yourself. That is something that you don’t ever want to happen and if it does you don’t want anybody to know about it. That sometimes happens when the spit is sort of strung out. This is really considered to be bad form and to be avoided at all cost.
Strange as it may sound spitting on someone else is also considered inappropriate under any but exceptional circumstance. Even in the heat of battle a self-respecting spitter would not spit on another except as a last resort. Then it would be a “touee” which is intended to sound bad and actually carries little spit.
So there ya have it! Pee Wee inspired our spitting through most of fourth and fifth grade. Most of us gradually moved out of that stage but occasionally I still catch myself offering out a “tu” or “speeuee”.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
1824
Thursday, February 9, marks the 1824th day in a row that I have played my harmonica. I bought my first one on February 9, 2001. It was a snow day so I went downtown to get a haircut. On the way back to the parking lot I stopped in a small shop that was closing because it was to move to the new mall that would be opening soon in Coralville. The store was pretty much depleted of all items, but I did spot a single harmonica on a shelf. It had been marked down and then the price halved again.
I bought it! The harmonica was in a small box. It was wrapped in a very thin kind of paper. Also, included in the box, was a brief overview of the harmonica and the music for “When the Saints Go Marching In” in the key of C.
Now, I need to say here loud and clear, that I know nothing about music. It fact, on the scale of 1 to 10, with 1 meaning I know nothing, I would be at about -3. I can’t dance and have no rhythm. I have tried to learn to dance and twice took guitar lessons. I was a failure at both. I read or heard somewhere that a harmonica is the easiest instrument to learn so I decided to try.
On that snowy day I vowed to learn to play the harmonica. I decided to play “When the Saints Go Marching In” over and over, much to Becky’s chagrin. Those who know me know I am nothing if not stubborn. So I played it over and over. When I thought I had it, I moved on to another song with a familiar tune. So, over time I have added to my repertoire of songs.
When I say I have played my harmonica every day for 1824 days I don’t mean I have practiced it everyday. I practice once or twice a week. Playing it is just playing a song or two every day. To insure that I do that I play “Amazing Grace” every morning. I play it once as a prayer for me, once as a prayer for all of our loved ones, and once for the troubled in the rest of the world. So I guess you could say I pray for you everyday whoever you are.
Someday, I would like to take some lessons to learn how to do more of the blues stuff and the riffs that go along with many songs. I have a library of many “how to” books and have many different kinds of harmonicas.
I usually give away mini-harmonicas when I work with students and when I am doing storytelling. While I was principal at Longfellow we had a harmonica club that met once a week and occasionally performed during school assemblies.
I am still not any good at it but don’t plan to stop playing. I know they will probably take my harmonica away if I ever go to the nursing home. I hope you will all see that I always have one.
So, I have played 1824 days in a row. You’d think I could play a lot better by now. Hmmmmmm…
My Harmonica
I have a harmonica
That I have wanted to play
I do practice just a little
Almost every day
It makes a whistle
It screeches and brays
Doesn’t it know?
I have music to play?
I have a harmonica
It needs to be played!
No matter how I try
The notes are not made!
I huff and I puff
I draw and I blow
Breathless, I pause
Still, no music! No! No!
I’ll keep on tryin’
A quitter I’m not
It drove away my friends
So it’s all that I’ve got!
Perry O. Ross February 9, 2006
(I have practiced poetry even longer and I am not any good at that either.)
I bought it! The harmonica was in a small box. It was wrapped in a very thin kind of paper. Also, included in the box, was a brief overview of the harmonica and the music for “When the Saints Go Marching In” in the key of C.
Now, I need to say here loud and clear, that I know nothing about music. It fact, on the scale of 1 to 10, with 1 meaning I know nothing, I would be at about -3. I can’t dance and have no rhythm. I have tried to learn to dance and twice took guitar lessons. I was a failure at both. I read or heard somewhere that a harmonica is the easiest instrument to learn so I decided to try.
On that snowy day I vowed to learn to play the harmonica. I decided to play “When the Saints Go Marching In” over and over, much to Becky’s chagrin. Those who know me know I am nothing if not stubborn. So I played it over and over. When I thought I had it, I moved on to another song with a familiar tune. So, over time I have added to my repertoire of songs.
When I say I have played my harmonica every day for 1824 days I don’t mean I have practiced it everyday. I practice once or twice a week. Playing it is just playing a song or two every day. To insure that I do that I play “Amazing Grace” every morning. I play it once as a prayer for me, once as a prayer for all of our loved ones, and once for the troubled in the rest of the world. So I guess you could say I pray for you everyday whoever you are.
Someday, I would like to take some lessons to learn how to do more of the blues stuff and the riffs that go along with many songs. I have a library of many “how to” books and have many different kinds of harmonicas.
I usually give away mini-harmonicas when I work with students and when I am doing storytelling. While I was principal at Longfellow we had a harmonica club that met once a week and occasionally performed during school assemblies.
I am still not any good at it but don’t plan to stop playing. I know they will probably take my harmonica away if I ever go to the nursing home. I hope you will all see that I always have one.
So, I have played 1824 days in a row. You’d think I could play a lot better by now. Hmmmmmm…
My Harmonica
I have a harmonica
That I have wanted to play
I do practice just a little
Almost every day
It makes a whistle
It screeches and brays
Doesn’t it know?
I have music to play?
I have a harmonica
It needs to be played!
No matter how I try
The notes are not made!
I huff and I puff
I draw and I blow
Breathless, I pause
Still, no music! No! No!
I’ll keep on tryin’
A quitter I’m not
It drove away my friends
So it’s all that I’ve got!
Perry O. Ross February 9, 2006
(I have practiced poetry even longer and I am not any good at that either.)
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Miss Ikuta
As I have alluded to in previous pieces, elementary school wasn’t a particularly good time for me. I struggled with reading and learning in general. I didn’t think the teachers were too fond of me and I was sometimes miserable. I knew I was somehow different than the rest of the kids and didn’t know what it was or why. There was one place…a place that I loved…a place where the teacher welcomed me and I felt warm and comfortable. It was art class.
Tomie Ikuta was my art teacher in elementary school. I was in love with her! She was absolutely beautiful and she was so kind to me. She always greeted me with a smile and was very positive about everything I did. I called her “Miss I Cute a” and she would blush.
Miss Ikuta was Japanese. Her family had been sent to an internment center during World War II. During that time Americans of Japanese decent, unfairly, were not trusted because of the war and they were moved to internment centers all over the country. Many were humiliated by the experience. Miss Ikuta was only a child during that time. When she grew up she went to Central College in Pella and graduated in 1954 with a teaching certificate.
She was hired and came to Mt. Pleasant after graduation to teach art in the elementary schools. While she was there she taught at Saunders, Lincoln, Harlan, and a few sections at the junior high. She didn’t own a car so she walked to work at one building or another every day. There were a few days a week that she served two building so she would walk from one to the other over her lunch hour. Amazing when you think about it now!
It’s amazing, too, what affect the kindness and gentleness of one person can have on someone’s life. Miss Ikuta awed and inspired me. She made me feel like I had worth and I cherished the time I had with her in art class. It was an island of comfort in a stormy sea. After I left elementary school and on to junior high I had a different teacher. Art was never the same for me. Miss Ikuta left Mt. Pleasant and I lost track of what happened to her.
While I was an elementary principle a few years ago I was urging students to write former teachers and tell them how much they appreciated them. I had received a kind letter from a former student and realized what a powerful impact it could have. I decided to take my own advice and thought I would write Miss Ikuta.
I did some detective work and determined that Miss Ikuta had married and was now Mrs. Conaroy. She had lived in the Quad Cities for a while and now was living in the Minneapolis area. More work led to her last known address. I wrote a letter to her in March of 1996. In late April I received a hand written letter from Italy. Mrs. Conaroy and her husband were traveling in Europe (with some friends originally from Mt. Pleasant) and had finally found the time to write back to me.
It said, in part …”You can’t realize how much I appreciated your letter. You could not have known that I opened your letter at the end of one of the most frustrating and depressing days (related to my job). Your letter was the perfect tonic to my mood…It also inspired me to resolve to write one of my high school English teachers from who I learned all that I know of grammar…”
By this time Heather was living in Minneapolis so arranging a meeting was in order. Becky, Heather and I had dinner with Tomie that summer in Minneapolis. We had a very nice time and she said she remembered me. I am not sure she really did but she is so kind that I don’t think she would tell me even if she didn’t. Oh, if the world was just full of more people like Miss I Cute a.
Tomie Ikuta was my art teacher in elementary school. I was in love with her! She was absolutely beautiful and she was so kind to me. She always greeted me with a smile and was very positive about everything I did. I called her “Miss I Cute a” and she would blush.
Miss Ikuta was Japanese. Her family had been sent to an internment center during World War II. During that time Americans of Japanese decent, unfairly, were not trusted because of the war and they were moved to internment centers all over the country. Many were humiliated by the experience. Miss Ikuta was only a child during that time. When she grew up she went to Central College in Pella and graduated in 1954 with a teaching certificate.
She was hired and came to Mt. Pleasant after graduation to teach art in the elementary schools. While she was there she taught at Saunders, Lincoln, Harlan, and a few sections at the junior high. She didn’t own a car so she walked to work at one building or another every day. There were a few days a week that she served two building so she would walk from one to the other over her lunch hour. Amazing when you think about it now!
It’s amazing, too, what affect the kindness and gentleness of one person can have on someone’s life. Miss Ikuta awed and inspired me. She made me feel like I had worth and I cherished the time I had with her in art class. It was an island of comfort in a stormy sea. After I left elementary school and on to junior high I had a different teacher. Art was never the same for me. Miss Ikuta left Mt. Pleasant and I lost track of what happened to her.
While I was an elementary principle a few years ago I was urging students to write former teachers and tell them how much they appreciated them. I had received a kind letter from a former student and realized what a powerful impact it could have. I decided to take my own advice and thought I would write Miss Ikuta.
I did some detective work and determined that Miss Ikuta had married and was now Mrs. Conaroy. She had lived in the Quad Cities for a while and now was living in the Minneapolis area. More work led to her last known address. I wrote a letter to her in March of 1996. In late April I received a hand written letter from Italy. Mrs. Conaroy and her husband were traveling in Europe (with some friends originally from Mt. Pleasant) and had finally found the time to write back to me.
It said, in part …”You can’t realize how much I appreciated your letter. You could not have known that I opened your letter at the end of one of the most frustrating and depressing days (related to my job). Your letter was the perfect tonic to my mood…It also inspired me to resolve to write one of my high school English teachers from who I learned all that I know of grammar…”
By this time Heather was living in Minneapolis so arranging a meeting was in order. Becky, Heather and I had dinner with Tomie that summer in Minneapolis. We had a very nice time and she said she remembered me. I am not sure she really did but she is so kind that I don’t think she would tell me even if she didn’t. Oh, if the world was just full of more people like Miss I Cute a.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
My Electric Train
I wanted an electric train a long time before I got one. Once Dad took me to a friend’s house. I don’t remember his name. The man lived in a nice house in Schaffer Addition. The houses there were new and expensive. This man’s house had a finished basement. I had never been in a house like that before. In his basement he had huge pencil collection. It covered one whole wall of one of the rooms. There were hundreds of them attached to a pegboard on the wall. He also had a large button collection. It was all very impressive! But the most impressive thing was in another room of the basement. It was an electric train.
The train was on a table high platform that took up the whole room. There was a two-foot walkway all the way around the outside. There were a couple places where you could duck under and come up in an open spot in the middle. The platform had the train track, switch yard, a miniature village on opposite ends of the room and, in between, mountains, tunnels and realistic county side. The detail was amazing! It looked just like real life shrunk down to fit on that platform.
The man ducked under the platform and came up at a control panel. There he could start and stop three different trains. He could control switches and send trains down different track. He could even control lighting in the houses and buildings in the villages. I was hooked. It was amazing!
One Christmas, not too long after that visit, I got an electric train. It was fabulous! It was an HO scale train. For awhile I would set it up on the dining room floor and run the track under the table and back out in a big circle. That wasn’t good enough, though, because I had seen nirvana in that basement.
Dad cut large sheet of plywood to a four foot by seven-foot piece. He placed it, using the posts on each end over the spare bed in my bedroom. The board was about eight inches above the mattress. It was perfect! I could set up my train and leave it up for long periods of time. The board could easily be removed if we had company and needed the bed.
I painted the board with the help of my mother, laid out the track and slowly started adding houses and buildings. For a long time I had a Styrofoam mountain with a tunnel through it. I didn’t like it much because it was flimsy and I didn’t think it looked real. The Explorer Scouts had a big electric train set up at the fair grounds and after visiting it and seeing what they had done I decided I would build my own mountain.
I shaped the mountain using chicken wire. Once I had the mountain and the tunnel the way I wanted it, I soaked strips of newspaper in a plaster paste. I laid the strips over the chicken wire until it was completely covered. When it dried it looked like a big white mountain. I painted the mountain brown and the peak white like it was covered with snow. I thought all mountains were that color. Several visitors commented that the mountain should be green but I didn’t care. My Dad didn’t either. He loved it and was amazed at my construction.
(Somewhere there is a picture of the train on the bed but I haven’t located it. If anyone has it please send me a copy.)
Over time I added cars, track, and another engine. I was very proud of the layout. I played with it and rearranged it often. I took the engines apart completely many times and put them back together. In the process I learned about what made them work. I learned that you had to use a transformer to change the electricity from alternating to direct current and that the circuit had to be complete before it would work.
Every kid ought to have an electric train!
The train was on a table high platform that took up the whole room. There was a two-foot walkway all the way around the outside. There were a couple places where you could duck under and come up in an open spot in the middle. The platform had the train track, switch yard, a miniature village on opposite ends of the room and, in between, mountains, tunnels and realistic county side. The detail was amazing! It looked just like real life shrunk down to fit on that platform.
The man ducked under the platform and came up at a control panel. There he could start and stop three different trains. He could control switches and send trains down different track. He could even control lighting in the houses and buildings in the villages. I was hooked. It was amazing!
One Christmas, not too long after that visit, I got an electric train. It was fabulous! It was an HO scale train. For awhile I would set it up on the dining room floor and run the track under the table and back out in a big circle. That wasn’t good enough, though, because I had seen nirvana in that basement.
Dad cut large sheet of plywood to a four foot by seven-foot piece. He placed it, using the posts on each end over the spare bed in my bedroom. The board was about eight inches above the mattress. It was perfect! I could set up my train and leave it up for long periods of time. The board could easily be removed if we had company and needed the bed.
I painted the board with the help of my mother, laid out the track and slowly started adding houses and buildings. For a long time I had a Styrofoam mountain with a tunnel through it. I didn’t like it much because it was flimsy and I didn’t think it looked real. The Explorer Scouts had a big electric train set up at the fair grounds and after visiting it and seeing what they had done I decided I would build my own mountain.
I shaped the mountain using chicken wire. Once I had the mountain and the tunnel the way I wanted it, I soaked strips of newspaper in a plaster paste. I laid the strips over the chicken wire until it was completely covered. When it dried it looked like a big white mountain. I painted the mountain brown and the peak white like it was covered with snow. I thought all mountains were that color. Several visitors commented that the mountain should be green but I didn’t care. My Dad didn’t either. He loved it and was amazed at my construction.
(Somewhere there is a picture of the train on the bed but I haven’t located it. If anyone has it please send me a copy.)
Over time I added cars, track, and another engine. I was very proud of the layout. I played with it and rearranged it often. I took the engines apart completely many times and put them back together. In the process I learned about what made them work. I learned that you had to use a transformer to change the electricity from alternating to direct current and that the circuit had to be complete before it would work.
Every kid ought to have an electric train!
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Cub Scouts
There are saints out there in the world. I know many and my parents would be in that group. Sunday school teachers and teachers, in general, are in that category, too, as well as many others. One unsung group has to be Cub Scout Den Mothers. What would possess someone to take on supervision of 10-12 young boys, I don’t know? They meet one evening during the week and attend a pack meeting of all dens once a month. That is a big commitment no matter how you look at it.
I was in Pack 28. It included the area south of the railroad tracks and north of highway 34. We had a Pack meeting the last Thursday of every month. It was held at the National Guard Armory. Big events of the year included the Blue and Gold Banquet and the Pine Wood Derby. I got second place in the derby in 1958. I still have the car Dad and I made and the award they gave me for second place. I actually had it won until a kid showed up late. They let him race me even though he hadn’t participated up to that point. He beat me and I guess that is the bottom line.
I was in Den 2. We were the only Den that met year around. We met on Monday evenings at the Liechty’s. Mrs. Max Liechty was the Den Mother. She was the senior Den Mother of Pack 28 because she had actually survived it for more that three years. The life expectancy of a Den Mother in those days was somewhere between three and seven months. It has increased over the years with the introduction of drugs like Prozac and other calming medications.
Mrs. Rabedeaux assisted Mrs. Liechty when she could. Other members of our Den were Roger Milks, Tom Weir, Allen Barnes, Jerry Liechty, Robert Ross, Garry LeMaster, and David Rabedeaux. Joe Liechty was the Den Chief. He was 3 years older than us and a Webelo.
The Webelos were older Cub Scouts who met on a different night. Everybody wanted to be a Webelo because they got to make neat things with leather. Somewhere I think I still have the belt I made when I finally became a Webelo. Webelos made things with wood, too. Webelos were cool! Of course, the ultimate goal for everyone was to be a Boy Scout.
I think I learned a lot as a Scout. I learned about how to get along with others, about dignity, and about respect. Without Scouting I would have probably learned those things some other way but Scouting worked for me. We also learned about ritual through uniforms, practices, salutes, oaths, and rules. Many of them seem silly now but they were really important then. Silly or not, learning about ritual is important. It is not the ritual by itself but the process that is important, as it has been across time. Ritual is in everything whether you believe it or not.
There are other things I learned from scouting, too. Things I am not so proud of. Things like swearing. We actually practiced our swearing in Scouts. Not when the adults were around, of course, but we did practice. The whole idea of swearing is to make it sound like you mean it. Not so easy for an eight year old who doesn’t even know what most of the words mean. But we tried! Then we would critique each other. Kids who grew up in a home with swearing had the edge. My home wasn’t like that. I don’t think I ever heard my mother swear and my father only a few times when I was much older. Consequently, I could never do it very well and usually laughed when I tried. A definite “no no” in swearing. If you’re going to swear effectively not even a smile is permitted.
So, thanks to Scouting, I guess I grew up ritual enhanced, but profanity impaired.
I was in Pack 28. It included the area south of the railroad tracks and north of highway 34. We had a Pack meeting the last Thursday of every month. It was held at the National Guard Armory. Big events of the year included the Blue and Gold Banquet and the Pine Wood Derby. I got second place in the derby in 1958. I still have the car Dad and I made and the award they gave me for second place. I actually had it won until a kid showed up late. They let him race me even though he hadn’t participated up to that point. He beat me and I guess that is the bottom line.
I was in Den 2. We were the only Den that met year around. We met on Monday evenings at the Liechty’s. Mrs. Max Liechty was the Den Mother. She was the senior Den Mother of Pack 28 because she had actually survived it for more that three years. The life expectancy of a Den Mother in those days was somewhere between three and seven months. It has increased over the years with the introduction of drugs like Prozac and other calming medications.
Mrs. Rabedeaux assisted Mrs. Liechty when she could. Other members of our Den were Roger Milks, Tom Weir, Allen Barnes, Jerry Liechty, Robert Ross, Garry LeMaster, and David Rabedeaux. Joe Liechty was the Den Chief. He was 3 years older than us and a Webelo.
The Webelos were older Cub Scouts who met on a different night. Everybody wanted to be a Webelo because they got to make neat things with leather. Somewhere I think I still have the belt I made when I finally became a Webelo. Webelos made things with wood, too. Webelos were cool! Of course, the ultimate goal for everyone was to be a Boy Scout.
I think I learned a lot as a Scout. I learned about how to get along with others, about dignity, and about respect. Without Scouting I would have probably learned those things some other way but Scouting worked for me. We also learned about ritual through uniforms, practices, salutes, oaths, and rules. Many of them seem silly now but they were really important then. Silly or not, learning about ritual is important. It is not the ritual by itself but the process that is important, as it has been across time. Ritual is in everything whether you believe it or not.
There are other things I learned from scouting, too. Things I am not so proud of. Things like swearing. We actually practiced our swearing in Scouts. Not when the adults were around, of course, but we did practice. The whole idea of swearing is to make it sound like you mean it. Not so easy for an eight year old who doesn’t even know what most of the words mean. But we tried! Then we would critique each other. Kids who grew up in a home with swearing had the edge. My home wasn’t like that. I don’t think I ever heard my mother swear and my father only a few times when I was much older. Consequently, I could never do it very well and usually laughed when I tried. A definite “no no” in swearing. If you’re going to swear effectively not even a smile is permitted.
So, thanks to Scouting, I guess I grew up ritual enhanced, but profanity impaired.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Madison Street Construction Company
We loved boxes…cardboard boxes. Cranes Furniture store was just across the street from the Harlan Hotel. The back door faced the alley and then the lumberyard. They had a place outside the back door where they put the large boxes that the refrigerators and other large appliances came in. We made it a habit to check on that spot regularly. We were soon on to the appliance delivery schedule from the factory and we knew when a new supply of boxes would be available.
We could go up to Cranes and select our boxes and drag them home right down the middle of the street. The cardboard rubbing the concrete made a loud roar as we drug it along. We would sometimes drag two or three boxes home in one day. My Dad didn’t like it because they cluttered up the yard and were hard to get rid of. Besides that, if you left them in one spot too long it killed the grass.
We constructed all sorts of things using those boxes. We made houses and battleships, forts and towers, and much more. We would play with them for days before we grew tired and went on to something else.
We built a tower in the far southeast corner of the yard using wood stored in the shed and cardboard from boxes. We went as far as putting the posts in the ground to make it sturdy. When Dad saw he was both angry that we had used his wood and tools, and amazed that we could build such a structure. He asked a lot of questions about how we had done it. I think he was kind of proud of me this time.
He let us keep it for a couple weeks and then with his supervision we burned it to the ground. It was a spectacular fire. The flames leaped at the electrical and phone wires that were high up above it. For a brief moment we thought we might have to put it out but the flames settled down some and we let it burn.
We used boxes to construct elaborate castles, complete with a drawbridge and other amenities. They would last two or three days and then we would grow tired of it, or it would rain and the boxes would get soft and collapse. When they were of no use to us anymore we would pull them to the trash barrel and they would become history.
We used a series of boxes to create a maze once. I guess we were way ahead of our time since they are so popular now. At Halloween we made a spook house and charged kids a dime to go through. That didn’t work to well because we scared ourselves so much that we didn’t want to do it.
Even today, I find myself admiring a good piece of cardboard or a nice box. I keep a few pieces around just in case I might need one. You never know when one might be useful. I kept one large box from our siding and window project all summer long. I finally put it in the dog kennel in November to protect Abby from the wind.
We could go up to Cranes and select our boxes and drag them home right down the middle of the street. The cardboard rubbing the concrete made a loud roar as we drug it along. We would sometimes drag two or three boxes home in one day. My Dad didn’t like it because they cluttered up the yard and were hard to get rid of. Besides that, if you left them in one spot too long it killed the grass.
We constructed all sorts of things using those boxes. We made houses and battleships, forts and towers, and much more. We would play with them for days before we grew tired and went on to something else.
We built a tower in the far southeast corner of the yard using wood stored in the shed and cardboard from boxes. We went as far as putting the posts in the ground to make it sturdy. When Dad saw he was both angry that we had used his wood and tools, and amazed that we could build such a structure. He asked a lot of questions about how we had done it. I think he was kind of proud of me this time.
He let us keep it for a couple weeks and then with his supervision we burned it to the ground. It was a spectacular fire. The flames leaped at the electrical and phone wires that were high up above it. For a brief moment we thought we might have to put it out but the flames settled down some and we let it burn.
We used boxes to construct elaborate castles, complete with a drawbridge and other amenities. They would last two or three days and then we would grow tired of it, or it would rain and the boxes would get soft and collapse. When they were of no use to us anymore we would pull them to the trash barrel and they would become history.
We used a series of boxes to create a maze once. I guess we were way ahead of our time since they are so popular now. At Halloween we made a spook house and charged kids a dime to go through. That didn’t work to well because we scared ourselves so much that we didn’t want to do it.
Even today, I find myself admiring a good piece of cardboard or a nice box. I keep a few pieces around just in case I might need one. You never know when one might be useful. I kept one large box from our siding and window project all summer long. I finally put it in the dog kennel in November to protect Abby from the wind.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Our Dogs
41. Coco, Velvet, and Skipper
There were three family dogs during my childhood: Coco, Velvet, and Skipper. Coco was around when I was born and Skipper was there when I left and lived for sometime after that. I often wonder what the dogs think. You know, what do they think of us? I think you could say that we didn’t own any dogs. They owned us.
Coco was Nancy’s dog. I can only very vaguely remember him. I don’t think he liked me very much. He was around during my toddler years and I suspect I was too aggressive for him. Most of the time he steered clear of me. I don’t know if Coco died of old age or some kind of calamity. Whatever it was it was kept from me.
Our next dog was Velvet. Velvet, part cocker spaniel, was Loretta’s dog. Velvet had a great temperament and was a welcome visitor in spots all over town. In those days dogs had free roam of the community…a practice that might reduce the rodent and deer population in urban areas now. My mother would say that, “Velvet is making his rounds.” It did, indeed, seem that there was a pattern to the way he circulated threw the neighborhood. He knew where he might find something to eat or a handout from a friendly neighbor.
Velvet loved children and so the school playground was a regular stop on those “rounds.” Velvet would move from one group of children to the next soaking up all of the petting and ear scratching he could get. He loved to be rubbed on the belly. He seemed to know when the recesses were and would wait for the kids to come out.
Velvet loved to go with Dad and I when we went arrowhead hunting and was really good at showing up wet and muddy when it was time to get in the car and go home. My Dad would keep a towel in the trunk just for that reason. If Velvet was really muddy, which happened often, he had to ride in the trunk all the way home. He knew the routine and would hop right in when he got to the car.
Velvet had a bad habit of following me about everywhere I would go. If I walked downtown to see my Dad at Hoaglin’s, Velvet had to wander along, too. I often would try walking back home and telling Velvet to stay but it didn’t usually work. It was a good thing that people in cars were careful because Velvet seemed oblivious to traffic and would wander across busy streets and sometimes stop in the middle to sniff some flattened road kill.
Stan Light, a local entrepreneur and junk dealer, lived in a house just up the hill from the swimming pool in Saunders Park. Velvet was drawn to the pool because of all the children there and followed me there often. Stan Light had two big Weimaraners, vicious territorial dogs. One fateful day Velvet followed me to the pool. I didn’t see Velvet again until I got home that day. Velvet was lying on the floor in the nook by the bathroom door. My father explained that Velvet had been badly mauled by the Weimaraners. They had been to Dr. Hunt, the vet, and he had done all he could. For hours we tried to comfort Velvet and finally mother sent us to bed.
It only seemed like it had been a few minutes and Mother called us back downstairs. Velvet had died. That night we buried Velvet in a spot under a red bud tree in the back yard.
Our next dog was a mostly Beagle, but part something else dog, we called Skipper. We brought Skipper home on May 5, 1960. Skipper was my dog, or rather, I was his. Skipper was like Velvet in many ways. He roamed freely all over the community but seemed to be a little more car savvy. Skipper appeared to look both ways before he crossed a street. I know you will think that is crazy but that dog would look both ways, wait on traffic if necessary, and then cross the street.
Skipper also had a sense of humor and had a visible smile on his face when he was happy. He loved to be outside and go arrowhead hunting with Dad and me. Dad often got upset with him because of his unique ability to get muddy no matter how dry it was or how far we were from any water source. Consequently, Skipper road home in the trunk many times. Then he had to have a bath before coming in the house.
Sometimes Skipper would nap and dream he was chasing rabbits. He would bark and wake himself up and we would all laugh. He would act a little embarrassed but laugh at himself, too. Skipper was a good dog. I miss him.
There were three family dogs during my childhood: Coco, Velvet, and Skipper. Coco was around when I was born and Skipper was there when I left and lived for sometime after that. I often wonder what the dogs think. You know, what do they think of us? I think you could say that we didn’t own any dogs. They owned us.
Coco was Nancy’s dog. I can only very vaguely remember him. I don’t think he liked me very much. He was around during my toddler years and I suspect I was too aggressive for him. Most of the time he steered clear of me. I don’t know if Coco died of old age or some kind of calamity. Whatever it was it was kept from me.
Our next dog was Velvet. Velvet, part cocker spaniel, was Loretta’s dog. Velvet had a great temperament and was a welcome visitor in spots all over town. In those days dogs had free roam of the community…a practice that might reduce the rodent and deer population in urban areas now. My mother would say that, “Velvet is making his rounds.” It did, indeed, seem that there was a pattern to the way he circulated threw the neighborhood. He knew where he might find something to eat or a handout from a friendly neighbor.
Velvet loved children and so the school playground was a regular stop on those “rounds.” Velvet would move from one group of children to the next soaking up all of the petting and ear scratching he could get. He loved to be rubbed on the belly. He seemed to know when the recesses were and would wait for the kids to come out.
Velvet loved to go with Dad and I when we went arrowhead hunting and was really good at showing up wet and muddy when it was time to get in the car and go home. My Dad would keep a towel in the trunk just for that reason. If Velvet was really muddy, which happened often, he had to ride in the trunk all the way home. He knew the routine and would hop right in when he got to the car.
Velvet had a bad habit of following me about everywhere I would go. If I walked downtown to see my Dad at Hoaglin’s, Velvet had to wander along, too. I often would try walking back home and telling Velvet to stay but it didn’t usually work. It was a good thing that people in cars were careful because Velvet seemed oblivious to traffic and would wander across busy streets and sometimes stop in the middle to sniff some flattened road kill.
Stan Light, a local entrepreneur and junk dealer, lived in a house just up the hill from the swimming pool in Saunders Park. Velvet was drawn to the pool because of all the children there and followed me there often. Stan Light had two big Weimaraners, vicious territorial dogs. One fateful day Velvet followed me to the pool. I didn’t see Velvet again until I got home that day. Velvet was lying on the floor in the nook by the bathroom door. My father explained that Velvet had been badly mauled by the Weimaraners. They had been to Dr. Hunt, the vet, and he had done all he could. For hours we tried to comfort Velvet and finally mother sent us to bed.
It only seemed like it had been a few minutes and Mother called us back downstairs. Velvet had died. That night we buried Velvet in a spot under a red bud tree in the back yard.
Our next dog was a mostly Beagle, but part something else dog, we called Skipper. We brought Skipper home on May 5, 1960. Skipper was my dog, or rather, I was his. Skipper was like Velvet in many ways. He roamed freely all over the community but seemed to be a little more car savvy. Skipper appeared to look both ways before he crossed a street. I know you will think that is crazy but that dog would look both ways, wait on traffic if necessary, and then cross the street.
Skipper also had a sense of humor and had a visible smile on his face when he was happy. He loved to be outside and go arrowhead hunting with Dad and me. Dad often got upset with him because of his unique ability to get muddy no matter how dry it was or how far we were from any water source. Consequently, Skipper road home in the trunk many times. Then he had to have a bath before coming in the house.
Sometimes Skipper would nap and dream he was chasing rabbits. He would bark and wake himself up and we would all laugh. He would act a little embarrassed but laugh at himself, too. Skipper was a good dog. I miss him.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Timeless
Oh, gentle heart
I hear you sing
of life and tears
and precious things.
To live a life
Where most don't care
of hearts and hopes,
of dreams,
of birth.
How little is the future worth?
To hoard the hope of fellow man.
To rob the poor,
to rape the land
with grinding power
and untold wealth
we've twisted in
upon ourselves.
Perry O. Ross, October 2, 1981
I hear you sing
of life and tears
and precious things.
To live a life
Where most don't care
of hearts and hopes,
of dreams,
of birth.
How little is the future worth?
To hoard the hope of fellow man.
To rob the poor,
to rape the land
with grinding power
and untold wealth
we've twisted in
upon ourselves.
Perry O. Ross, October 2, 1981
Monday, January 02, 2006
Silver Dollars
On Christmas morning I couldn’t wait to get up! It was the only day of the year I would wake up early and not be able to go back to sleep. Since my parents were always early risers they would be up and dressed by the time I got downstairs. It would take about three minutes for me to open my gifts and then the excitement was over for a couple of hours. It would build again as we packed food and presents in the car and headed for Grandpa’s house.
We always went to Grandpa’s for Christmas. There we would have Christmas with Grandpa, my great- uncle Lew, my uncle Everett and aunt Neva, their sons Bobby and Harold and their families. The meal was always huge and the food delicious. My favorite part was the pumpkin pie we had for dessert with fresh whipped cream on top.
We didn’t exchange gifts with all of the folks at this event but usually had something for Grandpa and Uncle Lew. The only gift I got and it was the same every year…silver dollars. The amount varied from year to year depending on Grandpa’s mood, I guess. It would usually range between three and eight. They were the big silver dollars and in those days actually had quite a bit of silver in them. They were thick and heavy and sunk deeply in my pocket. My mother usually took charge of them after I handled them for a while. I know she was sure I would lose them.
Often the dollars ended up being deposited in my account at the Savings and Loan. A few times Mom kept them for me in a hidden spot at home. She showed me once where they were and said, “Now these are yours!” That was a mistake because telling me where they were and that they were mine was a risky thing to tell a nine or ten year old boy.
One day, about a week after Christmas, I went to the stash and withdrew the entire amount. In this case, it was about twelve dollars. I remember the day well! It was cold and snowy. I remember walking up to Hoaglin’s Dime Store with those twelve silver dollars creating a bumpy bulge deep in my pocket. Why I didn’t distribute them to other pockets I don’t know? I did take them out and count them several times. Twelve.
Hoaglin’s had models in two locations. One was at the end of an isle at a sale table and the others were in the regular location at the back of the store. I looked at all of the models at the sale table. There were battleships, planes, and cars. Then I went to the regular spot where there were more. I moved back and forth between the two locations pondering my choices and calculating the cost. Several times I had three or four boxes in my arms only to change my mind again.
Finally, after selecting two from the sale table and four from the regular spot I went the register. I thought the price would be right at twelve dollars but it turned out to be less. I ended up with one silver dollar and some change left. Delighted I headed home with two bulging shopping bags.
Of course, you know what happened. My Mom found out! I reminded her that she had said they were mine. It did no good. She let me choose one, a model airplane, and the rest were back in the bags. We went back to Hoaglin’s. I was horribly embarrassed while my mother chastised the store clerk for taking silver dollars from a young boy. Whew! While they were talking the clerk had me return the models to the table where I got them. We went home with eight of the silver dollars and the one I didn’t spend made nine.
That model airplane, assembled, hung from the ceiling in my room the rest of the time I lived at home. Where it is now, I’m not sure?
We always went to Grandpa’s for Christmas. There we would have Christmas with Grandpa, my great- uncle Lew, my uncle Everett and aunt Neva, their sons Bobby and Harold and their families. The meal was always huge and the food delicious. My favorite part was the pumpkin pie we had for dessert with fresh whipped cream on top.
We didn’t exchange gifts with all of the folks at this event but usually had something for Grandpa and Uncle Lew. The only gift I got and it was the same every year…silver dollars. The amount varied from year to year depending on Grandpa’s mood, I guess. It would usually range between three and eight. They were the big silver dollars and in those days actually had quite a bit of silver in them. They were thick and heavy and sunk deeply in my pocket. My mother usually took charge of them after I handled them for a while. I know she was sure I would lose them.
Often the dollars ended up being deposited in my account at the Savings and Loan. A few times Mom kept them for me in a hidden spot at home. She showed me once where they were and said, “Now these are yours!” That was a mistake because telling me where they were and that they were mine was a risky thing to tell a nine or ten year old boy.
One day, about a week after Christmas, I went to the stash and withdrew the entire amount. In this case, it was about twelve dollars. I remember the day well! It was cold and snowy. I remember walking up to Hoaglin’s Dime Store with those twelve silver dollars creating a bumpy bulge deep in my pocket. Why I didn’t distribute them to other pockets I don’t know? I did take them out and count them several times. Twelve.
Hoaglin’s had models in two locations. One was at the end of an isle at a sale table and the others were in the regular location at the back of the store. I looked at all of the models at the sale table. There were battleships, planes, and cars. Then I went to the regular spot where there were more. I moved back and forth between the two locations pondering my choices and calculating the cost. Several times I had three or four boxes in my arms only to change my mind again.
Finally, after selecting two from the sale table and four from the regular spot I went the register. I thought the price would be right at twelve dollars but it turned out to be less. I ended up with one silver dollar and some change left. Delighted I headed home with two bulging shopping bags.
Of course, you know what happened. My Mom found out! I reminded her that she had said they were mine. It did no good. She let me choose one, a model airplane, and the rest were back in the bags. We went back to Hoaglin’s. I was horribly embarrassed while my mother chastised the store clerk for taking silver dollars from a young boy. Whew! While they were talking the clerk had me return the models to the table where I got them. We went home with eight of the silver dollars and the one I didn’t spend made nine.
That model airplane, assembled, hung from the ceiling in my room the rest of the time I lived at home. Where it is now, I’m not sure?
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