Collections

My family has always collected things! I collected arrowheads, marbles, buttons, iron toys, coins and gadgets. I still do. I have expanded to old tools, unusual musical instruments and harmonicas. If I think about it very long I am sure I could think of a couple more.

I don’t know what possesses people to collect things but some people do and some don’t. It is almost a curse. I am sure some of the folks who declutter houses would have a field day with me. It is not all my fault! It’s genetic! Yes, it came down from both sides of my family.

My Mother has always collected things. I remember when she collected apple dolls. She made them and still has many. She collected different kinds of dishes and then Avon collectables. She has a collection of dolls, trivets and I am sure she has a collection of many other things.

And books, oh, my family collected books. My family has such a profound respect for a good book, fiction or non-fiction, that they can hardly bare to give them up even after they have read them.

My Dad was the worst! He, of course, had a large collection of arrowheads, which he shared with hundreds, maybe thousands. Many others things he tucked away somewhere. He had a button collection, an old map collection, an old tool collection, and more. He clipped articles from all sources and pasted them in scrapbooks. He collected historical information about areas of the county and put them in three ring binders. He was almost always looking for something.

One winter, when it had been particularly dry for sometime, we went to Merrimac. Much of the river bottom was exposed. First we collected a large spike that was part of the 1855 dam and then two boards from the Mill that was there in 1841. Dad also had a brick from that mill.

Dad had a brick from the Trenton Institute of Science that was built in 1868. I remember seeing the building when I was growing up. At some point the building was torn down but Dad made sure he got that brick.

He had a spindle from the stairway of the hotel that was in Rome. He used to hold it in his hand and say, “Think of the stories that piece of wood could tell!” and then he would tell me the hotel had a reputation for being a wild place.

Dad collected boards because good lumber was hard to come by and expensive, too. The walls of the garage are lined with those boards today. You never know when you might need a good board for something?

Besides the arrowheads, bones of prehistoric creatures and all of the other stuff, we collected rocks. All kinds of rocks! We found geodes, fossils, and just interesting looking rocks. If we could lift it we would bring it home. We piled them in stacks in the yard. Many are still visible there and others have sunk into the ground. Dad speculated that archaeologists a thousand years from now would be baffled by the odd assortment of rocks in the location of our house.

Even though this seems like a lot of stuff there is more! I don’t know how many collections we have or even why? I just know we are collectors.

National Aquatic School

During my senior year in high school the Henry County Red Cross decided they wanted to send me to National Aquatic School. It was partly because they wanted to reward me for loyal service and partly because they had never sent anyone before, had the money and thought it was a novel idea.

There were schools located in four or five places across the country. The nearest was at a place called Little Grassy Lake Campus near Carbondale, Illinois. It was part of the campus of Southern Illinois University. In those days the Red Cross had a big office in St Louis and some of the national leaders were involved in this school because St. Louis was only about 130 miles west of Carbondale. The one I attended lasted 10 days and while I was there I focused on becoming certified as a Handicapped Swimmer Instructor because I was already certified as a Water Safety Instructor.

One of the instructors was a person named Walter Housganick. I don’t think I have spelled his last name right but he was a famous man in the Red Cross. He was retired by this time and came to our school to teach for a few days that summer. He had done many movies for the Red Cross on how to do different water safety and rescues.

Walter was not much more than five feet tall. He was not a big man in any way except his belly. It stuck right out like he was ten months pregnant. His favorite way to teach was flat on his back in the water. He would float on his back, that huge belly sticking out like a whale and lecture away at us for an hour. He was fascinating to listen to and had story after story about daring rescues and what did or what should have happened.

The curriculum was rigorous and focused on classroom activities and practical application of the training in the water. We had the classroom part in the morning usually and were in the water all afternoon. Many times the instructors would teach from the dock while the students treaded water or floated. We were in about 20 feet of water so there was no rest. By the end of the camp I could tread water for couple hours without much problem. You learn to minimize your effort and maximize your buoyancy.

To better understand being disabled we simulated different kind of problems. We tied an arm or both arms to our side and then tried to figure out the best ways to move through the water. I was the one who had to try it without arms and legs so my arms were tied to my side. A board was placed between my legs and then my legs were tied together. They shoved me off the dock before I was ready and I was on my own. I was able to roll over relax and my face came out of the water just enough to gasp of a bit of air. Fortunately, they fished me out soon after that but the feeling of helplessness was horrible. I have never forgotten it.

Another, not so traumatic, activity that we did was called the “blind man swim.” In that activity a blind folded swimmer was paired with another swimmer. We were told to swim to the sound of a bell about a quarter of a mile away. The other swimmer was there to help if the blind folded swimmer got way off course. Once we swam around the bell a different bell sounded back where we had started. Each person took a turn with the blindfold and as the escort. I hated being blind folded and swam as fast as I could to get it over with. My escort couldn’t keep up with me but it didn’t really matter cause I swam right to the bell and then back.

I graduated in June of 1967, about a month after I graduated from high school. The trip by Trailways bus to Carbondale and then back home was quite an experience for me and something I will write about another time.

Berkshires Barbershop

Barbershops have been gathering places for a long time. Usually, men gather in places like that to talk over the issues of the day or gossip about anyone who is not there. Eventually conversations turn to sports.

Berkshires Barber shop in Mt, Pleasant was no different. In the daytime there was almost always someone hanging around there to share or pick-up on the latest. In the evening it was no different. The crowd was much younger in the evening though.

My cousin, Terry Ross, cleaned the barbershop in the evenings for Wayne Berkshire. He wasn’t supposed to let anyone in while he did that but you know how that goes. Everybody knew where to find Terry from about 6:30 top 8:30 on Sunday through Thursday night. Friday nights Wayne just swept up a little after the shop closed at 9:00 and besides Terry was otherwise occupied on Fridays. The same was true for Terry on Saturday nights. Cleaning the barbershop was the last thing on his mind. That is why he waited until Sunday evening to clean it.

Terry was one of the hardest workers I have ever known. He took great pride in cleaning the barbershop. It had been remodeled just prior to him starting there. It had shiny chrome fixtures and chairs. It had huge mirrors across the wall behind the chairs and another large one across from the chairs. I remember Terry polishing those chairs to perfection. More than once I waited for him to finish up and on the way out the door he would notice something that wasn’t just right. Outside the shop he would look back in the big front window. If he saw anything that wasn’t perfect he would unlock the door and go back in and fix it.

I subbed for Terry a few times when he was unable to be there to clean the shop. I don’t think I ever lived up to the expectation but it was good money so I didn’t turn down the opportunity.

Terry was masterful at using the reflection in store windows across the street to see who was coming down the street on foot or by car. He knew you were coming before you got there. Sometimes he would run out and stop a friend in a car if he had something important to share.

Terry played as hard as he worked. After finishing up at the shop we would sometimes go out and get in mischief somewhere. We never did do anything terribly wrong but definitely did things we shouldn’t be doing.

Once we chased around some out of town thugs until they decided to chase us. We were in my parents car and headed out into the country and eventually down a very muddy road. Of course, we got stuck and so did the other guys. Since we were in front we talked them into helping push us out and promised to have a nearby farmer come and pull them out. They helped us get out and we left them there. I don’t know how they ever got out but I do know they were pretty mad when they did.

Hang Out

Ty’s grill was located on the southeast corner of the Main Monroe street intersection. It was a very popular teen hangout my first few years of high school. It was owned by Ty Fitzpatrick. Almost everyday after school it was packed with kids buying a cherry coke and maybe some French fries.

I was a little intimidated by some of the older kids who hung out at Ty’s and so I really didn’t go in there unless I was with someone else. I don’t know why I felt that way but I did. Ty’s closed sometime during my sophomore year and everybody moved about a half a block west to the Princess Café.

Dennis and Kent Lamm’s parents owned the Princess Café. They were friendly, outgoing people who welcomed kids in the restaurant even though we weren’t big spenders. Sometimes they did hurry us out of there if they had paying customers wanting a booth to sit in. Before it was the Princess it was the Candy Kitchen. Years after the changeover my Dad still referred to it as the Candy Kitchen.

The Princess had booths all along the east wall and a long counter with stools along the west wall. My Dad worked down the street a short distance at Roederer’s Clothing and he usually took his morning and afternoon breaks and had a cool drink there. The kids usually went for the booths and the businessmen on break took the counter. I always had to be careful that I wasn’t doing something stupid when my Dad was around. Sometimes I wasn’t careful enough.

We did do some silly things. Sometimes we would loosen the lid of the salt and peppershakers so that when someone tried to use them the lid would fall off and the contents would be all over their food. We got in trouble for that. Then we would take the lid off the saltshaker and put a thin layer of paper napkin over the top and then put the lid back on. Last we would pull the entire remaining napkin off the shaker so it looked like normal. We would laugh uncontrollably when someone tried to use the shaker.

Ralph Lamm, the owner, did come out of the kitchen to scold us a few times. He was generally pretty supportive of kids but didn’t like it if we were too noisy or caused problems for the more serious diners. Having the Princess Café as a place to hang out probably kept us out of some of the more unsavory places and I think Ralph knew that.

Kids gathered at the Princess, guys flirted with girls and we sipped Cherry Cokes and ate French fries or onion rings. The princess is where I perfected my wink. There were lots of girls there and we were expected to flirt. So I practiced, first with one eye and then the other. It is good to be an ambidextrous winker. You never know when that ability might come in handy. I have used it many times myself although I am not quite as good at it as I used to be. In my prime I could wink like the lights at a railroad crossing.

Workin’ On a Hog Farm

I worked at the swimming pool every summer during my high school years. In the fall, winter and spring it wasn’t as easy to find work that could accommodate school and athletic schedules. Most jobs I did find were temporary one-shot deals. There was, however, one job that I worked regularly all through high school. That job was working on Dick Cornick’s hog farm.

Dick was a big operator! He had his farm, his father’s farm across the road, and another one not too far away. He grew corn and soybeans on the land and had a large granary on his father’s farm. On all three farms he raised hogs during the cooler weather. This was the days before the big hog confinement operations that are now in place all over the countryside.

Farmers raised the hogs from beginning to market back then. Dick had his own sows and he used each one for several years. After awhile you got so you could tell one from the others and know which ones to stay away from. He would put a boar with the sows for a while and then wait for farrowing.

In this day and age farms have a farrowing house where sows are placed just prior to giving birth but back then we didn’t always get the sow in the shed in time and she would have her pigs in the lot or pasture someplace. Then we would have to wait for the “old girl’ to fall asleep. Then we would sneak up and carefully, put her babies in a five-gallon bucket and with a bucket in each hand, hurry as fast as we could to the fence. Usually the sow would wake up about the time I had picked up all the pigs and was heading for the fence. She would soon figure out what was up and would take off after me. It was close several times but I always made it to the fence.

We would put bedding down in stalls in the shed and place the little pigs in there. When it was just right and ready all we had to do was open the door and get out of the way. That sow would make a “bee line” to those pigs. She would nose them all over to see if we had done anything to them snorting at us all the while for taking her babies.

I rarely worked on the farm alone. Dick had two boys, Doug and Brad who often worked with us. Then there was always a crew of us from town. Sometimes as many as four or five guys would come out to work for the day. Dick was a great employer and paid us well in those days so it wasn’t hard to get other guys to come with us. I was a study employee and become the recruiter and the contact guy when Dick wanted us to start coming out to work.

The hard work was cleaning out the stalls and the lot floor every week. Today hogs never get out of a confinement house their whole life but back then hogs got to range in much larger areas. Each week we scooped all the manure out of the stall and off the lot and put down new clean dry bedding everywhere. The mixture of pig poop, mud and bedding was sometimes so soupy that it was hard to keep on the shovel.

For some reason when we went to lunch they often asked us to sit outside and when I went home at the end of the day my mother always made me take all of my clothes off outside before I came in the house. We always worked hard and it felt good! I made enough money in one day (about twelve dollars) to take a date to a movie, have a drink and popcorn there and then get a pizza afterward. Today, twelve dollars wouldn’t get a couple into a movie.

Presbyterian Pete

(This poem is fictional and any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.)

I’ll tell you the story
Of Presbyterian Pete.
He came to church early
Just to get his seat.

He stayed in that spot
The whole service long
Not bothering to stand
Even for a song.

About half way down
And next to the isle
There he would sit
Intent all the while

On keeping his spot
No matter what
He wouldn’t scoot over
He was stuck in a rut.

God help the soul
Who is caught
By accident or by chance
Sitting in that spot.

Then along came
Isabel Elsie Sprout
A new church member
She left little doubt

That she was strong
At just under 5 foot tall
She was bold and courageous
Not intimidated at all

Now all will remember
That fateful day
When Isabel sat
Some people say

Pete’s faced turned bright red
He stuttered and stammered
He swayed and he rocked
He turned and he clamored

But Isabel sat and then
Patting the seat next to her
She said with a smile.
“You can sit right here, dear!”

Pete, reluctantly,
Sat in that spot
What happened next?
I can’t tell you a lot

It was amazing
I do know this for sure.
A couple they became
And married the next year.

And now every Sunday
They take any seat
Cause they all seem just right
For Isabel and Pete.

Perry O. Ross
August 18, 2006

More Fishing

Growing up I went fishing a lot. While I was young I often went with my Dad but as I grew older I started going with friends, too. One of my friends, Tom Owen, and I fished a lot. Tom was a Jehovah’s Witness and some people avoided him. I didn’t see what all the fuss was about and Tom and I were friends.

Sometimes when we were fishing we would have some pretty interesting philosophical discussions but I never felt pressured by Tom in any way. He was a very bright guy who loved science and nature.

Sometimes we would load up our bikes and ride to Oakland Mills. There we would fish along the river sometimes all day long. Tom would always bring along some of his mother’s bologna sandwiches and we would have them for lunch. Sometimes we fished along the bank or on the rocks below the dam. We fished for catfish sometimes and other times for carp. We didn’t eat the carp but the big ones were fun to catch.

My mother had a great recipe for dough balls that my grandpa used and she would mix up a batch of that for me every time we wanted to go. It was made from corn meal, anis, and water and cooked on the stove. If it was made just right it would stay on the hook quite awhile.

Sometimes when we would fish at Oakland we would see my Grandpa. He always fished up on the dam and I would go up and say “hi” to him. We didn’t fish from up there very often until I got much older. A few times we did fish from a risky location.

The dam runs across the river. There is the larger portion of the dam where the water rolls over and then on the south side there are gates. Between two of the gates there is a pier than runs out into the river below the dam. Under normal conditions that pier is about a foot and a half out of the water. The only way to get out on the pier is to climb down the precarious slope from the dam and out on the pier. Getting out there with fishing equipment was a risky endeavor.

The first guy would climb down and the other would carefully lower the gear to him. We tied strings on everything before we lowered them just in case they would drop in the water. Amazingly, I don’t remember that ever happening. We never fell in the water either but we sure could have. It was risky behavior and my mother would have been upset if she knew about it.

We would sit on that pier and fish all day long. Thanks to Tom’s sandwiches and canteens with water we could last quite awhile there. Climbing up from the pier, sometimes with a stringer of fish, was as precarious as the trip down and I was always glad to reach a solid surface.

Old Threshers

Old Threshers officially started in 1950 but a small group of them met a couple years before that. Growing up in Mt. Pleasant meant I was involved in a number of different ways. In the fifties the engines burned coal that had high sulfur content. That meant they produced great quantities of black smoke that darkened the sky over town. The air smelled bad and black dust was all over everything. Thresher engineers were covered with coal dust and ash.

The smoke and the shrill whistles permeated the town for several days before and after the official event. Clean air laws forced a change in the type of coal used which has cleared the skies around town during the show.

Our church had a huge tent and served three meals a day during Old Threshers. It was a massive undertaking that started weeks in advance and lasted at least a week after the event. The tents were set up and wired with electricity. Grills, refrigerators, freezers and ovens were moved into the tent as well as serving counters, tables and chairs.

The expectation was that every member of the family that could follow directions could help out in the tent. There were numerous kinds of jobs from food preparation to busing tables. The adults made sure the kids got the lowliest jobs. I remember one couple that served as cashiers taking money from the diners as they went through the line. No one dared to try to take that job away from them. They would shout at us kids to clean tables or work faster. I was often more than a little annoyed with that couple.

When I got my drivers license I drove a pickup truck back and forth between our church in downtown Mt. Pleasant and the fair grounds. Pies and other kinds of food were dropped off at the church and my job was to deliver it to the tent. I preferred that job to any of the others. I could get out of the mud, steamy air and smoke. Once one of the shift supervisors had me drive by a worker’s house to see if he was out mowing his lawn. The supervisor was mad because the guy hadn’t showed up for his shift in the kitchen.

Some of the cooks in the back had some beer in the big refrigerator. They hid it by drinking it in paper cups. The cup size was R38. So anytime one of them wanted a refill they ask someone close for an ‘R38.” They thought they were hiding all from us kids but, of course, we were on to them. Late in the evening several of them would stand out behind the tent smoking with their “R38.”

Sometimes the hot humid weather and rain turned the tent and the area around it into a quagmire. We carried in wagonloads of woodchips and spread them over the ground. It didn’t take long for them to become muddy and soaking wet. Tempers in the tent often flared and many un-Presbyterian things were said. Sometimes we saw each other in a different light and, in some cases, decided we didn’t like each other very much.

Our church and other churches that served at Old Threshers made a lot of money doing it each year. The Presbyterians finally decided they had had enough. When we built our new church near the grounds we shifted to parking cars and serving some meals from the building. I, along with many others, was glad it was over.

Over the years I had lots of other experiences with Old Threshers. They include working with the railroad when it first started, performing in the pageants in front of the stadium, taking tickets at the concerts, being part of the security detail, directing traffic and parking cars. I am sure there were other things, too.

Becky - The Rest of the Story

Besides the incident at the pool I saw Becky on at least two other occasions before I met her. There may have been others but these two are as fresh in my mind as the day they happened.

Terry was dating Jane Porter during one of the times I saw Becky. Jane’s dad, George, was the regional supervisor for Walnut Grove Feed sales. Becky’s dad was a very successful salesman and was well liked by George. Once when Terry brought me along to Jane’s house Russell and his family showed up. Again, I don’t think Becky really noticed me.

The chronology may be slightly off here but I think I saw Becky again in the fall of 1965. It was at Jerry’s Pizza when it was located in downtown Mt. Pleasant. Becky was sitting in a booth in the back with a big guy in a Winfield letter jacket. I was with a bunch of guys and we were all showing off a little bit. The guy Becky was with had his back to me and she was facing me. Our eyes met and I winked at her. To my delight and amazement she winked back. That moment and her face are frozen in my memory as if it happened last night.

I don’t know why I thought Becky was a year older than I was but I did. That was one reason why I didn’t think I had a chance. The other was that she was clearly out of my league. She was the kind of girl I knew I could only dream about.

With the above and the pool incident as a backdrop I was amazed at what happened next. I was dating a girl but we really weren’t very interested in each other. It was more so we both had someone to go out with. One Monday, early in February, Susie Potter, an old friend told me she had someone who wanted to meet me. She gave me a name that I didn’t recognize and said she would introduce us on Friday night. I had a date to the game and dance following so I wasn’t sure how this would work.

All week long I wondered who this girl was. Though I considered it I wouldn’t allow myself to think that this could be my “dream girl.” Susie promised that when they came to town she would come into the game and introduce us. She promised to be quick and no one would be the wiser. She told me this girl had a date with a senior I knew. The guy was kind of a dud so I began to think this couldn’t possibly be the one I had hoped.

When Friday night finally came I was double dating with a friend of mine. We picked up our dates and went to the game. Near the end of the first quarter Susie stuck her head in the door of the gym and motioned me to come over there. I told the others I would be right back and went out into the lobby where I met Susie and Becky. I was numb! It was a dream come true! Susie insisted we go for a ride. She promised it wouldn’t take long. I don’t remember exactly what happened in that car but during the ride we talked and planned to meet again. We exchanged numbers and I went back to the game.

After the game I went to the dance with my date and the other couple. Feeling I had met the girl I wanted to marry I broke up with the girl I was dating that night. After I dropped her off I at her house I decided to scoop the loop around the square one more time. That is when I saw Becky again. She was running out into the street to get my attention. Her date had dumped her because he saw her get in the car with me. I took her home that night and thus began the relationship that has lasted over forty years.

Becky - A Love Story

I worked every summer for several years at the swimming pool in Mt. Pleasant. I started out as a lowly basket boy ended my time there as Assistant Manager. By then I had done about every job you could possibly have at the pool.

Being the basket boy meant you had to do all of the dirty jobs. It meant you had to scrub the floors in the dressing rooms daily and clean the toilets. Yuck! The work had to be done and I was the lowest on the totem pole so it fell to me. There was a basket girl, too, who usually took care of the girls’ side but I do remember that I often had to do both.

A lot of the time I was trapped handing out baskets but at other times there was plenty to do. During slow times I had to go around and pull the weeds out of the cracks in the cement around the pool. I had to clean the footbath regularly and keep the basket room in good order. By August, algae would be growing in cracks on the edge the steps up to the deck where the high dive was. I had to scrub them regularly to keep them from becoming slippery and unsafe.

There weren’t many perks with this job but there were some. I could go swimming a lot and didn’t have to pay. I got a good tan and there were lots of pretty girls around. Sometimes scrubbing the steps and then hosing them off was a convenient excuse to get out of the basket room and flirt with those pretty girls.

One Friday night this girl, her sister and her little brother came to the pool. I think I had seen her before but I don’t know where. What I do know is I was instantly smitten. I could hardly take my eyes off of her. She didn’t even see me in the basket room and she went on out to the pool.

Desperate to make some kind of connection I went to my old standby. It was time to scrub the steps. I went to work on the steps but she still didn’t seem to notice me. She even went by me on the steps a couple of times but seemed oblivious to my presence. I don’t think I did much of a job on the steps because I was watching this girl all of the time.

Finally, in a last ditch effort, I began hosing down the deck near the low diving board in the northwest corner of the pool area. That was the diving board she was using. Still no reaction! That is when I squirted her with the hose. I waited until she was in the air and then I squirted her. She smiled a smile that warmed me to my toes. I may have squirted her again. I don’t remember. I was in la la land. I do know I didn’t see her again for a couple years. I will tell the story about the next time we crossed paths later.

Locker #3

During the summer before I got to high school, Terry a year ahead of me in school, asked me to locker with him. I, of course, agreed not realizing the implications. Lockers on Football Players row in the new addition were to be coveted. Usually only juniors and seniors got in that section. Terry had somehow smoozed the girl who was working in the office and in charge of assigning the lockers. He assured me we would be there and in locker #3 of all places, just inside the west door of the wing.

When I registered, sure enough, I was assigned to locker #3. The combination was 3 to the left, 18 to the right, and then 24 to the left. (I don’t know why I can remember that?) Terry warned me that the upper classman weren’t going to like it but I should just play it cool and not say anything no matter what they said to me.

It was inevitable that I was soon recognized in the hall and told no freshman was allowed in that hall. Many knew me because my sister Loretta was a senior that year. I said my locker was there and stood there meekly. Terry came around the corner and to my rescue. They didn’t like him being there either because he was only a sophomore but they didn’t want to mess with him.

One person, Pat Coghlan in locker #1, let me know daily that I shouldn’t be there but he never actually did anything to me. He just grumbled a lot about me being there. I took Terry’s advice and kept my mouth shut and tried to avoid Pat Coghlan when I could.

On an unusually warm day in November just after lunch I was standing at my locker. The halls were empty and I was going to be late for class if I didn’t hurry. The doors to the west were propped wide open. I saw Pat park his car along the alley that ran west of the building and come across the lawn and into the building. I thought, “Oh boy, here it comes again!”

Pat went straight to his locker and then looked over at me and said, “Somebody shot President Kennedy.” He said he heard it on the news when he was home for lunch. He grabbed some books out of his locker, slammed it shut, and went to class.

By the end of that period rumors that Kennedy was dead were flying around the school. Soon after the next period started the principal got on the intercom and said the rumors were not true and that we should focus on our schoolwork. Near the end of the period the principal got back on the intercom and said we were having an assembly in the auditorium.

We all gathered in the auditorium and the assistant principal announced from the stage that President Kennedy had been killed and the details surrounding it were still not clear. He then told us we could go home. At home, on the evening news, we watched as the story unfolded. In the days to come we watched the film of the President being hit over and over. It was a frightening thing for a 14 year-old kid. We didn’t know what to expect. Would we be going to war? Who would do this? Later, we saw the alleged assassin gunned down as he was walking through a police station.

I think many kids my age were changed by the whole experience. People still ask where I was when Kennedy was killed and I say, “I was at locker #3.” Now it is “where were you when you first heard about 9/11?” My granddaughters may be telling that story someday.

Poetry

I am from a family of poets. That may seem to be unusual to some but I think it was perfectly natural to us. When I heard other kids complain about not liking poetry I was amazed. I just didn’t see what there was to hate about it, besides hating it would seem somehow disloyal to my roots.

My mother is so skilled with words that she can make a poem out of almost anything. She has a poet’s mind. Poets just look at things differently. They think in a different way. I am not sure if I can give it justice, so you will have to believe me when I say poets are just different. My mother had a huge influence on us and even my father (who didn’t get it genetically) was a poet in his own way.

Growing up I was surrounded with words. My mother was always sharing a new poem with us or reading aloud one someone else had written. Poems were all around the house. In those days, before computers, poems were usually composed with paper and pencil and then typed. It was even before correction fluid so typing a poem was tedious simply because you did not want to make a mistake and have to start over. Erasures were unsightly and so getting it exactly right was critical.

Mother’s poems have been published in books, in magazines, and in the newspaper. She is well known across the state as a frequent contributor to the juried publication, Lyrical Iowa. The most exciting time was when they would read one of mother’s poems on the radio. WLS in Chicago did that sometimes. WHO read Mom’s poems once in awhile and a station in Omaha also did. Just before it happened the station would send us a telegram telling us exactly when it would be read.

It seemed like many of them were read on Sunday evenings. I can remember the whole family gathering around the radio and anxiously waiting to hear the poem. The radio was in the corner of the dining room by the kitchen door. When it did happen we would be so excited that we hardly paid attention to the poem and then it would be over. There were no replays in those days and I think Mom was sometimes disappointed that we missed part of it. My mother is a woman of great patience but I am sure that tested it.

Sometimes one of mother’s poems would be in the church bulletin or the newsletter. On a few occasions the pastor read one from the pulpit as part of the sermon. One of mother’s poems was put to music and sung in church several years in a row.

Mother belonged to a writing club called Scribblers for at least 70 years. The group meets once a month at someone’s house to share writing. At 93 years young mother still attends the meetings and shares her poems with the same enthusiasm she did when she first joined the group.

Coin Collecting

I could be a pretty annoying kid when I was growing up. When I think back on it I don’t know how anybody could put up with me? I was the youngest of three children and the only boy so I was spoiled and I could be very obnoxious.

At some point in junior high school my mother decided I needed a hobby. Oh, I had some hobbies, but nothing really serious. I hunted arrowheads with my father and I loved to fish and hunt. My mother decided I needed something to do the rest of the time.

Miriam Cathy was an older woman on my mother’s Avon route. Mrs. Cathy had a coin collection and my mother decided that would be a good hobby for me probably because I couldn’t seem to hang on to any coin that passed through my hands. I think she thought I would save money and get involved in the hobby…sort of killing two birds with one stone.

She bought me a penny book to start my collection. It was a tri-fold book with slots for coins from 1940 to the present. I starting taking a closer look at pennies that I received in change. I went through my parents change every time I got the chance and was amazed that they let me keep ones that I didn’t already have and even a few of the ones I did. They always let me have any penny that I came across that would fit in my book. Soon I got a second penny book for pennies from 1900 to 1939. I discovered that this was such a lucrative way to get money from my parents that I started collecting nickels and dimes. By the time I started talking about collecting quarters my mother was on to me and suggested I stick to the small change.

Mrs. Cathy was really kind to me. I did wonder why she was so nice but I soaked it up anyway. She talked Mom into letting me join the Mt. Pleasant Coin Club. I don’t think there was a single person under sixty in the group. They met once a month at the REC building on east Washington Street. They usually had a short monthly meeting and then a coin auction. People in the group put their own coins up for auction and bid on others that were for sale.

I soon discovered why they wanted me there. No one wanted to be the auctioneer because if they were they couldn’t concentrate on the auction. So, I became a coin auctioneer. They would call my house each month to make sure I was coming and were always very nice to me. I got pretty good at it after awhile and a few mistakes. Once I tried to sell a 50-cent piece for twenty cents. That didn’t go over too well. Another time a buyer tried to go back on the deal but I stuck to my guns and the other club members stood up for me so the guy had to pay. He was mad and left right away.

As I got older and busier I stopped going the meetings and they soon found another kid to take advantage of so they let me drift away. I still have all of the coins I collected. They are in a box in the basement. Maybe, when I’m over 60 I’ll get them out and start collecting them again.

Student Center

I think I discovered girls in 7th grade. Oh, I had some interest before that but it really bloomed in 7th grade. It might have been because the girls around me were blooming too. I am not exactly sure but I am sure that I was interested.

Mt. Pleasant had a youth center on the south side of the square. It was a place for kids to hang out, dance, and socialize. It had previously been in a building on the corner of Clay and Adams, cattycorner from the courthouse. This one was in a store front about directly across the street from the steam engine on the square. That whole half a block of buildings disappeared when they moved the Savings and Loan to that location. Thinking back on it I think it was great that someone provided this for the kids. I don’t think things like this exist anymore.

High school kids got to use the youth center a couple nights a week and junior high kids got one night. A junior high kid would never dare show up on one of the high school nights. Once in awhile there would be a dance at the youth center for one group or the other.

It was at a youth center dance that I first met one particularly mature 8th grade girl. She was taller than all the girls and most of the boys. I came up to her shoulders. Now I wasn’t totally inexperienced with girls but very close. I had taken two girls to the Rainbow dance. Yes, two girls at the same time and I got a corsage for each of them. One of the girls’ mothers knew my mother and they set the whole thing up. They pretty much used me to have an escort to the dance and usually dumped me the minute we stepped in the door.

But this 8th grade girl was different. Terry said she liked me so when the time came for another teen dance we somehow ended up with a date. My Dad had to drive me out into the country to pick her up at her house. I had a corsage for her, too. I have always thought that was an awkward tradition for guys to follow. Just exactly how are we supposed to pin something on a girls chest without touching something boys are not supposed to touch? Girls, I think, got a kick out of watching us try.

We got to the dance. She looked great and I was slowly getting more comfortable. That was until the first slow dance came up. In that position it put me face to face…no I guess it would be face to bosom with this girl. The trouble with dancing with a girl that is a foot taller than you and well developed is that you don’t know where to put your head. You can’t exactly look straight ahead. Looking to the left is kind of backwards. Looking to the right puts your cheek in inevitable contact with forbidden territory. I ended up with what I would call the swayback position. It was constantly causing me to lose my balance and start to fall backward, which also produced an undesirable effect for my partner.

That was my one and only date with that girl. Terry said she thought I danced weird and she moved on to someone else. I told Terry that was fine even though I was a little hurt. She had lipstick on her teeth anyway.

My Dad Knew Everybody

My Dad knew everybody or, at least, it seemed that way to me. For years he worked in Hoaglin’s Department Store, and the Byrd’s Shoe Company that eventually became Tompkins’s Shoe store. He finished up his career at Roederer’s Clothing store. In all that time he went out of his way to know his customers. He could call them by name and knew almost everything about their family. He knew where they lived and who their relatives were. He had a remarkable ability to keep everyone straight.

Often when he met somebody new he could tell him or her who his or her relatives were. Sometimes people came to him to get their family history because they knew he would know. Dad was especially good at figuring out how people were related to us. To this day I think just about everyone in the Wayland area is related to us.

When we traveled and stopped in towns he would sometimes spend hours talking to people and trying to make some connection, no matter how remote, with them. Remarkably, he was able to do it many times. He liked to go in clothing and shoe stores in far away places and talk shop with the workers.

In Spearfish, South Dakota, he made some connection with someone who knew someone who had moved from Mt. Pleasant to the Rapid City area. At the Smithsonian in Washington, DC he made connections with someone who was a friend of someone Dad knew at Iowa Wesleyan College. It happened like that all the time.

His gift of conversation made him a good salesman. In the case of the jobs at
Byrd’s and Roederer’s he was actually recruited by the owners. After he retired he was frequently recruited by stores to fill in for vacations, help out with sales and other occasions by local stores and stores as far away as the mall in Burlington. No matter where he was he was making connections with other people. Today, that is called networking.

Years later, in the 1980s when I started taking classes at the University of Iowa he occasionally came along with me. Dad was in his late 70s or early 80s during that time. He would spend the entire time I was in class wandering around downtown Iowa City talking to people. He didn’t think much of the college students who worked in the stores in the mall but developed a relationship with the theater manager there. The guy had relatives in Fairfield so by the time Dad had done his research and Dad made his second visit with me he knew more about the guy’s family than he did.

Once we were walking through the mall heading for the parking ramp and the guy from the theater yelled, ”Hey Pat!” greeting Dad as if they were old friends. In the parking ramp that same evening we ran in someone from Washington, Iowa, that Dad knew for some reason. I could only shake my head in amazement.

My Dad once described someone who knew a lot of people in our area as “someone who cuts a wide path.” Dad cut a wide path!

8th Grade English

Ruth McDowell taught 8th grade English at the Mr. Pleasant Junior High. My Mom said we were distantly related to her. She was from the Salem area and so was my mother’s side of the family. She was much feared by most kids and known to be a stickler for grammar and spelling. Not being so great at either I was really worried about being in her class when I got to eighth grade. Unfortunately, she was the only 8th grade English teacher so it was inevitable for everyone.

She was strict and even the toughest kids didn’t mess around in her class. Her room was at the top of the south stairwell on the third floor and there she reigned over that end of the building and all the way down the stairwell to the ground floor. If a kid misbehaved anywhere on the stairwell you could hear her yelling all over the building. She would order the child to come up stairs to her room. In those days the kid would dutifully walk up the stair to face the scolding. Seventh graders shuddered when they heard her voice. There were stories about kids in trouble with her and never being seen again.

When the first day of school rolled around I was pretty nervous about that English class.
I had Mrs. McDowell for 3rd period. After hearing all of the stories about her I expected it to be a nightmare…a yearlong nightmare. The grammar, the research paper, and everything else just seemed overwhelming.

As I walked into her room for the first time she greeted me and called me by name. She mentioned admiring my mother’s poetry and how much she respected my sisters. I thought, “Oh boy! I have heard this before!” Usually it was followed by something like, “So what happened to you?” but not this time. She told me she looked forward to having me in class.

That year we worked systematically through the research paper and what had appeared to be overwhelming seemed manageable. I can’t say that I did a great job on it but I got through it. It was hard for me to grasp the idea of the research paper. We weren’t really doing research but just restating in our own words what someone else figured out. Having done some real research in my adult life I can’t say the experiences I had with it in junior high and high school were of any value. I wonder how many people are researchers when they grow up? Not many but the “research paper” was a right of passage for all of us.

I probably learned more in that English class that year than all the other years up to that point. I actually, really read books for the first time and my interest in reading exploded. I even started reading the newspaper everyday and anything else I could get my hands on. While she did correct my grammar in my writing she encouraged me and was very positive about things I had written. I felt empowered by her!

At the beginning of the school year Mrs. McDowell told us we needed to memorize a poem by the end of the year. It was a requirement. We could get it out of the way as soon as we were ready or wait until the end of the year. She said we should pick a poem by someone we admired. I talked to my Mom about it and she suggested Robert Frost. After reading some of his poetry I picked “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening.” I surprised myself by learning that poem in a few days and Mrs. McDowell heaped on the praise when I recited it to the class after just a couple weeks of school. My whole eighth grade year was positive for me and my confidence grew tremendously.

Don Taft

In junior high I encountered many unique teachers but none was more unique than Don Taft. Mr. Taft was a social studies teacher and the junior high football coach. He was a short stocky man who seemed to be a very independent person.

More than once I heard conversations in the community about Mr. Taft using profanity in the classroom or on the football field. He did and I heard him use it in both places but most often on the football field. Many parents were upset about it but powerless to do anything. Most of the kids didn’t really care.

Mr. Taft had special punishments for each kind of misbehavior in his class. Chewing gum and getting caught was bad news. You had to stick the piece of gum on the black board and then stand with your nose on it until he allowed you to move. If someone did something really dumb he made him sit on a stool in the corner with a dunce cap on. Other punishments included sending students out to run laps around the building. While the student would run Mr. Taft would lean out the third story window and hurl taunts at the runner.

Today, any one of these things could result in the reprimand or termination of a teacher. Mr. Taft had a special status in the community. As a very successful junior high football coach no one wanted to challenge him. In a football community the coaches had a royal position and could do almost whatever they wanted. I really don’t think Mr. Taft abused his royalty position that much but I have heard of some who did.

I went out for football. We were a rag tag bunch with mismatched equipment. The too large helmets slid down over our eyes when we ran and we crashed into or fell over each other all of the time.

In seventh grade every kids dream is to be a ball carrier. The biggest adjustment is realizing that is not going to happen for you. That is when you learn what a team is. We practiced right there on the playground and played our games at McMillan Park.

In seventh grade we had 3 games and 5 or 6 in eighth grade. Dewayne Similar was Coach Taft’s assistant and worked with the seventh graders while Taft worked with the eighth graders. Coach Taft would let lose with a few expletives in almost every practice. It was usually after someone missed a tackle or messed up on a play. Whenever it happened we would all duck as if we were going to get hit. The hit was only with words but they probably hurt just as bad as a rap on the helmet.

Each fall near the end of the season the 7th and 8th graders were divided into two teams. Just how it was done I am not sure but in 7th grade I was on the Gold team. At this point in my football career I had played several different positions but had not really settled into one in particular. Most 7th grade boys want to be a running back simply because that is where all the glory is and I was no different.

We had a week of practice and then we were to play the Maroon team. Our team happened to have Terry Ross who was a ferocious guard at the time, Randy Welcher who was the starting 8th grade quarterback, and another kid who was the second team center for the 8th grade team.

The first day of practice Coach Taft was trying different offensive combinations using the 7th and 8th graders he had on his squad. I was relegated to playing defense with some of my lesser talented buddies. I lined up over that second team 8th grade center. For three plays in a row I tackled the quarterback and Coach Taft was furious! He had wanted to try out some plays and couldn’t even get them started. In frustration he told the center that if I did that again he would be standing on the sideline and I would be playing center. So, that’s how it happened. I played offensive center for the rest of my football career.

Boy Scout Jamboree

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!

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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!

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.

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.