My Electric Train

I wanted an electric train a long time before I got one. Once Dad took me to a friend’s house. I don’t remember his name. The man lived in a nice house in Schaffer Addition. The houses there were new and expensive. This man’s house had a finished basement. I had never been in a house like that before. In his basement he had huge pencil collection. It covered one whole wall of one of the rooms. There were hundreds of them attached to a pegboard on the wall. He also had a large button collection. It was all very impressive! But the most impressive thing was in another room of the basement. It was an electric train.

The train was on a table high platform that took up the whole room. There was a two-foot walkway all the way around the outside. There were a couple places where you could duck under and come up in an open spot in the middle. The platform had the train track, switch yard, a miniature village on opposite ends of the room and, in between, mountains, tunnels and realistic county side. The detail was amazing! It looked just like real life shrunk down to fit on that platform.

The man ducked under the platform and came up at a control panel. There he could start and stop three different trains. He could control switches and send trains down different track. He could even control lighting in the houses and buildings in the villages. I was hooked. It was amazing!

One Christmas, not too long after that visit, I got an electric train. It was fabulous! It was an HO scale train. For awhile I would set it up on the dining room floor and run the track under the table and back out in a big circle. That wasn’t good enough, though, because I had seen nirvana in that basement.

Dad cut large sheet of plywood to a four foot by seven-foot piece. He placed it, using the posts on each end over the spare bed in my bedroom. The board was about eight inches above the mattress. It was perfect! I could set up my train and leave it up for long periods of time. The board could easily be removed if we had company and needed the bed.

I painted the board with the help of my mother, laid out the track and slowly started adding houses and buildings. For a long time I had a Styrofoam mountain with a tunnel through it. I didn’t like it much because it was flimsy and I didn’t think it looked real. The Explorer Scouts had a big electric train set up at the fair grounds and after visiting it and seeing what they had done I decided I would build my own mountain.

I shaped the mountain using chicken wire. Once I had the mountain and the tunnel the way I wanted it, I soaked strips of newspaper in a plaster paste. I laid the strips over the chicken wire until it was completely covered. When it dried it looked like a big white mountain. I painted the mountain brown and the peak white like it was covered with snow. I thought all mountains were that color. Several visitors commented that the mountain should be green but I didn’t care. My Dad didn’t either. He loved it and was amazed at my construction.
(Somewhere there is a picture of the train on the bed but I haven’t located it. If anyone has it please send me a copy.)

Over time I added cars, track, and another engine. I was very proud of the layout. I played with it and rearranged it often. I took the engines apart completely many times and put them back together. In the process I learned about what made them work. I learned that you had to use a transformer to change the electricity from alternating to direct current and that the circuit had to be complete before it would work.

Every kid ought to have an electric train!

Cub Scouts

There are saints out there in the world. I know many and my parents would be in that group. Sunday school teachers and teachers, in general, are in that category, too, as well as many others. One unsung group has to be Cub Scout Den Mothers. What would possess someone to take on supervision of 10-12 young boys, I don’t know? They meet one evening during the week and attend a pack meeting of all dens once a month. That is a big commitment no matter how you look at it.

I was in Pack 28. It included the area south of the railroad tracks and north of highway 34. We had a Pack meeting the last Thursday of every month. It was held at the National Guard Armory. Big events of the year included the Blue and Gold Banquet and the Pine Wood Derby. I got second place in the derby in 1958. I still have the car Dad and I made and the award they gave me for second place. I actually had it won until a kid showed up late. They let him race me even though he hadn’t participated up to that point. He beat me and I guess that is the bottom line.

I was in Den 2. We were the only Den that met year around. We met on Monday evenings at the Liechty’s. Mrs. Max Liechty was the Den Mother. She was the senior Den Mother of Pack 28 because she had actually survived it for more that three years. The life expectancy of a Den Mother in those days was somewhere between three and seven months. It has increased over the years with the introduction of drugs like Prozac and other calming medications.

Mrs. Rabedeaux assisted Mrs. Liechty when she could. Other members of our Den were Roger Milks, Tom Weir, Allen Barnes, Jerry Liechty, Robert Ross, Garry LeMaster, and David Rabedeaux. Joe Liechty was the Den Chief. He was 3 years older than us and a Webelo.

The Webelos were older Cub Scouts who met on a different night. Everybody wanted to be a Webelo because they got to make neat things with leather. Somewhere I think I still have the belt I made when I finally became a Webelo. Webelos made things with wood, too. Webelos were cool! Of course, the ultimate goal for everyone was to be a Boy Scout.

I think I learned a lot as a Scout. I learned about how to get along with others, about dignity, and about respect. Without Scouting I would have probably learned those things some other way but Scouting worked for me. We also learned about ritual through uniforms, practices, salutes, oaths, and rules. Many of them seem silly now but they were really important then. Silly or not, learning about ritual is important. It is not the ritual by itself but the process that is important, as it has been across time. Ritual is in everything whether you believe it or not.

There are other things I learned from scouting, too. Things I am not so proud of. Things like swearing. We actually practiced our swearing in Scouts. Not when the adults were around, of course, but we did practice. The whole idea of swearing is to make it sound like you mean it. Not so easy for an eight year old who doesn’t even know what most of the words mean. But we tried! Then we would critique each other. Kids who grew up in a home with swearing had the edge. My home wasn’t like that. I don’t think I ever heard my mother swear and my father only a few times when I was much older. Consequently, I could never do it very well and usually laughed when I tried. A definite “no no” in swearing. If you’re going to swear effectively not even a smile is permitted.

So, thanks to Scouting, I guess I grew up ritual enhanced, but profanity impaired.

Madison Street Construction Company

We loved boxes…cardboard boxes. Cranes Furniture store was just across the street from the Harlan Hotel. The back door faced the alley and then the lumberyard. They had a place outside the back door where they put the large boxes that the refrigerators and other large appliances came in. We made it a habit to check on that spot regularly. We were soon on to the appliance delivery schedule from the factory and we knew when a new supply of boxes would be available.

We could go up to Cranes and select our boxes and drag them home right down the middle of the street. The cardboard rubbing the concrete made a loud roar as we drug it along. We would sometimes drag two or three boxes home in one day. My Dad didn’t like it because they cluttered up the yard and were hard to get rid of. Besides that, if you left them in one spot too long it killed the grass.

We constructed all sorts of things using those boxes. We made houses and battleships, forts and towers, and much more. We would play with them for days before we grew tired and went on to something else.

We built a tower in the far southeast corner of the yard using wood stored in the shed and cardboard from boxes. We went as far as putting the posts in the ground to make it sturdy. When Dad saw he was both angry that we had used his wood and tools, and amazed that we could build such a structure. He asked a lot of questions about how we had done it. I think he was kind of proud of me this time.

He let us keep it for a couple weeks and then with his supervision we burned it to the ground. It was a spectacular fire. The flames leaped at the electrical and phone wires that were high up above it. For a brief moment we thought we might have to put it out but the flames settled down some and we let it burn.

We used boxes to construct elaborate castles, complete with a drawbridge and other amenities. They would last two or three days and then we would grow tired of it, or it would rain and the boxes would get soft and collapse. When they were of no use to us anymore we would pull them to the trash barrel and they would become history.

We used a series of boxes to create a maze once. I guess we were way ahead of our time since they are so popular now. At Halloween we made a spook house and charged kids a dime to go through. That didn’t work to well because we scared ourselves so much that we didn’t want to do it.

Even today, I find myself admiring a good piece of cardboard or a nice box. I keep a few pieces around just in case I might need one. You never know when one might be useful. I kept one large box from our siding and window project all summer long. I finally put it in the dog kennel in November to protect Abby from the wind.

Our Dogs

41. Coco, Velvet, and Skipper

There were three family dogs during my childhood: Coco, Velvet, and Skipper. Coco was around when I was born and Skipper was there when I left and lived for sometime after that. I often wonder what the dogs think. You know, what do they think of us? I think you could say that we didn’t own any dogs. They owned us.

Coco was Nancy’s dog. I can only very vaguely remember him. I don’t think he liked me very much. He was around during my toddler years and I suspect I was too aggressive for him. Most of the time he steered clear of me. I don’t know if Coco died of old age or some kind of calamity. Whatever it was it was kept from me.

Our next dog was Velvet. Velvet, part cocker spaniel, was Loretta’s dog. Velvet had a great temperament and was a welcome visitor in spots all over town. In those days dogs had free roam of the community…a practice that might reduce the rodent and deer population in urban areas now. My mother would say that, “Velvet is making his rounds.” It did, indeed, seem that there was a pattern to the way he circulated threw the neighborhood. He knew where he might find something to eat or a handout from a friendly neighbor.

Velvet loved children and so the school playground was a regular stop on those “rounds.” Velvet would move from one group of children to the next soaking up all of the petting and ear scratching he could get. He loved to be rubbed on the belly. He seemed to know when the recesses were and would wait for the kids to come out.

Velvet loved to go with Dad and I when we went arrowhead hunting and was really good at showing up wet and muddy when it was time to get in the car and go home. My Dad would keep a towel in the trunk just for that reason. If Velvet was really muddy, which happened often, he had to ride in the trunk all the way home. He knew the routine and would hop right in when he got to the car.

Velvet had a bad habit of following me about everywhere I would go. If I walked downtown to see my Dad at Hoaglin’s, Velvet had to wander along, too. I often would try walking back home and telling Velvet to stay but it didn’t usually work. It was a good thing that people in cars were careful because Velvet seemed oblivious to traffic and would wander across busy streets and sometimes stop in the middle to sniff some flattened road kill.

Stan Light, a local entrepreneur and junk dealer, lived in a house just up the hill from the swimming pool in Saunders Park. Velvet was drawn to the pool because of all the children there and followed me there often. Stan Light had two big Weimaraners, vicious territorial dogs. One fateful day Velvet followed me to the pool. I didn’t see Velvet again until I got home that day. Velvet was lying on the floor in the nook by the bathroom door. My father explained that Velvet had been badly mauled by the Weimaraners. They had been to Dr. Hunt, the vet, and he had done all he could. For hours we tried to comfort Velvet and finally mother sent us to bed.
It only seemed like it had been a few minutes and Mother called us back downstairs. Velvet had died. That night we buried Velvet in a spot under a red bud tree in the back yard.

Our next dog was a mostly Beagle, but part something else dog, we called Skipper. We brought Skipper home on May 5, 1960. Skipper was my dog, or rather, I was his. Skipper was like Velvet in many ways. He roamed freely all over the community but seemed to be a little more car savvy. Skipper appeared to look both ways before he crossed a street. I know you will think that is crazy but that dog would look both ways, wait on traffic if necessary, and then cross the street.

Skipper also had a sense of humor and had a visible smile on his face when he was happy. He loved to be outside and go arrowhead hunting with Dad and me. Dad often got upset with him because of his unique ability to get muddy no matter how dry it was or how far we were from any water source. Consequently, Skipper road home in the trunk many times. Then he had to have a bath before coming in the house.

Sometimes Skipper would nap and dream he was chasing rabbits. He would bark and wake himself up and we would all laugh. He would act a little embarrassed but laugh at himself, too. Skipper was a good dog. I miss him.

Timeless

Oh, gentle heart
I hear you sing
of life and tears
and precious things.
To live a life
Where most don't care
of hearts and hopes,
of dreams,
of birth.
How little is the future worth?
To hoard the hope of fellow man.
To rob the poor,
to rape the land
with grinding power
and untold wealth
we've twisted in
upon ourselves.

Perry O. Ross, October 2, 1981

Silver Dollars

On Christmas morning I couldn’t wait to get up! It was the only day of the year I would wake up early and not be able to go back to sleep. Since my parents were always early risers they would be up and dressed by the time I got downstairs. It would take about three minutes for me to open my gifts and then the excitement was over for a couple of hours. It would build again as we packed food and presents in the car and headed for Grandpa’s house.

We always went to Grandpa’s for Christmas. There we would have Christmas with Grandpa, my great- uncle Lew, my uncle Everett and aunt Neva, their sons Bobby and Harold and their families. The meal was always huge and the food delicious. My favorite part was the pumpkin pie we had for dessert with fresh whipped cream on top.

We didn’t exchange gifts with all of the folks at this event but usually had something for Grandpa and Uncle Lew. The only gift I got and it was the same every year…silver dollars. The amount varied from year to year depending on Grandpa’s mood, I guess. It would usually range between three and eight. They were the big silver dollars and in those days actually had quite a bit of silver in them. They were thick and heavy and sunk deeply in my pocket. My mother usually took charge of them after I handled them for a while. I know she was sure I would lose them.

Often the dollars ended up being deposited in my account at the Savings and Loan. A few times Mom kept them for me in a hidden spot at home. She showed me once where they were and said, “Now these are yours!” That was a mistake because telling me where they were and that they were mine was a risky thing to tell a nine or ten year old boy.

One day, about a week after Christmas, I went to the stash and withdrew the entire amount. In this case, it was about twelve dollars. I remember the day well! It was cold and snowy. I remember walking up to Hoaglin’s Dime Store with those twelve silver dollars creating a bumpy bulge deep in my pocket. Why I didn’t distribute them to other pockets I don’t know? I did take them out and count them several times. Twelve.

Hoaglin’s had models in two locations. One was at the end of an isle at a sale table and the others were in the regular location at the back of the store. I looked at all of the models at the sale table. There were battleships, planes, and cars. Then I went to the regular spot where there were more. I moved back and forth between the two locations pondering my choices and calculating the cost. Several times I had three or four boxes in my arms only to change my mind again.

Finally, after selecting two from the sale table and four from the regular spot I went the register. I thought the price would be right at twelve dollars but it turned out to be less. I ended up with one silver dollar and some change left. Delighted I headed home with two bulging shopping bags.

Of course, you know what happened. My Mom found out! I reminded her that she had said they were mine. It did no good. She let me choose one, a model airplane, and the rest were back in the bags. We went back to Hoaglin’s. I was horribly embarrassed while my mother chastised the store clerk for taking silver dollars from a young boy. Whew! While they were talking the clerk had me return the models to the table where I got them. We went home with eight of the silver dollars and the one I didn’t spend made nine.

That model airplane, assembled, hung from the ceiling in my room the rest of the time I lived at home. Where it is now, I’m not sure?

Christmas

It seems like Christmas was much simpler when I was growing up. I am not sure my Mom would agree since she probably had to do all of the work in preparation for it. It was also simpler in that you would usually get no more that one or two gifts. Sometimes we got a few treats in our stocking and that was it. One gift was always something very practical.

I could be sure I would get a pair of socks or gloves from my Dad. I didn’t like it much but that’s what I always got. To my Dad, socks were everything! When he grew up in a family of five boys and one girl it wasn’t unusual for the boys to own only one pair of socks. In the summer it wasn’t so bad because they could go without socks and often even shoes. But in the winter it was an all-together different matter. When Dad gave me a pair of socks or gloves he was giving me something he cherished very much as a child. Thinking back on it I feel guilty that I was often unappreciative.

I wanted a present for Christmas.
Something that couldn’t be beat.
Something I really like.
Something really neat.
It wasn’t to be for Christmas.

You guessed it!
When I opened the box
It was a pair of dumb old socks.

On Christmas eve Dad would pull Loretta and I up the street on our sled to the Presbyterian Church for the evening service. The kids usually sat in the choir loft and sang Christmas songs while the older kids acted out the Christmas program on the platform below. At the very end Santa would come with ribbon candy. I loved the red ribbon candy but often didn’t get any because everyone else loved it, too.

I remember once when Santa came. I think it was Ralph Taylor or Sam Ewert or somebody like that. He had the ribbon candy in big flat boxes without a cover on top. There was row after row of ribbon candy in two boxes. Santa left one on the platform and lifted the other up into the choir loft. That was when the place went crazy. I was at the other end of the loft and could only witness the chaos of grabbing hands. Ribbon candy flew everywhere! So much for charity at Christmas! When the candy dust settled, Santa was holding the now empty box. His hat was askew and his glasses were barely hanging on below his nose. Most of the kids at my end of the loft were empty handed.

Not to worry said Santa, there is another box. He said he would take it to the back room where the choir robes were hung and we would all get some. The trouble was that I was sitting as far as possible from the door that led down to that room so by the time I got to the other box it was empty except for one piece of green ribbon candy. I hate green ribbon candy!

Our First TV

I remember our first television in the fifties. My grandfather bought it for us from a store in Salem, Iowa. I remember seeing one in the window and Howdy Doody was on. I think that was the first time I watched TV. I was about four years old and not too interested in sitting still long enough to watch it.

The TV was in the corner of our living room and over time I grew more interested in it. My father liked to watch the Monday Night Fights. They came on after the late evening news. Given that my father had a Mennonite background and my mother was raised a Quaker I really ended up with a double shot of pacifism. My father knew it was a violent sport but was drawn to it anyway and so was I. My mother, of course, wouldn’t let me watch it and besides it came on long after my bedtime. I occasionally caught a little bit of it but not much more. Of course I begged and begged to get to watch it.

Finally, the opportunity came. I think I was seven years old and it was summertime. No worries about getting up early the next morning. My mother reluctantly agreed to allow it just one time. I remember the anticipation was great! The evening trailed on for an eternity and, at last, the program was to begin.

My father, dressed in his undershirt and pants, went to the kitchen and came back with a plate. It had an opened can of sardines on it and a packet of saltine crackers. So there I was sitting with Dad in the living room watching the Monday Night Fights. I didn’t particularity like the sardines because you ate the whole thing, head and all. I tried not to look when he put one on a cracker for me.

That night I think I fell asleep before the fights were over. It didn’t matter. And today when I have a sardine it takes me immediately to that night in the living room.

Madison Street Lemonade Ltd.

38. Madison Street Lemonade LTD.

I was involved in a number of entrepreneurial endeavors during my youth. I sold my services as a lawn mower and shoveled snow when I could. I earned a small allowance for jobs around the house and I worked in a hatchery once in awhile when they had a chicken hatch. I didn’t like working there very much because the owner never wanted to pay me when the work was done. I always had to go and ask for it a couple of times and I hated that.

One summer, after the county fair, the Madison Street Gang decided to have its own carnival. We didn’t have rides or shows. We just had the carnival games like the penny toss and the bottle knock over. We had other games of skill that we charged other kids in the neighborhood to play. We gave out cheap prizes. I don’t remember what they were but I am sure they weren’t much. We made a fortune!

We divided up the booty at the end of the day and had over two dollars a piece to take home. By five or six o’clock that evening when the parents had figured out why home piggy banks had been broken open our phone began to ring. Most of the parents were pretty upset and I know we had to give some of the money back. I really didn’t think we had done anything wrong but the other kid’s parents did.

Another time we opened up Madison Street Lemonade LTD. The business operated for about a week quite successfully. We specialized in lemonade, of course, and once we had accumulated some capitol, we added gum and candy bars that we would buy from the store. We raised the price a nickel and sold out all we had, mostly to ourselves. We thought we were ingenious.

Cement trucks would sometimes stop twice in one day. Many passersby would stop and buy something just because they thought the whole idea was cute. My poor mother had to make and pay for all of the lemonade. She soon grew tired of that and the business closed after a week. That was my first experience with a supplier cutting off a business for lack of payment. Since we ate most of our profits along the way we didn’t have much to show for our week’s work. I suppose it did keep us out of other mischief for a while.

Full of Songs

I went shopping for a new harmonica in an out of the way music store. It was down a narrow alley in Iowa City. The small shop was empty except for the shopkeeper. I looked at all of the harmonicas in the display case. Finally, the old man pulled out one in a red box.

The shopkeeper’s long gray hair was wildly eschew on his head. He was a small man with a slight bend in his back. “This one is full of songs.” He softly said.

“Many?” I said.

“Very many!” he replied.

“How many?” I asked.

“Well...lots!” he said, “I can’t be sure about how many, but lots. Probably more than you will ever play. You’ll run out of you before you run out of songs.”

“Full of songs, I said, “ I see…and how do I get them out?”

“You don’t play do you?”

“No, no, I do! I have several harmonicas already. I guess I just don’t know how to get the songs out. Oh, I can play some, but not many.”

“Then you need this harmonica!”

“Well, you’re a good salesman!”

He smiled just slightly and he had a twinkle in his eye. “Maybe so, “ he said.

“So how does it work?”

"Blow and draw! I thought you said you played?”

“I do, I do, but I’m not very good.”

“Well son, the songs are in there. All you have to do is let them out.”

“Hmmmm…Ok then, I’ll take it.”

I paid for it and left. When I got home I carefully took it out of the box. It looked like all the rest. I was afraid to try it…afraid it wouldn’t work. At last, I put it back in the box. I tried to take it back but the store was closed when I got there so the harmonica sits on the shelf at home.

All the songs are in there. You just have to let them out. I think about that a lot and play my other harmonicas. I like the thought of having a full harmonica. Maybe I’ll play it someday. Maybe not. If I run out of me before I do, you can play it.

37. Box Car Racing

There is a hill on the west side of the schoolyard on Van Buren Street between Madison and Henry streets. I remember spending many Saturday mornings racing anything that had wheels down that hill. I don’t remember how it started. It just seemed like it happened every summer. The longer it went on the more sophisticated the racers became. My first was a wagon. Not the fastest thing to race! Later, my Dad fastened some old wheel chair wheels to the back of a board and put some old wagon wheels on the front. I steered with my feet and a rope attached to the front axel.

For a while I was the downhill champion. That didn’t last long because someone’s Dad was always helping him or her build a better, faster one. Tommy Guinn’s Dad was a welder and built him a realistic looking car. He attached sheet metal to the frame and then painted it up like a real racecar. It even had a real steering wheel. It looked just like a miniature version of the racecars we saw on TV. We all were very jealous until we saw how slow it was.

This was such a well-known event that kids from all parts of town starting showing up with their cars. We had so many that we had to have heats. The city police department came and blocked off the street for us. That ended when the Ready Mix plant was built on West Henry Street and the Saturday morning traffic made it too dangerous for us to be racing on that hill. The city officially moved us to the south hill in Saunders Park. It was a longer hill that turned gently to the right and end up near the playground at the bottom of the hill. (I have a much longer story about the Fire Bug Five and racing at Saunders Park.)

The Van Buren hill was great for me because it was just a half a block from my house. I didn’t have to drag or push my car for several blocks like some of the kids. I could go home and get Dad’s oilcan if I thought my wheels needed some lubrication. Sometimes I would have to run home and get a pliers and another cotter pin to replace a broken one.

When I think of the hours we spent in preparation for the Saturday morning races and then the time we spent there I’m amazed. Building, creating our own cars and our own entertainment occupied our time in those glorious days.

First Kiss

36. First Kiss

I was nine or ten years old before I kissed a girl other than my mother. The first time really wasn’t my idea but I guess I didn’t resist it either.

One of the routine pleasures of my childhood was going to a movie at the Temple Theatre. We went almost every Saturday afternoon. In those days you could get into the movie theater, see the newsreel, previews, something called the short subject, and the movie. Usually the theater owner, M. L. Dickson, scheduled movies suitable for kids on those Saturday afternoons. That was not always the case and Mom wouldn’t let me go to a movie if she didn’t think it was right for me.

The short subjects were serials. They were about 30 minutes long and were just a series of episodes of the Lone Ranger, Bat Man, or something else. They always ended with what was called a cliff hanger, a critical moment in the story that made you want to come back the next week to see what would happen.

If you had 30 or 40 cents you could go to the movie, get some pop, and still have some money for popcorn or Good and Plenty. Usually I went with some of the guys. We had our favorite spot in the theater. It was about half way down on the left and all the way over to the wall. It was our territory and no one else dared sit there…no one except the bigger kids whom fortunately weren’t often there on Saturday afternoon.

There was a girl who lived down the street from us about a block. I thought she was pretty and she was very nice to me so we became friends.

Vicki and her sister had a playhouse behind their house. It was all set up like a real house but very small. It had miniature tables and chairs, and wooden kitchen appliances that were painted to look like the real thing. They even had plates and silverware.

One summer day I was invited over to her house to play. There were several other kids there, too. We played house and I was the father. When I came home from work Vicki greeted me at the door and kissed me on the lips. All the other kids saw it and shouted, “Vicki kissed Perry on the LIPS!” Word spread like wildfire through our neighborhood.

So Vicki went from being a girl who was my friend to being my girl friend. One Saturday we decided to go to the movie together. Between us we had enough money and she told her Mom and I told mine that we were going to the movie. I don’t remember much about the movie. It was boring and they didn’t show any short subject. I do remember that we sat on the opposite side of the theater so the other kids wouldn’t see us. I think we must have talked some but I don’t remember. I know we didn’t kiss or anything like that. We probably didn’t even hold hands.

When I got home my mother said Vicki’s mother had called and she was upset that my mother had let us go to Peyton Place. It was considered to be a very risqué movie at that time. It was tamer that most TV shows we see now. My mother said she didn’t know what the movie was and if Mrs. XXXX had known she shouldn’t have let us go. Vicki and I had no idea what all of the fuss was about.

I don’t think we ever kissed again but Vicki and I continued to be friends throughout childhood. Even now when I see her we give each other a hug.

The Floor Furnace

34. Floor Furnace

For ages people have sat around the fire and told stories, soaked up the warmth and discussed the issues of the day. I am convinced that people are drawn to both water and fire. Fire for the warmth I guess, and water because it is essential to life.

We didn’t have a fireplace in our house but we did have a floor furnace. It was in the dining room near the east wall. It was covered with a grate about 20 inches wide and 40 inches long. Maybe it wasn’t quite that big but it seemed that big when I was a boy. The oil furnace was in the fruit cellar. There was an oil barrel on the south side of the house between the back door and the cellar door. A tube ran from it along the side of the house and then down into the cellar.

To light the furnace you turned a valve that started the flow of oil into the bottom of the furnace. Then you had to take the grate off and lift a cover from a cylindrical part of the furnace. Then Dad would light a Kleenex and drop it down in the cylinder. The more oil the hotter the fire. It would get so hot that standing on the grate would burn your feet. Later on it was converted to gas and had a pilot light

I remember many mornings when Dad would light that furnace and the whole family would hover around that grate trying to warm up. I got dressed right there because it was the only warm spot in the whole house. There was just enough room for a small bench between the furnace and the east wall. My Dad made the bench with tools in the shed. On that bench many family decisions were pondered and announcements were made. I was on that bench years later when I told my Mother and Father of my plans to be married.

When I was really little I got to sit in the warmest spot but as I grew older things grew a little more competitive and I had to sit or stand where I could. As I grew bigger I could actually straddle the grate and warm up pretty quickly. If we had shoes on we learned we could actually stand on the grate for a few minutes before we had to move. I can remember once that my feet got so hot that I had to take my shoes off to let them and my shoes cool down.

My mother says I fell on the grate when I was very small. I don’t remember it but I am sure it happened. It was impossible to avoid accidents when you had something like that in the middle of your dining room floor.

Dad eventually made two more benches like the first. One for each of us kids. I think Nancy and Loretta have theirs and mine is still at Mother’s house. Oh, the stories those benches could tell!

Harmonica Man has arrived!

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