The West Clay house was in a nice neighborhood. It was within walking distance, about three blocks, of downtown Mt. Pleasant. The hospital was even closer and just on the other side of part of Saunders Park. The city swimming pool was just down the hill about a block from our house. Later, in the 80s I taught school for several years at Manning school that was just on the other side of the park, past the hospital, and about four blocks from the house. It made walking to and from work a pleasure!
The Shappell’s lived in the house just west of our house. The two lots were once one and the Shappell house was part of a much bigger house that was on the lot years before. When they tore part of the larger house down they used a lot of the material to build our house. Through the years we were in that house we found old cisterns and foundation materials from the older building. I think that our basement was the original and you could see where stones had been used to fill in where it formerly joined the other.
Behind our house was a large lot that covered at least a quarter of the block. The Van Allen family owned it. Actually, the Van Allen’s owned everything on the block except our lot and the Shappell’s. My Dad said traveling circuses and other performance groups used that lot when they came through town. My plat said that there had once been a schoolhouse in the northwest corner of the lot and there were some foundation type stones in that area. We liked having the lot as a buffer between us and Washington Street, which was also Highway 34.
The east half of the block had two houses on it. Facing Washington Street was the old Van Allen house. It is now a museum. Directly across the alley from us was the new Van Allen house. My cousin, Bob Mendenhall and his wife live in that house now. While we were there, Winfred Van Allen lived there. She was the wife of Judge George Van Allen who was a brother to James. She sometimes had me come over and change light bulbs in her house because she couldn’t reach then.
Directly across the street south of our house lived the Deckers. Charlie was a retired salesman and always volunteered as a conductor for the railroad at Old Threshers. His wife, Joanne, was best known for her Miss Kitty (from the Gunsmoke TV show) costume that she loved to wear at Old Threshers and other community events.
Dr. Poulter and his wife lived east of the Deckers. We didn’t see them often because their house faced away from us. The Wings lived in the next house south of them. On the west side of the Deckers was a house that was owned by Glen Hoffman and his wife. They built and lived in a newer house behind and down near the swimming pool. The Grandson Bob Jennings and his wife Bonnie lived in the older house.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Monday, October 22, 2007
Deer Hunting
Growing up I did a lot of hunting and fishing. I hunted rabbits, squirrels, pheasants, and quail, but never deer. My mother, of course, thought deer were beautiful animals and didn’t think they should be hunted. I, too, thought they were pretty amazing animals. I still do.
Deer were almost totally hunted out of Iowa by the turn of the century. That would be 1900 for you readers. It was only through conservation efforts that they were re-introduced in Iowa. I have seen early Iowa newspaper articles from the 1920s about the excitement of spotting a deer. Over the years the population grew unchecked. By the 1970s deer hunting was a popular outdoor activity.
My neighbor, Charlie Shappell, invited me to hunt with his group soon after we moved into our house on West Clay. I passed that year but took him up on the offer the next year. I hunted with them for several years.
I learned that storytelling is a huge part of hunting deer. The hunters easily spend as much time talking about the hunt as they do hunting. Stories from previous years have to be told. It is truly a social event for the participants. At its heart, deer hunting is more about being out in the woods than killing anything. The hunt is just as satisfying even if you don’t shoot a deer.
The first year I hunted I didn’t see a live deer. I saw a couple dead ones that other members of the group shot but that was it. The second year I saw a couple from a great distance but nothing anywhere close enough to shoot at. The third year the group placed me on a hill that looked out over a big valley.
From that vantage point I watched in amazement as deer ran from one side of the valley to the other. When they reached one side there would be a volley of 10 or 20 shots and the deer would run to the other side where they would encounter more hunters. They would fire away and the deer would run back the other way. This went on for some time as the hunters on each side moved down the valley. It was amazing! It was even more amazing considering that hundreds of shots must have been fired and not one single deer was hit. The two-dozen or so deer escaped unscathed. They must have gone off somewhere and laughed about the cross-eyed hunters who shot at them.
Often we finished the season with only one or two deer to show for all of our time and energy. We usually split up the meat between all of the hunters and so sometimes I only got a package or two. Other times we did better but always missed more deer than we hit.
It was four years before I even fired a shot and seven years before I got my first deer. He as a huge buck that probably would have ran over me if I hadn’t shot him. His rack is still on the shelf in the garage. When I finally broke the ice that year I seemed to get one every year for several years in a row.
Deer were almost totally hunted out of Iowa by the turn of the century. That would be 1900 for you readers. It was only through conservation efforts that they were re-introduced in Iowa. I have seen early Iowa newspaper articles from the 1920s about the excitement of spotting a deer. Over the years the population grew unchecked. By the 1970s deer hunting was a popular outdoor activity.
My neighbor, Charlie Shappell, invited me to hunt with his group soon after we moved into our house on West Clay. I passed that year but took him up on the offer the next year. I hunted with them for several years.
I learned that storytelling is a huge part of hunting deer. The hunters easily spend as much time talking about the hunt as they do hunting. Stories from previous years have to be told. It is truly a social event for the participants. At its heart, deer hunting is more about being out in the woods than killing anything. The hunt is just as satisfying even if you don’t shoot a deer.
The first year I hunted I didn’t see a live deer. I saw a couple dead ones that other members of the group shot but that was it. The second year I saw a couple from a great distance but nothing anywhere close enough to shoot at. The third year the group placed me on a hill that looked out over a big valley.
From that vantage point I watched in amazement as deer ran from one side of the valley to the other. When they reached one side there would be a volley of 10 or 20 shots and the deer would run to the other side where they would encounter more hunters. They would fire away and the deer would run back the other way. This went on for some time as the hunters on each side moved down the valley. It was amazing! It was even more amazing considering that hundreds of shots must have been fired and not one single deer was hit. The two-dozen or so deer escaped unscathed. They must have gone off somewhere and laughed about the cross-eyed hunters who shot at them.
Often we finished the season with only one or two deer to show for all of our time and energy. We usually split up the meat between all of the hunters and so sometimes I only got a package or two. Other times we did better but always missed more deer than we hit.
It was four years before I even fired a shot and seven years before I got my first deer. He as a huge buck that probably would have ran over me if I hadn’t shot him. His rack is still on the shelf in the garage. When I finally broke the ice that year I seemed to get one every year for several years in a row.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Smoking
I am embarrassed to admit that I was a smoker. While I was never a heavy smoker, I was a smoker non-the less. It is hard for me to believe now, that I did it for so long. Now, I don’t even like to be in smoky places.
My smoking started out innocent enough. I think I first tried it under a bridge on West Madison Street. Then I think maybe a couple times with the boys in the neighborhood. David or Billy, who both had parents who smoked, would steal a few from them and we would get together someplace secretly and smoke them. I was probably 10 to 12 years old.
Later, we would send Billy to the gas station to buy a pack. We would all smoke one or two and then hid them someplace. Many times we would lose interest and never go back to find the hidden pack. I suppose some of them could still be out there somewhere? A few times Billy bought cigarettes for us to sell at Boy Scout camp. In the black market our camp cigarettes would sell for as much as one dollar a piece. As I have written before, I often came home from camp with more money than I took.
By the time I was a freshman in high school I was having a cigarette or two almost every weekend when I was out with the guys or on a date. By then I could buy my own at a vending machine somewhere. They were about 35 cents a pack, I think. Athletes had to be careful they didn’t get caught smoking because they would be punished. I recall only a few who didn’t smoke at one time or another.
With each year I seemed to smoke a little more. In its peak in my high school years I probably smoked as many as five cigarettes a day. That’s not many but it was still becoming a habit. In continued into college even when I was on the swimming team where oxygen is a premium. I guess it didn’t help that the coach smoked, too.
When I became a teacher I could only smoke at certain times. I had to go to the boiler room of the building to do it. I began to plan my whole day around when I could smoke and my consumption increased to about 10 cigarettes a day. It never got much higher than that. Along the way I smoked a pipe for a while and often would have a cigar or two if I was out fishing or hunting.
I quit smoking cold turkey on April 29, 1978. I would have to say it has been the most difficult thing I have done in my life. I smoked my last cigarette that Friday night. I have not had another smoke of any kind since that day. Sometimes, now, almost thirty years later the urge is still there but I haven’t given in.
The power of the addiction is huge and I am afraid if I would have just one it would lead to another. You should never yield to anything that powerful except God! You have to take charge of your body.
My smoking started out innocent enough. I think I first tried it under a bridge on West Madison Street. Then I think maybe a couple times with the boys in the neighborhood. David or Billy, who both had parents who smoked, would steal a few from them and we would get together someplace secretly and smoke them. I was probably 10 to 12 years old.
Later, we would send Billy to the gas station to buy a pack. We would all smoke one or two and then hid them someplace. Many times we would lose interest and never go back to find the hidden pack. I suppose some of them could still be out there somewhere? A few times Billy bought cigarettes for us to sell at Boy Scout camp. In the black market our camp cigarettes would sell for as much as one dollar a piece. As I have written before, I often came home from camp with more money than I took.
By the time I was a freshman in high school I was having a cigarette or two almost every weekend when I was out with the guys or on a date. By then I could buy my own at a vending machine somewhere. They were about 35 cents a pack, I think. Athletes had to be careful they didn’t get caught smoking because they would be punished. I recall only a few who didn’t smoke at one time or another.
With each year I seemed to smoke a little more. In its peak in my high school years I probably smoked as many as five cigarettes a day. That’s not many but it was still becoming a habit. In continued into college even when I was on the swimming team where oxygen is a premium. I guess it didn’t help that the coach smoked, too.
When I became a teacher I could only smoke at certain times. I had to go to the boiler room of the building to do it. I began to plan my whole day around when I could smoke and my consumption increased to about 10 cigarettes a day. It never got much higher than that. Along the way I smoked a pipe for a while and often would have a cigar or two if I was out fishing or hunting.
I quit smoking cold turkey on April 29, 1978. I would have to say it has been the most difficult thing I have done in my life. I smoked my last cigarette that Friday night. I have not had another smoke of any kind since that day. Sometimes, now, almost thirty years later the urge is still there but I haven’t given in.
The power of the addiction is huge and I am afraid if I would have just one it would lead to another. You should never yield to anything that powerful except God! You have to take charge of your body.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
The Trabert Place
I wrote about this place in my “Secret Places” piece last year but it is worthy of a little more. The Trabert Place is located in Jefferson County and at one time or another visited by every member of my family except my granddaughters. My mother and father were there many times. My sisters, Nancy and Loretta hunted arrowheads there with my father. Angie and Heather were there with us hunting more than once, too.
It was one of my father’s favorite spots for several reasons. He took a group from the State Archeologists office there and a lot of others. A dirt road cuts across the ridge above the spot. If the road wasn’t muddy the site was accessible. If it was muddy we sometimes walked in. That wasn’t easy but sometimes very worth it.
The site has much to offer. Standing on the dirt road and looking east you can see across the Skunk River valley into Henry County. It is a magnificent view! From there you can see the farm where Dad grew up. About a mile the other way, west, is where Dad was born in Christian Egli’s house, his grandfather.
Facing east again and following the ridge we are on to the right we come to a spot were several Native American babies were buried. They were buried in shallow rock lined graves with large flat stones on top. Dad was very sad and reverent when we came across them. He reported the site to the State Archeologist Office and they came and excavated them and took the bones and reburied them somewhere else where they wouldn’t be disturbed.
Still on that road, the field directly in front of us was full of artifacts. It was an ancient site and yielded several axes, spear points and other material. After the deep mole board plowing, ancient fire pits were evident. That deep plowing isn’t done anymore because it led to so much erosion.
The more recent sites were much farther down close to where Walnut Creek goes into the river. Dad assisted in identifying one of the spots as Hopewell because of the type of artifacts we found there. We found points and large amounts of pottery there.
It was easy for us to spend an entire day there walking the rows of corn or beans and still not cover everything. We did that many times. Often Dad would bring along delicious sandwiches that Mom made and we would have them for lunch along with some sorghum cookies.
One summer day we had an unusual experience while sitting along the dirt road eating our sandwiches. While we were eating and talking we suddenly heard a huge roar to the West and looking up saw three huge airplanes approaching us at what seemed like treetop level. They passed right over us and were gone in seconds. We were speechless for a moment. Later we read that Air Force bombers for Offutt Air Force base near Omaha were practicing strafing runs in the less populated areas of Jefferson and other counties.
It was one of my father’s favorite spots for several reasons. He took a group from the State Archeologists office there and a lot of others. A dirt road cuts across the ridge above the spot. If the road wasn’t muddy the site was accessible. If it was muddy we sometimes walked in. That wasn’t easy but sometimes very worth it.
The site has much to offer. Standing on the dirt road and looking east you can see across the Skunk River valley into Henry County. It is a magnificent view! From there you can see the farm where Dad grew up. About a mile the other way, west, is where Dad was born in Christian Egli’s house, his grandfather.
Facing east again and following the ridge we are on to the right we come to a spot were several Native American babies were buried. They were buried in shallow rock lined graves with large flat stones on top. Dad was very sad and reverent when we came across them. He reported the site to the State Archeologist Office and they came and excavated them and took the bones and reburied them somewhere else where they wouldn’t be disturbed.
Still on that road, the field directly in front of us was full of artifacts. It was an ancient site and yielded several axes, spear points and other material. After the deep mole board plowing, ancient fire pits were evident. That deep plowing isn’t done anymore because it led to so much erosion.
The more recent sites were much farther down close to where Walnut Creek goes into the river. Dad assisted in identifying one of the spots as Hopewell because of the type of artifacts we found there. We found points and large amounts of pottery there.
It was easy for us to spend an entire day there walking the rows of corn or beans and still not cover everything. We did that many times. Often Dad would bring along delicious sandwiches that Mom made and we would have them for lunch along with some sorghum cookies.
One summer day we had an unusual experience while sitting along the dirt road eating our sandwiches. While we were eating and talking we suddenly heard a huge roar to the West and looking up saw three huge airplanes approaching us at what seemed like treetop level. They passed right over us and were gone in seconds. We were speechless for a moment. Later we read that Air Force bombers for Offutt Air Force base near Omaha were practicing strafing runs in the less populated areas of Jefferson and other counties.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Kayaks
My Dad and I went canoeing many times. I think the first time I took him on Big Creek in the Explorer canoe hooked him. We got in just north of town and got out near old highway 34. It was after a rain so what was normally a rocky stream was a raging boat ride. Actually the creek was only a few feet deep in most places but it was still a fun trip. He loved it.
We floated down Big Creek, Big Cedar, and the Skunk River from Merrimac to Oakland Mills. I still have a piece of ancient pottery I found on a sandbar in the middle of the river. Floating down Big Creek or any float trip was like a trip to another place. The rocky bluffs on both sides of the creek made us feel like we were in the wilderness. The abundant wild life was a constant source of beauty. The whole thing was like a vacation to Colorado.
One of Dad’s neighbors, Clarence Rouse, introduced Dad to kayaking. Clarence had two kayaks that he built from kits. They had a wooden frame and were covered with a vinyl like material. They were very sturdy and could withstand major whitewater conditions. Dad went with him several times including a trip down the Buffalo River in Missouri.
That convinced Dad he should build one of his own. He ordered the kit from Folbot. It was very similar to a kit they still sell called the Greenland II. He had all the equipment he would need and was an experienced woodworker. The question, then, was where do you build a boat that size in the wintertime. Building it outside in an Iowa winter was not an option.
The basement at our house was suggested as a possible location. To make sure they could get it out of there once it was built they first brought over a 17 foot board. It would easily go down the steps and into the basement. Ever cautious, they brought Clarence’s boat over and put it in the basement. It had room to spare! So, our basement on Clay Street became the building site for the boat.
Clarence and Dad worked on it diligently for about a month. I helped when I could and when spring came we had a kayak. It returned to the basement only for winter storage and was just turned over outside in the summer. Although Dad used it a lot it was usually stored at our house and he encouraged us to use it.
That boat took the place of the Explorer canoe for us and we used it a lot. I still have two of the paddles but the boat itself is long gone. I miss it but it was heavy and vulnerable to puncture in rocky waters. It repaired easily but it was always a concern.
The last trip we took in it Dad and I got caught in a rainstorm between Rome and Oakland Mills. We waited it out standing under an overhang at Neil Panther’s cabin west of town.
We floated down Big Creek, Big Cedar, and the Skunk River from Merrimac to Oakland Mills. I still have a piece of ancient pottery I found on a sandbar in the middle of the river. Floating down Big Creek or any float trip was like a trip to another place. The rocky bluffs on both sides of the creek made us feel like we were in the wilderness. The abundant wild life was a constant source of beauty. The whole thing was like a vacation to Colorado.
One of Dad’s neighbors, Clarence Rouse, introduced Dad to kayaking. Clarence had two kayaks that he built from kits. They had a wooden frame and were covered with a vinyl like material. They were very sturdy and could withstand major whitewater conditions. Dad went with him several times including a trip down the Buffalo River in Missouri.
That convinced Dad he should build one of his own. He ordered the kit from Folbot. It was very similar to a kit they still sell called the Greenland II. He had all the equipment he would need and was an experienced woodworker. The question, then, was where do you build a boat that size in the wintertime. Building it outside in an Iowa winter was not an option.
The basement at our house was suggested as a possible location. To make sure they could get it out of there once it was built they first brought over a 17 foot board. It would easily go down the steps and into the basement. Ever cautious, they brought Clarence’s boat over and put it in the basement. It had room to spare! So, our basement on Clay Street became the building site for the boat.
Clarence and Dad worked on it diligently for about a month. I helped when I could and when spring came we had a kayak. It returned to the basement only for winter storage and was just turned over outside in the summer. Although Dad used it a lot it was usually stored at our house and he encouraged us to use it.
That boat took the place of the Explorer canoe for us and we used it a lot. I still have two of the paddles but the boat itself is long gone. I miss it but it was heavy and vulnerable to puncture in rocky waters. It repaired easily but it was always a concern.
The last trip we took in it Dad and I got caught in a rainstorm between Rome and Oakland Mills. We waited it out standing under an overhang at Neil Panther’s cabin west of town.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Canoes
When the Explorer Scout Troup disbanded in Mt. Pleasant much of their gear went to whoever wanted it. Clint Rila kept the seventeen-foot canoe and would loan it out to any Scout or former Scout who wanted to use it. He would even let you keep it for extended periods because there just wasn’t much demand for it.
We borrowed that canoe a lot! It was easy to lift up on top of a car, strap it on and carry it off to a river or stream somewhere. We usually used it on the Skunk River, Big Cedar Creek or Big Creek. It was fun to get some other couples and more canoes and go on a float trip. Most of the time the weather was good and we had few problems. At least once the weather was bad.
One time we planned a trip with two other couples. Each couple had their own canoe. We thought we would float down Big Cedar and have a picnic on the way. When the day came it was cool and rainy but we were determined to go anyway. We loaded up our gear and headed for the starting point. By that time it was evident that one of the females was less than excited about going even if the weather got better.
As luck would have it she got wet just getting into the canoe. It went down hill from then on. Becky and I were experienced and dressed for the occasion. I can’t say the doomed couple was. The third couple were prepared and not getting bothered by the circumstances. The male taunted the now discouraged couple and after awhile pulled up next to them and rocked their canoe. The victims over compensated and were in the water in an instant! The female let out a stream of expletives that only fueled the bully.
When they were back in the boat and headed downstream he started in again. Seeing that this could only get a lot worse I encouraged him to leave them alone and he did for a while. By that time the poor couple wanted nothing than to just get out of there, dry out, and get some warm clothes on. We were in the middle of a stretch of the creek between the only exit points, which were simply bridges. There was really no choice but to ride it out. We had planned to go a lot further but the couple and the other two females in the group had enough.
When we did get near the exit point the bully started again with the taunts and then moved in for the boat rocking. Trying to get away the couple tipped again. By then the female was so mad she was spitting bullets. We got out at the bridge, trudged through ankle deep mud and flagged a ride to one of our cars. Eventually we all go home safely. We thought maybe we all just go someone’s house and eat but that was quickly nixed.
The very sad part of this whole story is that the couple that had so much trouble soon divorced. I doubt if it really had anything to do with the canoe trip but I am sure it didn’t help.
My Dad and I canoed a lot together and he even, with the help of a friend, built a kayak. More on that in the next piece.
We borrowed that canoe a lot! It was easy to lift up on top of a car, strap it on and carry it off to a river or stream somewhere. We usually used it on the Skunk River, Big Cedar Creek or Big Creek. It was fun to get some other couples and more canoes and go on a float trip. Most of the time the weather was good and we had few problems. At least once the weather was bad.
One time we planned a trip with two other couples. Each couple had their own canoe. We thought we would float down Big Cedar and have a picnic on the way. When the day came it was cool and rainy but we were determined to go anyway. We loaded up our gear and headed for the starting point. By that time it was evident that one of the females was less than excited about going even if the weather got better.
As luck would have it she got wet just getting into the canoe. It went down hill from then on. Becky and I were experienced and dressed for the occasion. I can’t say the doomed couple was. The third couple were prepared and not getting bothered by the circumstances. The male taunted the now discouraged couple and after awhile pulled up next to them and rocked their canoe. The victims over compensated and were in the water in an instant! The female let out a stream of expletives that only fueled the bully.
When they were back in the boat and headed downstream he started in again. Seeing that this could only get a lot worse I encouraged him to leave them alone and he did for a while. By that time the poor couple wanted nothing than to just get out of there, dry out, and get some warm clothes on. We were in the middle of a stretch of the creek between the only exit points, which were simply bridges. There was really no choice but to ride it out. We had planned to go a lot further but the couple and the other two females in the group had enough.
When we did get near the exit point the bully started again with the taunts and then moved in for the boat rocking. Trying to get away the couple tipped again. By then the female was so mad she was spitting bullets. We got out at the bridge, trudged through ankle deep mud and flagged a ride to one of our cars. Eventually we all go home safely. We thought maybe we all just go someone’s house and eat but that was quickly nixed.
The very sad part of this whole story is that the couple that had so much trouble soon divorced. I doubt if it really had anything to do with the canoe trip but I am sure it didn’t help.
My Dad and I canoed a lot together and he even, with the help of a friend, built a kayak. More on that in the next piece.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Rabbits
When Angie aand Heather were young we raised rabbits. They, of course, multiply so quicky you have more than you bargained for. That happened to us. I thought maybe we could sell them to people for food. I probably should have known better since I raised rabbits as a kid.
The trick is to have a litter and raise them to four or five pounds and then sell them as pets or for food. A female rabbit can produce 1000% of her body weight in food in a year. You wean rabbits after about 8 weeks and the female can then be bred for another litter. They usually have seven to ten babies per litter.
Dad helped me build a terrific two-section cage for the rabbits. The buck lived on one side and the mother and babies on the other. They were only allowed together when it was time to make babies. There was a door between the two cages that could be opened at the right times. The cages had narrow mesh wire floor and wider chicken wire on the sides and top. The floor mesh was wide enough to let the manure fall through but support the rabbits’ feet. I was pretty proud of the design and construction.
The cage was located just off our patio and under a small redbud tree. Feeding and watering were easy and rabbit food was cheap in those days. They also loved leftover lettuce and carrot and potato peelings.
Early one morning I heard a rabbit scream! It’s a horrible sound! We had a litter that was about six weeks old at the time. I went out to the cage and found that one of the rabbit’s had got a paw somehow twisted in the wider chicken wire on the side. The rabbits twisting and squirming had only made the situation worse. Its leg was broken and pulled out of joint. I had to cut the wire to get it out. The whole thing saddened me! I gave the rabbit to my neighbor who I am sure had it for dinner.
Shortly after that incident I decided to sell or give away the whole bunch. An old friend, Billy Jackson took the rabbits and cage and I thought I was done with it. That wasn’t the case because he returned it all the next day saying his landlord wouldn’t let him keep them. A few days later another guy took the whole thing off my hands and gave me ten bucks, too. The cage was probably worth twice that.
That was the end of my experience with rabbits. I often think I would like to have a rabbit. They produce the most incredible fertilizer that would be great for my garden. For a while I had a friend whose kids were in 4H and supplied me with a feedbag full of manure two or three times a year. I need to find someone like that again or start rasing rabbits to produce my own.
The trick is to have a litter and raise them to four or five pounds and then sell them as pets or for food. A female rabbit can produce 1000% of her body weight in food in a year. You wean rabbits after about 8 weeks and the female can then be bred for another litter. They usually have seven to ten babies per litter.
Dad helped me build a terrific two-section cage for the rabbits. The buck lived on one side and the mother and babies on the other. They were only allowed together when it was time to make babies. There was a door between the two cages that could be opened at the right times. The cages had narrow mesh wire floor and wider chicken wire on the sides and top. The floor mesh was wide enough to let the manure fall through but support the rabbits’ feet. I was pretty proud of the design and construction.
The cage was located just off our patio and under a small redbud tree. Feeding and watering were easy and rabbit food was cheap in those days. They also loved leftover lettuce and carrot and potato peelings.
Early one morning I heard a rabbit scream! It’s a horrible sound! We had a litter that was about six weeks old at the time. I went out to the cage and found that one of the rabbit’s had got a paw somehow twisted in the wider chicken wire on the side. The rabbits twisting and squirming had only made the situation worse. Its leg was broken and pulled out of joint. I had to cut the wire to get it out. The whole thing saddened me! I gave the rabbit to my neighbor who I am sure had it for dinner.
Shortly after that incident I decided to sell or give away the whole bunch. An old friend, Billy Jackson took the rabbits and cage and I thought I was done with it. That wasn’t the case because he returned it all the next day saying his landlord wouldn’t let him keep them. A few days later another guy took the whole thing off my hands and gave me ten bucks, too. The cage was probably worth twice that.
That was the end of my experience with rabbits. I often think I would like to have a rabbit. They produce the most incredible fertilizer that would be great for my garden. For a while I had a friend whose kids were in 4H and supplied me with a feedbag full of manure two or three times a year. I need to find someone like that again or start rasing rabbits to produce my own.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Bank Poles
I wouldn’t call bank pole fishing a sport. It is more of a harvest of available food. It involves baiting up to five poles and sticking them in the muddy bank along the river. Thus, the name bank poles. All of the poles must be tagged with your name and address and be checked regularly. If you don’t follow the regulations you are very likely to get a ticket. Typically, the poles were just five to six feet long branches cut from trees. On the big end it was chopped to a point so it would stick easily in the bank. On the other a length of line is tied.
I usually used some strong line or string not much longer than the length of the pole. My bait of choice was always a three or four inch sunfish that I had caught in a pond somewhere. I would stick the pole in the bank and let the hooked sunfish swim around near the surface. It was best to fish with a bank pole when the river is rising as the fish feed on what is a new area for them so the lines are often only a few inches from shore.
Most often I did this kind of fishing with a group of two or three friends. We would each put out our lines early in the evening and then go and run them every four hours or so for the next 24 hours. Five lines usually yielded two or three catfish each time and sometimes more.
One guy in our group was particularly annoying. If he knew where your lines were he would run them before you got there and then show the fish off as ones he caught. He was soon out of the group. Another guy liked to do the fishing but didn’t like to do any of the work involved. He always had something he had to do right now when it came time to clean the fish or anything else that required much effort.
I remember once when I put out poles down river about a mile from Oakland Mills. A run of the lines about eight o’clock that evening had produced good results including a three pound cat. Nobody was willing, that night to run them again around midnight so I ended up going out to run mine by myself.
It was pretty dark but I thought I could see well enough with the light of the moon and stars so I left the flashlight in the car. I am actually kind of fond of a dark night in the woods. If you couldn’t see the fish you could certainly feel it when you grabbed the pole.
Anyway, this first pole had a pan size catfish. I rebaited it and moved on. The second was empty. As I approached the third I could tell it must have a fish on cause the line was moving around wildly. I grabbed the pole and I could feel the fish or, at least, what I thought was a fish.
I lifted the pole and reached for about where I thought the fish would be. Just a split second before I grabbed the line I saw in the moon light something that was four or five feet long and not much bigger around than the pole. It was a snake! I dropped the whole thing on the ground and took about 10 steps backward falling in the brush.
I got to my feet as quickly as possible and went to the car to get my flashlight. Back at the pole I found the huge black snake angrily trying to get off the hook. How do you get a snake off the hook in the middle of the night? I didn’t know either. I ended up cutting the line as close to the snake as possible and then I got out of there as quickly as possible.
When I returned in the daylight the snake was nowhere to be found. I pulled all of my poles out and went home. I fished with bank poles after that but was a lot more careful when I ran the lines.
I usually used some strong line or string not much longer than the length of the pole. My bait of choice was always a three or four inch sunfish that I had caught in a pond somewhere. I would stick the pole in the bank and let the hooked sunfish swim around near the surface. It was best to fish with a bank pole when the river is rising as the fish feed on what is a new area for them so the lines are often only a few inches from shore.
Most often I did this kind of fishing with a group of two or three friends. We would each put out our lines early in the evening and then go and run them every four hours or so for the next 24 hours. Five lines usually yielded two or three catfish each time and sometimes more.
One guy in our group was particularly annoying. If he knew where your lines were he would run them before you got there and then show the fish off as ones he caught. He was soon out of the group. Another guy liked to do the fishing but didn’t like to do any of the work involved. He always had something he had to do right now when it came time to clean the fish or anything else that required much effort.
I remember once when I put out poles down river about a mile from Oakland Mills. A run of the lines about eight o’clock that evening had produced good results including a three pound cat. Nobody was willing, that night to run them again around midnight so I ended up going out to run mine by myself.
It was pretty dark but I thought I could see well enough with the light of the moon and stars so I left the flashlight in the car. I am actually kind of fond of a dark night in the woods. If you couldn’t see the fish you could certainly feel it when you grabbed the pole.
Anyway, this first pole had a pan size catfish. I rebaited it and moved on. The second was empty. As I approached the third I could tell it must have a fish on cause the line was moving around wildly. I grabbed the pole and I could feel the fish or, at least, what I thought was a fish.
I lifted the pole and reached for about where I thought the fish would be. Just a split second before I grabbed the line I saw in the moon light something that was four or five feet long and not much bigger around than the pole. It was a snake! I dropped the whole thing on the ground and took about 10 steps backward falling in the brush.
I got to my feet as quickly as possible and went to the car to get my flashlight. Back at the pole I found the huge black snake angrily trying to get off the hook. How do you get a snake off the hook in the middle of the night? I didn’t know either. I ended up cutting the line as close to the snake as possible and then I got out of there as quickly as possible.
When I returned in the daylight the snake was nowhere to be found. I pulled all of my poles out and went home. I fished with bank poles after that but was a lot more careful when I ran the lines.
Sunday, September 02, 2007
Changing Schools
After two years at Saunders, a K-6 grade building, the district decided to move to grade level buildings. For some reason they decided Saunders would be a K-2 building and Harlan would be a third and fourth grade building.
To this day I am somewhat mystified as to why they did it. I have never read in research or professional opinion that one is significantly more effective than the other. I was also surprised that if they were going to do it they would put the smaller kids in a building on multi-levels with lots of steps.
Anyway the district moved me and the third grade teacher, Nadine McCoy, to Harlan over the summer. Becky was set to be the building secretary at Harlan, too, but took a job at the Coop over the summer to be Lawrence McCoy’s (Nadine’s husband) confidential secretary. That was probably good because she probably would have killed me if she had to live with me and work with me everyday.
I loved my top floor room at Saunders. The big window on the north looked out over the playground and the south facing windows in the hall outside my room were perfect for starting tomatoes. Every spring the windows were lined with the little milk cartons with plants sprouting out the top.
Harlan was a much newer building on the north side of town. It was over a mile from our house on West Clay. Not a really long walk from home but a lot farther than the three and a half blocks Saunders was.
At Harlan they put me in the classroom at the end of the north Hall and on the left. The new principal was Philip Speidel. The windows along the north side of my room looked out on the street. It certainly wasn’t the pleasing view that I had at Saunders and I lost the advantage of being able to watch my kids on the playground during recess.
Gertrude Miller taught 4th grade across the hall from me and the other 4th grade in the room just south of mine was Mrs. Morrison. She passed away that year. It was a very sad and sobering thing for the whole building.
Nadine was teaching 3rd grade along with a new teacher to our district, Marilyn Strohman. I can’t now recall who the other third grade teacher was. There was also a kindergarten in the building.
You couldn’t see the playground from the windows of my room but could from the teacher’s lounge down the hall. Teachers would gather there during their breaks and watch their kids outside the window even though there was plenty of supervision out there. You could learn a lot by watching your kids in that environment.
One warm spring day I saw a group of fourth grade boys in a tight circle near the far edge of the playground. I could tell they were looking at something but couldn’t tell what. I walked out of the building and in their direction but tried to avoid having them realizing I was headed toward them. I got within twenty yards before they spotted me and panicked. I zero in on the kids who had the goods and soon had them all. One boy had quite a collection of material.
It included two adult magazines, a package of condoms, and three Polaroid photographs of a naked woman in a lawn chair. I took the bundle into the teachers lounge and told the other teachers what it included. They were on me in seconds and took it all away from me as if I was one of the students. Eventually, it all got handed over to the principal who, in turn, met with the boy’s mother and handed it all over to her.
The stories of Harlan are many and I will tell some more another time.
To this day I am somewhat mystified as to why they did it. I have never read in research or professional opinion that one is significantly more effective than the other. I was also surprised that if they were going to do it they would put the smaller kids in a building on multi-levels with lots of steps.
Anyway the district moved me and the third grade teacher, Nadine McCoy, to Harlan over the summer. Becky was set to be the building secretary at Harlan, too, but took a job at the Coop over the summer to be Lawrence McCoy’s (Nadine’s husband) confidential secretary. That was probably good because she probably would have killed me if she had to live with me and work with me everyday.
I loved my top floor room at Saunders. The big window on the north looked out over the playground and the south facing windows in the hall outside my room were perfect for starting tomatoes. Every spring the windows were lined with the little milk cartons with plants sprouting out the top.
Harlan was a much newer building on the north side of town. It was over a mile from our house on West Clay. Not a really long walk from home but a lot farther than the three and a half blocks Saunders was.
At Harlan they put me in the classroom at the end of the north Hall and on the left. The new principal was Philip Speidel. The windows along the north side of my room looked out on the street. It certainly wasn’t the pleasing view that I had at Saunders and I lost the advantage of being able to watch my kids on the playground during recess.
Gertrude Miller taught 4th grade across the hall from me and the other 4th grade in the room just south of mine was Mrs. Morrison. She passed away that year. It was a very sad and sobering thing for the whole building.
Nadine was teaching 3rd grade along with a new teacher to our district, Marilyn Strohman. I can’t now recall who the other third grade teacher was. There was also a kindergarten in the building.
You couldn’t see the playground from the windows of my room but could from the teacher’s lounge down the hall. Teachers would gather there during their breaks and watch their kids outside the window even though there was plenty of supervision out there. You could learn a lot by watching your kids in that environment.
One warm spring day I saw a group of fourth grade boys in a tight circle near the far edge of the playground. I could tell they were looking at something but couldn’t tell what. I walked out of the building and in their direction but tried to avoid having them realizing I was headed toward them. I got within twenty yards before they spotted me and panicked. I zero in on the kids who had the goods and soon had them all. One boy had quite a collection of material.
It included two adult magazines, a package of condoms, and three Polaroid photographs of a naked woman in a lawn chair. I took the bundle into the teachers lounge and told the other teachers what it included. They were on me in seconds and took it all away from me as if I was one of the students. Eventually, it all got handed over to the principal who, in turn, met with the boy’s mother and handed it all over to her.
The stories of Harlan are many and I will tell some more another time.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Cats
I don’t like cats. I have never liked cats. They make me sneeze and I don’t find them appealing in any way. The trouble is they like me. I don’t know what it is but cats seem to be attracted to me? It seems like every time I go someplace where there is a cat around it ends up coming over and rubbing against me or wanting to sit on my lap. It’s very annoying!
We had a cat when we lived on West Clay Street. Angie had returned from a weeklong retreat with it I think? I wasn’t very happy about it but what could I do? The girls loved the kitten and named it Hilda. I thought that was a suitable name for a feline.
This cat lived in our basement and was only upstairs to pass through the kitchen, back porch and out the backdoor. She did, on occasion, love to show her independence by taking a path through the whole house. That was something that annoyed Becky and, of course, me too!
Although the girls professed to love the kitten they fed it on an irregular basis. Sometimes she had food provided and at other times she had to forage for whatever she got to eat. She had a regular route through the neighborhood and I always hoped she would catch and eat the mice in the basement. She wasn’t too good at that. Too much work I think?
One winter I trapped so many mice in the basement that I skinned them and had the hides made into gloves. I couldn’t wear them though because the all of the cats in town followed me around when I did.
Early one summer morning when Hilda was still a kitten I was awakened by a terrible racket in the basement. I went down there only to discover that the kitten had gotten into some fuel oil that I was siphoning out of a large tank. The little kitten was covered with the stuff! Each time she took a step she let out a horrible howl and would extend a leg out in front of her and shake it like crazy. When I saw the cat howl, step, extend, shake and then do it all over again with the other foot I couldn’t contain myself. I burst out laughing and it continued for some time.
Finally, I realized the cat wasn’t laughing so I needed a plan. I got a bowl of water some dish soap, and I, still in my underwear, carried the kitten out to the patio. Then I shampooed her six times. Somewhere in the middle of it all my neighbors, Charlie and Eunice Shappell, on their way to work came out their back door and caught me in all my glory. They stopped, looked at me, shook their heads, and headed off to work. They never did ask I me to explain what I was doing early that morning on the patio with that cat.
If that kitten liked me before he loved me now because, I think, he attributed me with saving his life.
We had a cat when we lived on West Clay Street. Angie had returned from a weeklong retreat with it I think? I wasn’t very happy about it but what could I do? The girls loved the kitten and named it Hilda. I thought that was a suitable name for a feline.
This cat lived in our basement and was only upstairs to pass through the kitchen, back porch and out the backdoor. She did, on occasion, love to show her independence by taking a path through the whole house. That was something that annoyed Becky and, of course, me too!
Although the girls professed to love the kitten they fed it on an irregular basis. Sometimes she had food provided and at other times she had to forage for whatever she got to eat. She had a regular route through the neighborhood and I always hoped she would catch and eat the mice in the basement. She wasn’t too good at that. Too much work I think?
One winter I trapped so many mice in the basement that I skinned them and had the hides made into gloves. I couldn’t wear them though because the all of the cats in town followed me around when I did.
Early one summer morning when Hilda was still a kitten I was awakened by a terrible racket in the basement. I went down there only to discover that the kitten had gotten into some fuel oil that I was siphoning out of a large tank. The little kitten was covered with the stuff! Each time she took a step she let out a horrible howl and would extend a leg out in front of her and shake it like crazy. When I saw the cat howl, step, extend, shake and then do it all over again with the other foot I couldn’t contain myself. I burst out laughing and it continued for some time.
Finally, I realized the cat wasn’t laughing so I needed a plan. I got a bowl of water some dish soap, and I, still in my underwear, carried the kitten out to the patio. Then I shampooed her six times. Somewhere in the middle of it all my neighbors, Charlie and Eunice Shappell, on their way to work came out their back door and caught me in all my glory. They stopped, looked at me, shook their heads, and headed off to work. They never did ask I me to explain what I was doing early that morning on the patio with that cat.
If that kitten liked me before he loved me now because, I think, he attributed me with saving his life.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Curses
I really don’t believe in curses but there are some times when you just wonder? Particularly when certain kinds of problems just don’t seem to go away.
When we looked at the house on West Clay we noticed that in the basement one of the covers on the large sewer pipe was missing. It was just an open hole and the realtor said that it was no problem and could be fixed easily. I should have known better.
Plumbers just looked at it and shrugged. They said the spot where the cover screwed in was broken and the only thing to do was replace the whole thing. That was something they didn’t seem to want to do and I certainly couldn’t afford. Now, you can’t have an open sewer pipe in your basement because not only does it make the whole house smell bad but also it poses an explosion risk because methane is highly flammable.
The hole was about eight inches in diameter. I tried covering it with plastic bags and duck tape. That sort of worked but my Dad didn’t like it. He carefully measured the hole and then, in true Mennonite tradition, fashioned a wooden plug for the hole. It was perfect and even plumbers marveled at how well it worked!
Sewer problems solved. Not so fast! They were only just beginning!
Our sewer started backing up. A neighbor said, “That house had always had sewer problems!”
We tried everything! I dumped more chemicals down the drain than Dupont produces in a year. I am probably, single handily, responsible for the dead zone in the Gulf of Mexico. Oh, some things worked for a while but the problem always came back.
The old fellows I talked to said it was the Moleburg tile. I am not sure that was the name but whatever it was tended to crack and let roots in and that is what clogged up the sewer.
It was roots all right! My neighbor, Charlie Shappell, did something, which turned out to be a routine. About every three months we would have to send a twisting sewer taped through the line. It always came back with a great big ball of roots. Sometimes we had trouble pulling it out because the roots were packed so tight around the tip.
I have to tell you that rooting out a sewer is not a pleasant task for what should be obvious reasons. In our time in that house I bet I did it at least 20 times. I paid to have others do it, too.
Noting seemed to solve the problem. Finally, I dug up the sewer by hand for the first of three times because I couldn’t afford to have it done. I cleaned it as best I could but the roots would always eventually come back.
At last, I thought, I paid the plumbers to come and replace that old pipe with new plastic that was root proof and would solve my problem. It didn’t!
For some strange reason they replaced the entire line to the street except the last three feet before it came into the basement.
The last thing we did as owners of that house was pay to have that last three feet of pipe replaced because, of course, the sewer was plugged and the new owner wanted it fixed.
Shhhhh!!!! We have escaped the sewer curse for now but I am still looking over my shoulder now and then.
When we looked at the house on West Clay we noticed that in the basement one of the covers on the large sewer pipe was missing. It was just an open hole and the realtor said that it was no problem and could be fixed easily. I should have known better.
Plumbers just looked at it and shrugged. They said the spot where the cover screwed in was broken and the only thing to do was replace the whole thing. That was something they didn’t seem to want to do and I certainly couldn’t afford. Now, you can’t have an open sewer pipe in your basement because not only does it make the whole house smell bad but also it poses an explosion risk because methane is highly flammable.
The hole was about eight inches in diameter. I tried covering it with plastic bags and duck tape. That sort of worked but my Dad didn’t like it. He carefully measured the hole and then, in true Mennonite tradition, fashioned a wooden plug for the hole. It was perfect and even plumbers marveled at how well it worked!
Sewer problems solved. Not so fast! They were only just beginning!
Our sewer started backing up. A neighbor said, “That house had always had sewer problems!”
We tried everything! I dumped more chemicals down the drain than Dupont produces in a year. I am probably, single handily, responsible for the dead zone in the Gulf of Mexico. Oh, some things worked for a while but the problem always came back.
The old fellows I talked to said it was the Moleburg tile. I am not sure that was the name but whatever it was tended to crack and let roots in and that is what clogged up the sewer.
It was roots all right! My neighbor, Charlie Shappell, did something, which turned out to be a routine. About every three months we would have to send a twisting sewer taped through the line. It always came back with a great big ball of roots. Sometimes we had trouble pulling it out because the roots were packed so tight around the tip.
I have to tell you that rooting out a sewer is not a pleasant task for what should be obvious reasons. In our time in that house I bet I did it at least 20 times. I paid to have others do it, too.
Noting seemed to solve the problem. Finally, I dug up the sewer by hand for the first of three times because I couldn’t afford to have it done. I cleaned it as best I could but the roots would always eventually come back.
At last, I thought, I paid the plumbers to come and replace that old pipe with new plastic that was root proof and would solve my problem. It didn’t!
For some strange reason they replaced the entire line to the street except the last three feet before it came into the basement.
The last thing we did as owners of that house was pay to have that last three feet of pipe replaced because, of course, the sewer was plugged and the new owner wanted it fixed.
Shhhhh!!!! We have escaped the sewer curse for now but I am still looking over my shoulder now and then.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
First Aid Classes
I became a first aid trainer in the early seventies. It was probably a mistake but was a natural off shoot of all of my water safety training. First aid was a big part of that training, too.
John Becker and I went to Burlington two nights a week for three weeks to take part in what was called Multi-Media First Aid. It got its name from the sound practice of having the participants view a video, read about the each technique, and then practice the technique. It was a very effective way to learn. We completed the course and were certified to train others.
The Henry County Red Cross bought all of the books and materials to teach the class. It was an Occupational Heath and Safety (OSHA) approved course and was required of all construction businesses that employed more than fours workers and all firemen and police officers. We were in great demand to teach the course!
The draw back to the whole thing was that we were volunteers and could not, because of Red Cross rules, take any payment for teaching the classes. John quit doing it after the first year, but I continued for some reason.
I taught two large groups from the local concrete company. The owner was very appreciative and kept wanting to give me something for doing it. I wanted a patio behind our house. I knew how to do the concrete and had friends who would help. The company provided the cement free of charge and we ended up with a nice large patio. Angie and Heather left their handprints in it near the southeast corner. I am sure they are still there.
I trained the Mt. Pleasant Police Department. That was a nice thing because it is always a good thing to be on good terms with the police. They handled the whole thing very seriously mostly, I think, because they had all been in many situations where they could put the training to good use. They always had valuable tips to share.
I trained some difficult groups of construction workers. They usually didn’t want to be there and didn’t even try to learn the material. There was an exam at the end and it wasn’t unusual to have a few of them fail. Then they were mad because they had to pass it. A couple of times I let them retake the test.
Once one of the course participants was drunk and very disruptive. His foreman was in the class and he made the guy leave during the break and he never came back. I suppose he lost his job but I really don’t know.
I taught a large group of the employees at the Rural Electric Association (REA), the Mental Health Institute (MHI), Metromail, and several other places. It was always interesting and enjoyable. I think I learned a lot during that time.
The most unusual group I taught was the nursing department at Iowa Wesleyan. College. I was really apprehensive about it because I didn’t feel qualified to teach nurses. They were very kind to me and said they really hadn’t had any real training in first aid. I don’t know if that was true or not but they were very nice about it. I learned a great deal from them in the process.
John Becker and I went to Burlington two nights a week for three weeks to take part in what was called Multi-Media First Aid. It got its name from the sound practice of having the participants view a video, read about the each technique, and then practice the technique. It was a very effective way to learn. We completed the course and were certified to train others.
The Henry County Red Cross bought all of the books and materials to teach the class. It was an Occupational Heath and Safety (OSHA) approved course and was required of all construction businesses that employed more than fours workers and all firemen and police officers. We were in great demand to teach the course!
The draw back to the whole thing was that we were volunteers and could not, because of Red Cross rules, take any payment for teaching the classes. John quit doing it after the first year, but I continued for some reason.
I taught two large groups from the local concrete company. The owner was very appreciative and kept wanting to give me something for doing it. I wanted a patio behind our house. I knew how to do the concrete and had friends who would help. The company provided the cement free of charge and we ended up with a nice large patio. Angie and Heather left their handprints in it near the southeast corner. I am sure they are still there.
I trained the Mt. Pleasant Police Department. That was a nice thing because it is always a good thing to be on good terms with the police. They handled the whole thing very seriously mostly, I think, because they had all been in many situations where they could put the training to good use. They always had valuable tips to share.
I trained some difficult groups of construction workers. They usually didn’t want to be there and didn’t even try to learn the material. There was an exam at the end and it wasn’t unusual to have a few of them fail. Then they were mad because they had to pass it. A couple of times I let them retake the test.
Once one of the course participants was drunk and very disruptive. His foreman was in the class and he made the guy leave during the break and he never came back. I suppose he lost his job but I really don’t know.
I taught a large group of the employees at the Rural Electric Association (REA), the Mental Health Institute (MHI), Metromail, and several other places. It was always interesting and enjoyable. I think I learned a lot during that time.
The most unusual group I taught was the nursing department at Iowa Wesleyan. College. I was really apprehensive about it because I didn’t feel qualified to teach nurses. They were very kind to me and said they really hadn’t had any real training in first aid. I don’t know if that was true or not but they were very nice about it. I learned a great deal from them in the process.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Nightcrawlers for Sale II
As time went by we moved the large cooler to the patio and gradually customers got used to the self-service nightcrawler business. That’s when the trouble started! But first let me tell you about the set up.
The cooler sat on the patio just outside thejkl;o back door that led first to an enclosed porch and then into the kitchen. The cooler usually contained several dozen worms in Styrofoam cups, a frozen bottle of water and a cup with some change in it. Buyers would come and take as many dozen as they wanted and leave their payment in the cup. It worked remarkably well for some time.
Once in awhile we might be short a little money but other times there seemed to be extra in the cup. Then we started missing cups of worms. We were amazed that people would steal fishing worms but it was happening. It got worse! Someone started taking all of the worms and money.
I was infuriated! We stopped putting so many worms out in the cooler and were careful to not leave much money there. Still it was continuing. There was another worm seller across the highway and I began to suspect him. He was an ex con who rode around town on a bicycle.
I set up all kinds of elaborate schemes to catch the culprit whoever it was. One involved running a fine thread around the yard and attaching it to a bell in our bedroom window. That would have worked but every dog or cat that went through the back yard set it off. Early one morning I heard the bell jangle and then heard a bicycle in the alley. It didn’t register with me for a minute or two and then it was too late.
Becky and I took turns sitting on the back porch with the lights off and waiting for the thief. Late one night when Becky was sitting there, a thief came across the neighbor’s patio and crept by the back door to the cooler. At that moment Becky turned a flashlight on and shined it in his face. I am not sure who was scared more, Becky or the crook. He turned and ran and Becky came and got me but by the time I got out there he was nowhere to be found.
Another time I was sitting in the dark on the porch and I heard a terrible racket on the neighbor’s patio. Then a stark naked guy came gingerly stepping through our yard. He stopped near our clothesline and turned back towards the neighbors and said, “Larry! Come on!” A second naked guy came through the yard and they both headed off towards the alley. I heard them swearing all the way. I heard them him hit Van Allen’s fence, too.
Then a policeman appeared in our backyard. I went out and told him which way they had went. The boys had been skinny dipping in the pool, which was about a half block away, and had ran when the police came leaving their clothes behind.
One evening, after dark, Becky and I were sitting on the front porch when we saw a figure walking up the street and then cut between our house and the neighbors. Becky went back through the house and I followed the guy to the back of the house. We had him dead to rights! I recognized him right away and he was very surprised. I turned him into the police but I don’t think much ever happened to him for that charge but soon after he was implicated in some other thefts and got in serious trouble.
We got out of the worm business but for a long time after that people would stop at our house and ask if we were still selling worms.
The cooler sat on the patio just outside thejkl;o back door that led first to an enclosed porch and then into the kitchen. The cooler usually contained several dozen worms in Styrofoam cups, a frozen bottle of water and a cup with some change in it. Buyers would come and take as many dozen as they wanted and leave their payment in the cup. It worked remarkably well for some time.
Once in awhile we might be short a little money but other times there seemed to be extra in the cup. Then we started missing cups of worms. We were amazed that people would steal fishing worms but it was happening. It got worse! Someone started taking all of the worms and money.
I was infuriated! We stopped putting so many worms out in the cooler and were careful to not leave much money there. Still it was continuing. There was another worm seller across the highway and I began to suspect him. He was an ex con who rode around town on a bicycle.
I set up all kinds of elaborate schemes to catch the culprit whoever it was. One involved running a fine thread around the yard and attaching it to a bell in our bedroom window. That would have worked but every dog or cat that went through the back yard set it off. Early one morning I heard the bell jangle and then heard a bicycle in the alley. It didn’t register with me for a minute or two and then it was too late.
Becky and I took turns sitting on the back porch with the lights off and waiting for the thief. Late one night when Becky was sitting there, a thief came across the neighbor’s patio and crept by the back door to the cooler. At that moment Becky turned a flashlight on and shined it in his face. I am not sure who was scared more, Becky or the crook. He turned and ran and Becky came and got me but by the time I got out there he was nowhere to be found.
Another time I was sitting in the dark on the porch and I heard a terrible racket on the neighbor’s patio. Then a stark naked guy came gingerly stepping through our yard. He stopped near our clothesline and turned back towards the neighbors and said, “Larry! Come on!” A second naked guy came through the yard and they both headed off towards the alley. I heard them swearing all the way. I heard them him hit Van Allen’s fence, too.
Then a policeman appeared in our backyard. I went out and told him which way they had went. The boys had been skinny dipping in the pool, which was about a half block away, and had ran when the police came leaving their clothes behind.
One evening, after dark, Becky and I were sitting on the front porch when we saw a figure walking up the street and then cut between our house and the neighbors. Becky went back through the house and I followed the guy to the back of the house. We had him dead to rights! I recognized him right away and he was very surprised. I turned him into the police but I don’t think much ever happened to him for that charge but soon after he was implicated in some other thefts and got in serious trouble.
We got out of the worm business but for a long time after that people would stop at our house and ask if we were still selling worms.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Nightcrawlers for Sale
We sold nightcrawlers from our house for several years. Becky really got it all started when she saw how much others were charging for a dozen worms and remembered how easy they were to collect when she was younger. She made a big sign for our front yard, we collected several dozen one evening and we were in business. Well, maybe it’s not all that easy.
Going out once in awhile and hunting nightcrawlers can be fun but when you are doing it almost every night it gets a little tiresome. Fingers actually get soar from grabbing the things. Generally, you drive your thumb and index finger into the ground trying to catch the worm and then hold on until it tires and then slowly pull it out of the ground trying not to break it.
It was a competitive market! We started out selling them for 75 cents a dozen. That forced other sellers to lower their price. As the summer progressed the price went up, as worms were harder to find in the hot weather. Because I had a sales tax permit I could buy worms in bulk form Rose’s Bait Shop in West Burlington. I had to have the permit for my house painting business.
Rose’s actually imported their worms from Canada. They came in Styrofoam cooler like boxes they called lugs. A lug of worms was determined by weight but usually was about 400 worms. Smaller worms meant more worms. We liked that because it meant more profit and a small Canadian worm was still plenty large for a fisherman. Their large worms were huge!
The profit, of course was much better when we were finding our own worms so we tried to do that as often as possible. During the years we sold worms we averaged over $1000 per summer. Not bad for a part time job and nice summer income. We reported the income for sales tax and paid the 3 cents on a dollar to the state. Yes, we also reported it all on our income taxes.
We initially kept the worms in the refrigerator and sold them right out of our front door. Becky quickly grew tired of worms in the refrigerator and we moved them to a large cooler on the back porch. We started directing people to the back door to pick them up.
That worked well! Many fishermen just came down the alley and came to the back door. Sometimes they woke us up early looking for worms. Other times we were gone and lost customers, which we didn’t like. We had some regular customers who asked if we could leave worms out on our patio for them. We put them in a smaller cooler and left a cup in it for payment. That worked well and they always left the money.
As time went by we moved the large cooler to the patio and gradually customers got used to the self-service nightcrawler business. That’s when the trouble started! You can read about that in the next installment.
Going out once in awhile and hunting nightcrawlers can be fun but when you are doing it almost every night it gets a little tiresome. Fingers actually get soar from grabbing the things. Generally, you drive your thumb and index finger into the ground trying to catch the worm and then hold on until it tires and then slowly pull it out of the ground trying not to break it.
It was a competitive market! We started out selling them for 75 cents a dozen. That forced other sellers to lower their price. As the summer progressed the price went up, as worms were harder to find in the hot weather. Because I had a sales tax permit I could buy worms in bulk form Rose’s Bait Shop in West Burlington. I had to have the permit for my house painting business.
Rose’s actually imported their worms from Canada. They came in Styrofoam cooler like boxes they called lugs. A lug of worms was determined by weight but usually was about 400 worms. Smaller worms meant more worms. We liked that because it meant more profit and a small Canadian worm was still plenty large for a fisherman. Their large worms were huge!
The profit, of course was much better when we were finding our own worms so we tried to do that as often as possible. During the years we sold worms we averaged over $1000 per summer. Not bad for a part time job and nice summer income. We reported the income for sales tax and paid the 3 cents on a dollar to the state. Yes, we also reported it all on our income taxes.
We initially kept the worms in the refrigerator and sold them right out of our front door. Becky quickly grew tired of worms in the refrigerator and we moved them to a large cooler on the back porch. We started directing people to the back door to pick them up.
That worked well! Many fishermen just came down the alley and came to the back door. Sometimes they woke us up early looking for worms. Other times we were gone and lost customers, which we didn’t like. We had some regular customers who asked if we could leave worms out on our patio for them. We put them in a smaller cooler and left a cup in it for payment. That worked well and they always left the money.
As time went by we moved the large cooler to the patio and gradually customers got used to the self-service nightcrawler business. That’s when the trouble started! You can read about that in the next installment.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Church Youth Trips
Becky and I went on lots of church youth trips during the seventies. We were a young couple involved in the church and so we got asked often to be part of youth activities. We were even the youth group’s leaders for a few years. We also did youth Sunday school several times. But, the big thing was the trips.
One of the first trips we went on was the youth ski trip to Mt. LaCrosse near La Crosse, Wisconsin. We did know much about leading a group of kids and we knew nothing about skiing but we went anyway. It’s not really a mountain but a big hill.
We started out on the bunny hill and did Ok. They had a rope tow to the top of the big hill so that was the next challenge. It was a long not so steep hill. We went up and came straight down and then up and down again. We could go straight but didn’t know how to turn. After awhile it wasn’t too exciting.
Becky crashed on the hill behind me and was twisted in a painful position. She was unable to move and screamed for my help. Now, the only way I knew to go up hill when skiing was the rope tow but that wasn’t an option. I ended up crawling about 20 yards up the hill to get to her. She had twisted a knee so her skiing was over for the day. Her swollen knee made the long trip home a painful trip.
We took a weeklong trip with the youth group one summer. We took the girls with us on this one. We went to a Presbyterian Camp for a week’s work cleaning and repairing the camp for the camping season. From there we went to Minneapolis we stayed in a church basement. While there we toured an inner city refuge and the group went to a play at the Guthrie Theater. I didn’t get to go because someone needed to stay back at the church and watch Heather.
We made about six trips to Dubuque with church kids. We went there with the confirmation group and visited New Mallory Abby and a Greek Orthodox Church. We stayed all night in the Catholic Seminary and enjoyed having breakfast with the cloistered monks.
Several times while in Dubuque we went skiing at Sundown. It was a better slope than Mt. LaCrosse and offered several routes and challenges. It also had lift chairs that we liked much better than the towropes. We got better and better at it as we continued to go.
Becky perfected several acrobatic moves. More than once after one of the spectacular tumbles I thought surely she was seriously hurt, or worse only to find her giddy with joy. Fortunately, neither us were ever hurt seriously and none of the kids were a problem. We did get a little tired of sleeping on the hard floor of a church.
One of the first trips we went on was the youth ski trip to Mt. LaCrosse near La Crosse, Wisconsin. We did know much about leading a group of kids and we knew nothing about skiing but we went anyway. It’s not really a mountain but a big hill.
We started out on the bunny hill and did Ok. They had a rope tow to the top of the big hill so that was the next challenge. It was a long not so steep hill. We went up and came straight down and then up and down again. We could go straight but didn’t know how to turn. After awhile it wasn’t too exciting.
Becky crashed on the hill behind me and was twisted in a painful position. She was unable to move and screamed for my help. Now, the only way I knew to go up hill when skiing was the rope tow but that wasn’t an option. I ended up crawling about 20 yards up the hill to get to her. She had twisted a knee so her skiing was over for the day. Her swollen knee made the long trip home a painful trip.
We took a weeklong trip with the youth group one summer. We took the girls with us on this one. We went to a Presbyterian Camp for a week’s work cleaning and repairing the camp for the camping season. From there we went to Minneapolis we stayed in a church basement. While there we toured an inner city refuge and the group went to a play at the Guthrie Theater. I didn’t get to go because someone needed to stay back at the church and watch Heather.
We made about six trips to Dubuque with church kids. We went there with the confirmation group and visited New Mallory Abby and a Greek Orthodox Church. We stayed all night in the Catholic Seminary and enjoyed having breakfast with the cloistered monks.
Several times while in Dubuque we went skiing at Sundown. It was a better slope than Mt. LaCrosse and offered several routes and challenges. It also had lift chairs that we liked much better than the towropes. We got better and better at it as we continued to go.
Becky perfected several acrobatic moves. More than once after one of the spectacular tumbles I thought surely she was seriously hurt, or worse only to find her giddy with joy. Fortunately, neither us were ever hurt seriously and none of the kids were a problem. We did get a little tired of sleeping on the hard floor of a church.
Monday, July 16, 2007
The Legend of the Camelback Lure
The Legend of the Camelback Lure
My Grandpa Perry was a great fisherman and he often fished with his brother-in-law, Louis Van Doren. I remember Grandpa being a big fellow who had a full head of hair, seldom wore a hat, and always had a smile on his face. Uncle Lew was a small thin man who often wore a straw fedora and always had a toothpick in his mouth. They fished for catfish, carp, bass, bluegill, and about anything else that swam in the rivers and streams around the family farm in Henry County.
Uncle Lew was always interested in the best fishing techniques and read magazines and many books about it. He experimented with baits like Grandpa’s Gooey Catfish Bait and the anise dough ball for carp. He was always looking for the perfect bait.
I am not sure if he ever found it but he did find the perfect lure, or rather, he made it. There wasn’t much he couldn’t make out of wood. Lew had seen lures advertised in magazines but in the 1930s had no money to spend on them so he started fabricating his own out of wood and other available components. He once told me the first few looked good but didn’t perform right in the water. After much experimentation he came across the perfect design.
The lure, made of wood and leather, behaved just like a fish when you drug it through the water. That behavior is what many commercial lure makers struggle to create. It is not as easy to achieve as you might imagine.
The lure was in two segments, the body and the tail, attached together with a thin strip of cowhide. It was about five inches long, had two treble hooks and was in its day, a real beauty. He called it the Camelback lure cause it sort resembled the back of a camel. I only saw it once. When I was about eight years old Lew got it out to show me.
He kept it in a small cigar box with some of his other homemade lures. I remember holding it in my hand and then he put it back in the box. He even had an old newspaper article about it folded up in that box. He said it was a big mistake to do the interview for the article because it just drew more attention to it. I never saw the article or the lure again but he often told stories about all the fish he caught.
Lew said he ended up making about 5 more just like it for friends and Grandpa. He said they were all amazing but none worked quite as well as the original. He attributed that to one slight difference that he would not divulge.
The unbelievable thing is that the lure never failed to catch a fish. That’s right! With every cast or troll it caught a fish. Unbelievable? Yes, but it is the truth or that is at least what my Grandpa and Uncle Lew said. Being Quakers I don’t think either one would ever tell a lie.
That lure seemed to work on almost any kind of fish. It was irresistible. Bass, carp, bluegill, catfish and even walleyes and northerns went for it. Word spread pretty fast about that lure and when folks saw Lew fishing somewhere they would gather around and watch in amazement! Grandpa Perry talked up the lure every time he got a chance. It got to be so bad that Lew would wear a disguise when he fished but people soon figured that out and flocked around.
That and the fact that fishing trips got much shorter because it only took a few casts to catch his limit caused Uncle Lew to put that lure in semi retirement. Besides that he said it took the fun and challenge out of fishing. He only used it when he had a big fish fry coming up.
I have always wondered what happened to those lures? Uncle Lew died in the sixties and Grandpa in 1972. I don’t remember seeing them in the things they left behind. Years later, I met an old fisherman fishing at Oakland Mills. When I told him my name he said, “You Perry Mendenhall’s grandson?” Of course I said “yes” and he started talking about that lure. He had seen Lew use it many times and Grandpa use his, too.
The old fella swore it was all true and claimed he had one of the replicas for a time, too, but lost it years ago catching a huge catfish in the very spot he was sitting at that moment. Believing catfish can live to be 50-60 years old he was hoping to catch that fish again and get his lure back. I don’t know if he ever did?
I have asked members of my family about the Camelback lure but no one seems to know what became of it. Oh, they all remember it, but each one describes it slightly differently. I do remember what it looked like because I saw it. I sure wish I had it now!
All fishing stories are true and some of them really happened.
My Grandpa Perry was a great fisherman and he often fished with his brother-in-law, Louis Van Doren. I remember Grandpa being a big fellow who had a full head of hair, seldom wore a hat, and always had a smile on his face. Uncle Lew was a small thin man who often wore a straw fedora and always had a toothpick in his mouth. They fished for catfish, carp, bass, bluegill, and about anything else that swam in the rivers and streams around the family farm in Henry County.
Uncle Lew was always interested in the best fishing techniques and read magazines and many books about it. He experimented with baits like Grandpa’s Gooey Catfish Bait and the anise dough ball for carp. He was always looking for the perfect bait.
I am not sure if he ever found it but he did find the perfect lure, or rather, he made it. There wasn’t much he couldn’t make out of wood. Lew had seen lures advertised in magazines but in the 1930s had no money to spend on them so he started fabricating his own out of wood and other available components. He once told me the first few looked good but didn’t perform right in the water. After much experimentation he came across the perfect design.
The lure, made of wood and leather, behaved just like a fish when you drug it through the water. That behavior is what many commercial lure makers struggle to create. It is not as easy to achieve as you might imagine.
The lure was in two segments, the body and the tail, attached together with a thin strip of cowhide. It was about five inches long, had two treble hooks and was in its day, a real beauty. He called it the Camelback lure cause it sort resembled the back of a camel. I only saw it once. When I was about eight years old Lew got it out to show me.
He kept it in a small cigar box with some of his other homemade lures. I remember holding it in my hand and then he put it back in the box. He even had an old newspaper article about it folded up in that box. He said it was a big mistake to do the interview for the article because it just drew more attention to it. I never saw the article or the lure again but he often told stories about all the fish he caught.
Lew said he ended up making about 5 more just like it for friends and Grandpa. He said they were all amazing but none worked quite as well as the original. He attributed that to one slight difference that he would not divulge.
The unbelievable thing is that the lure never failed to catch a fish. That’s right! With every cast or troll it caught a fish. Unbelievable? Yes, but it is the truth or that is at least what my Grandpa and Uncle Lew said. Being Quakers I don’t think either one would ever tell a lie.
That lure seemed to work on almost any kind of fish. It was irresistible. Bass, carp, bluegill, catfish and even walleyes and northerns went for it. Word spread pretty fast about that lure and when folks saw Lew fishing somewhere they would gather around and watch in amazement! Grandpa Perry talked up the lure every time he got a chance. It got to be so bad that Lew would wear a disguise when he fished but people soon figured that out and flocked around.
That and the fact that fishing trips got much shorter because it only took a few casts to catch his limit caused Uncle Lew to put that lure in semi retirement. Besides that he said it took the fun and challenge out of fishing. He only used it when he had a big fish fry coming up.
I have always wondered what happened to those lures? Uncle Lew died in the sixties and Grandpa in 1972. I don’t remember seeing them in the things they left behind. Years later, I met an old fisherman fishing at Oakland Mills. When I told him my name he said, “You Perry Mendenhall’s grandson?” Of course I said “yes” and he started talking about that lure. He had seen Lew use it many times and Grandpa use his, too.
The old fella swore it was all true and claimed he had one of the replicas for a time, too, but lost it years ago catching a huge catfish in the very spot he was sitting at that moment. Believing catfish can live to be 50-60 years old he was hoping to catch that fish again and get his lure back. I don’t know if he ever did?
I have asked members of my family about the Camelback lure but no one seems to know what became of it. Oh, they all remember it, but each one describes it slightly differently. I do remember what it looked like because I saw it. I sure wish I had it now!
All fishing stories are true and some of them really happened.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Colorblind House Painter
There are jokes about colorblind house painters. That made it tough for me! I usually tried not to slip and tell a customer I was colorblind. I painted houses for several summers in the 1970s. I liked it because I was outside and could work when I wanted to.
The first summer I painted a house on White Street up near the railroad tracks. A friend wanted to work with me so I let him join in. He had a truck and a ladder so that worked well. We did a couple houses and split the money.
The next year he wanted to go on his own. He thought he could make more money on his own. I was a little disappointed but decided to go ahead on my own. I used car top racks and borrowed my Dad’s ladder.
I learned a lot about house painting. I learned how to calculate how much paint would be needed for a job. It is all based on the number of square feet that need to be covered. Other things like the absorbency of the surface or the number of coats that are being applied have to be considered.
I always let the customer choose the color and kind of paint they wanted and I even preferred that they purchase it directly from the store if possible. I just told them how much to get and I was usually pretty accurate. I preferred the more expensive paints because they seemed to spread easier.
Houses first had to be prepared for the paint. Sometimes that meant hours of scraping. I discovered that on many houses you could scrape for days and not seem to make any progress. The process of scraping took of the loose paint but also loosened up other spots. The more you scraped the more was loosened up and soon you realize you have to stop doing that or you will be scraping until all of the paint is off the house.
It was sometimes hard to find a safe place to put the ladder on a house. Siding was sometimes soft or rotten. I did break one pane of a second story window when I got the ladder too close. I was able to repair it quickly.
I painted some pretty high places including the bell tower on the First Presbyterian Church. That was kind of scary! A crane was used to lift a painting platform up next to the tower and we painted from there.
I painted high places on many houses, too. Sometimes I had to stretch as far as I could to cover all of the spots. It was very scary at times. I fell only once and it was down the ladder and I caught myself before I got to the ground. I was very sore for a while but not seriously injured.
I think I was a good painter and had several satisfied customers even though I am colorblind. I just tried to make sure I covered every spot with the paint. Usually, it was white on white so it wasn’t much of a problem.
The first summer I painted a house on White Street up near the railroad tracks. A friend wanted to work with me so I let him join in. He had a truck and a ladder so that worked well. We did a couple houses and split the money.
The next year he wanted to go on his own. He thought he could make more money on his own. I was a little disappointed but decided to go ahead on my own. I used car top racks and borrowed my Dad’s ladder.
I learned a lot about house painting. I learned how to calculate how much paint would be needed for a job. It is all based on the number of square feet that need to be covered. Other things like the absorbency of the surface or the number of coats that are being applied have to be considered.
I always let the customer choose the color and kind of paint they wanted and I even preferred that they purchase it directly from the store if possible. I just told them how much to get and I was usually pretty accurate. I preferred the more expensive paints because they seemed to spread easier.
Houses first had to be prepared for the paint. Sometimes that meant hours of scraping. I discovered that on many houses you could scrape for days and not seem to make any progress. The process of scraping took of the loose paint but also loosened up other spots. The more you scraped the more was loosened up and soon you realize you have to stop doing that or you will be scraping until all of the paint is off the house.
It was sometimes hard to find a safe place to put the ladder on a house. Siding was sometimes soft or rotten. I did break one pane of a second story window when I got the ladder too close. I was able to repair it quickly.
I painted some pretty high places including the bell tower on the First Presbyterian Church. That was kind of scary! A crane was used to lift a painting platform up next to the tower and we painted from there.
I painted high places on many houses, too. Sometimes I had to stretch as far as I could to cover all of the spots. It was very scary at times. I fell only once and it was down the ladder and I caught myself before I got to the ground. I was very sore for a while but not seriously injured.
I think I was a good painter and had several satisfied customers even though I am colorblind. I just tried to make sure I covered every spot with the paint. Usually, it was white on white so it wasn’t much of a problem.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Construction Worker
I worked one summer as a construction worker. My cousin, Melvin Smith, owned a construction business and offered me a job. I found out later that he didn’t think I would last more than one day at it and most of the crew felt the same way. In fact, they took bets on whether I would show up the second day.
That first day was a tough one but I honestly never even considered quitting. We were working on digging a basement under an existing house in Trenton. All the work that could be done with heavy equipment had been done and we were now doing the last of it by hand with shovels and wheelbarrows. We filled the wheelbarrows with dirt and then pushed them up a ramp and out of the hole. It was heavy, hard, dirty work.
There were sarcastic comments about schoolteachers that I didn’t pay much attention to. Thinking back on it I think they were going to show this soft kid a lesson or two about hard work. They did but I showed them a thing or two, too.
By the time we broke for lunch I was worn out. They hadn’t told me that I was supposed to bring my own lunch. One of the kinder older guys gave me part of his sandwich but I mostly just rested. We only got a half an hour and then we were back at it. The same badgering went on all afternoon. I was really happy when four o’clock came!
The next morning I showed up at the lumberyard early and ready to go to work. Someone said, “The schoolteacher came back!” The second day wasn’t much easier but the badgering tapered off as they got to know me. I worked side by side with them the rest of the week and was finally one of them. Aside from the occasional sarcastic remark about what an easy job teachers have there wasn’t much that made me feel like I was picked on. Soon they were making similar comments about each other.
One guy did tell me that if it weren’t for construction workers I wouldn’t have a job because there would be no schools. I didn’t comment much and let the conversation move forward.
They did try to trip me up with the old construction worker gags like telling me to go get the henweigh out of the truck, hoping I’d ask, ”What’s a henweigh? Of course, the answer is about 5 pounds. They also tried to send me back into the lumberyard to pick up a piecost. I didn’t fall for that one either.
I actually grew to love the work! We were outside all day and I liked that. Also, there was absolutely no stress. I didn’t have to make any decisions. I just did what I was told and went home at the end of the day and didn’t think about it again until the next morning. It was also gratifying to see visible results of the day’s work.
That first day was a tough one but I honestly never even considered quitting. We were working on digging a basement under an existing house in Trenton. All the work that could be done with heavy equipment had been done and we were now doing the last of it by hand with shovels and wheelbarrows. We filled the wheelbarrows with dirt and then pushed them up a ramp and out of the hole. It was heavy, hard, dirty work.
There were sarcastic comments about schoolteachers that I didn’t pay much attention to. Thinking back on it I think they were going to show this soft kid a lesson or two about hard work. They did but I showed them a thing or two, too.
By the time we broke for lunch I was worn out. They hadn’t told me that I was supposed to bring my own lunch. One of the kinder older guys gave me part of his sandwich but I mostly just rested. We only got a half an hour and then we were back at it. The same badgering went on all afternoon. I was really happy when four o’clock came!
The next morning I showed up at the lumberyard early and ready to go to work. Someone said, “The schoolteacher came back!” The second day wasn’t much easier but the badgering tapered off as they got to know me. I worked side by side with them the rest of the week and was finally one of them. Aside from the occasional sarcastic remark about what an easy job teachers have there wasn’t much that made me feel like I was picked on. Soon they were making similar comments about each other.
One guy did tell me that if it weren’t for construction workers I wouldn’t have a job because there would be no schools. I didn’t comment much and let the conversation move forward.
They did try to trip me up with the old construction worker gags like telling me to go get the henweigh out of the truck, hoping I’d ask, ”What’s a henweigh? Of course, the answer is about 5 pounds. They also tried to send me back into the lumberyard to pick up a piecost. I didn’t fall for that one either.
I actually grew to love the work! We were outside all day and I liked that. Also, there was absolutely no stress. I didn’t have to make any decisions. I just did what I was told and went home at the end of the day and didn’t think about it again until the next morning. It was also gratifying to see visible results of the day’s work.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Tower School
I worked as an educational consultant for two years at Tower School. It was on the top floor or the Mental Health Institute and thus the name. I liked being able to say I was an educational consultant. I worked two nights a week for about two hours each.
The truth is I was a tutor along with several others and worked with kids from the children’s unit at the hospital. We worked mostly on reading and had one or two kids for each of the two hours. Many were very needy and all had serious mental health issues. While I was fascinated with many of their stories I was also saddened by their misfortune.
All of them attended a day school at the institute and this program was designed to supplement it. The day program had a principal and this tutor program was lead by a professor from Iowa Wesleyan College. The two guys didn’t see eye to eye and their dislike for each other spilled into the evening program. The guy in charge of the evening program had a Ph. D. and insisted on being called doctor. I didn’t mind doing that but thought he was rather arrogant in insisting on it.
The night principal had a routine he expected everyone to follow. At the end of your session with a child he wanted you to parade the child before him. Then he proceeded to interrogate the kid about what they knew. Most were quite intimidated by the ritual and would beg to avoid it if they could. I sympathized with them and never quite got the point of the activity. I think it was more about authority and control than anything else.
Overtime we did build relationships with the kids we worked with. I remember one boy being so excited that he was getting a home visit over the weekend and would get to see his father. That weekend he went to the basement and got a rifle and went upstairs and killed his father and then went back to the basement and shot himself. We were, of course, shocked!
Another time when I was tutoring a student he was sitting in an old fashioned chair with the writing surface that was part of the arm of the chair. As we were talking he slowly slid out of chair and on to the floor. He started chewing on the arm of the chair and too my amazement was taking large chunks of wood off with each bite.
One of the boys, a teenager, was brilliant! He had an incredible memory and could tell you who won the World Series for whatever year you choose and all the details of each game. He was incredibly bright and from a wealthy family on the west coast. How he ended up in Mt. Pleasant, Iowa I don’t know. He left before the year was over and went back to be with his family. I don’t know why he was there in the first place?
Other than the above and a few other isolated incidents the kids were a lot like any other kids you might encounter.
The truth is I was a tutor along with several others and worked with kids from the children’s unit at the hospital. We worked mostly on reading and had one or two kids for each of the two hours. Many were very needy and all had serious mental health issues. While I was fascinated with many of their stories I was also saddened by their misfortune.
All of them attended a day school at the institute and this program was designed to supplement it. The day program had a principal and this tutor program was lead by a professor from Iowa Wesleyan College. The two guys didn’t see eye to eye and their dislike for each other spilled into the evening program. The guy in charge of the evening program had a Ph. D. and insisted on being called doctor. I didn’t mind doing that but thought he was rather arrogant in insisting on it.
The night principal had a routine he expected everyone to follow. At the end of your session with a child he wanted you to parade the child before him. Then he proceeded to interrogate the kid about what they knew. Most were quite intimidated by the ritual and would beg to avoid it if they could. I sympathized with them and never quite got the point of the activity. I think it was more about authority and control than anything else.
Overtime we did build relationships with the kids we worked with. I remember one boy being so excited that he was getting a home visit over the weekend and would get to see his father. That weekend he went to the basement and got a rifle and went upstairs and killed his father and then went back to the basement and shot himself. We were, of course, shocked!
Another time when I was tutoring a student he was sitting in an old fashioned chair with the writing surface that was part of the arm of the chair. As we were talking he slowly slid out of chair and on to the floor. He started chewing on the arm of the chair and too my amazement was taking large chunks of wood off with each bite.
One of the boys, a teenager, was brilliant! He had an incredible memory and could tell you who won the World Series for whatever year you choose and all the details of each game. He was incredibly bright and from a wealthy family on the west coast. How he ended up in Mt. Pleasant, Iowa I don’t know. He left before the year was over and went back to be with his family. I don’t know why he was there in the first place?
Other than the above and a few other isolated incidents the kids were a lot like any other kids you might encounter.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Angie's Fish
I have always loved fishing and many times Becky went along with me. When the girls we young they went along, too. Sometimes when Heather was really small we even packed up her playpen and took it along with us.
One of my favorite pond fishing spots was on Marcia and Dale Commack’s farm. I got to know Marcia because she taught special education in the classroom next to mine at Saunders. Marcia and I were pioneers in a sense because we started mainstreaming special education to my regular education classroom in 1971. It is now quite common and is called inclusion.
Dale and Marcia lived on a farm east of Salem. I had an open invitation from them to fish there anytime I wanted. I took my Dad out there several times and also a few friends. The Cammacks actually had two ponds. One was nearer the house and the other, a catfish pond, was out a ways across a field and a small rise.
One day we took Angie and Heather and went fishing there. Ron and Marcia Marshall went along with us. Angie was about 5 years old and Heather was just an infant. We put Heather in the playpen and Becky, Angie, and I along with the Marshalls, started fishing. The front pond was a great bluegill pond and we caught several very nice ones.
Angie was set up with a pole and bobber and caught several bluegills. All of a sudden she had another fish and started yelling at me to come and help her. I told her to just reel it in like she had done with the others but she said it was pulling too hard. I encouraged her to pull harder and she said she couldn’t do it. At last I realized she did have a big fish and went to help her. I held on to the pole with one hand while she reeled in a huge bass. We were all thrilled!
I fished at that pond many times. I made the mistake of taking a few friends out there. The pattern was to always stop at the house on the way in and on the way out to show the Cammacks what we had caught. I always introduced the friends to the Cammacks.
After taking two guys out there one evening they went back three evenings in a row without telling me and their boldness irritated the Cammacks and me. They said I could continue to fish but didn’t want anyone going out there if they weren’t with me. My unscrupulous friends almost ruined the whole thing for me.
I continued to fish at that pond for several years but never took anyone else but my father or my immediate family along with me.
One of my favorite pond fishing spots was on Marcia and Dale Commack’s farm. I got to know Marcia because she taught special education in the classroom next to mine at Saunders. Marcia and I were pioneers in a sense because we started mainstreaming special education to my regular education classroom in 1971. It is now quite common and is called inclusion.
Dale and Marcia lived on a farm east of Salem. I had an open invitation from them to fish there anytime I wanted. I took my Dad out there several times and also a few friends. The Cammacks actually had two ponds. One was nearer the house and the other, a catfish pond, was out a ways across a field and a small rise.
One day we took Angie and Heather and went fishing there. Ron and Marcia Marshall went along with us. Angie was about 5 years old and Heather was just an infant. We put Heather in the playpen and Becky, Angie, and I along with the Marshalls, started fishing. The front pond was a great bluegill pond and we caught several very nice ones.
Angie was set up with a pole and bobber and caught several bluegills. All of a sudden she had another fish and started yelling at me to come and help her. I told her to just reel it in like she had done with the others but she said it was pulling too hard. I encouraged her to pull harder and she said she couldn’t do it. At last I realized she did have a big fish and went to help her. I held on to the pole with one hand while she reeled in a huge bass. We were all thrilled!
I fished at that pond many times. I made the mistake of taking a few friends out there. The pattern was to always stop at the house on the way in and on the way out to show the Cammacks what we had caught. I always introduced the friends to the Cammacks.
After taking two guys out there one evening they went back three evenings in a row without telling me and their boldness irritated the Cammacks and me. They said I could continue to fish but didn’t want anyone going out there if they weren’t with me. My unscrupulous friends almost ruined the whole thing for me.
I continued to fish at that pond for several years but never took anyone else but my father or my immediate family along with me.
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