I remember several silly rhymes from my childhood. I know there are more, but these are the only ones I remember for now. If you have a silly rhyme from your childhood, I would appreciate the opportunity to read it.
Number of days in a month:
.....Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November.
.....All the rest have thirty-one
.....Save February, which has twenty-eight
.....And in Leap Year twenty-nine
Somehow and sometime in my childhood it got changed to:
.....Thirty days hath Septober, April, June, and No wonder
.....All the rest have peanut butter
.....Except my grandmother,
.....And she drives a Buick.
Every Spring we recited:
.....Spring is sprung. The grass is riz.
.....I wonder where all the posies is.
In late May or early June everyone happily said:
.....School's out. School's out.
.....Teacher left the bulls out.
It was often accompanied by:
.....No more paper, no more books,
.....No more teacher's dirty looks.
Often heard on April second:
.....April Fool's day is past
.....And you're the biggest fool at last.
Boys trying to impress the girls often said:
.....Roses are red, violets are blue.
.....Sugar is sweet, and so are you.
That came out of many mouth's as:
.....Roses are red, violets are purple.
.....You're as sweet as maple syruple.
Again, if you have any silly rhymes, let me know.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Friday, January 29, 2010
WINTER GAMES WE PLAYED
WINTER GAMES WE PLAYED
Sledding was a big deal any time there was enough snow, and there seemed to be enough snow frequently when I was growing up. Maybe I just remember big, but we did have lots of fun sled riding. The road in front of our house wound around a corner and up the hill with very few houses along it past our house. Cars were infrequent users of the road. It almost seemed like the road was made for sledding in the winter. The two techniques for riding a sled were (1) sitting up and steering with your feet, and (2) lying down and steering with your hands. It was always more exciting to lie down, but because your head was in front, it could be nastier if you crashed.
At the bottom of the hill the road made a sharp right-hand turn, and rides often ended when the rider didn't successfully navigate that turn. It was always more exciting and fun when it was difficult to make that turn. An unsuccessful attempt at that turn usually meant either running headlong into the snow bank or rolling over into the snow bank with the sled on top.
One year, someone made a sledding trail on Dave Lohr's hill across from the school. They had done such a good job that we usually became airborne part way down. The challenge was to regain control of the sled and make it through the gate between the fence posts at a right hand turn at the bottom. Not everybody made it, but no one was seriously injured. When I look at that field now, there is a house sitting at the aerial launch point of that trail.
If there was no snow, we could usually find an icy patch where we could slide on your feet. Running up to the icy patch and setting our feet to slide just as we entered it was important, but the more important skill was the ability to start running again when the ice ran out. If we couldn't successfully pick up the run, we were certain to fall, sometimes painfully. If I couldn't find an icy patch, I was known to put several boards together in our yard and run water over them to make my own icy patch. It worked, but it wasn't quite the same.
One year, after snow and thaw, and rain and freeze, and more snow and thaw, the ramp up to the upper playground at the Stoystown school became very icy and slippery. Unfortunately, by the time we got there at lunch time, it had warmed up some, and the ice was pretty wet. It didn't stop us; it just made us wet. Sliding down that ramp, which was probably fifty feet long, was done on the posterior. By the time lunch was over, many of us returned to the classroom with smiles, but with soaked trousers. It was cold sitting through the afternoon classes. Our teacher reminded us that, while the sliding may have been fun, it wasn't particularly smart. I'm sure most of us caught cold from that sliding experience. I know my mother was not happy with me when I got home.
Who didn't get into a snowball fight? If there was enough snow to cover the ground, there was enough snow to make snowballs. Of course the wet snow made better snowballs that did the snow of colder days when it was a “dry” snow. (Sort of sounds like the “dry” heat in Arizona.) Nothing was more disheartening than a snowball that flew apart before it got to the intended target. If you packed the wet snowballs long and hard enough they became almost ice. Those really hurt when they hit. We were always going to make snow forts and have monumental snowball fights, but, invariably, someone wasn't patient enough, and started throwing before the forts were completed. Of course, it then deteriorated into a snowball free-for-all. Anybody was a likely target.
Riding bicycles was a challenge during snowy weather, but it was a challenge we periodically accepted. It was hard to pedal the bike through fresh snow, although it did leave really cool tire marks. The bicycling was better after the snow had been worn down, the road had been plowed, and cars had made the surface slick. Keeping your balance was an exciting and interesting challenge. I know I had several bicycles over the years that had dents from falls on snowy roads.
When we became of drivng age, new winter sports appeared. Plowing through snow drifts on back roads was always a thrill. We had to carry a shovel or two in the car because we didn't always successfully get through the drift. Since then I've thought that we were really fortunate not to come across someone else plowing through a snow drift from the other side, or even to come across another car caught in the snow drift. One memorable day we got on skis, hooked a rope to the back of a jeep, and skied across the fields on a friend's farm. We were smart enough to let go of the rope if we lost our balance, but I guess that wasn't the most intelligent thing we ever did, either.
As teenagers, we also did some ice skating, on ponds, on Stonycreek, and even on the roads when the snow plows didn't get down to the road surface. I still have the skates I used then.
Now that I am older and live in Arizona, I sometimes think about the fun we had in the snow, and wish I was back there. But then, I realize that I wouldn't do those things now anyhow, and would probably get angry if I got stuck in the snow.
Sledding was a big deal any time there was enough snow, and there seemed to be enough snow frequently when I was growing up. Maybe I just remember big, but we did have lots of fun sled riding. The road in front of our house wound around a corner and up the hill with very few houses along it past our house. Cars were infrequent users of the road. It almost seemed like the road was made for sledding in the winter. The two techniques for riding a sled were (1) sitting up and steering with your feet, and (2) lying down and steering with your hands. It was always more exciting to lie down, but because your head was in front, it could be nastier if you crashed.
At the bottom of the hill the road made a sharp right-hand turn, and rides often ended when the rider didn't successfully navigate that turn. It was always more exciting and fun when it was difficult to make that turn. An unsuccessful attempt at that turn usually meant either running headlong into the snow bank or rolling over into the snow bank with the sled on top.
One year, someone made a sledding trail on Dave Lohr's hill across from the school. They had done such a good job that we usually became airborne part way down. The challenge was to regain control of the sled and make it through the gate between the fence posts at a right hand turn at the bottom. Not everybody made it, but no one was seriously injured. When I look at that field now, there is a house sitting at the aerial launch point of that trail.
If there was no snow, we could usually find an icy patch where we could slide on your feet. Running up to the icy patch and setting our feet to slide just as we entered it was important, but the more important skill was the ability to start running again when the ice ran out. If we couldn't successfully pick up the run, we were certain to fall, sometimes painfully. If I couldn't find an icy patch, I was known to put several boards together in our yard and run water over them to make my own icy patch. It worked, but it wasn't quite the same.
One year, after snow and thaw, and rain and freeze, and more snow and thaw, the ramp up to the upper playground at the Stoystown school became very icy and slippery. Unfortunately, by the time we got there at lunch time, it had warmed up some, and the ice was pretty wet. It didn't stop us; it just made us wet. Sliding down that ramp, which was probably fifty feet long, was done on the posterior. By the time lunch was over, many of us returned to the classroom with smiles, but with soaked trousers. It was cold sitting through the afternoon classes. Our teacher reminded us that, while the sliding may have been fun, it wasn't particularly smart. I'm sure most of us caught cold from that sliding experience. I know my mother was not happy with me when I got home.
Who didn't get into a snowball fight? If there was enough snow to cover the ground, there was enough snow to make snowballs. Of course the wet snow made better snowballs that did the snow of colder days when it was a “dry” snow. (Sort of sounds like the “dry” heat in Arizona.) Nothing was more disheartening than a snowball that flew apart before it got to the intended target. If you packed the wet snowballs long and hard enough they became almost ice. Those really hurt when they hit. We were always going to make snow forts and have monumental snowball fights, but, invariably, someone wasn't patient enough, and started throwing before the forts were completed. Of course, it then deteriorated into a snowball free-for-all. Anybody was a likely target.
Riding bicycles was a challenge during snowy weather, but it was a challenge we periodically accepted. It was hard to pedal the bike through fresh snow, although it did leave really cool tire marks. The bicycling was better after the snow had been worn down, the road had been plowed, and cars had made the surface slick. Keeping your balance was an exciting and interesting challenge. I know I had several bicycles over the years that had dents from falls on snowy roads.
When we became of drivng age, new winter sports appeared. Plowing through snow drifts on back roads was always a thrill. We had to carry a shovel or two in the car because we didn't always successfully get through the drift. Since then I've thought that we were really fortunate not to come across someone else plowing through a snow drift from the other side, or even to come across another car caught in the snow drift. One memorable day we got on skis, hooked a rope to the back of a jeep, and skied across the fields on a friend's farm. We were smart enough to let go of the rope if we lost our balance, but I guess that wasn't the most intelligent thing we ever did, either.
As teenagers, we also did some ice skating, on ponds, on Stonycreek, and even on the roads when the snow plows didn't get down to the road surface. I still have the skates I used then.
Now that I am older and live in Arizona, I sometimes think about the fun we had in the snow, and wish I was back there. But then, I realize that I wouldn't do those things now anyhow, and would probably get angry if I got stuck in the snow.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
GAMES WE PLAYED
GAMES WE PLAYED
No, I'm not old enough to have played “kick the can,” although we did kick almost anything we found. In the small town where I grew up all the kids knew each other because the total population of the town was 200. I know it was 200 because I sat down and counted them one day when I didn't have anything else to do. We all knew each other, but we didn't necessarily all like each other. I do remember the day, in our teen years, when an incident lasting only a few seconds resulted in split knuckles for one guy and missing front teeth for another. That wasn't the norm – we usually got along well even if we were competitive.
You could play tag even if you had only three people. Well, you really could do it with two people, but you had to rule out tag-backs. There were few, if any, fences in Kantner, so we roamed across and through many yards. There were some that we did stay out of, however, mainly because no kids lived there, but also out of respect. No one really wanted to disturb Mrs. _________ when she was napping in her chair on her front porch. (That's what the older people did – they sat on their front porches and watched the world go by – or napped.) Come to think of it, that might be fun about now, sitting on the front porch of a home in a small town watching the sights and listening to the sounds of life.
TAG – a great game. No equipment required and in a town with lots of houses, garages, shops, and other out-buildings, it was FUN. Although we all ran at different speeds, you could always catch someone, perhaps someone who was too sure of his speed and didn't anticipate just when you were going to charge. It was important to be able to feign extreme tiredness in order to lure the “speedy ones” close and then spring at the opportune moment.
“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, Here I come, ready or not. All 'round my base are caught.” The numerous buildings made HIDE AND GO SEEK extremely enjoyable. There were lots of places to hide, but you had to keep the person who was “it” in sight so he didn't sneak up on you while you were looking around another corner of a building. Sometimes the person who was “it” would hide someplace close to the base in hopes of convincing someone that he wasn't around. Then while someone was sauntering towards the base, the “it” person would jump out and tag the saunterer. Finding an extremely good hiding place worked one of two ways. 1. It got boring because no one got close to finding you. 2. It got exciting because people searched within sight of the hider and still didn't see him. What a joy it was to be so well hidden that everybody had to search for you and still didn't find you until you stepped out and cried “Boo!”
STRAWBERRY DROP was a little different. While the “it” person counted to ten, people moved away from him but didn't necessarily hide. At the count of “ten” everyone stopped and dropped to the ground. “It”, keeping his eyes closed (or blindfolded), began searching for people. When he found someone, he had to identify the person. If he was wrong, he had to keep going, but if he was right, the person he identified became “it.” A person could search a long time and not find anyone unless hints were given, so every so often someone would make a sound.
Of course, if someone had a bat and a ball, baseball ensued, or frequently, in the fall, someone would have a football, and football broke out. Of course you couldn't rush the passer, but then he couldn't run either. There were many long and convoluted patterns run by receivers trying to get open. “Touch, two hand touch, tackle” were the choices. Touch and two hand touch invaribly resulted in arguments – “Got you.” “No, you didn't.” “Yes, I got your shirt.” I didn't feel it.” I'm not sure how those arguments were ever resolved, but we did have fun. Sometimes we just showcased our passing, catching, or kicking skills.
In a game somewhat similar to “THREE FLIES UP,” the football was passed or kicked (punted or drop-kicked) toward the opponents. The opponent stopped when and where he caught the ball. He then passed or kicked the ball back in hopes of getting it over your head. The idea was to drive the opponent back past his goal to catch the ball. By the way, doesn't anyone drop-kick anymore?
Periodically, our parents would literally have to tell us to come in out of the rain. Those calls were often answered with “It's not raining that hard.” Of course, by the time we got home our shirts and sometimes pants would be soaked, but “It wasn't raining that hard.”
On some Saturdays, the high school gym was open, and we could play basketball inside with regulation height baskets. Of course, someone had to come up with a basketball. Infrequently, a basketball that became even too old to be used for high school basketball practice would be left out in the gym and we could use it. Most often, however, the ball was rubber and probably bounced higher than it should or didn't bounce at all because it had a hole. Bicycle tire patches plugged many a hole in basketballs, but the constant bouncing eventually worked them loose. We used to pretend we were the high school team starting the first game of the year, and the announcer would say, as we emerged from the locker room, “Here they are. Your defending state champions , the Forbes Jets!” Well, it never quite worked out. Not all of us made the team in high school, and the high school team never won the state championship.
No, our teams and games were not organized except by the participants. Sure, we had disagreements and arguments, but parents didn't yell at the coaches, and coaches didn't have to decide who would play. Everyone played, and that has to count for something. Hey, we got outside, and we ran around a lot. Perhaps it would be good for youngsters today to do more time doing that and less time sitting in front of a tv or video game.
No, I'm not old enough to have played “kick the can,” although we did kick almost anything we found. In the small town where I grew up all the kids knew each other because the total population of the town was 200. I know it was 200 because I sat down and counted them one day when I didn't have anything else to do. We all knew each other, but we didn't necessarily all like each other. I do remember the day, in our teen years, when an incident lasting only a few seconds resulted in split knuckles for one guy and missing front teeth for another. That wasn't the norm – we usually got along well even if we were competitive.
You could play tag even if you had only three people. Well, you really could do it with two people, but you had to rule out tag-backs. There were few, if any, fences in Kantner, so we roamed across and through many yards. There were some that we did stay out of, however, mainly because no kids lived there, but also out of respect. No one really wanted to disturb Mrs. _________ when she was napping in her chair on her front porch. (That's what the older people did – they sat on their front porches and watched the world go by – or napped.) Come to think of it, that might be fun about now, sitting on the front porch of a home in a small town watching the sights and listening to the sounds of life.
TAG – a great game. No equipment required and in a town with lots of houses, garages, shops, and other out-buildings, it was FUN. Although we all ran at different speeds, you could always catch someone, perhaps someone who was too sure of his speed and didn't anticipate just when you were going to charge. It was important to be able to feign extreme tiredness in order to lure the “speedy ones” close and then spring at the opportune moment.
“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, Here I come, ready or not. All 'round my base are caught.” The numerous buildings made HIDE AND GO SEEK extremely enjoyable. There were lots of places to hide, but you had to keep the person who was “it” in sight so he didn't sneak up on you while you were looking around another corner of a building. Sometimes the person who was “it” would hide someplace close to the base in hopes of convincing someone that he wasn't around. Then while someone was sauntering towards the base, the “it” person would jump out and tag the saunterer. Finding an extremely good hiding place worked one of two ways. 1. It got boring because no one got close to finding you. 2. It got exciting because people searched within sight of the hider and still didn't see him. What a joy it was to be so well hidden that everybody had to search for you and still didn't find you until you stepped out and cried “Boo!”
STRAWBERRY DROP was a little different. While the “it” person counted to ten, people moved away from him but didn't necessarily hide. At the count of “ten” everyone stopped and dropped to the ground. “It”, keeping his eyes closed (or blindfolded), began searching for people. When he found someone, he had to identify the person. If he was wrong, he had to keep going, but if he was right, the person he identified became “it.” A person could search a long time and not find anyone unless hints were given, so every so often someone would make a sound.
Of course, if someone had a bat and a ball, baseball ensued, or frequently, in the fall, someone would have a football, and football broke out. Of course you couldn't rush the passer, but then he couldn't run either. There were many long and convoluted patterns run by receivers trying to get open. “Touch, two hand touch, tackle” were the choices. Touch and two hand touch invaribly resulted in arguments – “Got you.” “No, you didn't.” “Yes, I got your shirt.” I didn't feel it.” I'm not sure how those arguments were ever resolved, but we did have fun. Sometimes we just showcased our passing, catching, or kicking skills.
In a game somewhat similar to “THREE FLIES UP,” the football was passed or kicked (punted or drop-kicked) toward the opponents. The opponent stopped when and where he caught the ball. He then passed or kicked the ball back in hopes of getting it over your head. The idea was to drive the opponent back past his goal to catch the ball. By the way, doesn't anyone drop-kick anymore?
Periodically, our parents would literally have to tell us to come in out of the rain. Those calls were often answered with “It's not raining that hard.” Of course, by the time we got home our shirts and sometimes pants would be soaked, but “It wasn't raining that hard.”
On some Saturdays, the high school gym was open, and we could play basketball inside with regulation height baskets. Of course, someone had to come up with a basketball. Infrequently, a basketball that became even too old to be used for high school basketball practice would be left out in the gym and we could use it. Most often, however, the ball was rubber and probably bounced higher than it should or didn't bounce at all because it had a hole. Bicycle tire patches plugged many a hole in basketballs, but the constant bouncing eventually worked them loose. We used to pretend we were the high school team starting the first game of the year, and the announcer would say, as we emerged from the locker room, “Here they are. Your defending state champions , the Forbes Jets!” Well, it never quite worked out. Not all of us made the team in high school, and the high school team never won the state championship.
No, our teams and games were not organized except by the participants. Sure, we had disagreements and arguments, but parents didn't yell at the coaches, and coaches didn't have to decide who would play. Everyone played, and that has to count for something. Hey, we got outside, and we ran around a lot. Perhaps it would be good for youngsters today to do more time doing that and less time sitting in front of a tv or video game.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Odds and Ends and Some Important Stuff, Too
Odds and Ends and Some Important Stuff, Too
I've been reading a book called Jayber Crow by Wendell Berry, and it has brought to mind many hometown memories of many years ago.
I remember a tall white billboard made up of individual small boards that stood at the edge of the playground at the Kantner school building. On it were the names of men, some I knew from seeing them around town, and some I didn't know because they had not returned from fighting in Europe or Asia during WWII. Those I didn't know had stars beside their names. The stars meant they had been killed in the line of duty. They died protecting freedom, and I am forever grateful to them and their families.
Even in a town as small as Kantner and surrounding Quemahoning Township, men had gone thousands of miles from home and fought to protect freedom for the rest of us. I was always in awe of the number of names on the billboard.
Since then, I've been to Washington, D.C., to find my cousin's name on the Vietnam War Memorial. He, too, gave his life protecting freedom, but the war he fought did not have the support of his countrymen as did WWII.
At high school graduation they told us that the world was waiting not only for us to get jobs, marry, and raise families, it was also waiting for us to make our contributions to society. We had a responsibility. I remember spending quite a bit of time that night—after midnight-- walking around the school grounds and wondering what contribution I would make. (We lived right across the street from the school, so it wasn't far from home to walk.) And now, I wonder, as most of us do, have I made any lasting contribution to this world?
We seemed to have had a camaraderie in Kantner that seems to me to be missing today. We played baseball, or rode bikes, or played hide and seek almost every day. I remember in later years, several times talking with high school friends about what we could do to improve the economy of our hometown area and for the rest of Somerset County. From what I can tell, the economy of Somerset County is better than it was when we were in high school, but I don't believe I've ever done anything to help. I hope and trust that some of my friends have.
I remember the one-lane bridge across Stonycreek just below the high school, and I remember the right-angle turns needed to both get on and get off the bridge. Some time after I had moved away, a tractor trailer driver did not quite negotiate the turn onto the bridge correctly. The trailer caught the edge of the bridge and pulled it off its moorings into the creek. I've often thought of that truck driver and imagined how he must have felt. I know there was quite a bit of inconvenience for the community. You couldn't get from Kantner to Turkeyfoot Hill by just going over the bridge. You had to either go through Stoystown to Hooversville and back up route 53 or out route 30 to find a road that cut back through the brush to the top of Turkeyfoot.
Old Route 30, the Lincoln Highway, went right through the heart of Kantner, but that was before my time. As I was growing up, the Lincoln Highway bypassed Kantner and Stoystown almost entirely. They couldn't bypass the hills, so truckers had to be careful as they descended the hill from Stoystown or Emerald Park and patient as they ascended the hill on the other side. The most serious thing my father ever told me about driving was NOT to turn off the Lincoln Highway onto route 53 into Kantner if a truck was coming down the hill behind me.
I remember passing a tractor trailer just before the top of the mountain coming from Bedford County. It wasn't far past the top of the mountain till he was on the bumper of my 1951 Chevy, pushing me to 60, 65, and 70 miles per hour. There was NO WAY I was turning off route 30 into Kantner that day. I was just pushing my little Chevy as fast as it would go. By the time we got part way up the hill to Stoystown, I had pulled ahead, so I could get off the Lincoln Highway safely.
When I worked for Lohr Feed and Implement, the company took care of the school buses for Forbes School Distirct. One year there had been difficulty getting one of the buses to start. As I remember it, a chain was hooked from a tractor to the front of the school bus. I was in the driver seat of the bus, and it was towed part-way up the hill toward Stoystown on the Lincoln Highway. The bus was pulled around so it was heading down hill toward Kantner. I believe, at this point, I was relieved of the seat in the bus and someone more experienced got behind the wheel while I was to drive the tractor back. The bus was allowed to coast part-way down the hill and the clutch was popped. As I recall it, the bus didn't start, it just slowly coasted to the bottom of the hill, the chain was rehooked, and the bus was returned to Lohr Feed and Implement with me once again at the wheel. I suppose the bus was repaired and started sometime, but not that day.
Another day at Lohr Feed and Implement one of the men in the shop looked at me with a sly grin on his face and said, “Back that wagon out there into the garage.” “That wagon” was one that had front wheels that turned, and the tractor was a narrow front-end Farmall. I got on the tractor seat and wondered why so many of the shop guys were standing near the garage door watching. As soon as I started to back the wagon, I realized why they were watching. I couldn't get the wagon to go where I wanted it to go. I needed to move it a little to the left, so I turned the tractor wheel to the right. The wagon didn't go left, so I turned the tractor wheel to the left, and the wagon still didn't go left. For a while, all I succeeded in doing was get the wagon and tractor at right angles to each other with the back wheel of the tractor almost touching the wagon. After experimenting for a while, I finally got the wagon in the door – the wagon almost against one side of the door and the tractor practically against the other side of the door. I guess I provided the entertainment that day because everyone had a big smile when I finally got off the tractor seat.
I've been reading a book called Jayber Crow by Wendell Berry, and it has brought to mind many hometown memories of many years ago.
I remember a tall white billboard made up of individual small boards that stood at the edge of the playground at the Kantner school building. On it were the names of men, some I knew from seeing them around town, and some I didn't know because they had not returned from fighting in Europe or Asia during WWII. Those I didn't know had stars beside their names. The stars meant they had been killed in the line of duty. They died protecting freedom, and I am forever grateful to them and their families.
Even in a town as small as Kantner and surrounding Quemahoning Township, men had gone thousands of miles from home and fought to protect freedom for the rest of us. I was always in awe of the number of names on the billboard.
Since then, I've been to Washington, D.C., to find my cousin's name on the Vietnam War Memorial. He, too, gave his life protecting freedom, but the war he fought did not have the support of his countrymen as did WWII.
At high school graduation they told us that the world was waiting not only for us to get jobs, marry, and raise families, it was also waiting for us to make our contributions to society. We had a responsibility. I remember spending quite a bit of time that night—after midnight-- walking around the school grounds and wondering what contribution I would make. (We lived right across the street from the school, so it wasn't far from home to walk.) And now, I wonder, as most of us do, have I made any lasting contribution to this world?
We seemed to have had a camaraderie in Kantner that seems to me to be missing today. We played baseball, or rode bikes, or played hide and seek almost every day. I remember in later years, several times talking with high school friends about what we could do to improve the economy of our hometown area and for the rest of Somerset County. From what I can tell, the economy of Somerset County is better than it was when we were in high school, but I don't believe I've ever done anything to help. I hope and trust that some of my friends have.
I remember the one-lane bridge across Stonycreek just below the high school, and I remember the right-angle turns needed to both get on and get off the bridge. Some time after I had moved away, a tractor trailer driver did not quite negotiate the turn onto the bridge correctly. The trailer caught the edge of the bridge and pulled it off its moorings into the creek. I've often thought of that truck driver and imagined how he must have felt. I know there was quite a bit of inconvenience for the community. You couldn't get from Kantner to Turkeyfoot Hill by just going over the bridge. You had to either go through Stoystown to Hooversville and back up route 53 or out route 30 to find a road that cut back through the brush to the top of Turkeyfoot.
Old Route 30, the Lincoln Highway, went right through the heart of Kantner, but that was before my time. As I was growing up, the Lincoln Highway bypassed Kantner and Stoystown almost entirely. They couldn't bypass the hills, so truckers had to be careful as they descended the hill from Stoystown or Emerald Park and patient as they ascended the hill on the other side. The most serious thing my father ever told me about driving was NOT to turn off the Lincoln Highway onto route 53 into Kantner if a truck was coming down the hill behind me.
I remember passing a tractor trailer just before the top of the mountain coming from Bedford County. It wasn't far past the top of the mountain till he was on the bumper of my 1951 Chevy, pushing me to 60, 65, and 70 miles per hour. There was NO WAY I was turning off route 30 into Kantner that day. I was just pushing my little Chevy as fast as it would go. By the time we got part way up the hill to Stoystown, I had pulled ahead, so I could get off the Lincoln Highway safely.
When I worked for Lohr Feed and Implement, the company took care of the school buses for Forbes School Distirct. One year there had been difficulty getting one of the buses to start. As I remember it, a chain was hooked from a tractor to the front of the school bus. I was in the driver seat of the bus, and it was towed part-way up the hill toward Stoystown on the Lincoln Highway. The bus was pulled around so it was heading down hill toward Kantner. I believe, at this point, I was relieved of the seat in the bus and someone more experienced got behind the wheel while I was to drive the tractor back. The bus was allowed to coast part-way down the hill and the clutch was popped. As I recall it, the bus didn't start, it just slowly coasted to the bottom of the hill, the chain was rehooked, and the bus was returned to Lohr Feed and Implement with me once again at the wheel. I suppose the bus was repaired and started sometime, but not that day.
Another day at Lohr Feed and Implement one of the men in the shop looked at me with a sly grin on his face and said, “Back that wagon out there into the garage.” “That wagon” was one that had front wheels that turned, and the tractor was a narrow front-end Farmall. I got on the tractor seat and wondered why so many of the shop guys were standing near the garage door watching. As soon as I started to back the wagon, I realized why they were watching. I couldn't get the wagon to go where I wanted it to go. I needed to move it a little to the left, so I turned the tractor wheel to the right. The wagon didn't go left, so I turned the tractor wheel to the left, and the wagon still didn't go left. For a while, all I succeeded in doing was get the wagon and tractor at right angles to each other with the back wheel of the tractor almost touching the wagon. After experimenting for a while, I finally got the wagon in the door – the wagon almost against one side of the door and the tractor practically against the other side of the door. I guess I provided the entertainment that day because everyone had a big smile when I finally got off the tractor seat.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
CHRISTMAS MEMORIES
CHRISTMAS MEMORIES
I don't remember visions of sugar plums dancing through my head, but I do remember having trouble getting to sleep. We had a coal furnace while I was growing up, so my sister and I had to wait until Daddy had stoked up the furnace and warmed the house on Christmas morning before we could get up. Our parents were always generous even though money was very tight at times, and my sister and I received numerous Christmas gifts. Grandma and Pappy lived next door, and they also always had Christmas gifts for us.
One of my sharpest Christmas day memories is of a red scooter I received as a gift. I have no reason why that gift has always been so memorable, but I do remember riding it on our sidewalk on Christmas Day. I also remember the year I got an Erector Set. I had been letting my parents know of my desire for one for weeks, and one Sunday as I pointed out an advertisement in the Sunday paper, I saw a look pass between Mother and Daddy, so I was pretty sure an Erector Set would be under the tree on Christmas morning.
We sometimes got creative in our gift wrapping. One year my sister and I were wrapping a shirt for my dad, and we put buttons on the package and drew lines showing the collar. I was expressing to my sister how clever I thought it was when she reminded me that my dad was in the next room, so I should keep my voice down.
My sister worked at Newberry's store in Somerset, and one of her areas of responsibility was Christmas candy. We always had lots of candy for Christmas, mainly chocolate. We had peanut clusters, coconut clusters, Krackel, Mr. Goodbar, chocolate covered-cherries, and ribbon candy. I helped eat the coconut clusters first, and then we worked our way through the rest of the candy with the ribbon candy being finally consumed by about New Years.
One Christmas season I worked in the toy and sporting goods department of Newberry's. I enjoyed the job and was especially pleased one day as I sold a Polaroid camera to an older couple. They were unsure of their ability to properly use the camera, so I spent a good deal of time explaining its operation and assuring them that they could handle it. They bought the camera, and I was pretty pleased with myself; however, the next day they brought the camera back and explained to me that it was really just too heavy for them to carry around. My duties at Newberry's that Christmas were not limited to the toy and sporting goods department. It was the tradition of the time for the local churches to give the children in the church boxes of Christmas candy. Newberry's sold the candy to many of the churches, and that Christmas it became part of my job to help my sister get the individual boxes packed for all the churches.
Christmas afternoon we always visited lots of homes in Kantner to see how friends had decorated their trees and their homes. I always looked forward to visiting John Weible's house as he had an electric train with houses and other town accessories. The exciting part was the stream that he had running through the town. He actually used a pump to keep the water flowing. I was also interested in seeing all the presents my friends received.
My junior-high-school attempt at special outdoor decoration ended in failure, or should I say incompletion. I decided to spell “Merry Christmas” with pieces of a tree branch about an inch thick and cut to several inches in length. My idea was to paint them red, nail them to a white board, and put it on our front porch. Well, I couldn't hold the pieces of branch in one place long enough to get the nails through them. Every time I hit the nail with the hammer, the wood would slide away. Sooo, I finally gave up. Maybe I should have started before December 24.
When I went away to college, Grandma and Pappy bought me a portable typewriter for Christmas. I used that typewriter for years. It was an Olympia typewriter, was not electric, but it had a carrying case. To save space (I guess) the manufacturer didn't have the number “1” on the keyboard – the letter “l” was used instead.
Decorating the tree was a family affair, especially when it came to the icicles. Stringing them so that each individual icicle would drape from one branch to another was always a favorite trick of mine. It was received better than my other favorite trick – standing back and throwing icicles a handful at a time at the tree. One year my dad put the tree in the center of the living room. There was no hiding the always present “bare spot” on the tree, but it was fun to be sure the tree looked good from all sides. Everyone in town put wreaths in their windows. The more windows you had, the more wreaths you had to buy. I always enjoyed seeing all the wreaths.
If I were to continue my Christmas memories beyond my teenage years, this blog would get quite unwieldy because of the great joy, great times, and great memories of Christmas once the beautiful Norma Peden agreed to become Norma Croyle. You see, marriage and children don't add to Christmas and lifetime memories, they multiply them.
I don't remember visions of sugar plums dancing through my head, but I do remember having trouble getting to sleep. We had a coal furnace while I was growing up, so my sister and I had to wait until Daddy had stoked up the furnace and warmed the house on Christmas morning before we could get up. Our parents were always generous even though money was very tight at times, and my sister and I received numerous Christmas gifts. Grandma and Pappy lived next door, and they also always had Christmas gifts for us.
One of my sharpest Christmas day memories is of a red scooter I received as a gift. I have no reason why that gift has always been so memorable, but I do remember riding it on our sidewalk on Christmas Day. I also remember the year I got an Erector Set. I had been letting my parents know of my desire for one for weeks, and one Sunday as I pointed out an advertisement in the Sunday paper, I saw a look pass between Mother and Daddy, so I was pretty sure an Erector Set would be under the tree on Christmas morning.
We sometimes got creative in our gift wrapping. One year my sister and I were wrapping a shirt for my dad, and we put buttons on the package and drew lines showing the collar. I was expressing to my sister how clever I thought it was when she reminded me that my dad was in the next room, so I should keep my voice down.
My sister worked at Newberry's store in Somerset, and one of her areas of responsibility was Christmas candy. We always had lots of candy for Christmas, mainly chocolate. We had peanut clusters, coconut clusters, Krackel, Mr. Goodbar, chocolate covered-cherries, and ribbon candy. I helped eat the coconut clusters first, and then we worked our way through the rest of the candy with the ribbon candy being finally consumed by about New Years.
One Christmas season I worked in the toy and sporting goods department of Newberry's. I enjoyed the job and was especially pleased one day as I sold a Polaroid camera to an older couple. They were unsure of their ability to properly use the camera, so I spent a good deal of time explaining its operation and assuring them that they could handle it. They bought the camera, and I was pretty pleased with myself; however, the next day they brought the camera back and explained to me that it was really just too heavy for them to carry around. My duties at Newberry's that Christmas were not limited to the toy and sporting goods department. It was the tradition of the time for the local churches to give the children in the church boxes of Christmas candy. Newberry's sold the candy to many of the churches, and that Christmas it became part of my job to help my sister get the individual boxes packed for all the churches.
Christmas afternoon we always visited lots of homes in Kantner to see how friends had decorated their trees and their homes. I always looked forward to visiting John Weible's house as he had an electric train with houses and other town accessories. The exciting part was the stream that he had running through the town. He actually used a pump to keep the water flowing. I was also interested in seeing all the presents my friends received.
My junior-high-school attempt at special outdoor decoration ended in failure, or should I say incompletion. I decided to spell “Merry Christmas” with pieces of a tree branch about an inch thick and cut to several inches in length. My idea was to paint them red, nail them to a white board, and put it on our front porch. Well, I couldn't hold the pieces of branch in one place long enough to get the nails through them. Every time I hit the nail with the hammer, the wood would slide away. Sooo, I finally gave up. Maybe I should have started before December 24.
When I went away to college, Grandma and Pappy bought me a portable typewriter for Christmas. I used that typewriter for years. It was an Olympia typewriter, was not electric, but it had a carrying case. To save space (I guess) the manufacturer didn't have the number “1” on the keyboard – the letter “l” was used instead.
Decorating the tree was a family affair, especially when it came to the icicles. Stringing them so that each individual icicle would drape from one branch to another was always a favorite trick of mine. It was received better than my other favorite trick – standing back and throwing icicles a handful at a time at the tree. One year my dad put the tree in the center of the living room. There was no hiding the always present “bare spot” on the tree, but it was fun to be sure the tree looked good from all sides. Everyone in town put wreaths in their windows. The more windows you had, the more wreaths you had to buy. I always enjoyed seeing all the wreaths.
If I were to continue my Christmas memories beyond my teenage years, this blog would get quite unwieldy because of the great joy, great times, and great memories of Christmas once the beautiful Norma Peden agreed to become Norma Croyle. You see, marriage and children don't add to Christmas and lifetime memories, they multiply them.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
THOUGHTS ON HELPING MY SISTER MOVE
THOUGHTS ON HELPING MY SISTER MOVE
First, I would like to state that my sister has many good friends who spent major parts of a weekend helping her move. I'm thankful for them and thankful to them. It wouldn't have gone nearly as smoothly as it did. There were those who knew how to pack a moving van, thank God, and there were those who knew how to drive the moving van, and there were those who knew how to get the moving van, panel van, and pick up truck right to the door of her new place. There were those who helped pack boxes, and there were those who carried the boxes out of the old and into the new, and there were those who drove their own vehicles on moving day, and there were those who said, “Don't worry about the few extra things in the garage and the basement. We'll get rid of them for you.” WOW! They all helped BIG TIME! A great big thank you also to our son, his wife, and three children who not only have room in their house but also room in their hearts!
Kantner is a place I will miss seeing. It has always meant “home” to me. I've enjoyed Stonycreek that runs through town. I've enjoyed the woods on the hill. I've enjoyed the view across the river to Turkeyfoot, although I don't enjoy it as much now with the HUGE windmills in view. I've even enjoyed seeing and hearing the trains go up and down the track across Stonycreek. It was nice to go to elementary school a tenth of a mile down the road, and high school across the street.
Quemahoning Dam has always been a favorite spot to drive around and photograph. New Baltimore was a relaxing place to visit. The drive along the stream and through the woods was always relaxing. Driving the Pennsylvania Turnpike and getting off at Somerset is now a thing of the past. How many turnpike exits have a Harley Davidson dealership just across the road?
Flight 93 Memorial has been a place of quiet contemplation during every visit home. I am thankful for the bravery of those who gave their lives there so that others may live. It's an important part of the spirit of America.
The makers of home-made gobs and what my sister calls “cardboard pies” will have to survive without my business. I've done my best to keep sales up for you for many years. You probably could tell when I was around because sales would spike. We certainly don't have either one in Tucson, and I haven't found any in the Pittsburgh area. Somerset County also seems to be the only place where I can find Tastycake products. Ham Loaf from the market in Hooversville is really good, but I don't really picture myself driving from Pittsburgh to buy one.
I'm sorry for the times I've been “home” and haven't visited friends. We always seemed to be too busy. I'm beginning to realize what a mistake that has been. The Friday evening dinner at Hoss's has given Norma and me many good memories.
Kantner, I'll miss you. Maybe, I'll even miss you enough to take an eighty-mile drive just to drive over Stonycreek again and to see the swinging bridge in Hooversville. Thanks, Kantner, Thanks Hooversville, and Thanks, Somerset County! GO FORBES JETS!
First, I would like to state that my sister has many good friends who spent major parts of a weekend helping her move. I'm thankful for them and thankful to them. It wouldn't have gone nearly as smoothly as it did. There were those who knew how to pack a moving van, thank God, and there were those who knew how to drive the moving van, and there were those who knew how to get the moving van, panel van, and pick up truck right to the door of her new place. There were those who helped pack boxes, and there were those who carried the boxes out of the old and into the new, and there were those who drove their own vehicles on moving day, and there were those who said, “Don't worry about the few extra things in the garage and the basement. We'll get rid of them for you.” WOW! They all helped BIG TIME! A great big thank you also to our son, his wife, and three children who not only have room in their house but also room in their hearts!
Kantner is a place I will miss seeing. It has always meant “home” to me. I've enjoyed Stonycreek that runs through town. I've enjoyed the woods on the hill. I've enjoyed the view across the river to Turkeyfoot, although I don't enjoy it as much now with the HUGE windmills in view. I've even enjoyed seeing and hearing the trains go up and down the track across Stonycreek. It was nice to go to elementary school a tenth of a mile down the road, and high school across the street.
Quemahoning Dam has always been a favorite spot to drive around and photograph. New Baltimore was a relaxing place to visit. The drive along the stream and through the woods was always relaxing. Driving the Pennsylvania Turnpike and getting off at Somerset is now a thing of the past. How many turnpike exits have a Harley Davidson dealership just across the road?
Flight 93 Memorial has been a place of quiet contemplation during every visit home. I am thankful for the bravery of those who gave their lives there so that others may live. It's an important part of the spirit of America.
The makers of home-made gobs and what my sister calls “cardboard pies” will have to survive without my business. I've done my best to keep sales up for you for many years. You probably could tell when I was around because sales would spike. We certainly don't have either one in Tucson, and I haven't found any in the Pittsburgh area. Somerset County also seems to be the only place where I can find Tastycake products. Ham Loaf from the market in Hooversville is really good, but I don't really picture myself driving from Pittsburgh to buy one.
I'm sorry for the times I've been “home” and haven't visited friends. We always seemed to be too busy. I'm beginning to realize what a mistake that has been. The Friday evening dinner at Hoss's has given Norma and me many good memories.
Kantner, I'll miss you. Maybe, I'll even miss you enough to take an eighty-mile drive just to drive over Stonycreek again and to see the swinging bridge in Hooversville. Thanks, Kantner, Thanks Hooversville, and Thanks, Somerset County! GO FORBES JETS!
Saturday, October 3, 2009
RANDOM HIGH SCHOOL MEMORIES
RANDOM HIGH SCHOOL MEMORIES
I remember when we moved into the new school building during my sophomore year. The building hadn't been finished on time for the start of the new school year, so we moved in during October. We each were assigned a book locker and a combination lock. This was my introduction to technology – the first combination lock I had ever used. The combination was 22 - 0 - 10. It took all of us a couple minutes to get our locks open, and it didn't take much longer for people to start sharing lock combinations with friends. That was not always good because today's close friend might not be quite as close next week. Within a few days it started: people's locks would be upside down, making it difficult to enter the combination and get the lock off. More than one person was late to class because of an upside down lock. Soon, someone discovered an even more nasty lock trick. Somehow, the lock was not only upside down, but it was also tucked into the locker handle making it harder to even see the side with the numbers. I'm sure I don't remember how that worked.
Our high school baseball coach had been in the armed forces with Bob Turley, a pitcher with the Baltimore Orioles. He had been Turley's catcher during their stint as baseball players for their armed services unit. Bob Turley came to visit our high school, and I got his autograph – the first real major leaguer I had ever met. That autograph has long since been lost.
During away trips to football and basketball games, the team and cheerleaders rode the same bus. It was generally a noisy and fun ride. Sometime before we got to the opposing team's school, one of the cheerleaders would start singing “The Lord's Prayer,” and everyone – players, coaches, as well as cheerleaders, joined in. That has always been a cherished memory.
I didn't play football (I was an equipment manager.), I never made the starting lineup for basketball, and my high school baseball career was as short as it was embarrassing. During my one at bat, I watched three pitches start toward me and then curve over the plate for called strikes. After the third pitch, the umpire said, and I quote, “Sit down, son.” My disappointment was profound, for baseball had always been “my sport.” Even though I knew what a curve ball was, I didn't realize that it would look and act quite like it did. Sooooo, I became the baseball equipment manager and score keeper, quite a comedown from my dreams of knocking in the winning run in the bottom of the ninth in the championship game.
My first car was a 1951 Chevy two door. Even though my mother asked me not to get it painted red, it wound up being “Morocco Red” and “India Ivory.” Our school colors were maroon and white, and “Morocco Red” looked a whole lot like maroon, so my mother was okay with the color. Gas mileage was good, 23 mpg on a trip, but oil mileage was another deal, 50 to 100 miles per quart. BUT, it ran, and it looked pretty cool with the school colors, fender skirts, and white walls. Well, they weren't really white walls; they were “portawalls.” Portawalls were white rubber circles made to fit the rim size, and they could be moved from tire to tire, so I didn't have to spend the extra few bucks for whitewalls. Unfortunately, the car had no radio, and that was a serious disadvantage in dating.
On our senior class trip to Washington, DC, several of us decided to take a trip to the Russian Embassy during a free afternoon. We took a taxi to the address, got out of the cab, walked up to the door and knocked (or rang the doorbell). We were admitted to the foyer and asked why we were there. We had no real answer, so our stay there was rather short. I'm sure my photo coming out of the Russian Embassy in May of 1959 is somewhere in the FBI or CIA files.
I don't know how many times I was in love in high school, but I was very deeply in “like” several times. To my everlasting joy, I am now married to one of the beauties I was very deeply in “like” with in high school.
Three of us who later in life were to become a farmer, a missionary, and a Christian school teacher/administrator, once conspired to put birds in the open window of our home-room teacher. The later-to-be missionary had the job of closing the windows at the end of the day. On this particular day, he closed but didn't lock them. The three of us went to the later-to-be farmer's home and caught three or four birds in the hay loft of his father's barn. Since the school was at the edge of town near a woods, we could sneak up to the school house after dark. That night we parked along the dirt road in the woods, crawled down the hill to the school, pushed the windows open, and put the birds inside. The next morning I was a little earlier than usual and was waiting at the classroom door when our homeroom teacher showed up. Well, the birds had done their job very well. Many desks had been “decorated” by the birds, and our homeroom teacher was in a tizzy. I helped chase the birds out the windows while someone else went to get the janitor. I don't know that the identities of the “bird dropping pranksters” were ever discovered by the school officials.
The three of us occasionally triple dated in the future farmer's 1955 Buick Roadmaster, and we always took the girls home first. That is until the night the future farmer came walking back to the car with a silly grin on his face, after walking his steady date to the door. It seems that they had had a good night kiss at the door. After that night, the girls never went home first. I'm happy to say that the future farmer and his steady got married several years later.
I remember when we moved into the new school building during my sophomore year. The building hadn't been finished on time for the start of the new school year, so we moved in during October. We each were assigned a book locker and a combination lock. This was my introduction to technology – the first combination lock I had ever used. The combination was 22 - 0 - 10. It took all of us a couple minutes to get our locks open, and it didn't take much longer for people to start sharing lock combinations with friends. That was not always good because today's close friend might not be quite as close next week. Within a few days it started: people's locks would be upside down, making it difficult to enter the combination and get the lock off. More than one person was late to class because of an upside down lock. Soon, someone discovered an even more nasty lock trick. Somehow, the lock was not only upside down, but it was also tucked into the locker handle making it harder to even see the side with the numbers. I'm sure I don't remember how that worked.
Our high school baseball coach had been in the armed forces with Bob Turley, a pitcher with the Baltimore Orioles. He had been Turley's catcher during their stint as baseball players for their armed services unit. Bob Turley came to visit our high school, and I got his autograph – the first real major leaguer I had ever met. That autograph has long since been lost.
During away trips to football and basketball games, the team and cheerleaders rode the same bus. It was generally a noisy and fun ride. Sometime before we got to the opposing team's school, one of the cheerleaders would start singing “The Lord's Prayer,” and everyone – players, coaches, as well as cheerleaders, joined in. That has always been a cherished memory.
I didn't play football (I was an equipment manager.), I never made the starting lineup for basketball, and my high school baseball career was as short as it was embarrassing. During my one at bat, I watched three pitches start toward me and then curve over the plate for called strikes. After the third pitch, the umpire said, and I quote, “Sit down, son.” My disappointment was profound, for baseball had always been “my sport.” Even though I knew what a curve ball was, I didn't realize that it would look and act quite like it did. Sooooo, I became the baseball equipment manager and score keeper, quite a comedown from my dreams of knocking in the winning run in the bottom of the ninth in the championship game.
My first car was a 1951 Chevy two door. Even though my mother asked me not to get it painted red, it wound up being “Morocco Red” and “India Ivory.” Our school colors were maroon and white, and “Morocco Red” looked a whole lot like maroon, so my mother was okay with the color. Gas mileage was good, 23 mpg on a trip, but oil mileage was another deal, 50 to 100 miles per quart. BUT, it ran, and it looked pretty cool with the school colors, fender skirts, and white walls. Well, they weren't really white walls; they were “portawalls.” Portawalls were white rubber circles made to fit the rim size, and they could be moved from tire to tire, so I didn't have to spend the extra few bucks for whitewalls. Unfortunately, the car had no radio, and that was a serious disadvantage in dating.
On our senior class trip to Washington, DC, several of us decided to take a trip to the Russian Embassy during a free afternoon. We took a taxi to the address, got out of the cab, walked up to the door and knocked (or rang the doorbell). We were admitted to the foyer and asked why we were there. We had no real answer, so our stay there was rather short. I'm sure my photo coming out of the Russian Embassy in May of 1959 is somewhere in the FBI or CIA files.
I don't know how many times I was in love in high school, but I was very deeply in “like” several times. To my everlasting joy, I am now married to one of the beauties I was very deeply in “like” with in high school.
Three of us who later in life were to become a farmer, a missionary, and a Christian school teacher/administrator, once conspired to put birds in the open window of our home-room teacher. The later-to-be missionary had the job of closing the windows at the end of the day. On this particular day, he closed but didn't lock them. The three of us went to the later-to-be farmer's home and caught three or four birds in the hay loft of his father's barn. Since the school was at the edge of town near a woods, we could sneak up to the school house after dark. That night we parked along the dirt road in the woods, crawled down the hill to the school, pushed the windows open, and put the birds inside. The next morning I was a little earlier than usual and was waiting at the classroom door when our homeroom teacher showed up. Well, the birds had done their job very well. Many desks had been “decorated” by the birds, and our homeroom teacher was in a tizzy. I helped chase the birds out the windows while someone else went to get the janitor. I don't know that the identities of the “bird dropping pranksters” were ever discovered by the school officials.
The three of us occasionally triple dated in the future farmer's 1955 Buick Roadmaster, and we always took the girls home first. That is until the night the future farmer came walking back to the car with a silly grin on his face, after walking his steady date to the door. It seems that they had had a good night kiss at the door. After that night, the girls never went home first. I'm happy to say that the future farmer and his steady got married several years later.
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