I Remember

SILLY RHYMES

2010-02-28T16:55:00.002-07:00

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.

WINTER GAMES WE PLAYED

2010-01-29T08:54:00.001-07:00

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.

GAMES WE PLAYED

2010-01-21T14:57:00.002-07:00

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.

Odds and Ends and Some Important Stuff, Too

2010-01-02T18:01:00.002-07:00

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.

CHRISTMAS MEMORIES

2009-12-19T20:53:00.001-07:00

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.

THOUGHTS ON HELPING MY SISTER MOVE

2009-12-05T15:40:00.003-07:00

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!

RANDOM HIGH SCHOOL MEMORIES

2009-10-03T10:40:00.002-07:00

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.

FLANNELGRAPH

2009-08-26T19:33:00.001-07:00

FLANNELGRAPH

Flannelgraph: a word sure to bring wistful looks to the eyes of some and blank stares to the eyes of many others. If you were ever in a Sunday School class taught by one of the “Masters of the Flannelgraph,” you haven't forgotten it. Long before dvds, even long before video tapes had been dreamed of, Sunday School teachers were using cut out flannel figures and a black flannel background to illustrate scenes from the Bible. Perhaps it was the black background. Perhaps it was the wonder of the Biblical stories. Perhaps it was the bright colors used on the figures. Perhaps it was just the imagination of a young boy, but those scenes still play across my mind at times.

As the teacher told the story, she or he, but mostly she, placed figures on the flannel. She ususally began with a light blue strip across the top to represent the sky, sometimes with white puffy clouds. Many times a light brown or tan strip was placed across the bottom to show the ground, accompanied by small patches of grass, bushes, and trees. While setting the scene, the teacher would begin the story, keeping us wondering what would come next. As cast members entered the story, they were placed on the background. The conversations of these Biblical characters seemed real, and their movements across the scene, while not appearing lifelike, did make sense.

A real “Flannelgraph Master” could change scenes, completely removing the figures and background while retaining the attention of the class. The story of Joseph, from the coat of many colors, through imprisonment, to the second in command of Egypt kept the “Flannelgraph Master” busy and the class enthralled. For the entire class time. I still remember the vividness of the colors of Joseph's coat. I still remember the concern I felt when Joseph was sold and imprisoned. I still remember Joseph's faithfulness to the truth and to his God, and I still remember God's faithfulness to Joseph. AND, those memories still help me be patient today when I feel God isn't doing what I think He should be doing when I think He should be doing it.

The birth of Jesus, Daniel in the Lion's Den, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, Noah's Ark, David and Goliath are all stories brought to life by one of my favorite “Flannelgraph Masters,” my mother. She transported us years and miles away to the times and lands of the Bible.

Somehow the “Flannelgraph Master” kept our vision focused on the message from God's Word. The flannel figures enhanced the message rather than detracting from it. Perhaps today's video technicians could learn some lessons from the “Flannelgraph Masters.”

Flannelgraph lives on! I just checked on line and found many sources for flannelgraph supplies. If you are interested, check out www.dotstots.com, www.thefeltsource.com, www.mychristianvalue.com. and even www.amazon.com. I just hope there are still some “Flannelgraph Masters” to tell the stories.

SUNDAY SCHOOL PICNICS

2009-07-21T19:42:00.002-07:00

SUNDAY SCHOOL PICNICS

Sunday School Picnics were much anticipated events in my childhood. The date was emblazoned on my mind's calendar from the day it was announced. Two BIG things would definitely happen, and one BIG thing might happen. The most important BIG thing was that I would get to play baseball or softball for hours. The second BIG thing was that I would get to eat many, many different foods on and off all day. My mother always took plenty of food, but this was my chance to sample all the different foods other mothers made, too. There is something about Sunday School Picnics that seem to engender some sort of competition among the women who did the cooking. Each one seemed to have her specialty, and nobody else had better make anything like it. Sunday School Picnics always began with lunch, but there was always enough food for dinner, and enough for intermittent snacking during the afternoon. Grazing off the various foods on the tables seemed to be an activity that involved most of the attendees. The third BIG thing, and it didn't always happen, was that I would get to play horseshoes with the men. Of course, I didn't throw them the correct way, spinning them; I threw them end over end, but they let my points count even though the horseshoe was almost always upside down. It wasn't often that I got to play horseshoes because the men seemed to take it pretty seriously.

Baseball or softball, on the other hand, seemed to be available practically all day. There was usually room for one more player. It didn't seem to matter if there were four outfielders and five infielders; they weren't all-star caliber anyway. If you hit the ball on the ground, there was a pretty good chance of getting on base. No one ever struck out, and no one ever got a base on balls. You had to hit the ball. Even a fly ball could be a good deal if too many fielders tried to camp under it. I loved every minute of it, in the field or at bat. There were, obviously, some good ball players, but they made sure that the rest of us enjoyed the game too. From an earlier blog, you must know that baseball was always a big part of my life as a child, and Sunday School Picnic baseball games were extra special because I got to show my skills, such as they were, to the older guys who I thought were pretty close to big leaguers.

In western Pennsylvania, it wasn't always certain that the weather would be good for the Sunday School Picnic. Weather forecasts became very important that week. More than once I prayed for God to stop the rain that began on Friday. A rain out of the Sunday School Picnic was a serious problem because the place we rented for the picnic wasn't always available the following weekend.

I loved our Sunday School Picnics because of the three BIG things I mentioned above, but there was a Sunday School Picnic at another church that could also raise my level of excitement, the Pokey Picnic! It was held by a sister church in our charge of four churches. They had their own picnic ground across the street from their church in the small town of Wilbur. It was extra intriguing because, even though it was only about four miles from our church, it was in a different school district, and I didn't know most of the kids there.

The Pokey Picnic was a local event that involved more than the church. People from all over the area came to enjoy the day. The church that held it used it for a fund raiser, They sold submarine sandwiches, sodas, ice cream, and even whole meals out of buildings that faced the picnic grounds. Behind the buildings was a small stream, always a place of interest to small boys. I usually managed to get partially soaked at least once during the day. Across the stream was a small hill with untamed, or at least, lesser-trained grass and plants. When I was a small boy, the hill wasn't a small hill, but it became smaller as I got older. The picnic grounds also had a band shell that was raised off the ground and was fronted by plank benches. During the afternoon and evening, various entertainments were presented from the stage. I've been back to the grounds of the Pokey Picnic recently, and I discovered that the spacious picnic grounds of my childhood don't seem nearly as spacious today.

Even though I looked forward to the Pokey Picnic, it never held my interest for the entire day. You see, there was no baseball field.

THANKSGIVING, CHRISTMAS, AND GRANDMA'S COAL STOVE

2009-07-04T09:13:00.002-07:00

The television show “Hee Haw” had a short that started, “Hey, Grandpa, what's for supper?” I've listened to his answers often enough to know that he was probably at my grandma's house when he answered. Thanksgiving dinner and Christmas dinner were BIG DEALS when we lived next door to Grandma and Pappy. She had a coal-burning stove whose brand was, I believe, “Super Chief.” On cold evenings we used to sit in front of the stove with our feet on the open oven door. It was toasty. She got a new stove, and I don't remember what brand it was. BUT, it was still a coal and wood burner.

I know that my mother made some of the Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner foods at our house and brought them over to Grandma's, but I'm not sure I was greatly aware of that when I was little. Turkey was not a staple of the menu on either Thanksgiving or Christmas Day. We always had ham, and we always had chicken – two ways. One way was baked, and the other way, my favorite, was swimming in gravy. I don't know what happened to the chicken before it got put in the gravy, but it was my favorite. Others reached for the breast, but I always wanted the leg. There was one other favorite part of the chicken for my sister and me – the heart. We tried to remember who had had the heart the last time we had chicken, but we didn't always remember right. I was always sure my sister had had the heart the last time, and it was my turn now. To solve the problem, my mother decided to cut the chicken heart into two pieces. So, for most of my young life, my sister and I ate half a chicken heart at a meal.

Homemade noodles, thick and long, were always part of the meal. They made a good combination with mashed potatoes and gravy. I have yet to tell my cardiologist about that particular combination. The stuffing on my plate was usually beside the mashed potatoes and noodles, but close enough to be in the same gravy. The gravy was honest-to-goodness chicken gravy – NOT a white cream gravy. In fact, there were always little pieces of chicken meat in the chicken gravy. I guess the only things I didn't eat with gravy were the vegetables, the cranberry sauce, and the sweet potatoes. How was there room on the plate for everything?

Grandma usually made home-made rolls, twice as big at the top as on the bottom, and the top had a slight crunch to it. They were served warm enough to melt the butter, and plenty of it was used. Yes, we dipped the rolls in the gravy, too. Desert was often mince-meat pie, too grown-up a taste for me, so I always held out for the fresh apple pie. The adults who didn't have mince-meat pie, had plum pudding with sweet cream sauce. I didn't like the plum pudding, but I did like the sweet cream sauce. Unless I ate the plum pudding, I didn't get the sweet cream sauce, so I didn't get much sweet cream sauce.

We ate all of this at one sitting. We didn't go watch a football game and come back for desert later. We ate it all at one time. Grandma and Pappy didn't have a television, so watching football was not an option. (How long has the Thanksgiving Day football game been on tv?)

I loved to watch Pappy when he got his coffee. He would fill the cup about three fourths full and then pour milk in the cup until it overflowed and filled the saucer. Then he'd take the cup out of the saucer, lift the saucer to his lips and drink from it first. I'm not sure that's a bad idea. I like the taste of milk better than the taste of coffee.

Grandma also made home made doughnuts. She would make the dough and let me help cut out the doughnut shapes by using a glass. When I thought all the dough was used, she would roll it in her hands, put it on the table, and run the rolling pin over it. Walla, more doughnut makings. Sometimes she would let me make some of the left-over dough into doughnuts in the shapes left after the circles had been cut out. I always liked the weird shaped ones. Of course, I never turned down any of the regular shaped ones either.

Cooking oil was heated on top of the stove, and the doughnuts were dropped into the hot oil. Grandma would take them out when they were done and put them on the table to cool. Before they got cold, I got to roll them in sugar. We always ate some of them before they had cooled completely. I haven't told my cardiologist about the dounghnuts either. He'd probably want some.

The coal bucket sat beside the stove, and the wood box was not far away. Sometimes Grandma needed more heat in the oven quickly, so she would put in some wood. I have no idea how she knew when the oven was the right temperature. A large pan about two feet wide and three feet long was sometimes placed on top of the stove. The pan had a shallow top and a bottom section that held water. I enjoyed it when Grandma put apple slices on top and water in the bottom and put it on the stove. She was drying apples. She also dried corn, but I liked the apples better.

Strawberry shortcake means something different to me than it does to many other people. Grandma made a pie crust, put in a layer of strawberries, another pie crust and a second layer of strawberries. Then it was ready to be put in a bowl with milk and sugar. Yes, she had mixed sugar with the strawberries, but it always needed some more sugar on top. The other specialty that needed milk and sugar was apple dumplings made with sliced apple pieces NOT whole apples.

When I went away to college, Grandma, upon occasion, sent me a box of doughnuts and home-made buns. I was the most popular guy in the dorm for a while.

I have sometimes helped my wife make Thanksgiving dinner, and I have come to realize what a feat it is to get all the food on the table hot at the same time. I don't know how Grandma did it with a coal stove. Wait, maybe that's it. I think I'll get my wife a coal stove. I'm sure she'll like it.

DO YOU REMEMBER?

2009-06-25T15:54:00.002-07:00

DO YOU REMEMBER?

Do you remember when Coca Cola came in the green seven-ounce bottles?

Do you remember when the name of the bottling city was etched on the bottom?
I remember one day getting one that said “Hilo.” It was exciting to get a bottle that had originated in Hawaii.

Do you remember the taste of Coke in those seven-ounce bottles?
It really doesn’t taste the same today.

Do you remember the first day you were out of high school?
That was exciting. We had just heard the speeches about the world being our oyster.

Do you remember the first day you were out of college?
That was scary. Now, I had to put into action what I had learned. Had I really learned it well enough?

Do you remember your first day on your first part-time job?

Do you remember the first day on the job that was to be your career?
How long did it take to realize, “Yeah, I did learn well enough to do a good job?”

Do you remember the last day you were single?
Were you really thinking about being single, or were you thinking about tomorrow when you would be married?

Do you remember the first day you were married?
I sure do! It was great, and it still is!

Do you remember the smell of “sugaring off” days?
Springtime in Maple sugar country.

Do you remember the taste of maple sugar cakes?

Do you remember Burma Shave and their roadway advertisements?
I really enjoyed them from the time I could read until they disappeared.

Do you remember orange-pineapple ice cream?

Do you remember blue moon ice cream?

Do you remember fountain cherry cokes?

Do you remember the first basket your scored for your high school basketball team?

Do you remember electric cattle fences and the surge of electricity going through them?
Did you and your friends dare each other to grab the wire and hold on? We did, and it was a jolt.

Do you remember playing baseball when there weren’t enough outfielders so that any ball hit into right field was an out?

Do you remember playing hide and seek in the largest yard in town when it was getting dark?

Do you remember your first bicycle?

Do you remember taking your driver’s test?
Was it just me, or did they purposely fail boys the first time they took the test?

Do you remember the first time you bought a girl a “real” Christmas present?

Do you remember the day when you realized, “Yeah, she is definitely the ONE?”

Do you remember the look on your father-in-law’s face on your wedding day?
I do; he was smiling from ear to ear.

Do you remember the silly grin you had when your wife told you she was going to have a baby?

Do you remember driving home from the hospital with your brand new baby in the car?
I thought every car on the road was coming right at me.

Do you remember ice cream in pints and your parents cutting it in two so you and your sister/brother could share it?

Do you remember how nervous you were the day you proposed?

Do you remember how stale the bubble gum was in the packages of baseball cards?

Do you remember how difficult it was to get to sleep Christmas Eve?

Do you remember looking in the store windows at the electric trains at Christmas time?

Do you remember when a new Chevy cost less than $2000?

Do you remember John Cameron Swayze and the fifteen-minute evening news?
AND, do you remember his sponsor? (Camel Cigarettes)

Do you remember going outside to move the antenna when you changed tv stations?

Do you remember your excitement when the disc jockey said, “This one is going out to _____?”

Do you remember sock hops after the basketball games?

Do you remember decorating for the prom?

Do you remember trying to figure out how to put your prom date’s corsage on?
AND how glad you were when her mom said, “Here, I’ll do it.”

Do you remember the day you made your first house payment?

Do you remember the day you made your last house payment?

Somehow, these things are easy to remember, even when I’m not sure what I ate for lunch yesterday. They’re certainly more fun to remember than what I had for lunch yesterday.

FATHER'S DAY

2009-06-15T19:16:00.002-07:00

FATHER’S DAY

I don’t really know whether it’s supposed to be Father’s Day or Fathers’ Day, but since I am being personal, I’ll call it Father’s Day. I remember September 17, 1969. I remember March 30, 1972. I remember June 9, 1977. Boy, do I remember those days. They are three of the most important and exciting days of my life. Those are the days I became a father. Like the old time television program, my children are “My Three Sons.”

I had to buy a new shirt after each one of those days because I had popped the buttons totally off the ones I wore on those days. If you happened to be standing beside me outside the nursery at York Hospital on those days, I apologize to you. You see, I felt sorry for you. Your child may have looked good, but not nearly as good as my son did. In fact, I still feel sorry for you because as great as your children may be, my sons are still the best.

Our oldest son, Tim, tested our patience. The due date we were given was August 20, and Tim wasn’t born until September 17. I was so ready to jump out of bed, grab the suitcase, get Norma in the car, and drive to the hospital for the first two weeks after August 20 that I barely slept. We joked about having the baby on Labor Day, but that didn’t happen. (I said “the baby” because in 1969 we didn’t know whether “the baby” would be a girl or a boy.) I had just started a new job at Penn State University, York Campus, and was conducting orientation sessions for new students and their parents each day. Everyone was prepared to take over for me and continue the program when I had to leave for the hospital. Well, the orientation sessions were over by the time Tim was born. People were beginning to ask if we really were going to have a baby. My desire for the baby to be born was not quite as urgent as my wife’s.

Finally, the big day came, and our convenience store (7-11) son was born. We left for the hospital at seven AM, and Tim was born at eleven AM.(7-11) He may have waited a number of days to be born, but when he decided it was time, it was time. He weighed seven pounds, eleven ounces,(7-11) and he really was the best looking baby in the nursery, honest. The joy and responsibility of parenthood had begun.

Brian, our second-born son, got to go camping and traveling before he was born. Even before we officially knew we were expecting our second child, we went on a camping trip to Glacier National Park, Olympic National Park, and Mount Rainier National Park. During the trip we were walking across a snow field and Norma slipped and fell and began to slide down the mountain. Fortunately Wayne Foulk and I were below her and caught her on the way down. Maybe that early experience had some influence on Brian, because he and his family enjoy traveling on vacation. Hawaii has become a favorite place for them.

It was fun calling my parents and Norma’s parents to tell them they had a red-headed grandson. And, again, I felt sorry for the other fathers outside the nursery in York Hospital. There was no doubt that Brain was the best-looking baby of the group, honest.

The evening Brian was born, we had been shopping and Norma seemed to be walking differently. Norma was thinking that our baby might be born that evening. On our way home, we passed the neighbor we expected to watch Tim while we went to the hospital for the birth. They were going the other way. We weren’t home long before Norma told me it was time to go to the hospital. Since our primary baby sitter for the evening was gone, we went to backup. We asked another neighbor to stay with Tim. That was fine except that the neighbor kept us standing in the foyer of our house talking for a while before we left. We finally had to say we had to leave. It was good we did because Brian didn’t wait around long once he decided to be born. We left the house about 7:00 PM, and Brian was born at 9:37 PM.

We had been working toward moving from Red Lion to Tucson to open up Saguaro Potato Chip Company when Jason was born. He was born just five weeks before our move to Tucson. Again, I felt sorry for the other dads at York Hospital. You see, Jason was the best-looking baby in the nursery, honest. Norma’s sister, Dorla was going to join us at the hospital for this birth. On the morning that Jason was born, Norma suggested we call Dorla and ask her to come to our house because our baby was probably going to come that day. We waited a while for Norma’s sister to show up, but things began to move along rather quickly, so we thought we had better go to the hospital and leave a note for Dorla to meet us there.

On the way to the hospital I saw a car that had just wrecked by the side of the road. It was Dorla’s car. She had lost control on a wet road and had gone into the ditch. The windshield had shattered, and Dorla had numerous small cuts on her face and arms. Needless to say, this upset both Norma and me. Dorla walked over to our car, said she was okay, and that she would see us in the hospital later. Because of this, the delivery for Jason was longer than either of the other two.

The first several weeks of Jason’s life we were packing up for the move and cleaning the house for the new owners. Everything did get done, and we proceeded with the move to Tucson. Jason got to fly earlier than either of his brothers. He, along with his mother, and his brother, Brain, flew to Tucson while Tim and I drove a potato chip delivery van.

Once we moved to Tucson, we went about the business of opening Saguaro Potato Chips. Tim and Brian both helped out in the plant with packaging, sweeping the floors and helping us eat the broken chips that we couldn’t sell. Jason spent time in a Gerry on his mother’s back while she was packing potato chips or sleeping in the playpen. He later helped us by sampling the freshly cooked chips as often as could grab (or sneak) some.

Each of our sons has grown in his own unique way. I’m pleased to say that each one has a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. Each one is also successful in his chosen field, Nuclear Engineering, Systems Engineering, and Intelligence Analysis. Each one is also a father, and I can now more easily share the experience and joy of being a father with them. Thank you, guys, for making every day a celebration of Father’s Day. There is an old gospel song that asks the question, “Will There Be Any Stars In my Crown?” My answer, “Yes, three!”

BICYCLES

2009-06-04T19:10:00.005-07:00

BICYCLES
When we weren’t playing baseball, we were riding our bikes. No, none of us had Schwinns. Those were for the rich kids who didn’t really have fun on their bikes, anyhow. They didn’t want to get them scratched. As far as we were concerned, what good was a bike if you couldn’t crash it once in a while? The bikes were sturdy, and if you had a pair of pliers, or two pair of pliers, and a screwdriver, you could fix almost anything that went wrong with your bike. A hand air pump was also helpful, unless you didn’t have a tube repair kit. Then the air pump didn’t matter. If you couldn’t plug the hole, the air wouldn’t stay in anyhow.

We rode our bicycles to baseball games. We rode our bicycles home from baseball games. We rode our bicycles around the base paths before and after baseball games. We played tag on our bicycles – we had to tag the other bike with our bike. That made for some interesting collisions, some on purpose and some not really on purpose. It was considered bad form to knock the other guy over when you tagged him. The coolest way to tag him was to catch him from behind, brush his rear tire with your front tire, and buzz on by. The dangerous part of this game occurred when we played it on the road that went through our hometown. It seemed that cars tended to use the road, too. They didn’t realize that it was really a paved bicycle playground. Somehow, none of us were ever hit by a car.

With the right tires on his bike, a boy could actually make the tires squeal when he stopped, and give a little “pip” if he spun when he took off. We thought it was a big deal. The tires that seemed to work best were the ones with a tread that looked like a chain of “8” going lengthwise. Of course, the tires squealed best on macadam that was smooth with tar. The rough pavement just wouldn’t squeal, and if a boy wasn’t careful with the sideways sliding stop, a tire could catch and flip with the bike on top and the boy providing the braking surface between the bike and the pavement.

I think every bike in Kantner when I was a young bike rider was a used bicycle, so there might have been a Schwinn under the several layers of paint most of our bikes had. We did what we could to make them look cool. Streamers from the ends of the handlebars were popular, a light on the front fender was good, and handlebars that bent so low you had to lean way over to reach the ends were the coolest. BUT, bells and baskets were not much in use, at least not among the guys. Some of the girls had them, but then they just rode their bikes; they didn’t play tag, or jump their bikes, or ride them through the woods. Everybody, at one time, had a bicycle that he had assembled from parts from several of his earlier bikes. We didn’t throw away old bikes; we kept them for spare parts.

Each of us became, to some extent, a bicycle mechanic. We all learned how to replace the “clutch spring” in the coaster brake, and we all learned how to make do when the “real” part couldn’t be found. Everyone could change a flat tube inside the tire in less than ten minutes. It took longer if the tube needed mended, because the glue had to dry before air could be put back in the tube. Alignment was always a problem because the rims tended to get a little out of round – well, not really out of round so much as wavy. The trick was to adjust the wheel so that it would just miss the frame on the left side and then just miss the frame on the right side. Of course, if the wheel wasn’t tightened enough, the alignment was ruined the first time you “pealed out.”

The stores sold something that could be fastened to the frame that would just touch the spokes so that the bicycle made a putting sound as it went down the road. Baseball cards to the rescue! There was always one card that was in every batch printed, so everyone usually had ten or fifteen cards of the same player. When fastened to the frame and just touching the spokes, a baseball card made the same noise as the store bought thing.

Occasionally, a bicycle would lose a front or rear fender because of a broken bracket or just plain rust. Riding in the rain became very unpopular with our mothers as rain (and mud) from the rear tire would fly off and muddy a stripe down the back of whatever shirt or jacket that was being worn. Since I had a paper route, my mother couldn’t tell me not to ride my bike, but she did encourage me to “fix that fender.” A missing front fender usually got quicker attention from us because as it threw off the water and mud, it would fling it up into our faces.

No discussion of bicycles of the late 1940s and early 1950s would be complete without mention of the chain guard. The chain guard had a most important job, not to guard the chain, but to guard the pant legs of bicycle riders. It covered the chain so it came between the pants leg and the chain, usually. If a brace wasn’t tight, the pants leg could sneak down behind the chain guard and get rubbed by the chain as it continued its merry way from the rear to the front sprocket. Chains were oiled to be sure they worked well. What little kid didn’t think that oil on anything mechanical was important? Of most importance to us, however, was the completely missing chain guard. Then the pants leg could get caught between the chain and the front sprocket, thereby pulling the right leg forward and usually causing a crash. Pant legs that got caught between the chain and the sprocket not only got greasy, they usually got torn. A sure sign in Kantner that someone’s chain guard was missing was the characteristic rolling up of only the right pants leg.

The bikes were not built, as today’s bicycles are, for stunt riding, or for mountain trails, or for riding up and down hills using different gears, or for speed, but they were built for fun. They were two wheels, a set of pedals, a handlebar, and a kid with a desire to ride and ride and ride. AND WE DID!

POTTER COUNTY -- PART TWO

2009-05-20T18:20:00.005-07:00

POTTER COUNTY AND THE KANTNER GANG

My parents, along with other families in our church, formed a loose knit group called the “Kantner Gang.” The Kantner Gang did many things together; picnics and trips to Potter County were the favorites, at least they were the favorites among us kids. Five or six couples and their children would go to Potter County for a long weekend and, sometimes, even a week. The wives got together to plan the meals; the men got together to decide when we would leave, and in what order the caravan would form. The kids got together to talk about all the fun we would have swimming and just goofing off. Of course the boys would always, in the back of their minds, plan on how they would see the biggest buck or the first turkey before any of the men would. (It never happened.)

Potter County itself was great fun, but the trip there had its interesting moments, too. The first part of the excitement for us kids was that we would often get to ride with our friends in their cars. It was two hundred miles from Kantner to Potter County and, of course, there were no interstate highways so the trip lasted more than four hours. The roads varied from wide two lanes with room to pass to country back roads that were the proverbial 1 ½ lanes wide. Of course the narrow roads were in hilly country, so the roads would go up and down and around many turns, so sitting still in the seat became, at times, an adventure.

Many towns lay across the route to Potter. The first town of great interest was Tyrone. Tyrone was home to a paper mill, and if you have been through a paper mill town in the 1950s, you will remember the smell. I have smelled other odors I enjoyed more.

We usually stopped at a small gas station at an intersection about half way to Potter so everyone could fill up and get a chance to walk around. We always stopped at the same gas station, and I think it was because of the unique method they had of cleaning bugs off a windshield. They used corn cobs soaked in water. The corn cobs did a great job with the bugs, but you still had to dry the windshield. The second town of great interest was Renovo. Part way through Renovo the road crossed a river. This crossing was normal enough, except that the sides of the bridge were high enough that you couldn’t see over them. Okay, a little strange, but the interesting part of the bridge was the sixty degree turn in the middle. With high sides, a narrow road, and a turn in the middle of the bridge, crossing the river in Renovo was always at least interesting. Why did it seem that the bridge got especially narrow at the curve?

By the time we left Renovo, we were only about twenty miles from the cabin, but these were the twenty miles of 1 ½ lane twisty, rollercoaster roads. While we kids were eager to get to camp, it was fun riding those last twenty miles on those roads, and since there were no seat belts, we could exaggerate any movement that tended to move us on the car seat.

My father’s cabin was not big enough to house all the members of the Kantner Gang, but no worry, other members of the gang belonged to the “Kantner Camp,” another cabin just a couple hundred feet from my dad’s cabin. The sleeping arrangements in that cabin were similar to the ones in my dad’s cabin, mattresses on the floor under the eaves of the roof. This made for a fun adventure one night. The men from our cabin decided that it would be fun to take a tree branch that had fallen on the ground and rub it over the roof of the other cabin in the middle of the night. The comments in the sleeping area of the Kantner cabin ranged from

“Oh, it must be a bear!” to

“It’s just Smokey and those guys; throw the slop jar on them.”

Meals were always a large group affair with ten to fifteen people at the table at the same time. The arrangement was that anyone who complained about the food had to wash the dishes, so comments about the food were generally positive, except for one time. Bob apparently didn’t like the mashed potatoes one evening, so he said, “The mashed potatoes are kind of lumpy,” and then remembering that he had left himself open for doing the dishes, he continued, “But, that’s the way I like them.” I still don’t believe it, but they let him get away with it.

One of the favorite evening activities of the gang was playing the game, “Pit.” If you have played the game, you know how raucous it can become with everyone trying to trade for all of the cards of a particular grain. There is no organized bidding or exchange in Pit, you just yell, “Two for two” or “three for three”, and then trade with anyone who agrees to trade with you, trying to obtain all the cards of a certain grain, thus having a “corner on wheat” or whatever. Played with a single deck, this game can get loud, but the Kantner Gang liked to play with a double deck; hence it was even louder. One memorable evening my father and one of his friends decided to each keep one card of each grain so no one could “get a corner” on any grain. After about fifteen minutes of frustrating trading, everyone noticed that no one was getting a corner. They also noticed that my dad and his friend weren’t trading with anyone, so their trick was discovered, and they were watched more closely after that.

My memories of Potter County of course are filled with tales of games and meals and rides and swimming , but when I think of Potter County ,a great peace comes over me as I remember the majestic forests, the bubbling streams with the many fish often visible, the fields with thirty or so deer eating peacefully in them, a glimpse of a doe and a young mottled fawn, and the camaraderie I witnessed among my parents and their friends.

POTTER COUNTY

2009-05-10T22:04:00.006-07:00

POTTER COUNTY
When I was very young, my father and several of his friends bought a small piece of land and built a small rustic cabin on it in northern Pennsylvania. We always said it was in Potter County, but it was actually in Clinton County. I have no idea why we said it was in Potter County. The cabin was built of old lumber, old shingles, old concrete blocks, old windows, and old doors. I did say it was rustic, but it was inexpensive. It had no indoor toilet, but it did have an outhouse close by. After a few years it even had electricity. One thing it had that I will always remember is the big green chair. The supports for the seat had broken, so when you sat in it you sank almost to floor level. For a young boy, it was interesting to have the arms of the chair not much lower than head height. Honest, the seat was comfortable.

The most desirable thing the cabin had was Kettle Creek, which flowed about twenty-five feet behind the cabin. Just above the cabin the creek came around a bend, flowed downward over a set of riffles into a pool about five-feet deep, fifty-feet long, and twenty-feet wide. In this pool were a number of trout, both small and large. Swimming in this pool was fun as the trout shared the pool with swimmers and didn’t seem to mind them. BUT, once you got out of the pool and picked up a fishing pole, the trout were not quite as friendly. Oh, a number of fish from this pool provided dinner for those visiting the cabin, but the men were always selective of the fish they kept from this hole; they didn’t want to fish it out. Besides there were many, many more fishing holes as good or better than this one within a few miles of the cabin.

I speak of this cabin as if I went there soon after it was built, but that is not true. I experienced a number of frustrations before I ever got to “Potter County.” I couldn’t go while it was being built, and it seemed to take a long time to build it. The men who built it could not afford to just go buy the lumber and other equipment they needed; they had to accumulate it. And accumulating it took a long time. I thought I would get to visit it soon after it was completed. (Completed? – it was never really completed. The men continued to work on it, and add to it for years.) But that visit was delayed because the first day of fishing season, about April 15, was a school day, and my parents didn’t think I should take several days off from school just to go fishing, although my father and his friends did take several days off from work. We didn’t get to visit it that summer, and the next time anybody went up was the first day of deer season. I was too young to go deer hunting, so I didn’t get to go then either. Finally, during the spring Daddy, his friend Don, and I left for a weekend in Potter. Well, we didn’t get twenty miles from home before Don’s car had a flat tire. Don and Daddy thought we should go back, and Don couldn’t afford both a new tire and a trip to Potter, so we didn’t go. I thought we should go even without a spare, but they wouldn’t listen to me. Sometime within the next year I did get to take the much-anticipated trip to Potter.

We got there after dark, and the car we were riding in had a spotting scope on the front fender. When we got to the turnoff into the field where the cabin was, the spotting scope was turned on and the many eyes of the deer in the field reflected the light back to the car. I had never seen so many deer in one spot in my life. We went on in the road and parked by the cabin. At the back end of the cabin were two double-decker, double bunks, but that wasn’t where I was to sleep. Between the bunks was a ladder built onto the wall. I climbed the ladder to the upstairs. The upstairs consisted of a walkway down the center of two rows of mattresses laid on boards between the ceiling of the room below and the roof of the cabin. I got to choose the mattress I wanted. If a person had awakened suddenly and stood up, he would probably have bumped his head on the roof beams. If he had rolled off the back side of the mattress, he would probably have fallen through the ceiling. Believe it or not, I slept well, didn’t bump my head, and didn’t fall through the ceiling.

In the morning when I got out of the cabin, I got to see the lay of the land. I had heard Kettle Creek during the night, so I was not surprised to see it so close behind the cabin. What I didn’t know was that the mountain began just on the other side of the creek. It was covered with trees and went uphill right away. It was steep enough that I couldn’t see anything beyond the ridge just across the creek. In front of the cabin was a field several hundred yards wide and many hundreds of yards long. Across the field and the 1 ½ lane road was a hill with many trees. There was one large field on the side of the hill, and as we watched during the day we saw deer in the field.

After breakfast we went fishing, or rather my dad and his friends went fishing. I just drowned worms. Actually, I tried bubblegum as bait. I never thought the gum from the baseball cards was good to eat, and the fish evidently agreed with me. The water was clear enough that I could see them swim up to the gum, push it around, and swim away. It’s good lunch didn’t depend upon my catch of fish. My dad and his friends were good fishermen, so lunch (or dinner) was never a real problem. One plus of my lack of success at fishing was that I didn’t have to clean any fish; I just got to eat them. Fresh-caught trout from a mountain stream is GOOD EATING!

We did actually get to Potter County. A few miles from the cabin was the town of Cross Fork, and it was in Potter County. We stopped at a combination service station/convenience store. (I really think it passed for the grocery store for the town.) There we bought lunch – soda, candy bar, and a cake of some kind, a precursor of a Twinky. It was a great lunch. I don’t imagine my mother would have approved, but she wasn’t along.

Tune in again next time for further adventures in Potter County .

2009-05-02T09:34:00.005-07:00

THE RUNNING FROM THE BULLS

The guys from Kantner had been invited to go to Stoystown to play baseball on a real diamond, the one used by the Stoystown Pioneers. We didn’t have enough for a full team, but that was understood. The teams would be decided when we got there. Two captains would be chosen, and they would choose the players for their teams. (Wasn’t it a thrill to be the first one picked and pretty disappointing to be the last one chosen. “We’ll take Joe, so you have to take Bill.”) We gathered our bats and balls and gloves and walked toward Stoystown, a mile away. There was an available shortcut that went through a field rather than by the road. After we had decided to take the shortcut, and after we had walked part way through the field, someone said, “Aren’t those bulls?”
The answer was, “No, I don’t think so.”
“They don’t look very happy, and they are watching us. I think we should get out of the field.”
We all noticed by then that the cattle that turned out to be bulls had lined up and were looking our way.
“Run!” and we did. I didn’t know a person could get his body parallel to the ground a foot or so off the ground and slide it through the wires of a barbed wire fence without getting stuck, but we all did. We all made it through unscathed, but someone had dropped a bat in the field. We couldn’t let the bat in the field. Someone had to go get it. Fortunately, the bulls looked us over, decided we were no danger, and wandered off. Someone, I don’t remember who, so I guess it wasn’t me, sneaked back into the field, picked up the bat and ran for the fence. He made it because by this time, the bulls didn’t care, but someone did.
A truck stopped by the road and a man yelled, “Quit chasing my bulls!” We didn’t say a word. I tend to think the man in the truck had a good laugh at our expense and thought he would rub it in.
We did get to Stoystown and played the game. The game itself holds no particular memories for me, but the Running from the Bulls will always be part of what I remember.
The baseball field in Stoystown, while a real baseball diamond, did have several idiosyncracies. Because a street ran less than twenty feet from home plate, the backstop was unusual. It had three sides and a top. The bottom four feet was wood all the way around, and the remaining distance to the top was wire mesh, and the top was also wire mesh. A pass ball or wild pitch was likely to wind up in front of the plate in fair territory or under the feet of the umpire, the catcher, or the batter. No catcher ever caught a pop up on the Stoystown baseball diamond.
In right field there was a hill, rather steep, that flattened out after about an eight-foot climb. On top of the hill was a playground with swings and sliding boards. The right field hill was far enough away to seldom come into play when we played, but the right fielder during the Stoystown Pioneer games had to be part mountain goat. The hill extended to deep center field and got farther away from home plate as it went toward center field. The right field fence was on top of the hill beyond the slides and swings. The fence in center field was a low stone wall that could be jumped, but few balls were hit that far. There was no fence in left field, so any ball that got beyond the leftfielder had to be chased down beyond the edges of the field into the weeds and trees. Of course, by the time he got the ball, the batter had rounded third and was well on his way home.
In later years, after the Stoystown Pioneers folded, a fence was put up around the field at a distance appropriate to little league. I don’t think we ever had an official Little League, but the men of the area did organize all the kids into teams, and we played a series of games on the Stoystown ball diamond each summer. It was a lot of fun, but we still played ball other days at the Kantner school ground. It gave us good practice for our games in Stoystown. If you could field a ground ball in Kantner, the Stoystown infield was a breeze, and if you could keep your footing in the “shale” of the Kantner outfield, roaming the wide open spaces of the Stoystown diamond was a cinch. Of course, right field was NOT out of bounds in Stoystown.

BASEBALL EVERY DAY

2009-04-24T13:58:00.002-07:00

I REMEMBER PLAYING BASEBALL EVERY DAY DURING THE SUMMER

Yep, we played baseball every day during the summer. The only reason we didn’t play it every day before school was out for the summer was that we had school, and there were often other things to do after school, hide and seek, tag, strawberry drop, home chores, and homework. We almost always played at the schoolground in Kantner, but sometimes we got to play at the ball diamond in Stoystown, a mile away. But, we usually played in Kantner. The infield was hard dirt, with clumps of grass, but it did have a pitching mound. Home plate was about the same place every day. Some days we used a flat rock for home plate and other days we just drew a home plate in the ground. First, second, and third base were much the same as home plate. The base paths were at a somewhat lower level than the rest of the field because they had been used so much without any grading or upkeep on the field. Just beyond the infield the rocks started. We called it shale, but I don’t think that’s the correct name. The stones were about ¼ to 3/8 of an inch across, not rounded, gray, and in some places, several inches thick. In other parts of the outfield the shale barely covered the ground, and in some places was absent. It was harder to run in the places where the shale was inches thick. You couldn’t get a good grip.
There were no fences, but there was a four-foot drop off in foul territory on the third base side. At the bottom of the drop off was State Route 53, so most foul flies were not caught on the third base side. About ten yards to the right of the first base and right field line was a field with many high weeds a foot or more high. A ball hit in there was always tricky to find, but boys desperate to play ball will look until they find it. Left field and right field had no real boundary for hundreds of feet, but center field was intruded upon by the corner of the gym at the school. If you could really hit the ball hard, it would bounce off the gymnasium wall. AND, if you were a slugger, you could break a window in the gym. None of us were sluggers, but we did witness older boys put it through the window. We may have witnessed it, but we didn’t tell anybody.
We never had enough players for two full teams, so right field was out of bounds – that is, a ball hit to right field was an out. When a left- handed batter was up, we reversed it and made left field out of bounds. There were usually enough guys for a pitcher, two infielders, and one or two outfielders. ‘Hit ‘em where they ain’t” wasn’t too hard. When we had only a total of four or five guys, only two guys could be at bat, and if you didn’t drive the guy in from first base, you took his place on base while he batted. A catcher was a luxury. Usually, the batter had to get the balls that got past him. We all learned to be “bad ball” hitters. Yogi Berra would have been proud of us. It wasn’t much fun for the batter to run back toward the weeds to get any ball that got past him. (And, it slowed the game down a lot.)
We had a great deal of fun, and we played some close games, 18 to 16, 12 to 11, 24 to 20. Pitcher’s battles they were not. If the batter struck out, he had to chase three balls behind the plate in the weeds along with the humiliation of striking out. Sooooo, the pitcher, knowing he would be batting next inning, usually didn’t try to strike anyone out. We were interested in getting the ball in play. Of course there were no umpires. How did we settle the arguments about safe or out at first? I really don’t know. I’m still sure I was safe at first at least one time that I was called out. There may not have been many strike outs, but there weren’t any walks. If the batter saw the pitch wasn’t going to be hittable, he would drop his bat and catch the ball rather than chase it.
Sometimes we didn’t have enough players to play a “real” game, so we would play “Three Flies Up.” One player would hit balls to the rest of the players in the outfield. If a player caught a fly ball, he got seven points; if he caught the ball on the first bounce, he got five points; and if he caught it while it was rolling (before it stopped), he got three points. When a player accumulated twenty-one points ,it was his turn to bat. So, if he caught three flies, he was up. Besides catching the ball, the fielders had to fend off the other fielders. There may have been three or four players trying to catch the same fly ball.
Where did boys in a small town (200 people) get all the equipment to play baseball? Everyone had to have his own glove or else share one with someone on the other team, BUT we got baseballs, old ones of course, from the Stoystown Pioneers, the local grown-up baseball team. They played in a league with teams from other small towns in the area. Not only did we get old baseballs, we also got bats after they had been broken. It was not unusual for us to have three bats, two with nails holding them together and one that was only split a little bit. So, here’s thanks to the Stoystown Pioneers for their generosity to a bunch of kids. Once in a while one of the guys would be given a new baseball bat as a present. We all wanted to use it, but the lucky owner was often reluctant to lend it to just anybody. “Be sure you don’t hit the ball with the trademark.” Of course, the bats were all wooden.
When we went to Stoystown to play, it was on a real baseball diamond, but more about that next time . I’ll just mention that we did have to outrun a group of four bulls one day on the way to a game in Stoystown.

THE PITTSBURGH PIRATES

2009-04-14T18:58:00.004-07:00

I remember the Pittsburgh Pirates before Mazeroski and Clemente. I remember the Pittsburgh Pirates when Ralph Kiner was the Home Run King. We lived about seventy miles from Pittsburgh so I didn't get to many games. In fact, the only game I got to attend when I was young was when the Johnstown Tribune Democrat newspaper rewarded its delivery boys for obtaining new subscribers to the paper. (The paper cost seven cents a day, and the delivery boy got two cents for each paper delivered.) I don't remember who the Pirates played, and I don't remember whether they won or lost. But, I do remember the great green field, the manicured infield, and the players. These were the guys I listened to on the radio! These were the guys who actually got paid to play baseball!

Unfortunately, the Pittsburgh Pirates were not very good in the early 1950s. The common joke was "What has eighteen legs and lives in the cellar?" The answer, of course, was "The Pittsburgh Pirates." Those were the days of eight teams in the National League and eight teams in the American League. When we looked in the newspaper at the standings, we didn't have to look very far from the bottom to find the Pirates. They were always lower than the Cubs, and the Reds, and the Phillies, and the Giants, and the Dodgers, and the Cardinals, and the Braves.

Each spring hope sprung eternal in the baseball heart of at least one Pirate fan. The team seemed to do quite well in spring training, and I would get excited thinking, "This is the year!" No, not the year to win the World Series or the year to win the National League Pennant, or even the year to finish the season above .500 -- just the year NOT to end the season in the cellar. As the games started to count in the standings, the Pirates would start to lose. But it was so exciting when they won. I maintained hope during April, (It's just a bad beginning.) May, (They'll soon get out of their slumps.) June, (Now that it's warm, they'll get better.) By the Fourth of July, I was beginning to think that maybe this wasn't going to be the year. It's bad when you start saying "Wait until next year" in early August.

Danny Murtaugh was one of the players from that era. So were Gene Freese, Dick Cole, Dick Hall, Hank Foiles, Tony Bartirome, Felipe Montemayor, Eddie and Johnnie O'Brien, Wally Westlake, Gus Bell, Danny Kravitz, Sid Gordon, George Strickland, Roman Mejias, Preston Ward, Matt Surkont, and Curt Roberts. You may remember some of the names, but most of them did not make it into the Baseball Hall of Fame. I remember them because they were major league baseball players, they played for the Pittsburgh Pirates, and sometimes they won.

Mostly I heard the games on the radio, and always I read an account of each day's game in the next day's newspaper. (Yes, all the games were in the newspaper because the "western swing" the teams took was to Chicago and St. Louis. Once in a while, the Pirates would be on television. Then my mom would watch while I went outside and turned the antenna until the reception was the best we could get. We often watched the game together.

I had thousands of the late 1940s and 1950s baseball bubble gum cards. Sometimes I actually chewed the gum, always a chancy endeavor. One day while I was listening, the Pirates had a rally going in the bottom of the ninth and had a chance to win. There were two outs, men on base, and the Pirates down by just one run. I don't remember who was batting for the Pirates, but I do remember that Johhny Klipstein was pitching for the Cubs. When he struck out the Pirate batter, I took his baseball card out, tore it up, and threw it away.

I also remember Rosey Rowswell, my all-time favorite Pirate announcer. I like to think that he taught Bob Prince everything he knew about broadcasting. He had great sayings and sound effects. "Open the window, Aunt Minnie, here she comes!" Then he would drop a tray of bolts. A Pirate had just hit a home run. A "doozy-maroony" was a Pittsburgh extra base hit. The "old dispsy-doodle" signaled a called third strike on an opposing hitter. My favorite was F.O.B. (Full Of Bucs) That meant that the Pirates had the bases loaded. "Put 'em on and take 'em off" was the description of a Pirate double play.

I remain a Pittsburgh Pirate fan to this day, and yes, hope still springs eternal. I still sing "The Bucs are going all the way, all the way, all the way, the Bucs are going all the way, all the way this year." No, I don't really believe it, but I can hope can't I? BECAUSE on the 1955 roster of the Pittsburgh Pirates were such names as Elroy Face, Vernon Law, Bob Friend, Dick Groat, and Roberto Clemente.)

Memories - Pappy's New Car

2009-04-07T16:38:00.003-07:00

I remember Pappy's new car. Pappy was my mother's father. I don't know how we came to call him Pappy, but it fit. Pappy bought a brand new 1949 Chevy. It was long and black. The style was called Fleetline, and it had four doors. We went to Windber to get it, and I had to sit in the showroom while Pappy was settling the details with the dealer. Sitting in a new car showroom wasn't all that boring for an eight year old. I looked at all the cars and wondered which one was Pappy's. Well, it wasn't any of those. It was in the back being prepared for him. It looked new and it smelled new. I sat on the front seat beside Pappy on the way home, feeling really proud to be riding in a brand new car. I could sit anywhere on the front seat I wanted. I could sit up at the edge of the seat, or I could sit back against the back of the seat. There was no seat belt to force me into the proper seating position.

I also remember Pappy letting me sit on his lap and steer the car. Grandma and Pappy lived next door to us along a one and a half lane road that ran out of macadam just at Pappy's house where the surface changed to "red dog." The "red dog" was a type of rock (red) that kept the road from becoming muddy when it rained. If you've ever lived by a red dog road, you won't forget it. One day, Pappy sat me on his lap and let me steer the car on the road to his house. I did keep it out of the ditch on one side and out of people's yards on the other side, but if the tires had been paint rollers, they would have left some pretty squiggly stripes going up the road. Fortunately, no one was coming the other way while we went up the road.

I remember one other ride in Pappy's "new car." One day he said, "Let's go for a ride." I was always ready for that, so I got in. He told me to look at the odometer. It showed 5999.0. It was about to turn over to six thousand! I had missed all the other thousand mile turn overs. We drove, or rather, Pappy drove over town and back (It was a small town.) Just before we pulled into his driveway, the odometer showed 6000.0. It don't think my eyes moved from the odometer the whole time it went from 5999.9 to 6000.0. It may not sound very exciting now, but I was thrilled at the time. I couldn't wait to tell my mother and daddy and sister about it.

Pappy was very protective of his "new car." When he and Grandma got home from anywhere, he would turn off the engine and say, "Grace, is it off?"
Grandma would answer, "Yes, Charles, it's off."
He would ask again, "Grace, is it off?"
She would answer again, "Yes, Charles, it's off."
Then Pappy would pull on the emergency brake (When did it become the "parking brake?"), be sure the car was in first gear, and put a block of wood behind each rear wheel because the driveway was on a slight hill. Then, and only then, would he go in the house. At night time, before he went to bed, Pappy would go outside, look at the headlights, and taillights to be sure they were off, look inside to see that the interior lights and the dashboard lights were off, and then look to be sure the blocks were behind the wheels. We always said Pappy was putting the car to bed. It might sound silly now, but it was comforting to see Pappy checking his "new car" before he went to bed.

Maybe I'd better go check my car. Are the headlights off? Are the taillights off? Is it is Park? No, I do NOT put wooden blocks behind my car's rear wheels (anymore).

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Memories

2009-04-02T18:06:00.003-07:00

I remember washing dishes with my sister. We washed the dishes together almost every evening during the 1950s. It was never one of my favorite activities. There was an advertisement for a dish soap that stated, "No wash, no wipe tonight." I simply could not understand why my parents would not buy that particular dish washing powder. The request to buy came from my lips many times. I guess it really didn't work. If it had, my sister and I would not have had the opportunity to sing many of the duets we did.

Dishwashing time was definitely the time for singing. One of our favorites was "White Choral Bells." We sang it as a round. My sister was always better at it than I was, so I always got to start (once she gave me the starting note). She was the one who knew when to come in to make the harmony work. We also often sang a Kingston Trio song, "Hang Down Your Head, Tom Dooley." Certainly, many hymns became part of our repertoire. Our singing was limited to our house. We never sang together in public, and many people are glad of that. My sister did go on to sing many solos in local churches. She had and still has a beautiful soprano voice.

Back to the dishes. my sister almost always washed, probably because she got the dishes clean, and I wasn't nearly as particular as she was. The tea towel always got increasingly wet as it was used, and it got harder and harder to get the dishes completely dry. Of course, they couldn't be put away wet, so I would have to change tea towels part way through the dishes. As the evening chore continued, the drying rack got fuller and fuller. It seemed that washing was an easier job that didn't take as much time as drying. My sister could always wash the dishes faster than I could dry them and put them away. At least it seemed washing was easier and faster until my sister let me wash and she dried. Then the drying rack was always empty and she was ready to grab the dish from my hands as soon as it was washed. How did that work? The job she did was always faster than the one I did. No, washing dishes was definitely not one of my favorite acitivties, but my memories of it now are pleasant and enjoyable ones. Maybe I'll call my sister and see if she remembers all the words to "Hang Down Your Head, Tom Dooley."

Did you do the dishes with your sister? Call her. Maybe she'll remember all the words to "White Choral Bells."

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