Characters In My Play: O. D. Myers

"All the world's a stage..." according to William Shakespeare.  As I've worked my way across that stage in my sixty-five years, I have encountered a great many characters - people who have crossed my path at one place or another.  For some reason, many of those characters have stuck in my mind.  In the far recesses of my brain they live and breathe.  They were people who had dreams and aspirations, trials and tribulations, victories and defeats, happiness and sorrow, and who laughed and cried.  In this segment, and in similar ones to follow in the future, I want to share memories of "Characters In My Play."

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O. D. Myers had been a prominent, vocal part of our community for many, many years.  He had once owned the local coal yard, much-used by the people who needed coal for their heating and cooking stoves.  He was quite active in the Knights of Pythias lodge - the members there very familiar with his booming voice as he berated would-be candidates on their ineptitude and probable failure to maintain lodge secrets.  "Why, he'll probably be writing them on the sides of boxcars!" he had once exclaimed at a lodge meeting, referring to someone who should not be trusted with such secrets.

O. D.  was a regular at some of the town's watering holes as an elderly man.  He was known to drink his fair share of beer.  Sometimes he became very verbose after drinking; other times he seemed to be withdrawn.  He was sometimes laughed at, sometimes told to quiet down, sometimes scolded for interrupting the atmosphere in the bar, or in the store he happened to be patronizing at the time.

I had encountered O. D. on several occasions in various areas of "downtown," so I was familiar with him to the point of knowing who he was.  I knew very little about his background, and only that he lived on what we all called "Creamery Road," in a little below-ground masonary house.

Walking home from some consumer excursion "downtown," I was surprised to see the body of a man laying prone, face down on the sidewalk, just a few feet from the bridge over Spain Creek on Sycamore Street.  I rushed over to him, and rolled him enough to see that it was O. D. Myers.  "Are you hurt?" I asked.  "No, I just stumbled and fell," was the reply.  "Help me up."

"Do you want me to get Doc Polsley?" I asked.  "Hell, no!  I don't want a doctor!" he responded.

I helped the old man regain his feet and stand erect.  "Were you headed home?" I asked.  "Yes," was the reply.

I put his arm around my neck and shoulder, and slowly walked with him down Sycamore Street.  It was slow going, his weight added to my own, as we walked the few blocks to his house.  He was quiet most of the trip, only talking as we approached his home on "Creamery Road."  "The door's unlocked," he said as we approached the doorway.  I opened the door, helped him through the frame, and down into his living quarters.  I had never been there before, and was unprepared for what I saw.  It was a large room, with pieces of furniture scattered throughout.  It was dark and dreary, little light entering through the curtained windows.  I helped O. D. to his bed, where he sat down heavily.  I fluffed up the pillow and lifted his legs to rest on the bed.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" I asked.  "No" was his crisp reply.

I backed away, moved to the door, and exited, closing the door behind me as I retraced my steps to Sycamore Street, and then on toward home.

I told Mom about my encounter with O. D., and how I had escorted him home.  I asked if she knew anything about him.  About all that she could share with me was the fact that he was a veteran of the Spanish-American War.

That fact amazed me!  Some sixty years had passed since that conflict, with other wars intermittent during that time period.  World War I, World War II, and Korea had all come and gone since this old man had served in that short, three month war in 1898.  What had been his experiences then?  What tales could he tell me of that war? 

I saw O. D. Myers a few times after this episode.  I never got up enough courage to approach him and to tell him that I was the kid who had helped him home.  Nor did I ever take advantage of an opportunity to quiz him about his role as a soldier in the Spanish-American War.  He could have been a conduit - a window - for me to another time and place.  I let the chance slip by, much to my regret.

Orra "O.D." Myers, April 19, 1873 - February 8, 1966 - buried in Square 86, Lot 1, Gravesite 3 in Maple Grove Cemetery, North Lewisburg, Ohio - one of the many characters in my play.

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

When it comes to playing ball, North Lewisburg has an obsession for it.  The local ballpark has always been a center of attention for the community and softball/baseball fanatics.

The present-day ballpark is not the original home of the sport in North Lewisburg.  Once-upon-a-time, the ballpark was located a bit farther to the north and across the street from its present location.  A vacant field marks the spot today, but not so very long ago...

The smell of popcorn permeated the air, as did the sounds of the umpire's calls.  The ball park was accessible via an entrance from Sycamore Street.   A snack shack and announcer's overlook was located behind the protective fence, just behind home plate.  The plate was on the southwest, with first base to the east and third base to the northwest.  There were bleachers located behind the protective fence, running parallel to the fence.  They were constructed of concrete blocks, with thick wood boards forming the seats.  Underneath the bleachers could be found discarded paper coffee cups, popcorn bags or boxes, candy bar wrappers, an occasional coin or two, and weeds.  Directly above the bleachers were the outstretched limbs of mulberry trees, heavily-laden with their luscious fruit.  Fallen mullberries stained the wood seats, and often provided an unnecessary "squish" when an unsuspecting spectator sat down.

Spain Creek ran along the southern boundary of the park, its flowing water making noises as it tumbled over rock outcroppings, or as it dropped from the spillway dam onto the rocks below.  The dam was there for a reason - it had been the site of the collecting point for the watertower which stood between the creek and the train depot.  The old steam engines refreshed their boilers with water siphoned up from the creek and into that tower.

Spain Creek at this time was a meandering stream, cutting its channel through the rocky outcroppings.  The banks of the stream were alive with weeds, flowers, shrubs and trees, all drawing nourishment from the gently-moving water.  There were trails and footpaths which cut in and out of the trees and tall plants, providing lots of areas for exploration and discovery.  Boys and girls strolled or ran along those trails in various games of adventure...or just as an excape from the noise and confusion which was taking place on the ballfield.

Little League was formed in North Lewisburg about 1955, the product of the labors of men like John L. Tomlin and Everett Brelsford.  These men, and others of like mind who served as coaches and umpires, organized young boys into teams with names like "Indians," or "Nats," or "Cubs."  Boys who might otherwise be spending their time in front of the new-fangled television, or getting themselves into trouble with other pursuits, were banded together in fast-pitch baseball.

Adults participated, too, as members and supporters of the North Lewisburg Firemen, a fast-pitch softball team which had been organized decades before.  The various teams over the years had brought home much-deserved championship honors.  The town produced a large number of exceptional players...catchers, pitchers, infielders, and outfielders who made the area newspaper articles, or were determined to be "All-State" in their particular areas of expertise.  The town was obsessed with supporting these valiant men as they went forth to do battle against other teams throughout the area.

In this ball-crazy atmosphere I found myself one Sunday evening.  I was a member of the "Indians," coached by Richard "Hank" Holycross, a jovial, sport-loving veteran of World War II.  He had seen me perform during practices, and realized that I did not have much future as a baseball star.  But, he wanted me to have an opportunity to participate as a member of the team, so he stuck me in center field, with the idea in the back of his mind that that position would be safe for both the team and me.  Dutifully, I took my position in the field, oversized glove on my right hand, ball cap on my head, and otherwise far from the cheering crowd.

The reader must understand that I did not really want to be there.  That was the same night that Disneyland was to officially open in California, and I wanted to remain at home to watch the festivities on that wonderful black-and-white television which held the place of honor in our living room.  That was not to be.  My step-father, "Putt" Forsythe, was a sports nut; he was not going to allow his 10-year old stepson to sit in front of a TV when he should be on the ballfield.  After much protesting on my part, he (6 feet tall, and all of 300 pounds) pulled my skinny, little 65-pound body-when-wet - complete with ball glove - into the waiting 1947 Chevrolet.  We were off to the ballpark.

Some minutes later, I was standly rather idly in the center field, not very mindful of the activity taking place closer to home plate.  I was awakened from my reveries when I heard the announcer say that Mickey Graham was advancing to the plate.  Now, I knew Mickey Graham.  He, his brother Dave,  and his family lived just up the hill from my house at the corner of Sycamore and North Streets.  Mickey was older than the rest of us boys who lived on that street, much more muscular and toned,  but we enjoyed his company.  The other boys and I often gathered at his home to play a long, extended game of "Monopoly" in the dug-out area under his house.  The east wall was open to the great outdoors, and the area reminded us all of a cave.  It was cool, dark, and damp...the perfect place for boys to congregate before some great adventure, or just as a place of refuge from our parents.

Flash forward to 1955:  Mickey advances to the plate, determined to provide his team with the much-needed runs required to win the game.  Skinny, little me awaits in center field, praying with all my might that Mickey either strikes out or hits the ball to someone in the infield.  There is a mighty swing as the ball passes by Mickey - "Strike one!" rings out from the umpire.  Tiny beads of perspiration run from my hairline down the sides of my face.  The pitcher winds up again, and sends the ball hurling toward the plate once more.  Mickey doubles back, takes another swing, and "Stike two!" echos across the park.  I pound my fist in my oversized glove, and hunker down with my hands on my knees (just like Coach Holycross had shown us in practice) awaiting the next pitch.  My eyes are focused on the pitcher as he winds up and throws the ball yet again.  I see the mighty swing and hear the crack of the bat, and look up to see the sphere rising higher and higher into the atmosphere.  It seems to hang there for a very long time until it starts its descent once again.  Then I realize that it is headed directly toward me.  I hear the crowd roaring, the distinctive voice of the Coach yelling my name, urging me to watch the ball and catch it.  My eyes follow the orb as it moves toward me.  I adjust my position and move forward to catch it before it strikes the ground.  I realize that I am not moving fast enough, so I increase my pace.  I run forward as fast as my thin legs will take me, right arm and glove upstretched to catch the ball.  The crowd roars its approval and I approach, my head spinning with the sound of victory.  I will be a hero!  All I have to do is catch the ball! 

A few minutes later, I open my eyes to see several people standing around me.  I am laying prone on the ground, my arms outstretched in a modified cross.  My hat is at my side.  Farther away is my baseball glove.  My head throbs even as people ask "Are you okay?"  Eventually helped to my feet, I realize that I did not catch the ball.  It caught me - on the head.  No victory, no salvation for our team, no heroism for myself.  Mickey Graham has rounded all of the bases, the game is won, and I am helped from the field.

At school the next day, friends laugh about my failure on the field the night before.  I am deeply humiliated and embarassed even moreso later in the week when Coach Holycross stops by to let me know I have been traded to another team...probably the only such trade in North Lewisburg Little League baseball history.

And I never got to see the televised opening of Disneyland.

Peanuts and Harmonicas

I was a newspaper boy in North Lewisburg for a number of years, hawking the Columbus Dispatch and delivering it to my many customers.  As a result, I became familiar with a great many of the folks who resided in the community.  While I did not see all of my customers on a daily basis, I at least had the opportunity to do so every Saturday when I collected for the paper.

This meant that I spent more time on my route on Saturday.  I not only delivered that day's edition of the newspaper - I also had to collect the weekly delivery fee so I could forward to the Dispatch offices the  amount I owed for the papers I had received to that point.

My customers were very good about "paying on time," so collecting was not a hassle.  Many of my customers placed their payments in envelopes, and then affixed them to the front door.  Others would be expecting me, and welcome me at the door, payment in hand.  Still others would pay a month in advance, making a collection stop unnecessary.  And, there were always the very special places where I would "hang out" a little bit longer, savoring the opportunity I had to visit with the customers.

One such place was my weekly visit to the Knotts home.  While Mrs. Knotts was generally there to greet me at the door with her payment...and an occasional, hot oatmeal cookie...it was Mr. Knotts whom I most looked forward to seeing.  He would call to me from inside the house when Mrs. Knotts opened the door, and tell me to meet him at the east side of the house.  There, he had a luxurious garden, planted in early spring, and carefully tended throughout the summer and fall.  There were green beans, bell peppers, potatoes, cabbages, lettuce, beets, carrots, squash, cantelopes, cucumbers, radishes, and more.  One area of the garden was set aside for Mr. Knotts' precious peanut plants.  When he harvested them, he bundled the plants and hung them in a small shed for drying.  The interior of the shed was always adorned with the plants and their tubors.  And Mr. Knotts knew I had a special fondness for the nuts!  So, each Saturday he met me at the side of the house, entered the shed, took down a bundle of those savory peanuts, put them into a paper bag, and handed them to me.  I offered up my "Thank you" and we walked just a few yards to a large stump which Mr. Knotts used as a stool in his garden.  He sat down on the stump while I usually sat in the dirt nearby.  He pulled out a shiny harmonica, or "mouth organ" as he called it, and began to play a selection of songs.  I was treated to the sounds of "Old Black Joe," "Amazing Grace," "She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain," "I Dream of Jeannie With The Light Brown Hair," or some other nostalgic piece.  The minutes flew by as he provided me with those very special concerts.  It was soon time to go and to continue on my route.

One very special Saturday, I stopped by the Knotts' home for my customary collection.  Mrs. Knotts once again met me at the door, paid the delivery fee, and said Mr. Knotts was in the garden awaiting me.  I walked around the front of the house to the garden area.  Mr. Knotts was sitting at the stump, "mouth organ" in hand.  As I approached, he asked me to take a seat beside the stump.  I lowered myself onto the dirt, and got as comfortable as I could.  Mr. Knotts sat his harmonica on his lap, and reached into the pocket on the front of his bib overalls.  "This is for you," he said as he handed a small case to me.  "It's about time you learned."

I opened the maroon-colored case to find a bright, shiny, "Marine Band" harmonica.  There was a smile on old Mr. Knotts' face as I took the device from the case and examined it.  I put it to my mouth and ran a trill back and forth across the reeds. "Now you need to learn some songs," Mr. Knotts said.

Over the next few minutes he talked to me about the harmonica.  He demonstrated how to draw in a big breath of air, and then how to blow out or suck in to change the notes.  He talked about tempo, and vibrato, and other musical terms.  I'd been playing the trumpet for a number of years, so I was familiar with the terminology and what he was attempting to explain to me. 

He then taught me the first song I ever played on the harmonica, an old Black spiritual called "Old Black Joe."  He played it for me, then talked me through the process as I practiced the notes and melody.  After a few minutes, he appeared to be pleased that I "had got it."  He reached for his harmonica again, and nodded for me to join him.  There, in the midst of his cherished garden, we played a duet.

As I arose to leave and to continue on my route, Mr. Knotts encouraged me to continue practicing and experimenting with tunes.  He stood up, handed me the customary bag of peanuts, and walked with me to the front of his house.  I mounted my bicycle and offered up another "Thank you" for the harmonica and peanuts.

In weeks to come, we held impromptu harmonica concerts in that very same garden.  My weekly visits to his home were highlights of my paper route days.  And they continued all that summer and fall, and then into the new year before his death.

I still have that original "Marine Band" harmonica.  It has been supplemented over the years with other "mouth organs" from various manufacturers.  Some I purchased, some were given to me by my Aunt Esther after the death of my Uncle Bob Coleman - another harmonica enthusiast.

Sometimes I get out those old musical instruments, select one, and offer up my rendition of "Home, Sweet Home" or one of the other tunes which I learned while listening to Mr. Knotts so many, many years ago.

Remembering...TV

Dave Trout and I were in the first grade at North Lewisburg Elementary School. Our homes were separated by a pasture, so it was easy for us to get together for fun and games.  Many evenings were spent in games of "Hide and Seek," or "Go, Sheepie, Go," and generally included Dave's brother Kenny, as well as other kids in the neighborhood.

Dave and I probably did not have much on our minds as we walked from my house along Sycamore Street one springtime early evening.   I do not remember what we intended to do, but in a matter of minutes our lives changed forever.

We were directly across the street from a beautiful house owned by Ray and Ruby Patrick.  They were the owners of the local John Deere tractor and implement dealership, located near the railroad which ran through our community.  They also farmed some land at the northern-most edge of the community.

I heard someone calling, "Boys, boys."  Dave and I stopped in mid-stride, and looked across the street to see Ruby waving at us from her front door.  "Come here," she said.  "I have something I want to show you. Hurry."

We delayed whatever it was that we were intending to do, and ambled across the street to the Patrick home.  Ruby met us on the front porch, and held the front door open as she ushered us into her living room.  "Just in time," she said.

"Sit here, on the floor boys," she said as she pointed to a place on the floor in front of a large, box-like piece of furniture.  She crossed in front of us and turned a knob.  Suddenly, a picture appeared on a screen in the contraption.  At the same time, the room was filled with the sounds of "...hearty, Hi-yo, Silver!" and a classical musical piece which I later in life learned was "The William Tell Overature."

Dave and I sat fascinated as moving black and white images raced across the screen, like one could find at a small movie theater.  A masked cowboy, on an enormous white horse, was charging from one point to another while the rapid music swelled in the background.  The tune was catchy..."Ditty rump, ditty rump, ditty rump, rump, rump..."

Ruby explained that the new contraption was a television.  The Patricks had just purchased the device and had it installed.  Outside their home, someone had erected a tall, metal pole with outstretched arms.  This antenna, Ruby told us, captured the signals from the air...signals which were being broadcast in our direction from a television station in Columbus, Ohio. 

It sounded complicated and mystical to Dave and me.  Neither of us paid attention to all of the details which Ruby was providing for our benefit - we were both too engrossed in what was happening on the screen.  The masked man, we soon learned, was called "The Lone Ranger."  Although he was masked, he was really a good guy.  He fought against the bad guys in the half-hour movie, assisted by an Indian who we came to know as "Tonto."  Dave and I did not pay much attention to the plot of the story, but at the end the good guys - the Lone Ranger and Tonto - had triumphed over the bad guys.  The music we had heard at the start of the program filled the air in the room once more, and the now-familiar "Ditty rump, ditty rump, ditty rump, rump, rump" stirred us to cheer aloud.

Ruby asked us if we had enjoyed the program, to which we each responded with an enthusiastic "Yes!"  She told us that she would try to have us visit her again to watch another program on her new television.

Dave and I walked out the front door, crossed the covered porch, and ran down the steps to the sidewalk.  We split up then, each of us running to our own homes to share with parents and other family members the momentous event we had just witnessed.

That evening, I became a dedicated fan of television.  Within a year or so, there was one of the new devices sitting in the living room of our house, bringing us all of the popular programs of the day.  "The Lone Ranger" was soon in the company of "Hopalong Cassidy," and "Gene Autry," and "Howdy Doody."  "Uncle Miltie" became a weekly guest in our home, along with "Red Skelton," and Sid Caesar and Imogene Coca.  There were mystery shows, and westerns, comedies, dramas, Liberace, Bishop Fulton J. Sheen, and a host of other programs to fill our evening hours.  Saturdays brought "Sky King," and "Space Cadets," and other shows too numerous to list here.  And Sunday!  Nothing was allowed to interfere with our enjoyment of "Lassie," or the "Ed Sullivan Show."

I was definitely addicted to the "boob tube."  And someday I'll have to tell you about COLOR television!

Devil's Well, A Boat, and A Bass

Fish tales have been around for a long, long time.  Give any man a fishing pole, line, sinker, and hook, and he automatically becomes a story teller, with a tall tale or two to tell.

I am no exception...but my story is not a tall tale; every bit of it is true.  I swear.

One warm spring afternoon, Paul Reid offered to take Tommy and Jimmy - his sons - and me to a movie in Bellefontaine, Ohio.  That alone sounded like a very good deal to all three of us, but he sweetened the deal with an opportunity to first go fishing at the family's pond, better known as Devil's Well, several miles distant from North Lewisburg.  Accordingly, we all gathered up some fishing gear, quickly dug around and found some earthworms, hopped into the Reid family car, and headed out to Devil's Well.

The pond was not far off the roadway, back in a thicket of trees and shrubs.  It was a mystical place, full of shadows, tree stumps, fallen limbs, and the alluring wonder of the pond.  There was an old row boat there, the wood painted green, and the insides of the vessel lined with mildew and algae.  There were two old oars which needed to be lifted from the bottom of the boat and attached to the swivels on the side.  Paul did most of the rowing, moving the boat and us out farther and farther into the pond.  I could not help thinking about the condition of the boat.  A non-swimmer, I was not happy about the thought that the old rowboat could easily spring a leak and drop us all into the cold, dark water.  I probably would have better enjoyed standing on the bank, running the hook through my bait, and casting just offshore.  But I was a victim of my own enthusiasm, and suddenly realized that I was far from the nearest bank with one adult and two other boys in a leaky, old, rowboat.  My time fishing was spent in depression.

Paul rowed us around to different portions of the pond.  We each repeatedly baited our hooks, and cast the lines out into the water surrounding us.  No one was having any luck at all.  There were some nibbles at the bait, but by the time the lines were retrieved it was apparent that the fish had gotten the best of us...the bait was gone and there were no fish on the lines.

There is nothing more miserable for a fisherman to have to tolerate than having experienced the enthusiasm of going fishing, arriving in a great fishing location, and then not catching one small, solitary fish.  As the first darkening shadows began to descend on us, our enthusiasm gave up and quit.  We were happy to hear Paul voice the opinion that the fishing was done, and that we had better get back to the car and work our way toward the movie in Bellefontaine.

We quickly reeled in our lines, attached the taut line and hook to the reel, and got as comfortable as we could in that leaky old boat for the return to solid ground.  Paul was rowing with vigor, putting all of his strength into each pull on the oars, as he headed the craft toward the far bank.  In the darkness, none of us could see clearly.  And none of us were expecting the tremendous rush of water which poured over us, accompanied by the awful sound of splintering wood!  My first thought was that we had sprung a leak, and water was quickly overtaking us.  The terrible noise coming from the bottom of the boat added to my overall assessment of the problem.  We were sinking!

All three of us boys panicked at about the same time, our young voiceboxes emitting some sounds akin to a cat's screech in harmony with a girl's falsetto.  Paul, the most observant of our crew, started to laugh even as he was brushing the water from his face and arms.  "Calm down, boys!" he shouted.  "We're not sinking.  Look in the bottom of the boat!"

Steeling ourselves for what we expected to see, three pairs of eyes looked into the bottom of the rowboat.  There, flopping around in just a small puddle of water, was the largest large-mouth bass any of us had ever seen.  The fish was trying hard to get out of the boat and back into the safety of the water, while splashing what little water there was in the boat on each of us.  We were not sinking; we had caught a tremendous fish!

What had happened?  Paul deduced that we had struck a shrub in the water, splintering some of the branches in the process, while at the same time scaring the fish which happened to be hiding near the shrub.  The bass had exploded out of the water, splashing water all over us and into the boat, where a small amount puddled. 

Paul continued laughing, and we eventually all joined in as he rowed the boat quickly to the bank.  We pulled the boat out of the water.  Paul retrieved the enormous fish and held it up for all of us to see.  He carried it back to the car, placed it in a wrapper in the trunk, while we boys piled into the car for the journey to Bellefontaine.  Paul intended to have that fish for supper the next evening.

As we drove along, Paul began laughing out loud once again.  "No one will ever believe me when I tell this story," he said,  "not even with you three guys as witnesses! We didn't catch anything while fishing, but then caught a big one with the boat!"

Well, I want to assure you, the reader, that I was one of those three guys, and a witness to this fish tale.

And that fish...why, it's gotten bigger with each retelling over the past 50-plus years!

Gigging Frogs And Other Things

When you are a young boy in a small, rural farming community, it is pretty hard to become bored.  There is always some new adventure, some new activity to while away the time.  All a boy has to do is look around.

Mike Chamberlain could always come up with something different when it came to fun.  He's the guy who introduced me to shortwave radio back in the late 1950s.  I went to his house and listened to the old radio set he had there, spinning the dial until the words or music from some new, exotic, and far-away radio station filled the room with sound.  The ever-present crackle of static and the high-pitched whine added to the mysticism of the moment, as the glowing vacuum tubes radiate heat and light. 

We became shortwave monitors, listening to the broadcasts from various radio stations around the world, and reporting back to them via postcard about the strength and reliability of their radio signals.  My favorite station was Radio Berne, broadcast from Berne, Switzerland.  When I purchased my own shortwave radio at an estate sale, and sat it in its place of prominence in my bedroom, I became a nightly follower of the classical musical programs which aired my way from Switzerland.  I dutifully listened, filled out my report postcards, and mailed them off to far-away Switzerland.  One Sunday night I nearly broke my neck as I tumbled down the stairs, rushing to tell Mom that Radio Berne was then broadcasting my request for George Gershwin's "Rhapsody In Blue" over the airwaves.  What a thrill to hear the broadcaster mention my name, all the way from Switzerland!

Mike and I - both Boy Scouts at the time - signed up as "licensed" shortwave radio monitors.  We sent off for our official certificates, and waited impatiently for their arrival and our "legality."  When they finally came in the mail, the beautifully printed certificates were displayed on our walls.  I became WPE8CEO, and Mike became WPE8CEP...sequential. 

When the CB radio craze exploded upon America in the 1960s, Mike was the first of our circle of friends to become actively involved.  He lit the fire under me, and got me likewise involved.  His KHI6339 call sign, as licensed by the FCC,  was soon matched by my own KHI6348.  We spent a long, long time playing with citizen's band radio over the coming years.

Mike expanded his radio interests to shortwave transmitting.  He learned the Morse Code so he could send the dot-dash messages to far corners of the country.  As the years passed, he moved up to voice shortwave, and has remained an active member of the national shortwave community for a long, long time.  The old house on Sycamore Street still echos with the sounds of "Hello, good buddy!" and similar exclamations on a daily basis.  Don't get in Mike's way when it's time to head for home and another session with his shortwave pals!

One day when I went to call on Mike, he was busy in the large garage and workshed which sat at the back edge of the property.  He had taken an old broomstick and sawed off the broom portion.  He had then taken three long nails, or "spikes," and cut off the heads.  Working carefully, he then drilled  holes in the broomstick, carefully wedged in the spikes - sharpened edges pointing outward - and secured them in some fashion (the exact method escapes me after all of these years), and had, what he identified, as a "frog gig."  Not familiar with the term, I asked him what he intended to do with the vicious looking weapon.  "Goin' frog-gigging tonight when it gets dark," was his response.  Sounded like fun, and something which I might enjoy doing, so I asked him if I could likewise construct a "frog gig."  "Yep" was his short, clipped reply.  So, I soon found myself looking for a broomstick, spikes and whatever to complete the project.

The task completed, we found something else to do to entertain us until nightfall, which was  - Mike assured me -  the best time to go frog-gigging.

By the first signs of darkness, I was back at Mike's house, frog-gig and flashlight in hand.  Lawrence Burroughs had joined us by this time, willing to use a flashlight to spot for us, but not willing to "gig" one of the unsuspecting frogs.  The three of us made our way across the railroad tracks which abutted Mike's property, and slowly inched our way down the steep bank to Spain Creek.  There were tall weeds and bushes, the perfect hiding place for those bullfrogs we could hear croaking around us.  As we got closer to the water, however, the croaking stopped suddenly.  All was silent except for the occasion chirping of a cricket.  Lawrence moved the ray of light slowly around the area, hoping to catch the reflection of a frog's eyes in the beam.  Mike and I stood ready, in our best jungle hunter stances, to impale the target.

Why I ever decided to go "frog-gigging" I do not know.  Perhaps it was the thought of doing something new and different.  Perhaps it was the impending challenge of the hunt.  Perhaps it was some ancient, mystic hunting compulsion in my modern-day brain.  At any rate, I suddenly realized that I was standing on the creek bank, evil-looking weapon in hand, awaiting the observation of my prey.  I was having second thoughts, and not really certain that I could "gig" a frog when the time came to do so.  After all, I was sure there would be blood even if the gathering darkness would make it difficult to see.

Lawrence's efforts were fruitful.  The beam from his flashlight caught the eyes of a large bullfrog, hankered down in the water near where Mike was standing.  Like a flash from Neptune's trident, Mike speared the frog mid-body, a croak exiting its mouth as he raised his gig up to view his trophy.  Lawrence began a nervous laughter as he shined the light on the prize.  I stared at the scene in a mixed state of mind as Mike pulled the frog from the frog-gig and held it in his hand.  Lawrence and I voiced kudos for his effort as he put the frog into a bag which he had brought for that purpose.  "Nothin' like frog legs to eat!" Mike exclaimed as he resumed his hunter stance.

I didn't gig any frogs that night.  I tried, but my own trident failed to connect with one of the amphibian bodies.  My aim was off, for one reason or another.  Perhaps I subconsciously decided not to do-in one of the luckless creatures.  Besides, I was certain that I would not enjoy the taste of frog legs.

I never went frog-gigging after that night, my weapon doomed to dust and rust as it sat on one of the tool benches in Mike's workshop-garage over the years.  I found other activities to keep me busy during those growing-up years which were not at the expense of some bewildered frog. 

 Like when I took up squirrel hunting.

Clyde Arbuckle's Store

Frank Summerfield's insurance office on Maple Street is the present location of what once-upon-a-time used to be Clyde Arbuckle's grocery store.  Clyde and Marie Arbuckle were the owners and proprietors of the shop, ably assisted by their clerk Mary Jane Forsythe.

Clyde was an amiable man, with white hair on a balding head.  He was generally quite jolly and talkative as he waited on his  many customers.  Marie was rarely seen in the store.  I generally only crossed her path when I stopped by her home to collect in my role as the paper boy for the Columbus Dispatch newspaper.  Mary Jane I saw just about each day of the week. 

The store was divided into two main areas...the front of the store held the many display cases and shelves where the food items were stocked.  The back of the store, set off by a wood partition with a large center archway, was where the wholesale products were delivered and excess stock stored.  There was a counter nearby where Clyde kept the larger slicing machine, which he used to slice deli meats and cheese to his customers' specifications.

My favorite place in the whole store was the candy case, a large display case where a variety of single candies, candy bars, and other confections were so prominently displayed.

My Mom kept a weekly account at the store.  She would make her purchases - or send one of us from home to do so - and Mary Jane or Clyde would record them on a little ledger book.  At the end of the week, when my step-father brought home his pay check, Mom  would pay the charges for that week.  Some of those charges generally included the weekly supply of sliced boiled ham which came from one of the large deli blocks which Clyde displayed in his meat case.  We enjoyed those thinly-sliced pieces of savory meat each Saturday for lunch, coupled with the fresh-baked buns which my step-father's mother, Ruth Forsythe, made for us on a weekly basis.

A can or two of Dinty Moore beef stew would also appear on the list of weekly purchases.  As a boy, I looked forward to the nights when this delicious concoction was served at supper time.  I would place a slice of bread on my plate, and heap mounds of the beef and vegetables onto it.  I loved the taste, the texture, and have continued well into my old age of classifying this dish as one of my all-time favorites.

There were fruits which might appear on that weekly list of goodies.  There were lush, plump, juicy naval oranges, tart and tingly Granny Smith apples, and thick, yellow bananas.  There was Royal gelatin and puddings ("Rich, rich, rich in flavor - smooth, smooth, smooth as silk..."), Bosco, Bisquick, Aunt Jemima's Syrup, Joan of Arc Red Kidney beans (part of Mom's great homemade chili), and other wonderful products which we consumed with great thankfulness during the week.

One of the great things about being a spoiled, rotten, kid was my Mom's generosity.  She permitted me to stop by Arbuckle's store every weekday afternoon, on my way home from school, and purchase my favorite candy from that abundantly-supplied display case.  All I had to do was to show my selections to Mary Jane or Clyde, and have the purchase recorded in the ledger.

I occasionally purchased a box of Juji Fruits, or a Three Musketeer candy bar, or some similar candy.  But my real favorite was a Klein's chocolate candy bar, which was covered in its distinctive green wrapper with red letters, the precious chocolate further protected in its foil inner wrapping.  And, this lucious escape from reality was only 3 cents!  Imagine!

Each time I stopped by Arbuckle's, it was like a family visit.  There were familiar faces which catered to my every wish.  Mary Jane Forsythe was an aunt of sorts, she being the youngest sister of my step-father.  We'd talk about this or that as my purchases were duly recorded in the ledger book.  If it was Friday, Mary Jane would ask me to remind my step-father to stop by their mother's home to pick up the fresh-baked buns the next day - as if we needed reminding!  I'd scurry out the door, and make my way home to whatever adventures still awaited me.

Today, far from the sights and sounds of North Lewisburg, I shop at a nearby Smith's Food King - a modern day supermarket.  I walk the many aisles, placing the necessities and frivolities of life in my grocery cart.  When finished, I push my cart up to the checkout stand.  Often, the few humans who inhabit those workplaces are busy with other customers, and I am herded along to a convenience checkout...one of those where I do all of the work, sliding my foodstuffs across a grid, placing the items in a plastic bag, and then feeding my money into a large machine.  Change is dispensed, a receipt is printed, and I work my way out of the store to the parking lot.  As I load the groceries into my car, I suddenly realize that I have done all of this without talking to another human being.  No smile of recognition has crossed the face of a clerk.  No sincere "thank you" from a Clyde Arbuckle or Mary Jane Forsythe as I paid for my purchases.  No weekly ledger upon which to record those precious Klein candy bars. And no Mom to get her hair and clothes just right to make that weekly excursion "downtown" to settle up her accounts.  Suddenly I am old - and sad.

Incident At Black Bridge

My pal, Bob White, had come all the way into town (he lived on a farm about three miles outside of North Lewisburg) to spend an over-night with me - one of those rare occasions when his father, Merritt, allowed him some time away from his daily chores. We arose early on Saturday morning, quickly dressed and ate breakfast, grabbed our .22 caliber rifles and ammunition, and headed for Mike Chamberlain's house to link up with him. 

A short time later, we three were on our way, trudging along the old Erie-Lackawana railroad tracks toward the east.  Just a short distance down the tracks, we came to "Black Bridge", so named because its metal works had been painted glossy black.  The bridge stretched across Spain Creek from one concrete buttment to another, the streambed far below and visible between the crossties and steel tracks of the railroad.  Kids considered it to be a dangerous place - a hazard to be crossing at any time because of the frequency of train traffic.  Only the brave walked along the rails - those who were weaker in spirit elected to use the board walkways which skirted the sides of the bridge.

We used the bridge and the buttments as observation points as we located large fish swimming in the stream below.  Occasionally, one of us would pop off a shot at a fish without much success.  We decided it would be better to attempt to shoot one of the stationary tin cans which could be found littering the stream bank.  Our ammo pretty much expended, we left the bridge and walked down one of the well-worn trails to the streambed.  For the next several minutes, we expended most of the rest of our ammunition just punching holes in various cans. After a short period of time, we explored the area, chatted about whatever topics popped into our minds, and more or less became bored as kids are wont to do.

Then, at about the same instant, we noticed a snake in some weeds just beyond where we were standing.  Approaching closer, we recognized the snake as one of the infamous "blue racers."  We didn't know the correct scientific nomenclature for the snake, but used the term most commonly associated with it.  We all knew it to be a very defensive, and often aggressive snake. 

The closer we walked toward the snake, the more panic-like its behavior became.  There was hissing and feigned strikes, the head and upper body of the snake rising several inches above the ground.  Moving closer still, we three brave young men pointed our weapons in that direction.  Suddenly the snake, tired of the attention, turned and began to quickly slither away from us.  That action prompted all of us to quickly cross over a wire fence and to get ahead and above the snake on the railroad bed.

The snake started climbing that same wire fence, directly below us.  As its head glided through one of the wire quadrangles, Bob snapped up his rifle and fired a shot.  The round struck the snake just to the side of its head, and the creature fell to the ground, draped half in and half out of the wire.  We approached the victim with caution.  Bob was the one who was brave enough to draw closest to the snake, and to eventually pick it up by the tail.  It was slender, velvety blue-black in color, and long.  As Bob stretched it up and held it out to his side, it was easy to see that it was at least six feet long.

We three formed an expanded triangle.  Mike was the farthest down the roadbed bank from the rails and ties, nervously eyeing the snake clasped between Bob's fingers.  Bob was a point on the triangle, facing back toward me, his back to the rails and trestle work which made up Black Bridge.  I stood on the rails and ties, the one of us closest to town, with my back toward the only  viable escape route should Bob do something stupid.

The thought that he could do something stupid had entered my mind as I looked at him and saw that devilish, goofy smile for which he was well-known as it crossed his face.  There was a mischevious look in his eyes; I knew immediately that he was contemplating something which I might not like.

"What would happen if I threw this snake on you?" he asked, an evil threat in his voice.  His eyes glowed, his smile widened, as he raised up the snake as if preparing to give it a toss in my direction.

Mike, ever the most cautious of our threesome, looked at Bob with a thought that the latter might have just lost his mind.  "Don't do it, Bob!" he exclaimed.  "He doesn't like snakes.  He'll shoot you!"

As if on cue, I slowly raised my .22 caliber rifle in Bob's direction.  The palms of my hands were sweating, and I could not divert my eyes from Bob's face.  As he looked even more menacing, I slowly and deliberately issued my own warning.  "I WILL shoot you, Bob, if you toss that thing at me!"

"He WILL!" Mike added.  "Just drop the snake, Bob!"

"Oh, he's not going to shoot me.  He doesn't have any ammo left." Bob offered with a great deal of bravado in his voice and demeanor.  All the while he stared at me, the snake hanging lifeless in his fingers.

Mustering up all of the resolve that I could exhibit in my voice and body, I stared back at Bob.  "I have just one round left," I said.  "And I WILL use it on you if you throw that snake on me."

The gears clicked in Bob's head even as I raised the rifle a bit higher. From where he stood he could probably not detect the slight motion of the barrel as I tried to keep it steady, my heart pounding rapidly and the sweat pouring from my hands in rivers.

Time stood still as it does in one of those great movie scenes where the good and bad men face each other.  The music swells to a crescendo in the background as the "standoff" becomes the center of the universe.  Only one will triumph from the moment, and the question is always "Who?"

Bob gave ground.  He tossed the snake to the side with an "Okay."  The snake's body arched into the air before it fell and drapped itself across the fence once again.

The air, heavy with tension just a moment before, seemed to vent a sigh of relief.  Motion, sounds, and color returned to our world.

Bob stepped toward me as I slowly lowered my rifle.  Mike began the short climb up the railbed.  "You didn't have a round, did you?" asked Bob, a trace of doubt in his voice and body language.  "You wouldn't have shot me, would you?"

I raised the rifle just a bit, off to the side, and slowly pulled back the bolt.  The .22 caliber round ejected in a high arch and then fell onto the rocks between the rails, a distinctive "ping" echoing as it struck.  Mike stood with his eyes wide open, and a "See, I told you!" expression on his face.  Bob stepped backward ever so slightly, the color drained from his face, his rifle at his side, the butt resting on a rail. 

I bent down to retrieve the shell, capturing the moment.  As I slowly turned and arose to my full height facing Bob, I heard myself say "You'll never know, will you?"

Would I have shot my best friend over something as trivial as a dead blue racer snake?  Even I don't know.  But I will share with you this fact.  Just a few minutes after this incident at Black Bridge, we all watched in awe as that blue racer, which we thought was dead, seemingly revived, slithered down from the fence over which it was draped, and slid rapidly away into the weeds along the railroad tracks. 

Now, had my friend tossed a LIVE blue racer snake on me...well, who knows?

The Watering Holes

Just as the animals gather at the old watering hole to refresh their parched throats, there were folks in North Lewisburg who made use of the local watering holes.  I'm not writing of the town's wells or the springs which fed the groundwater.  I'm referring to the bars - or as we called them, the beer joints - which catered to the wants and needs of a sizeable section of the community.

Although the town was inhabited by a large number of people who practiced "temperance," or otherwise avoided the use of spirits in any form, there were some folks who looked forward to an occasional - or sometimes often - drink.  Beer was the alcohol form of choice, and great quantities of the cool, refreshing liquid could be found in bottled form at the local pubs.

There were three which were prominent during my boyhood days.  The tavern owned by Horace "Junior" James was situated on the corner of Sycamore and Maple Streets, on the ground floor of the old Town Hall.  It was a lively spot, with loyal patrons who frequented it not only for the beer, but also for the jukebox which belted out Hank Williams tunes, the old game console where a metal disk was used to slide over some representative bowling pins to rack up scores, and the ambience of the place.  It was noisy, with chatter and music filling the air from mid-afternoon until late in the evening.  There was the clanking of beer bottles and glasses, and the occasional sound of shattered glass as either of those two implements were unfortunately dropped to the floor.  The air was filled with cigarette and cigar smoke - I pause to wonder how many cases of cancer developed as a result of "second hand" smoke?  There was the odor of spilled beer which seemed to permeate the wooden floor, mixed with the chemicals and water which were used to disinfect the place.

Junior James was a World War II veteran, much-decorated with medals and ribbons from that conflict.  He was a sociable sport, ready and willing to engage anyone in polite conversation.  He was a sportsman and hunter, who truly enjoyed those days away from the bar when he was on the hunt for game.  Examples of his kills were prominently displayed around the place.

Across the street, and a bit to the east on Maple Street, was Griff's Grill, owned and operated by Ray and Mary Griffin.  They had been prominent fixtures in the community for many years by the time I came along.  My Dad had frequented their place back in the days before he departed for service in World War II.  By the 1960s, I was stopping in occasionally - too young to drink the beer, but old enough to order one of Ray or Mary's great cheeseburgers with pickles along with a Coke or 7-Up.  And, they hosted some great all-you-can-eat fish frys on Friday nights after Ray returned from his regular fishing excursions to Lake Erie.  The two pool tables there were also very inviting, and I spent many hours of effort there in attempts to defeat my friends at "Eight Ball," or rotational pool.  It was 10-cents a game per player, with Ray's stern admonition not to tear the felt cloth which covered the table.

It was always easy to find many of the town's characters at Griff's, sitting around the familiar card tables with their card games in full swing.  There were small bets to be won, but the games would last for hours on end as one player drifted away to home or other duties and another drifted in to take his place.

There was yet a third bar which was located on Sycamore Street, across from the old Hiway 559 Coffee Shop.  Mr. Spain owned that establishment, which generally catered to a different group of loyal patrons.  I likewise entered there occasionally to enjoy an ice-cold bottle of Dr. Pepper or Orange Crush, or the new Mountain Dew which appeared in the 1960s.  Sometimes the local post of the American Legion would host a fish fry there.  It was a good place to grab a hot sandwich and cold drink.

My maternal grandfather, Carl Emery Impson, was a patron of the local bars.  After a hard day's work as the local driver and cemetery sexton for the Rush Township board of trustees, he'd park his dump truck at the township's garage and meander the few blocks to "down town."  He would stop for a "cool one" at Griff's, or Junior's or Mr. Spain's establishment.  At the far north end of town, my grandmother Katie would be anxiously awaiting his arrival at home so she could finish preparing his meal.  When the clock on her living room wall ticked slowly past the anointed time for his arrival, Grandma would beckon to me (I lived just across the street) and send me on an errand to "bring Dad (as she called him) home."

I'd walk the distance from North Street to Maple Street, and began my quest to find Grandpa.  I'd stop first at Griff's, knowing that it was Grandpa's favorite, and then try Junior's.  If I hadn't located him by that time, I walk the short distance to Spain's.

Gramps would see me walk in the door, finish the last swig or two from his glass or bottle, wipe his lips, and move his long legs from the barstool to the floor.  He'd adjust his hat, coat, or bib overalls, say his goodbyes to Ray or Mary or other bar patrons, and walk to join me.  We'd exist the building, make the appropriate turn, and wind our way home.  These were great times for boy-to-grandpa conversations, and I even today treasure those memories.

The old watering holes are gone now.  There are no bars in North Lewisburg.  Folks who imbibe stop by the local convenience store, make their purchases, and drive away to down their suds at home.  Doesn't quite seem the same.