Along Spain Creek

In Passing

2011-11-11T10:51:00.000-07:00

The year is speeding by, and seems to gain momentum with each passing day. Sadly, time has brought unrequested changes.

My sister, Charma Lee, passed away on September 7th, in her 77th year. She had been in failing health over the past few years, and so had spent most of her time in an area nursing home. She was visited there by family and friends...sometimes she recognized them; sometimes she did not. When I journeyed to Ohio to spend some time in 2009, I had the opportunity to visit with her on three different occasions. On the first visit, she recognized me only after I softly called her name. Her face lit up with a beautiful smile, and she reached out her arms to embrace me. We chatted for a long time, until I saw that she was tiring. I left that day, but returned to see her again just a few days later. This time, she did not recognize me as we sat side by side and quietly talked about anything she brought to mind. On the third occasion, she knew who I was, and gently held my hand as she tried to fight off sleep. Shortly, however, she drifted off. I kissed her goodbye, and made my journey out of the nursing home, and back across America. I never saw her or spoke to her again.

I have a few photos of her which I take out occasionally. I was always excited when her boyfriend, Lee Forrest, riding his big motorcycle, came to call on her. I was just a little kid when she left home in 1951 to marry Lee. Over the next several years, as Lee's construction work took them to other places in Ohio, I had the chance to spend time with them. I attentively listened to Lee's stories of service in the Navy during World War II. I vividly remember their small "house trailer" and the fun we had during the summer months in far-distant Waverly, Ohio. I remember their shiny, new 1953 Chevrolet stationwagon, and the daughters - six girls eventually - they brought home to visit in North Lewisburg over the years.

In later years, Charma and Lee divorced. Charma married Edward "Cy" Wolford in 1971. Three years later, Cy, Charma, and a motor home filled with their family made a trip across America. They visited with my wife, son Chip, and me in Utah. It was a pleasant, fun-filled time for all of us.

As she grew older, Charma reminded me so much of our mother. There was a structure in her face, and an attitude which she projected that so often mirrored Mom.

She accompanied Mom in 1976 on a trip to visit my family and me when I was assigned to Army duty in Hawaii. It was the first trip to Hawaii for both of them. I have several pictures of all of us as we gathered near the gravesite of my father at the National Cemetery of the Pacific, in Honolulu.

Miles and time kept us apart over the years which followed. Yet, I always had a warm spot in my heart for my sister Charma. Unfortunately, and to my deep sorrow, I was too ill to make the journey back to Ohio in September for her funeral service. Someday, however, I'll travel again to Ohio, and make a special visit at her gravesite.

Independence Day - July 4th

2011-07-16T18:55:00.000-06:00

Whenever I think of Independence Day, my mind automatically conjures up images of Independence Hall, the signers of the Declaration of Independence who labored there in that hot, muggy summer of 1776, the Liberty Bell, fireworks, the Revolutionary War, and Mendell E. Beattie, long-time Principal of Triad High School. What has Mendell E. Beattie to do with independence, you may well ask? If you were one of his students at one time or another you would be able to answer the question without my input. For those of you who never had the privilege of experiencing Mendell E. Beattie in the classroom, pay apt attention.

In addition to his many other duties as Principal, Mr. Beattie was the American government teacher for Triad High School students. He took great pride in being an American, and encouraged his students to emulate his patriotism and love of country. He wanted his students to be grateful for the liberties and freedoms which they had inherited because of the dedication and sacrifices of others. To this end, he was a real task master.

Mr. Beattie not only talked about liberty, freedom and independence. He knew it by heart because he had made it his life's effort to do so. He could recite many of the famous quotes as expressed by our Founding Fathers. The words of George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, James Monroe were all securely locked away in the folds of Mr. Beattie's brain, ready to spring forth at any given moment when the occasion called for them. He could recite long passages of the writings of Thomas Paine, and put tremendous feeling and meaning into them as he stood before his students. He could evoke all of the imagery and emotions associated with the battlefield as he recited Lincoln's "Gettysburg Address." He could give a stirring rendition of Franklin Delano Roosevelt's "The Only Thing We Have to Fear is Fear Itself" speech.

And, Mr. Beattie expected his students to be just as capable of knowing and understanding the words which were important to our nation's history.

Students looked forward to Mr. Beattie's class in American government with trepidation. They heard the horror stories of all of the memorization and recitations which he required of his students. They were ever hopeful that someone would come along to replace Mr. Beattie before the government class was a part of their Senior year routine. Hundreds of students held out hope; hundreds of students were eventually disappointed.

In addition to all of the material he presented in his class lectures and discussions...in addition to all of the reading assignments which he made...in addition to all of the who, what, where, why and how questions which made up his periodic exams...there constantly loomed the memorization and recitation requirements.

At one time or another, every student was required to learn and recite before his/her classroom peers:

The Magna Carta
The Mayflower Compact
The Declaration of Independence
The Preamble to the United States Constitution
The Gettysburg Address
and other such items of historical significance which he deemed necessary for the well-educated Triad High School graduate.

Each student labored long and hard to master the unfamiliar language of these documents, and then stood all alone at the front of the classroom for those few moments of trial and tribulation. The process was as sure as night and day, year after year.

It's been 48 years since I studied the Declaration of Independence and committed it to memory. It's been 48 years since I stood at the front of that gray-walled American government classroom and recited the stirring words of the Declaration of Independence. It's been 48 years since that day in 1963, and I have passed from a tow-headed teenager to a gray-haired old man. Still today...because Mr. Beattie demanded it as a meaningful exercise in Americanism so many years ago...I can open my mouth and give voice to the words which are forever etched in my memory - "When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation. We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness..."

It's not a parlor trick...although it is something with which I have often amazed my friends, my children and my grandchildren. I imagine that there are other men and women throughout the country - all former students of Mr. Beattie - who can do likewise. It's merely the end result of a masterful teacher's way of promoting life-long learning and a deep and abiding love of country.

Thank you, Mr. Beattie.

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

2011-07-10T15:58:00.000-06:00

It's been a couple of months since I last posted to this blog. I hope my faithful readers have not been too disappointed. I've been researching information so I can continue to keep the blogspot fresh and interesting.

I'll be adding new material to "Along Spain Creek" during the week of July 10 - 16th, so I hope you will make it a point to check back again.

In the meantime, please visit my Website at http://www.ralphlowellcolemanjr.com/ and note the changes which have been made to it. I've now posted 20 of my original poems. You can download any of them, free of charge. Hopefully, the new donation concept will encourage you to become a visitor, a friend, or a patron so I can keep this site in operation. Although I've had 3,500 visitors to the site since it was first posted, up to this point it has not generated one penny in revenue. So, the costs associated with it have been all "out of pocket." To keep it up and running, I solicit your support.

It's Not Just Another Day

2011-05-06T10:48:00.000-06:00

Saturday, May 7, 2011 - It's not just another day on the calendar...at least not for me. It was 66 years ago, on May 7, 1945, that my father, Private First Class Ralph Lowell Coleman, thirty-two years of age, died in Tripler General Hospital (as it was known at the time), near Honolulu, Hawaii, of wounds received in action in the Pacific Area during World War II. It was several days before the "official" telegram from the War Department was delivered to my mother. In the meantime, a letter, dated May 14, 1945, was delivered to her from the Army chaplain who was present when Dad died.

"It is indeed with regret that I must write to you of the death of your husband, PFC Ralph Coleman, 35297946. He passed away at 3:46 PM on the 7th day of May, 1945, at Tripler General Hospital, APO 95, San Francisco, California.

"The cause of death was (1) wound, penetrating, severe, left temporal, parietal, lobe of brain, with inflammation; (2) meningitis, basilar, acute; (3) fracture of the skull, multiple, compound, with defect, left temporal parietal.

"He was laid to rest in the Post Cemetery, Schofield Barracks, Oahu, T.H., on the 12th day of May, 1945. The cemetery is a very beautiful one and is well cared for by the Army. The flag was at half-mast during the burial ceremony.

"The funeral was conducted by Chaplain Henry C. Pennington. His text was taken from Revelation 14:13, 'And I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, write, Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth; yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them.' He read, too, St. Luke's Gospel, Chapter 7, verses 11-16. Two songs were sung: The Twenty-Third Psalm, and Now The Laborer's Task Is O'er. The organ was played during the entire service.

"Six sprays of flowers were given by friends and by the Grey Ladies of the American Red Cross. The pall-bearers were friends of the Armed Forces. May I assure you that the entire ceremony was carried out in a most dignified and reverent manner.

"Chaplain Pennington, at the grave-side, read the committal prayer after which the firing squad fired eighteen rounds. 'Taps' were then sounded and your husband's body was laid to rest.

"Mrs. Coleman, I prayed with your husband several times during his illness at our hospital. All that human hands could do was done to save his life, but since death was inevitable, I am sure you will be comforted in knowing that he was cared for in such a manner. I stayed by his side and prayed silently as he departed. He went away peacefully.

"Hawaii's skies were blue during your husband's burial service. Even the birds were singing in the nearby trees. The land of his soul is now cloudless and clear. His last battle is over.

"May the love of God fill the vacant place in your heart, is my sincere prayer for you, at this time.

"Sincerely,

James M. Becker, Major, Chaplain, USA"

On May 25th, Dad's name appeared in the Urbana Daily Citizen (Urbana, Ohio) for the last time. The headline across the very top of the page proclaimed "County Soldier Dies of War Wounds...PFC Ralph Coleman Is Victim." The accompanying article covered the full right side of the newspaper.

In the weeks to come, his personal effects were shipped home to Mom: an old wallet he had carried for a long period of time which contained an Indian Head penny dated 1865, Mom's photo, and a wad of currency which had been issued by the Japanese during their occupation of the Philippine Islands. There were letters which Mom had written to him, and other bits and pieces of their short married life together.

Mom replaced the Blue Star flag which had been displayed in the living room window with the Gold Star flag, indicating a soldier who had been killed in the war. A poem from the time became one of her keepsakes:

"I looked out from my window, And in the sky afar, A tiny ship at anchor, There shone a Golden Star. Tis a lamp set in his window, A light unto my feet, Both he and I are waiting Until we two shall meet. My 'Star of Hope' so precious, I call this Golden Star. It shineth in my sorrow, My loved one, lost in war."

(from "My Star of Hope," author unknown).

With Mom's permission, Dad's body was moved from the Old Post Cemetery at Schofield Barracks, Hawaii, and re interred on February 19, 1949, in the new National Cemetery of the Pacific, Honolulu, with full military honors. He rests there today, in Plot O-480, among his comrades.

On September 18, 1976, in fulfillment of a promise I made to her in 1956, when I was eleven years old, Mom stood by that grave site for the first and only time in her life, accompanied by my wife, sons Ralph Lowell III ("Chip") and Jared, and me. Just a few days later, on October 8, 1976, my son Tad Jeffrey Coleman, was born at Tripler Army Hospital, near Honolulu, the very hospital where Dad died in 1945.

So, Saturday, May 7, 2011, is not just another day for me. It's special...and I will observe it in memory of my Dad.

Boys In Blue From Woodstock, 1861-1865

2011-04-10T15:19:00.001-06:00

This year marks the 150th Anniversary of the Civil War, 1861-1865. Many battle reenactments, special events, presentations, displays, and other activities are planned during the next four years. In "Along Spain Creek" will be found, in weeks to come, special tributes to the men of the area who took up arms in defense of the Union.

Boys In Blue From Woodstock

Long before the opening shots of the Civil War were fired upon the United States Fort Sumter, South Carolina, rumors of pending war had spread across the land. Heated arguments for and against dissolution of the Republic were heard in the North, South, East and West. Newspaper editorials screamed for war at all costs. Representatives and Senators in the U.S. Congress shouted in support of the Union, or for its destruction. Great were the threats.

In many states, calls went out for volunteers to enlist in militias to be prepared to defend the homeland. Even in the North, in places like Ohio, the fiery rhetoric and strong emotions had compelled patriotic men to enlist for the cause.

Woodstock, a tiny hamlet in Rush Township, Champaign County, was home primarily to farmers...men, women and children who worked the soil, planted and harvested crops, and tended livestock. But these were also Americans...Unionists...who believed it was necessary to protect the nation and to defend the integrity of the Constitution. They answered the call to enlist - in small numbers at first, but in ever increasing numbers as the nation was torn asunder during the years of conflict. They were young and old, farmers and farm hands, carpenters, clerks, harness makers, blacksmiths, even doctors. They were of English, Irish, Scottish, German, Dutch, and other heritages. They were Protestant and Catholic. They were patriots who chose to wear the Union blue. And for four long years they fought to preserve the Union. Here are some of their stories.

Lucas Burnham (1836-1863) enlisted on August 8, 1862, at the age of 26. He was a private in Company G, 95th Ohio Volunteer Infantry. He was wounded in battle, and died on July 22, 1863 in a field hospital at Walnut Hills, Mississippi. He is buried in the old section of Woodstock Cemetery, Row 30, Grave 3.

Philo Burnham (1823-1903) enlisted on May 2, 1864, as a Captain in Company D, 134th Ohio Volunteer Infantry. He served for ninety days, and was mustered out on August 31, 1864. He is buried in the old section, Row 11, Grave 2.

David H. Chatfield (1833-1869) was a carpenter prior to his enlistment as a private in 113th Ohio Volunteer Infantry. He served in both Company E, and Company H. He mustered out of service at the rank of lieutenant. He is buried in the old section, Row 43, Grave 18.

George W. Clark enlisted at age 28 as a private, Company G, 95th Ohio Volunteer Infantry, on August 4, 1862. He was wounded at the Battle of Richmond, Kentucky, on August 30, 1862. He was transferred to the Veterans Reserve Corps on December 17, 1863. He mustered out as a sergeant on July 1, 1865. He is buried in the old section of the cemetery, Row 18, Grave 18.

Oliver P. Colwell, (1832-1872) a farmer, enlisted as a 2nd lieutenant with Company G, 95th Ohio Volunteer Infantry, in Columbus, Ohio. He was later promoted to 1st lieutenant. He was awarded the Medal of Honor for bravery under fire at the Battle of Nashville, Tennessee, December 16, 1864. He mustered out as a Captain. He is buried in a prominently-marked grave site in the old section of the cemetery.

Edwin S. Crawford (1839-1862) enlisted as a private in Company F, 6th Regiment Ohio Volunteer Infantry. He died in a Nashville, Tennessee, hospital. He is buried in the old section, Row 31, Grave 3.

William P. Crawford (1844-1862) enlisted at age 18 as a private on August 2, 1862, in Company G, 95th Ohio Volunteer Infantry. He was wounded in the Battle of Richmond, Kentucky, on August 30, 1862. He died of those wounds on September 5, 1862. A special memorial has been placed for him in the old section of the cemetery.

Charles A. Cushman (1840-1931) enlisted as a private in Company B, 2nd Ohio Cavalry, at the age of 28. He mustered out of service on February 16, 1865. He is buried in the old section, Row 21, Grave 3.

Warren S. Cushman (1845- ?) enlisted at age 19 as a private in Company D, 134th Ohio Volunteer Infantry. He served until August 31, 1864. He is buried in the old section, Row 23, Grave 4.

Zachary Taylor Darrow enlisted at age 19 as a private, Company A, 60th Ohio Volunteer Infantry. He served from April 14 - May 9 1864. He was discharged at Spotsylvania Courthouse, Virginia. He is buried in the old section, Row 27, Grave 5.

Harrison Davis (1832-1863) enlisted as a private in Company H, 66th Ohio Volunteer Infantry, on October 2, 1862. He was 19 years of age. He was progressively promoted to corporal, then sergeant, then 2nd lieutenant, then 1st lieutenant. He was killed in action at the Battle of Ringold (Taylor's Ridge) on November 27, 1863. He is buried in the old section of the cemetery, Row 29, Grave 3.

Newton Ellsworth (1843-1869) enlisted at age 21 as a private, Company G, 95th Ohio Volunteer Infantry, on August 8, 1862. He was transferred to the Veterans Reserve Corps on November 20, 1863. He mustered out at Cairo, Illinois, on July 13, 1865. He is buried in the old section, Row 40, Grave 11.

Orra Fairchilds (died in 1871) enlisted as a private, age 28, on December 22, 1861, with Company H, 66th Ohio Volunteer Infantry. He served through the end of the war, and was discharged as a First Sergeant on July 15, 1865. He is buried in the old section, Row 40, Grave 23.

James L. Funk enlisted as a corporal, age 32, on Jun 9, 1864. He reenlisted on October 17, 1864. He was promoted to Sergeant on December 13, 1864. He mustered out of service at Salisbury, North Carolina, on July 17, 1865. He is buried in the old section of the cemetery, Row 38, Grave 15.

George H. Gifford (died in 1868) enlisted as a private on February 5, 1864. He reenlisted on May 6, 1864, and was mustered out at Camp Chase, Ohio, on August 31, 1864. He is buried in the old section, Row 14, Grave 5.

James Gragg (1833-1891) enlisted as a private in Company A, 73rd Ohio Volunteer Infantry, on November 9, 1861. He was 26 years of age. He was mustered out due to disability on October 18, 1862. He is buried in the old section, Row 29, Grave 1.

Erastus Guy (1836-1917) enlisted at age 25 as a private, Company A, 13th Ohio Volunteer Infantry, May 3 1861. His 90-day enlistment expired August 18, 1861. He is buried in the old section, Row 44, Grave 13.

Nicholas P. Hewitt (1832-1901) enlisted as a musician on October 23, 1861, at the age of 25. He was mustered out of service on July 5, 1862. He is buried in the old section, Row 15, Grave 12.

John G. Hoisington enlisted as a private in Company A, 2nd Ohio Volunteer Infantry, on September 1, 1861. He was discharged as a corporal on October 10, 1864. He is buried in the old section of the cemetery, Row 28, Grave 8.

Harvey A. Kimball (1827-1910) enlisted as a private, age 38, on February 5, 1864. He reenlisted on May 13, 1864. He was mustered out of service on September 8, 1864, at Camp Dennison, Ohio. He is buried in the old section, Row 35, Grave 22.

Samuel A. McAdow (1822-1904) enlisted in Company H, 18th U. S. Regular Infantry, as a sergeant. He is buried in the old section, Row 47, Grave 13.

John McCumber (1828-1865) Enlisted in Company G, 95th Ohio Volunteer Infantry, August 18, 1862. He was captured on June 10, 1864, at the Battle of Brice's Crossroads, Mississippi. He was held as a prisoner of war at the notorious Andersonville Prison. He died on April 2, 1865, shortly after being released and returned home. He is buried in the old section, Row 29, Grave 2.

James M. McMahill (1849-1883) enlisted at age 18 on February 4, 1864. He reenlisted on May 6, 1864. He was mustered out at Camp Chase, Ohio, on August 31, 1864. He is buried in the old section of the cemetery, Row 37, Grave 7.

Eliphas Meacham (1842-1926) was 19 years of age when he enlisted in the 2nd Ohio Volunteer Infantry on September 1, 1861. He was discharged for disability, but was determined to fight for the Union. He enlisted in Company D, 134th Ohio Volunteer Infantry, and served from May 6 - August 31, 1864. He mustered out as a private. He is buried in the old section, Row 9, Grave 2.

George Riddle (1845-1923) enlisted at age 18 in Company G, 95th Ohio Volunteer Infantry on August 8, 1862. He was wounded on August 30, 1862, at the Battle of Richmond, Kentucky. He was discharged with a Surgeon's Certificate of Disability on November 24, 1862, at Cincinnati, Ohio. He is buried in the old section of the cemetery, Row 15, Grave 3.

Daniel W. Smith (1844-1862) enlisted at age 18 as a private in Company G, 95th Ohio Volunteer Infantry. He was killed at the Battle of Richmond, Kentucky, August 30, 1862. He is buried in the old section Row 30, Grave 2.

John W. Smith enlisted at age 18, Company G, 95th Ohio Volunteer Infantry, on August 2, 1862. He served for three years and was mustered out on August 14, 1865. He is buried in the newer portion of the cemetery, Square 196, Lot 50, Grave 4.

George W. Standish (1839-1864) enlisted at age 23 in Company G, 95th Ohio Volunteer Infantry. He received a Surgeon's Certificate for Disability on January 17, 1863, at Columbus, Ohio. He is buried in the old section, Row 32, Grave 7.

Thomas M. Owen (1836-1911) enlisted as a private, age 23, on April 17, 1861. He was mustered out at Columbus, Ohio, on July 31, 1861.

John Overfield (1836-1911) enlisted as a private, age 25, on January 12, 1861, in Company H, 66th Ohio Volunteer Infantry. He reenlisted on December 22, 1861, and remained in service until he was mustered out on July 15, 1865. He is buried in the old section of the cemetery, Row 14, Grave 19.

Minard L. Sessions (1842-1931) enlisted at the age of 19 as a private, January 9, 1861. He reenlisted on September 1, 1861. He mustered out of service on October 10, 1864. He is buried in the old section, Row 35, Grave 1.

Alvaro Smith (1839-1894) was 22 years of age when he enlisted as a private, April 17, 1861. He mustered out on July 31, 1861, in Columbus, Ohio. He is buried in the old section, Row 13, Grave 3.

Curtis D. Smith (1834-1865) enlisted as a private, age 28, on August 19, 1862, with Company F, 45th Ohio Volunteer Infantry. He mustered out on May 29, 1865, at Knoxville, Tennessee. He is buried in the old section, Row 6, Grave 10.

Dexter P. Smith (1841-1916) enlisted as a private, age 20, on January 9, 1861. He reenlisted on September 1, 1861. He was promoted to corporal on February 1, 1863. He was mustered out of service on October 10, 1864. He is buried in the old section, Row 17, Grave 3.

Erastus M Smith (1842-1898) enlisted as a corporal on February 5, 1864. He reenlisted on May 6, 1864. He was mustered out of service on August 31, 1864, at Camp Chase, Ohio. He is buried in the old section of the cemetery, Row 8, Grave 9.

Philip A. Smith (1838-1881) enlisted as a musician, age 23, Company Band, 66th Ohio Volunteer Infantry, October 23, 1861. He was mustered out on July 5, 1862. He is buried in the old section, Row 4, Grave 13.

Stephen K. Smith (1822-1901) enlisted at the age of 40 as a private, Company G, 95th Ohio Volunteer Infantry, on February 8, 1862. He was promoted to First Sergeant on December 8, 1862. He served through the end of the war, and was mustered out on August 14, 1865, at Louisville, Kentucky. He is buried in the old section, Row 26, Grave 27.

Cyrenus Trowbridge enlisted as a private, Company K, 58th Ohio Volunteer Infantry. He is buried in the old section, Row 32, Grave 20.

George Ellsworth (1846-1893) enlisted as a private, age 18, in the 134th Ohio Volunteer Infantry, on February 5, 1864. He reenlisted in Company D, 134th Ohio Volunteer Infantry on May 6, 1864. He was mustered out of service on August 31, 1864, at Camp Chase, Ohio. He is buried in the old section of the cemetery, Row 40, Grave 12.

Enlistment lengths varied during the Civil War. Some men - and for that matter, entire units - enlisted for 30-, 60-, or 90-day periods in the initial stages of the war. Some men elected to go home after their initial enlistment periods. Others reenlisted as their enlistments ended. Still others determined to stay on until the war had run its course and the Union was saved. As time passed and the fight became more extensive and prolonged, enlistment periods were lengthened.

The information which appears above has been gleaned through extensive research from official Ohio and federal records of soldiers who served in the Civil War, grave stone inscriptions, obituaries, and other resources. The accuracy of that information is only as good as the original input; errors were often made.

Still being researched are the Civil War service records of the following men from Woodstock, Rush Township, Champaign County, Ohio, who are buried in Woodstock Cemetery:

Joseph Chamberlain (1834-1908), buried in the old section of Woodstock Cemetery, Row 42, Grave 22.
J. S. Foster, buried in the old section, Row 28, Grave 14.
Martin Malia, buried in the old section, Row 40, Grave 24.
Charles W. Marsh (1835-1869), buried in the old section, Row 12, Grave 18.
George S. Marsh, buried in the old section, Row 11, Grave 7.
Enoch McCarty, (1833-1907), buried in the newer section, Square 267, Lot 69.
Ralph Burnham (1831-1894), buried in the old section, Row 11, Grave 3.
F. King (1846-1909), buried in the old section, Row 2, Grave 13.
John Lapham, buried in the old section, Row 42, Grave 4.
Samuel Reiley, buried in the newer section, Square 343, Lot 889.
Cyrus Smith (1813-1890), buried in the old section, Row 13, Grave 2.
Hiram Smith (1814-1898), buried in the old section, Row 16, Grave 10.
S. Stevens, buried in the old section, Row 38, Grave 13.
J. R. Turner, buried in the old section, Row 24, Grave 3.
William Casey, (died in 1883), buried in the old section, Row 37, Grave 30.
William B. Kimball, buried in the old section Row 30, Grave 27.
George W. Hutchinson (1823-1911), buried in the old section, Row 6, Grave 13.

If anyone is aware of an additional name or names which should be added to the list of Civil War veterans who are buried in Woodstock Cemetery, Woodstock, Ohio, please contact me!

An extensive database of Civil War Soldiers and Sailors can be found at Ancestry.com In cooperation with the National Park Service and the National Archives, the Ancestry.com database can be freely accessed until April 14, 2011. You do not have to be a paid subscriber to the Ancestry.com services to access this database. You can also access the 1860 and 1870 U. S. Federal Census free until the April 14th deadline. If you have a Civil War ancestor, this is a good place to research his service record.

Familiar Faces, Silent Voices

2011-03-27T22:46:00.001-06:00

As I sit by the fireplace on these cold, wintry nights my mind often drifts back to earlier times. When I close my eyes, I envision familiar faces from my youth...friends with whom I shared life's experiences in that far-away time and place known as "home."

Here, I would like to pause and remember some of those friends whose faces are still so familiar to me, yet whose voices have been stilled by the passage of time.

In remembrance of departed classmates, Triad High School Class of 1963:

Otis Eugene "Gene" Burnett
Virginia Mullin Kratky
Cheryl Jean Crowder Evans Ground
Marvin O. Watkins
James "Jim" McCombs
Larry Thomas Bahan
Robert Kelly Loveland
Robert Lowell "Bob" White

Hero: In Memory of Oliver P. Colwell

2011-03-27T22:21:00.000-06:00

Hero: In Memory of Oliver P. Colwell

Heroes are made, not born. They arise and step forward when the situation calls for someone to do something heroic in nature. Events, circumstances, and opportunities are key ingredients in these situations.

The Civil War, which tore this nation asunder during four years of unrestricted warfare, provided numerous opportunities for heroes. Men who wore blue and men who wore gray were afforded ample events, circumstances and opportunities to show their mettle. Some were fortunate enough to live to tell the tale; others were horribly maimed or died as a result of their heroism. None of them should be forgotten.

Oliver Colwell was a farmer from the close-knit community of Woodstock when he left his home and family to enlist in the Union cause. He did not set out to become a hero, but he did so just the same. During the fierce fighting which accompanied the Union drive toward Nashville, Tennessee, this young man rushed forward in the heat of battle to capture a Confederate battle flag. This selfless action particularly inspired the men of his company.

In the process he was awarded this nation’s highest decoration for bravery under fire...the Medal of Honor.

What follows is his story. Of such humble surroundings come heroes.

The name of Oliver Colwell first appears in the 1850 United States Federal Census for Urbana, Champaign County, Ohio, in the household of his mother, Lavina Colwell, age 50. It was an active household, with no less than eleven people living under one roof.

The tenants of the house were recorded by the census enumerator. In addition to Lavina and the fifteen-year-old Oliver were other sons and daughters, to include Robert R. Colwell, age 30; Fletcher Colwell, age 19; Ross Colwell, age 17; Rebecca Colwell, age 12; and Frances Colwell, age 7. There were also servants who were listed as members of the household: William Boyd, age 63; Nandy Boyd, age 49; Hannah Boyd, age 14; and Fanny Boyd, age 11.

Why his father, Peter Colwell, was not listed in the household by the enumerator, Colin McDonald, during the census survey on that warm August day is not presently known. Perhaps this mystery is best left as a story for another time.

Little else is known about Oliver’s youth, or the circumstances in which he found himself as he grew older. He was probably hardworking and industrious; most young boys his age were generally brought up to acknowledge the value of hard work and honest effort. He came from people who had learned how to work the soil, and to reap the benefits of manual labor. His Colwell ancestors had settled in the farming areas of New York and New Jersey prior to the American Revolution. They had prospered there, yet felt the compelling urge to move west to the new American frontier. Ohio in the early part of the 19th century offered virgin soil, rolling plains and hearty woodlands. There was plenty of fresh, clean water. Fish and fowl, deer, wild turkeys, and other sources of meat were abundant in the forests. There could be found the raw materials of construction for solidly-built homes, barns, and other out buildings.

So the Colwells had moved west to this new frontier, settling first in the area of present-day Franklin County before moving even farther west. They decided to make Champaign County their home, and planted their family roots in and around Urbana. Restlessness compelled some of them to move yet again, to the areas around Woodstock and Mechanicsburg. Here, they tilled the soil, planted the crops, and adapted to the lifestyle which was to be expected of hard-working farmers. Here Oliver became a man.

Oliver was still a relatively young man when he left the stability of his family home to marry. He had fallen in love with, and courted, an attractive young woman, Martha J. Corbet, who was the daughter of Amasa Corbet, one of the area’s prominent farmers. They were married in Urbana on September 20, 1857, in a short service conducted by S. G. Smith, Justice of the Peace.

At the time of the marriage, Martha’s father Amasa was about 51 years of age, presiding over a household of at least nine people. He was born in New York, but had migrated westward to the Ohio country. His wife, Experience, age 51, had been born in Virginia. Together the couple had seven children: John (1829), Lewis (1832), Ollie M. (1834), Martha J. (1836), Benjamin (1838), William H. (1841), Marion (1847) and Amasa (1850). The elder Corbets eventually relocated near the community of North Lewisburg and continued to prosper.

The young Oliver and Martha began their married life together, and were - over a period of time - parents of six children. Their eldest son, Charles, was born in 1856. A daughter, Flora, joined the family in 1857. A second son, William, was born in 1859. Two more daughters were to join the family—Jennie in 1860 and Mary in 1862. A third son, Frank, eventually rounded out the family in 1866.

The family made their home on property in Rush Township, Champaign County, which was adjacent to land owned by Abram Colwell—Oliver’s grandfather—according to a township plat map of 1874. This plot of land consisted of 63.5 acres of ground, and was located near the southern boundary of the township.

The whole country was aflame with bitter conflict as geographic regions were pitted one against another over the issues of the day. Even the quiet community of Woodstock and the surrounding Rush Township was divided on the issues of slavery and states’ rights.

Oliver Colwell was opposed to the expansion of slavery into the new territories of the West, and had seen firsthand the problems which involuntary servitude created for slaves. In April 1861 the controversy erupted into full-fledged war between the states which composed the Union, and those of the Confederacy. The war did not go well during that first year for the Union forces. What was at first thought to be a short struggle before the wayward Southern states were “whipped” back into the Union became something much more demanding. Resources were needed to fight the war...men, ammunition, foodstuffs, and other supplies. The call went out on a regular basis for more men to wage the war.

Oliver was undoubtedly a pro-Union man. He soon made his way to Columbus, Ohio, where he volunteered for enlistment as a Second Lieutenant in Company G, 95th Ohio Volunteer Infantry Regiment, on July 21, 1862. With little training to prepare them, he and the other men in his unit marched off to camp.

He received his official commission as a Second Lieutenant on August 19, 1862. Just a short time later, the unit was on the march toward Richmond, Kentucky. There Oliver and his comrades were exposed to the full fury of war; many of the men were wounded or killed outright. Most of the unit was captured by the Confederate forces in the lopsided battle. But prisoners were hard to maintain—to feed and to shelter—while engaging in war, so the captured men were soon paroled and exchanged for Confederates who had likewise been captured in battle.

Oliver was promoted to the rank of First Lieutenant on December 5, 1862. He continued to serve with distinction and valor as Company G, 95th Ohio Volunteer Infantry, moved across the landscape and engaged the enemy in pitched battles over the next two years.

During the struggle around Nashville, Tennessee, in December 1864, the brave Captain moved forward under harsh enemy fire and captured one of the opposing unit’s flags. He was cited in dispatches, and eventually awarded the Medal of Honor for his exploits.

He was promoted to full Captain on February 27, 1865.

He was mustered out of the service on August 14, 1865, after more than three years of selfless service, in Louisville, Kentucky.

Oliver P. Colwell, hero of the Civil War and resident of Woodstock, Champaign County, Ohio, died on October 12, 1872, at the age of 40 years 1 month and 12 days. He is buried in a plot of ground, part of the oldest part of Woodstock Cemetery, Woodstock, Rush Township. His grave site, surrounded by those of other family members, is marked with inscribed memorials.

When I Think of Snow and Ice

2011-03-25T19:16:00.000-06:00

Once-upon-a-time, when I was much younger, and quite a bit more fool-hardy and foolish, I enjoyed snow. I loved to get all bundled up in my warmest clothes to go outside to cavort in the white stuff. I loved making "snow angels." I loved making snowmen, with lumps of coal for buttons, eyes, and mouths...and carrots for the noses. I loved snow forts, and the snowball battles which raged there abouts. I loved trailing my sled ("Rosebud") behind me as I made my way to a nearby snowy slope, or all the way to the forbidden terrain of Buckshot Hill on the Reid farm.

There came a time, however, when I was not quite ten years old that snow and ice became less playful and more threatening. I was in the fourth grade at the elementary school in North Lewisburg - the old brick building which used to sit on Maple Street. At the west side of the building there was a concrete ramp which provided a way into and out of Mrs. Morrow's first-grade room on the ground floor. The ramp was almost always covered in snow and ice during the wintertime. The outside entrance to the boys' restroom was nearby, so it was very easy to go from one spot to the other. Boys gathered on the ice-covered slope, then pulled themselves hand-over-hand to the top of the ramp using the thick, metal railing. At the summit, each boy pushed himself away from the brick wall, and went quickly down the ramp, slipping and sliding accompanied with all sorts of laughter and acrobatics. It was slippery, it was fast, and it was dangerous - just what boys enjoy!

I had made several trips up and down the slope, having just as much fun as everyone else. But on my last trip down the icy ramp, an older boy (I remember who it was, but won't embarrass him here) reached out toward me. He gave me an extra shove...one which sent me spiralling faster and awkwardly off balance. I fell on the hard ice and concrete with a terrific "thud" and CRACK! Pain ripped through my body, and tears quickly welled in my eyes. I knew that I was hurt; I just didn't realize how badly.

The old bell sounded the end to recess about that time. The gang of boys broke ranks and headed toward their various classrooms. I vividly remember the long, painful climb up the old metal fire escape back to my fourth grade classroom. For some reason, my right arm did not work correctly, so I held it tightly against my side. In the classroom, it was too difficult for me to remove my winter coat, so I merely sat down at my desk. I still held the arm tightly while silent tears coursed down my cheeks.

Mrs. Bertha Willis was our substitute teacher, temporarily replacing Mrs. Kline who had undergone some surgical procedure. She noticed my discomfort, and asked me what was wrong. I told her that I had fallen on the ice, and that my arm hurt. She suggested that I walk across the street and go to the Principal's office, which was located in the old high school building.

Unescorted, I went back down the metal fire escape, across the playground, past the "ocean wave," and across East Street. I entered the high school building, and went up the steps to the office. There I met Mr. Mendell E. Beattie, principal. He asked me what was wrong. I repeated my tale of falling down on the ice and hurting my arm. He stepped toward me, took a firm grasp on my arm, and quickly raised it up and down. The action surprised me, and hurt like hell. I let out a yelp just as he released my arm. More tears flowed, brought on by the sudden rush of pain.

"Well," he said, "if it hurts you that badly I'll have Coach Tackett take you home." He left the office and returned a few minutes later, Coach Tackett following along closely behind. The coach escorted me out of the building and onto the parking lot. He opened the door on the passenger side for me, went around to the driver's side, got in, and started up the car. He drove me north to the far end of East Street, made a left turn, and then a right turn, and continued just a short distance to my home at the corner of Sycamore and North Streets. He pulled into the driveway, got out of the car, and knocked on the front door. My Mom opened the door just as I exited the passenger's side of the car.

As I stood at his side, Coach Tackett said "He's been hurt in a fall on the ice. Mr. Beattie thought it was best to bring him home."

Mom opened the door wider so I could enter the living room. "You might want to take him to the doctor," added Coach Tackett, as he returned to his car. He got in and drove away, back toward the school.

Mom asked me what had happened as she gently removed my coat. She let out a quick sigh as a shocked expression crossed her face. Sticking straight out of the shoulder of my flannel shirt was a bone, bloody red and ragged. She quickly tossed the coat back over my shoulder, grabbed her own coat and purse, and moved toward the door. She opened the back door of our old 1947 Chevrolet, and helped me sit on the back seat. She opened the front door, started up the car, put the gearshift into reverse, and backed up the slope from our driveway onto Sycamore Street. As fast as she thought prudent, she drove down the street toward "downtown."

A few minutes later, we arrived in front of Doctor John R. Polsley's office. She parked the car, and quickly extracted me from the back seat. We walked the short sidewalk from the street to the doctor's office building, a small cottage-like structure which stood adjacent to his family home. By this time, I was in horrific pain, tears and cries of distress all co mingled. I was rushed right in to see the good doctor.

Whatever happened next has been, thankfully, erased from my memory. Perhaps the pain was just too much; perhaps I fainted; perhaps he did something to ease my suffering. I only know that my next conscious thought was of sitting on his examination table, bare to the chest, as he fitted huge gauze pads under both of my armpits. He then wound what seemed to be yards and yards of "Ace" bandages in a figure-8 pattern over and under my shoulders. The loose ends were clamped into place with some sort of metal butterfly-shaped clasps. My arms were slightly askew from my body, held out in place by all of the padding. Mom was given some kind of pain reliever to administer to me as the day progressed, and told to return me for a followup a day or two hence. My shirt was loosely fitted over my shoulders, and just one or two buttons secured before my coat was likewise tossed over my shoulders. Mom and I made the trip back home.

It had been determined that I would not return to school for several weeks - six weeks as it eventually turned out - while my clavicle healed. I thus celebrated my 10th birthday, a few days after the accident, with one of the last birthday parties I was ever to experience. While many of my friends were there, I never saw most of my classmates at school for a full grading period. I did my homework assignments in the comfort of my home, and sent them back to school via my brother or one of my sisters. And, as I've sometimes pointed out to my own children, I still managed to get "straight A's" on my grade card during the fourth grade. (I have the card to prove it!)

I passed the time with homework, with lots of reading (especially comics and "Mad Magazine"), with lots of morning and afternoon television, and with getting out of just about every conceivable chore which might have been required of me. I was pampered and otherwise treated royally during my whole recovery period. Over the many weeks, I periodically returned to Doctor Polsley, who changed the bandages and followed my progress as the bone knitted.

Fifty-six winters have come and gone since I took that icy fall in February 1955. As time has passed, so too has my appreciation for snow and ice and cold. I never indulged in skiing, nor snowboarding. After years in the military, and those excruciatingly cold winters in Korea, Colorado, and upstate New York, I no longer have any desire to track about in the snow. I don't like cold weather; I don't like cold drafts; I don't like mounds of snow. So, happy, happy I will be when winter finally abandons us at my present home in Utah. Sunshine, oh blessed sunshine, I long for thee!

A Parent's Lament

2011-03-22T10:24:00.000-06:00

American men and women serve our nation faithfully in far-flung corners of the world. Kuwait, Iraq, Afghanistan - each of these names conjures up ideas of the gallantry, dedication to service, and self-sacrifice with which Americans defend the people of these lands. The cost for our country has been enormous in terms of dollars and cents, equipment lost, and the tragic number of American servicemen and servicewomen who have been wounded or killed in the process. This original poem, first published in 2005, is displayed here to honor these brave men and women, and to pay tribute to their parents who wait wistfully at home.

A Parent’s Lament

My son put on a uniform,

Then went away to war.

He crossed the sea to serve on foreign land.

He lived with all the hardships

Of the desert’s cold and heat –

The monotony of the shifting, burning, sand.

He did not shirk his duty,

‘Though he sometimes questioned “Why?”

He tried to do what needed to be done.

He served with pride and honor

Befitting his young years,

As he trained beneath the scorching desert sun.

Then, when the shooting started,

When the fighting took its toll,

My son was one who sacrificed his all.

He died amidst the struggle

For a tiny, desert town –

He answered his last patriotic call.

They sent his body home to us,

He rests beneath the sod.

He’s home again, his earthly journey’s done.

He did his part for freedom’s sake,

He paid the highest price,

To guarantee the victory was won.

And, when the fight has ended,

And our sons have crossed the sea,

To be welcomed home with pageantry and cheers,

My son will lie beneath his stone –

He will not hear the bands,

Nor see my eyes which overflow with tears.

Dedicated to the men and women of the Armed Forces of the United States

who serve in Kuwait, Afghanistan, and Iraq,

and to the parents who wait at home.

God Bless America!

At the Movies

2011-03-21T19:06:00.001-06:00

The old movie theater was located in North Lewisburg on south Sycamore Street, just south of the present (2011) tire store, in a building which I believe was owned by Mr. Lloyd Glendening. The theater was previously managed by a Mr. Huffman, but by the mid-1950s it was managed by my parents William Robert "Putt" and Kathleen Impson Forsythe. Mom generally served as the ticket seller, and then concession stand attendant as the movie got under way. Putt worked primarily in the cleaning and maintenance of the theater, and managing the concession stand inventory, which consisted of popcorn, various candy bars, assorted boxed candies, and bottled pop. He also worked in the consession stand as part of the evening chores.

The popcorn sold for 5 cents per bag; the bottled pop...in those old 6 oz glass bottles...sold for 10 cents. Candy prices varied from 1 cent to 10 cents, depending upon the item.

Candy and bottled pop were purchased from wholesale distributors who delivered the product to the theater on a regular basis. The tins of popcorn kernals were purchased from James Claude Dunham, father of Claudine Dunham Vallery, who sold the popcorn out of his house in Woodstock. We would drive the short distance from North Lewisburg to Woodstock on a regular basis to pick up two or three large tins of the kernals, and the cooking mixture which gave the corn its great flavor. An old-fashioned electric drum-type popper was kep busy preparing the delicious treat. The fresh-popped odor traveled throughout the theater, and brought lots of patrons to the concession stand.

Popcorn was sold in those pre-printed, white paper popcorn bags...the product scooped out of the popper using a large metal scoop. It was generally salted while popping, with a salt shaker standing by for those patrons who wanted a little more salt on the finished product. Extra buttery flavoring was liberally poured onto the popcorn for those who requested it.

Soda pop...Coca-Cola, root beer, orange and other flavors was sold by the bottle. There was a deposit on each bottle of soda (which I believe was 1 or 2 cents at the time). Empty bottles were retrieved and placed in old wooden storage racks which held 24 bottles. The clanking bottles were returned to the pop distributor when he returned later in the week with his dolly to cart them back to his truck. My folks received "credit" from those returned bottles toward that week's pop purchases. The bottles were then trucked back to the bottling plant where they were cleaned, to be used again and again (an old-time recycling practice).

The bottled pop was "ice cold" when sold at the concession stand. They were stored in an old refrigerator just for that purpose. There were no cups, no lids, nor ice with which to contend. The metal cap was popped, and straws were provided to those patrons who required them to sip their favorite beverages.

The movies were in 16 millimeter format. They came to the theater via a distribution route which included deliveries in North Lewisburg. The films for the next day or two came in large, flat, metal canisters which displayed the title of the film, the film number (like "1 of 2"), and other details. Large advertising posters were delivered at the same time, and placed in the glass-enclosed frames at the front of the theater, or in the lobby. There were also smaller flyers which listed the movies to be shown over the next week or so...coming attractions. These flyers were reproduced at an area print shop, and were cheap enough for distribution to the general public. The posters were the property of the film distributor, and were taken down and returned along with the film at the end of its run. Sometimes these posters were not returned, but were collected by fans. (Some attics, basements, garages and barns within the community may yet hold some of these old, collectible movie posters!)

The projectionist usually arrived at the theater about one hour before the night's showing. He loaded the first reel of film into the old arc-lamp projector, which was housed in a projection room at the rear of the theater, above the concession stand area. There was a young man who usually ran the projector. Unfortunately, I don't recall his name now...but I believe he lived in the Whitehead house on north Sycamore Street. He generally walked to the theater from his home.

The price of the movies at the time was probably about 35 cents. A ticket stub was issued to each patron from a large roll of tickets kept in the "booth," which sat directly in front of the theater. These stubs had printed numbers on them, and were used periodically for special prize drawings during some movies. The stubs were mixed in a hopper, then drawn out individually. The stub number was called out, and the patron who had that winning number was awarded some inexpensive prize...like a free bottle of pop, popcorn, candy, or a free pass to the theater.

Prior to the time my folks managed the theater, similar drawings had been held, but with a few differences. Between features, the house lights would come up and a stub drawn out of a large box or hopper. The number was called out, and the winner was asked to go to the stage at the front of the theater. Displayed there was a large, wooden, A-frame board. There were several brightly colored discs which hung on pegs attached to the board. The lucky winner then selected one of the discs, and received the prize which was located behind it. The prize was often a free pass to the movies, or a crisp $1, $2, or $5 bill!

The night's entertainment usually consisted of a series of previews of coming attractions, or "trailers." These previews were followed by a black-and-white newsreel of that week's major state, national and international news. The mood in the theater changed as a colorful cartoon..."Tom and Jerry,""Mickey Mouse,""Goofy,":Andy Panda," or "Woody Woodpecker"...flashed upon the screen. These humorous antics were then followed by the feature attraction. Sometimes these were in black-and-white; other times, they were in color. (I vividly remember watching the most recently-released Abbott and Costello, Ma and Pa Kettle, or similar comedies). There were many dramas and adventure films, as well as the traditional westerns with the familiar faces of John Wayne, Tim Holt, Lash LaRue, the Durango Kid, Gene Autry, and Roy Rogers.

On some weekend evenings, an additional late-night feature rounded out the evening's entertainment...but usually not on school nights.

There were also occasional solicitations in mid-evening for various worthy causes. A short film was shown...possibly one to deal with polio and the March of Dimes, or muscular dystrophy, or even the old actors' home in California. After some tear-jerking scenes, commentary, and sentimental background music, the house lights came up. Volunteers who were assigned to do so passed up and down the theater aisles collecting freewill donations - often nickels, dimes and quarters - for the various causes.

The featured movies were often seasonal in theme. Holiday movies were shown primarily in the time span between Thanksgiving and New Years. War movies were generally booked around patriotic holidays like Memorial Day, Independence Day, and Veterans Day. Sentimental movies were shown early in the week when crowds were generally light, the patrons were older (or more romantic), and young people were involved in other activities. The "blockbuster" movies...the ones which cost little bit more to rent and show...were held in reserve for the weekend movie-going public.

Very little in life was as satisfying as a "full house" with every seat in the theater filled. Sometimes, a second showing of the feature took place immediately following its first conclusion so other folks could see it. Occasionally, there was "standing room" only as the seats and aisles filled up to accommodate the crowds who showed up to see a new western feature.

At the end of the night, the projectionist rewound the films and put them into their metal canisters. Other materials were gathered up. Everything was set out in front of the theater for the distributor to pick up later, or first thing in the morning.

The theater closed for good sometime between 1955-1957...I'm a bit hazy on the exact time frame. Mr. Glendening had decided to sell or donate the old building to the community for use as the new fire hall and civic center. (It sits abandoned today, much as it appeared in the late 1950s). The projection equipment, the guts of the theater, and everything that was part of that wonderful world, was torn out and discarded to make way for storage of the fire engines.

I was heartbroken that I would not be able to walk the short distance from home each evening to enjoy the free movies! A consolation came to me in the form of all of the unsold candy and pop inventory. Most of these things were taken to our house and placed in a spare bedroom. The pop was stored in our covered back porch...the wooden cases stacked almost to the ceiling. My family, friends and I enjoyed that bounty of goodies for many, many months!

The old movie theater provided a much-needed escape from the cares of the everyday world. For a few hours, we gathered there with family, friends, and other townsfolk to see - via the flickering images on the great, silver screen - news from around the world, documentaries, hilarious cartoons, and entertaining "moving pictures." We escaped...and let our imaginations soar with new adventures - and at affordable prices.

Today's movie theater experience, in contrast, is not so much an escape as it is production-line entertainment. First, there's the unrealistic price of admission, with tickets selling at $7 or more! A 5-cent bag of popcorn now markets at $4.50...and comes in a big, laminated tub which 1) can't be blown up and popped behind some unsuspecting girl's head; and 2) just doesn't taste the same. Candy is an expensive luxury, even for the old, familiar brands we grew to love - like Juju Fruits, Dots, and Boston Baked Beans. Now, they are much too expensive to toss at the back of the head of that friend half-way across the theater. And the theaters, themselves...no longer the big, big room with the wide aisles and wall-to-wall seating. Now, we are forced to sit in rooms the size of crackerboxes, with small screens which rival the size of our flat-screen televisions at home.

But, maybe there still exists out there, somewhere, a very, special person - someone who is not interested in making a huge profit, but who would like to restore some nostalgia to the lives of a whole generation of new movie-goers. Maybe there is someone who will build a smalltown theater in North Lewisburg, with reasonable prices, quality popcorn and sodas, and some good, old-fashioned movies, cartoons and documentaries. Build it...and we will come!

Mulberry

2011-03-21T02:07:00.001-06:00

Spain Creek begins its meandering course in the vicinity of Mulberry, an original railroad town which sprang up as a result of the construction of the Atlantic and Great Western Railroad in this part of Ohio in the 1860s. The rails traveled through Urbana, North Lewisburg, and on to Marion, connecting the rich, farm land with the urban areas of Cincinnati and other points on the map. The railroad brought progress to this rural area, and for a short period of time it was a “boom town,” where hard-working entrepreneurs provided goods and services to the folks who lived in the vicinity.

But look for Mulberry on a map of Champaign County, and it will not be found. The community is still there, but it has gone by a different name – Mingo – for many, many years. It has a unique history, population, and culture which all blends together to make an attractive place to live, and a close-knit community of both young and old.

The area was well-known for a number of years before it became a gathering place where people could sink roots. Native Americans undoubtedly traversed the plain and the surrounding wooded hills and dales prior to the arrival of the first white hunters and settlers. Tales are told of the various tribes which hunted and lived off the land long before the new adventurers encroached upon their territory. But, as the years passed the virgin forest and unplowed ground gave way to a tide of people.

Ebenezer C. Williams is credited with platting the town along about 1866. Even before that, however, industry had come to the region. There was at least one grist mill in the area to grind the grain into much-needed flour. There was a sawmill to rip and plane the lumber to be used in the construction of the houses, stores, churches, school, barns and other outbuildings. There was an early grocery store, and even a post office was operational before Williams had completed his task.

A review of a list of the business establishments which once thrived in Mingo conjures up images of the past and a life-style long gone. There were demands for coal, salt, harnesses and other tackle for the horses and oxen. Horses needed to be fitted for iron shoes. Buggies and wagons needed to be crafted for transportation of people and supplies. People needed shoes, shirts, dresses, groceries, medicines, flour, liquor, and religion.

There were excursions by foot, horseback, buggy, or railroad to the neighboring communities of Urbana, Middletown, Cable, Kingscreek, and North Lewisburg. People sought social outlets and entertainment with church groups, fraternal organizations, and town gatherings to enjoy the bounty of the harvests or the spirit of the holiday seasons.

They waded, swam, and fished in the waters of Spain Creek, and harnessed the stream’s power to run the early mills. They were born, grew up, married, worked and farmed, raised families, died and were buried all within a short distance of that ancient waterway.

For generations, Mingo has survived. And the people who live there today rejoice in that survival. Just another of the many wonders to be found along Spain Creek.

Interested in knowing more about Champaign County and its environs? Get your hands on a copy of "A History of Champaign County, Ohio," published by W. H. Beers & Company, Chicago, 1881.

The Last of the Doughboys

2011-03-07T00:06:00.002-07:00

An era came to an end on Sunday, February 27, 2011, when Frank Buckles, the last of America's "Doughboys" - the young men who went off to serve in World War I - died at the age of 110 in West Virginia. Buckles was born in Missouri on February 1, 1901. He enlisted at the age of 16, and was an ambulance driver in France during the "Great War," often referred to as the "war to end all wars." By the end of the war, in November 1918, Buckles had been promoted to the rank of corporal. An exception to policy has been approved to honor Buckles with burial in Arlington National Cemetery with full military honors.

A total of 4,734,991 Americans served in uniform during World War I. Of this number, 116,000 were killed in action while serving in France. An additional 204,000 service personnel were wounded.

North Lewisburg contributed its share of "Doughboys" who served in World War I. Their names were recorded on the original Service Roll which was painted on the exterior wall of a downtown building during that conflict. Later, their names were cast in a bronze plaque which was affixed to the flag pole at Maple Grove Cemetery. Now, these same names appear on the marble monument which stands in the Veterans Memorial park on East Street, in North Lewisburg.

Andrews, Fred

Ayres, Alonzo

Bahan, Travis

Barker, Earl

Beltz, Cecil

Benedict, Arthur

Bennedict, Emmett

Bishop, Bernice

Burris, Chester

Carter, George

Chapman, Charles

Chapman, Murell

Chapman, Olin

Cook, Bernard

Cook, Edson

Cooksey, Harry

Creviston, Louis

Creviston, Merle

Durnell, Aaron

Durnell, Frank

Embry, Francis

Evans, Donald

Ewing, Will

Fout, Clyde

Freeman, Harry

Glendening, Paul

Glendening, W. R.

Goldsberry, William

Hackley, Frank

Hackley, George

Heston, Hobart

Holycross, Isaac

Holycross, Pearl

Hunter, Robert

Immel, Howard

Impson, Justin B.

Inskeep, Harold

Jordan, Harold

Judy, Carl

Judy, Roy

Kennedy, Charles

Kennedy, Glade (died in service)

Kerns, Merle

Louden, Russell

Massey, George

McColly, Charles

McCrery, Chester F. (killed in action)

Morrow, John

O'Brien, Frank

Overfield, Lester

Poling, Clyde

Sager, Wayne

Snuffin, Ralph

Spain, Basil

Spain, Chester

Spain, Jesse

Spain, Theo

Steinberger, Alf

Townsend, Charles

Wilkins, Malcolm

Winder, C. B.

Wolford, Ralph

Note: I created this list, in alphabetical order, when I last visited the Veterans Memorial in August 2009. I am hopeful that I did not omit any names. If so, I apologize.

The name of Chester F. McCrery is one of those names inscribed on that memorial. Young Chet was born in 1898, and served with the 166th Infantry, Allied Expeditionary Force (AEF), in France. He was killed in action in 1918, at the age of 21. His remains were brought home to North Lewisburg. He rests today in Square 8, Lot 2, Site 1, in the "old" section of Maple Grove Cemetery, his grave site shaded by nearby trees. The local American Legion Post was previously named in his honor for many years.

They are all gone now, those four-million plus who answered the call to service. They have all joined a grand parade of men and women who have worn the uniform of the Armed Forces of the United States. It is well that we remember them - Frank Buckles, Chet McCrery, and so many others - and thank them most respectfully for their devotion to duty in the cause of freedom and liberty.

Where I Stand

2011-02-27T22:47:00.000-07:00

Once in awhile, it is important to reaffirm what we believe in, and where we stand. I think this original poem, penned in 2005, sums up my feelings.

Patriot

I am an American patriot…

I honor the memories of those brave men

Who stood at Lexington and Concord,

At Bunker Hill, Trenton, and Valley Forge,

At Brandywine, Cowpins and Yorktown.

I honor the Founding Fathers,

Giants in the cause of liberty and freedom,

Who gave us the Declaration of Independence,

The Constitution, and the Bill of Rights,

And set our nation on the path to greatness.

I honor the men in blue and in gray,

Who ripped the nation asunder during four years of war,

And then proceeded to mend the fabric

And make of us “...one nation, indivisible…”

I honor the farmers and the ranchers and the other settlers

Who pushed westward across the continent,

Taming the plains and scaling the mountains

As they stretched the nation “from sea to sea.”

I honor the men and women

Who donned their uniforms and marched off to war

To defend our liberty and freedom at

distant points on the earth

In four great conflicts and other battles in one century.

I honor the men and women, and children

Who strive to fulfill the promises of

“...liberty and justice for all…”

As they go about their daily lives

in this great land.

Common Ground

2011-02-27T21:16:00.060-07:00

Every town has one - a place where boys gather with girls, where men gather with women, where the young gather with the old, where the happy gather with the sad, where the true believers gather with the apostates, where the Methodists gather with the Catholics, where the rich gather with the poor. This is common ground, where all mingle in serenity, peace, and purpose. This is a cemetery.

Along Spain Creek can be found several cemeteries - gathering places of a sort. Within the boundaries of North Lewisburg is the old Butcher Cemetery, sometimes called "Walnut Grove" Cemetery, or "North Lewisburg" Cemetery. The cemetery sits off Tallman Street, at the west side of the town, and just north of where Spain Creek passes under the roadway. It consists of approximately 3 acres of ground, once owned by John M. and Nancy Butcher, who deeded the land to The Walnut Grove Cemetery Association.

The first burial in this cemetery took place on September 8, 1846. Martha Audas, wife of William Audas (for whom the town's Audas Street was named), was 37 years, 3 months, and 2 days old at the time of her death. In the following years there were approximately 100 additional townsfolk buried here, to include John M. Butcher (1891) and Nancy Butcher (1898), prior owners of the property. There were no additional burials in the cemetery after 1898.

A second cemetery within the boundaries of the community is located at the intersection of Elm and Winder Streets, in close proximity to both the Friends (Quaker) Church and the Church of the Immaculate Conception (Catholic). The ground is part of the old Friends Church property, and was primarily a burial site for members of that congregation.

The first burial in this cemetery is believed to be that of Phebe Winder, who died March 14, 1842. There is no record of her age, nor is there a stone to mark her resting place. The last burial of record is that of Caroline S. Pim, who died May 18, 1885, at the age of 79 years, 6 months, and 1 day.

One of the town's notable citizens buried in the Friends Church Cemetery is Harmon Limes, Jr. Born in 1791 in Frederick County, Virginia, he came to Ohio with two brothers and other members of his family in 1813. He was appointed as Marshal of the community in 1844. He also served as a Justice of the Peace, and later was a member of the town's school board.

The early settlers of North Lewisburg came primarily from Virginia, and located in the area shortly after Ohio became a state in 1803. Many of these settlers were members of the Spain family. Hezekiah Spain, one of those settlers, purchased land approximately one mile west of the present village in 1806, along the east side of what is today Gilbert Road. In 1833, a portion of this land holding was set aside for the establishment of Spain Cemetery. This cemetery actually predates by approximately a decade the two burial grounds previously mentioned which are located within the town's corporation limits.

The first recorded burial in Spain Cemetery took place on March 17, 1837. Isaac Reams, slightly over three years of age, was the infant son of Jordan Reams.

Spain Cemetery consists of 13 crowded rows of approximately 1, 108 gravesites - not all of which were used before the burials ceased there. A schematic survey of the cemetery which was done as part of a Works Progress Administration (WPA) project in the 1930s show these rows of graves run from north to south, but not necessarily in straight lines. In some places, rows bend back toward previous rows at sharp angles. The number of gravesites in each row also varies.

Maple Grove Cemetery, a beautiful, wooded area was created about 1890 to expand the older Spain Cemetery, which is adjacent to the south. A concrete vault was built on the grounds to temporarily house the remains of the deceased during periods of inclement weather. (This old vault remains today, although it is deteriorating rapidly). The rest of the cemetery grounds were prepared and lots offered for sale.

The first sale of burial ground in this portion of Maple Grove Cemetery was to Mrs. Ella Chappell on April 30, 1892 (Volume A, Book of Deeds, Page 22). She purchased Square 109, Lot 403, Sites 1-4, for the sum of $10. Her husband, Harry Chappell, is the first recorded burial here.

By the early 1960s it was apparent that there were few remaining gravesites in the "old" section of Maple Grove Cemetery. The Rush Township trustees, who have responsibilities for the care and maintenance of the cemetery, acquired land directly west of the cemetery, across Gilbert Road. This area, commonly called the "new" addition, or "Gilbert Addition," provided additional burial ground.

Mrs. Marie Graham purchased the first burial site in the "Gilbert Addition" on September 17, 1955, for $30. She purchased Square 111, Lot 3, Sites 1-4 (Volume E, Book of Deeds, Page 2). The first burial in this section of Maple Grove Cemetery is believed to be that of her son-in-law, Curtis Seay, in 1956.

As of this date, the "Gilbert Addition" of the cemetery is likewise approaching capacity. There are approximately 4,200 total burials in the "old" and "new" sections of Maple Grove Cemetery. Additional expansion of the cemetery is under consideration if common ground is to be available in the future.

Notes:

Linda Jean Limes Ellis, great-great-great granddaughter of Harmon Limes, Jr., first Marshal of North Lewisburg, has devoted years of effort to the preservation of the Butcher Cemetery and the Friends Church Cemetery. She has reconstructed burial records for both of these cemeteries, and - in concert with her husband - has helped to clean and reset grave site markers. A record of her tireless efforts can be found on her blog site at http://limesstones.blogspot.com/ Some of her written records have been incorporated into the writing of this article. I consider her to be a friend and valuable resource.
Butcher Cemetery and the Friends Church Cemetery are within the jurisdictional control for maintenance purposes of the Town of North Lewisburg. Mr. Bob Davis, Jr., oversees these areas.
Maple Grove Cemetery and Spain Cemetery are under the jurisdictional control for maintenance purposes of the Board of Trustees, Rush Township, Champaign County, Ohio.

More Candid Moments in Time

2011-02-10T13:14:00.002-07:00

I received several e-mails about my most-recent blog, "Candid Moments in Time," and I sincerely appreciated the comments. I seem to have joggled other folks' memories with these little "photo flashes" of things from the past. So, I've decided to add some additional candid moments to this blogspot. Maybe these will, like the previous ones, bring back some precious memories for you.

Stopping by Reba Wilson's home on Saturdays to collect for the Columbus Dispatch newspaper, and being paid in real silver dollars. She also used them as gifts to me at Christmas, for my birthday, and at graduation from high school. How I wish I had those old dollars today!
Riding the school bus from North Lewisburg to Cable for seventh and eighth grades.
Riding the bus from Cable to Triad High School for band rehearsals.
Listening to the always-entertaining performances of the Triad High School choir under the direction of Miss Jane Squires.
The classical Triad High School dramas - with the exception of "Hillbilly Wedding" - as directed by Mr. Paul Powers.
Constantly being amazed at the intelligence - and temperament - of Mr. Robin R. Morrow, math teacher.
Sadly learning of young Paris Outland's death along Spain Creek.
Rushing to buy one when old Frank Connell offered some Civil War hats for sale in his store.
Robert Painter taking me aside and encouraging me to someday "take typing in school. It will be one of the most productive classes you ever take!" - And he was right.
Working on the current week's edition of "Triad Hi-Lites" school newspaper. (Thanks, Eileen Inskeep Carpenter for recently mailing me those 50-year old copies!)
The day Miss Cross was supervising study hall at Triad High School, and received a call on the intercom from Mr. Beattie. She responded by walking over and talking into the thermostat.
The fight that erupted between Triad and Christenburg-Jackson during a basketball game. Fans from both sides dashed onto the floor for the melee. I vividly remember seeing my step-father, Putt, with one man under each arm.
W. C. Sargent, basketball coach, and his 1958 Oldsmobile that he let me drive after practices.
B. E. Willis, long-time mayor of North Lewisburg, and his dapper appearance in dress and manner.
When the residence numbers for our local phone service was only four digits (ours was 2273).
Agnes Livingston's wonderful sense of humor and great laugh. Paying the utility bills at her office - and my Mom who worked for awhile as her clerk.
Jim and Polly Bails after they took over the old Buckwalter Hardware Store, a fun place to just look around.
The day the water main erupted across the street from my mobile home on Sycamore Street, and which led to an infamous fist-fight,
When fire erupted on the top floor of the home owned by Floyd and Delores Simpson (formerly owned by Ray and Ruby Patrick, and more recently by Lamar and Laura Delaney) and was quickly extinguished by the local volunteer firefighters.
The day in 1967 when the Bank of North Lewisburg was robbed at gunpoint, and young Max Coates was injured.
The night my older brother David came home with the new "Don Eagle" Mohawk haircut, much to the dismay of our mother.
Lee Arnold Forrest coming to court my sister Charma on his beautiful Indian motorcycle.
Taking the drive to Woodstock on Sundays to get an ice cream sundae at the old drug store there. Then, buying a Charms lollipop and hurrying back home to watch "Lassie" on television.
Watching Lester Overfield and Dorothy Spain as they sorted the mail at the post office, while waiting to see if there would be anything in our old P. O. Box 62.
Crawling through the many tunnels we excavated under the hog houses which sat across the street from Ray Patrick's John Deere & coal yard dealership.
Stopping to see the circus when it sat up on the old ballpark.
The 1957 Ford station wagon which used to be seen in town, driving up and down the streets with the "lemon" cutouts pasted to the sides, hood, and top, along with the signs "So-and-So Sold Me A Lemon!" in reference to an auto dealership in Urbana.
When the old man from Middleburg used to drive into town for his Saturday shopping trip, in his old Model T Ford, which he had hand-painted a bright red. In places, the car was held together with baling wire.
Working summers baling hay and straw on the farms of John and Ralph Westfall, Glen Simpson, Otis Smith, Merritt White and others.
Waiting patiently for a sliver of cold, refreshing ice as the delivery man dropped off our weekly block of ice for the old wooden "icebox."
Sneaking over and swiping those tart, wonderfully delicious Granny Smith apples from Billy Curl's tree.
Getting a carburetor fixed at Lionel Grauman's garage.
Stopping for one reason or another at Ernie Witten's service station, or Basil Spain's.
All of the wonderful things that Dick Holycross would do on a regular basis for the folks around town - and always with a big smile on his face.
That birthday party at Sallie Hayes' home when we played that game where we proposed to someone while we were blindfolded - and then being embarrassed to find out who we had proposed to.
Those wonderful, spiritual Sunday morning services at the Methodist Church.
Listening and watching as those huge diesel locomotives passed through town on the railroad, sometimes stopping at the local depot to drop something off.
Going to the local movie theater on a Friday night to see the newsreel, previews, and cartoon before the feature began.
The old "Farmers' Institute" festivals which were held in the old high school building, with exhibits, games, lots of great food, ice cream, movies (or productions) in the auditorium, and a chance to spend some time with friends and family.
Walking out to the fence which separated our property from Homer Howell's pasture very, very late on Christmas Eve when I was very, very young. Why? Someone had told me that the animals speak on Christmas Eve in remembrance of the Nativity - and I wanted to be out there to hear them.
Awakening on that glorious Christmas morning to find that Lionel electric train set which I had so desperately wanted.
Standing in rapt awe when Colonel Thomas Chamberlain, a local boy, in full military uniform, came home for a visit from the Army.
Stopping for a burger and fries at Don Smith's restaurant - later owned by Lee and Christine Quinton - on Maple Street.
A great-tasting, deep fried, perch sandwich at "Griff's Grill," owned and operated by Ray and Mary Griffin.
Looking at the array of radios, stereos, tape recorders, televisions, and other stuff at Richard Russell's store.
Collecting the "Howdy Doody" labels we used to find in "Wonder Bread" packages, and trading some with friends at school.
Daily marble competition on the grounds of the old elementary school house.
Mr. Robert McKee, band director, and the way he used to wield his baton - occasionally smacking fingers with it - when we practiced.
Milford E. Bowen, Jr., a great history teacher, and a man with a fantastic sense of humor. When it was pointed out to him that one word on his history test had too many "l"s in it, barked out: "Well, we'll have to get the 'l' out of here!"
High school graduating classes donating money to Triad High School so the gray, concrete walls could be painted.
Robert "Skipper" Lantz, leading a group of kids, soldier-wannabes, as we "attacked" a sandbar smack in the middle of Spain Creek
Going to farms in the area during maple sugar season to buy some of that delicious, home-made candy.
Watching Mr. Mason Martin, janitor of the old elementary school building, or Mr. Raymond Hayslip, janitor of the old high school building, as they conscientiously went about their daily duties.
All of the precious moments we boys spent under the tutelage of Virginia Tomlin Davis, Kay Ricketts, other ladies during our Cub Scout years.
Mr. Everett Brelsford as he mentored yet another FFA team to victory, year after year after year.
Stopping by Tom Sheehe's poultry and egg shop on a Saturday afternoon for a bottle of Orange Crush.
Watching from a short distance away with friends Tom and Jim Reid when Jim Freshwater's hearse parked in front of their house and took away their grandpa George Reid.

These are some of the memories which flash across my mind's screen from time to time, and which just as quickly are filed away once more. Life is a series of images - memories which sustain us as we grow older. I'm sure I'll be able to recall others to share with you.

Candid Moments in Time

2011-02-08T18:09:00.000-07:00

With lots of time on my hands while recovering from illness, I find that my mind often wanders to those times so long ago when I was a young boy roaming along Spain Creek. I find myself viewing, in my mind's eye, a kaleidoscope of candid moments in time. These are like the flashes of old-time camera flashbulbs, brilliant just momentarily and then fading away.Often these moments are unrelated. Some are happy memories; others are more tragic in nature. All were part of growing up in North Lewisburg. I find them to be very interesting, nonetheless.

While some of these moments could probably be expanded into longer stories, I think it best to leave them as just special glimpses of the past. Here are just a few:

Going downtown to where a crowd of townsfolk had gathered for Santa's annual distribution of bagged candies.
Walking on Sycamore Street toward the business district to attend a movie at the local theater, but being sure to cross to the other side of the street when passing the old Beltz Mill, lest some ghost would pull us into the abandoned building.
Finding patches of ice along Spain Creek with enough room to permit ice skating.
Listening on Mike Chamberlain's shortwave radio to the "beep, beep, beep" of the Soviet "Sputnik" artificial satellite as it passed overhead.
The day the little Piper Cub airplane flew low over the town and tossed hundreds of paper plates to the surprised observers. There was an advertisement for some business in Urbana which had been pasted to each of the plates.
Another day when the "young Louden boy" flew his Navy jet away from a cross-country formation and "buzzed" the town, providing an exciting low-level air show for the locals.
Taking our sleds and sneaking across the fields to Buckshot Hill on the Reid farm property, and enjoying the snow in spite of the admonitions from our folks to stay away from there.
Stopping at the little one-room store, owned and operated by Johnny and Rachel Spain, and buying some penny candies.
Decorating bicycles with red-white-and blue crepe paper so we could ride them in the annual "Decoration Day" parade.
Visiting the old elementary school building on Maple Street in December to buy our family's home Christmas tree from the Boosters Club.
Attending the horse shows at the ball park which were sponsored by the local Boy Scout Troop.
Stopping by the food tent to get a bowl or hand-packed cone of home-made vanilla ice cream at one of the many ice cream socials held at the ball park on holidays.
There was an old, dilapidated, wood building which sat on the narrow strip of ground between the railroad and Spain Creek. What its original purpose was, I've never known, but it had become an eyesore, covered from ground to roof line with torn and faded posters of past circuses, fairgrounds and drive-in movie ad. It caught fire one evening, and burned to the ground while the town's volunteer fire fighters stood by. Bob Loveland was heard to exclaim "There's going to be an investigation...as to why it didn't burn faster!"
Looking up into the clear, night sky as our country's Echo I satellite. visible to the naked eye, passed directly overhead during a Little League ball game.
Watching the town's Yankee Little League team pass through two full seasons with no wins, and then coming from behind in the third season to win the 1966 All-County double-elimination baseball tournament.
Walking back from a fishing excursion to the mill dam spillway on Spain Creek with twenty other Cub Scouts and leaders, and being singled out to be savagely bitten by Charlie Vertner's dog.
Avoiding walking - or cycling - around Dan Welty's house for fear of being chased by his dog Bing.
Holding the bag in the field behind their house one night while the Trout brothers chased the elusive "snipes" toward me...and being left there alone for over an hour.
Years later, driving some friends out to Bucky Sheehe's farm late at night because I actually convinced them I had never gone "snipe" hunting in the past. They positioned me in my appointed place in the dark field, complete with bag, and then ran off to enjoy their joke. In the meantime, I abandoned the bag, returned quietly to my car, and drove away leaving them stranded in the fields a mile from town.
Going over to the area behind Tom Arthur's IGA store, and walking off with about a dozen of his discarded cardboard boxes. We took them to Mike Chamberlain's back lawn, cut "doors" and "windows" in them so they resembled buildings, sat them up in a rough proximity of a town, and then set them ablaze to watch the destruction.
Starting a friendly game of "Go Sheepie, Go" on Monday evenings, with the town's corporation limits as our boundaries, and playing into the late hours. We then called a truce, returned to our homes, and picked up the game again the next night...and subsequent nights that same week.
Playing "Hide and Seek" when citizens band radios had become popular, and chasing each other all over town with "you're getting warm!" or "you're getting cold!" hints on the radios as to our hiding places.
Playing "Bumper Tag" with our cars as we drove around the streets of the community in pursuit of one another.
Gathering at Cat and Daisy Parker's Cities Service gas station on Sundays with all of the balloons we could acquire during the week, filling them with water at their outside faucet, and running pell mell around the downtown area in one huge water fight.
Riding out to Maple Grove Cemetery to observe for ourselves the "nine foot ghosts" which some guys had burst into the Hiway 559 Coffee Shop to tell us about.
Setting off firecrackers - especially cherry bombs - and running to hide when town marshal Bill Holycross came to investigate the noise.
Riding in the go carts owned by Ronnie and Kelly Loveland during the annual Firemen's Festival.
The Sunday afternoon when the middle-aged Black woman and her ancient father rang the doorbell, introduced themselves, and asked if they could see the interior of our house on East Street. Apparently the old man had lived in the house some 75 years before, and wanted to see what had changed. He pointed out to me how the rooms had been used in the past, and the additions which were not part of the original house. It was good to learn some of the history of the old place!
Helping insurance agent Bob Deere look for his expensive, radio-controlled model airplane which he had lost somewhere in the North Lewisburg area.
Tragically being a part of the crowd which gathered near the pond behind Louden Brothers Tool & Die one July 4th day when a 15-year old boy who had drowned there was taken away.
Stopping by the drug store, operated at the time by Mr. and Mrs. Mills, and ably assisted by Mr. Harry Brown, and enjoying a fountain-service cherry coke - the sugary, cherry syrup brought to life with "phosphate" water. Or, a couple of dips of ice cream, served in a metal ice cream cup into which was placed a paper liner. Yum!
Trading my "Hopalong Cassidy" wristwatch - which I had received for my 8th birthday years before - along with some cash for my first new Timex at Jeweler Jack's.
Being impressed with the used Mercury automobile - complete with plexiglass roof insert - which my buddy Mike Chamberlain bought at Bob Painter's car dealership on Maple Street.
Walking past Griff's Grill on a Saturday night when the TV series "Gunsmoke" was televised for the first time, and hearing it through the open door.
Going to Buckwalter's Hardware store on those early summer days to select that season's bamboo fishing pole, line, and hooks.
Learning of the tragic death of Wayne Sturdevant, president of the Senior Class at Triad High School, on Thanksgiving day, 1959.
Having those periodic automobile flat tires repaired at Wayne Henry's service station.
Waiting for the old, renovated bus which would meet us downtown on Saturday nights to transport us to the roller-skating rink in Marysville.
Getting up very early on Sunday mornings to tee off with Tommy Arthur at his favorite area golf course - and retrieving the clubs he threw away when he missed his drives or putts.
Being delirious with fever (after that dog bite courtesy of Vertner's little white dog mentioned earlier) later that particular night, and being visited for treatment at home by Dr. John R. Polsley.
Going out to spend the weekend at the farm of my friends Larry and Gary Bahan, spending a day gleaning field corn which had been missed during the harvest, and driving back to town with Mrs. Bahan to sell our treasure to Bob Packman at the Ohio Grain elevator. Buying from him some soybeans, and then rushing to Alma Hall's store to purchase some plastic bean shooters so we could annoy each other the balance of the weekend!
Driving out to Bob White's house with friends so we could swim in his family's new circular swimming pool - and then sleeping overnight in the open-air tree house which had been constructed above the pool.
Marching in formation with the Triad High School Marching Band during those fall football games.
Riding that great looking Lambretta motor scooter which I had bought from Ronnie Loveland.
Attending the funeral for Spike and Jerry Clay, following their tragic, accidental deaths.

There are other candid memories, locked away in the deep recesses of my mind. I'm sure I'll have the occasion to share others with you in a future blog.

Memories of the Champaign County Fair

2011-02-06T20:48:00.000-07:00

Champaign County, Ohio, has a history which dates back 300 years. Early settlers braved the uncertainty of the forests and rolling meadows to forge a community which was to become steeped in history and tradition. They worked hard to clear the land, plant, harvest, and to raise their livestock. They built their farms and small towns, and raised generations of people who have always been deeply associated with the soil and agriculture.

One of the early, yearly events which brought people together on a regular basis was the County Fair, held on land on the southern outskirts of Urbana, the county seat. The first fair was held in 1841, and was a far-cry from the modern era yearly gathering.

As the years passed, there were many youngsters from across Champaign County who were involved in 4-H or Future Farmers of America (FFA), Cub Scouts, Boy Scouts, Explorers, or church groups who participated in this event each year. There were pigs, rabbits, goats, sheep, chickens, horses, beef cattle, dairy cattle, arts and crafts, sewing, and a host of other projects and exhibits which were prepared for the fair. A whole year of preliminary activity was conducted in preparation for those few days of August each year.

In 1955, I was a thin, light-weight boy with tow-blonde hair, who took an inkling to the idea that I could become successful in the 4-H program. I was encouraged by my step-father, William Robert "Putt" Forsythe, that I was capable of raising a pig to competition-class at the annual fair in Urbana. One fine Saturday morning, he drove me to the home of Jay Dooley, an area breeder of hogs. There, we all sought out a young female pig which would be suitable for my 4-H project. We eventually settled on a pure-bred Spotted Poland China piglet, white-skinned with a generous array of black-and-gray spots. The hog's registered documentation indicated her official name was "Fancy Miss." (I decided to name her "Nellybelle" after the name of the Jeep which Pat Brady drove in the "Roy Rogers" television series). A price was negotiated for the pig, and the $35 given to Jay Dooley. Putt and I drove the short distance back to North Lewisburg, with Nellybelle held in my lap on the front seat of our old 1947 Chevrolet. There were periodic squeals of protest from Nellybelle, but she weathered the trip without serious incident.

Putt had made arrangements for me to start my 4-H project by housing the pig in one of the stalls in an old outbuilding which stood on property adjacent to the home of Bucky Sheehe. It was warm, and dry, and protected from the rain and heat. There was a water pump nearby - close enough to haul water for the pig - and Putt had made arrangements with Bucky to purchase all of the straw we needed for bedding for the stall. Putt and I carried into the stall a couple of bales of straw. We busted them open by cutting the twine which bound them, and spread the golden bedding around the stall. Putt had purchased some supplement powder which he taught me how to mix in a large, glass bottle, to which a rubber nipple was then attached. The plan was that we would bottle-feed the piglet over the next several days until she could be converted to a special slurry and then compressed pellets.

Nellybelle nosed around her new surroundings, exploring every inch of the place before returning to me for her first feeding. It was a slow process at first as she adjusted to the artificial nipple, but she soon got the hang of the procedure. She sucked down the fluid and wanted more, but it was time for us to leave. We made sure the stall and building were secured, got into the car, and drove the couple of miles back home.

Every day after that, Putt drove me to Bucky's place in the wee hours of the morning to feed Nellybelle and to see to her comfort needs. The same process continued in the evening hours when we returned for her routine feeding and care. A rapport developed between me and the pig as she grew stronger. There was a bond of love and mutual respect.

One evening, she was not as responsive as she had been previously. It was clear that she was ill. Putt put in a call to Dr. Max Coates, an area veterinarian, who soon arrived on the scene. His diagnosis was pneumonia, and his prognosis was not good. There was a real possibility that we would lose Nellybelle.

But the good doctor administered to the little pig and stayed with us for a few hours. I was so frightened that I convinced Putt I ought to stay with her overnight. I made up a bed in one corner of the stall, the single-bulb ceiling light casting shadows throughout the area. After Putt left, I remained awake for hours, holding the sick pig on my lap while gently caressing her back, sides and head. Somewhere in the night hours I finally fell asleep, only to be awakened when Putt reappeared in the morning. It looked like the crisis had passed, and over the next few daylight hours the little pig recovered. Our routine went back to normal.

All that spring and summer little Nellybelle and I had bonded. Putt and his father, Tom, had erected a fenced in area on the northern boundary of our property in North Lewisburg. While most of the house and grounds sat within the town limits, this particular area was outside the boundaries of the town. (That would become an important issue in time). We moved the pig to her new home. Nellybelle loved the expanded territory and prospered. She recognized my voice, my touch, and seemed eager to please me. I learned the techniques involved in caring for her and teaching her to be led around the enclosure. She reveled in the mud pit which I had created for her where she could escape the summer heat. She also learned to tolerate, and eventually to look forward to her periodic bath. On those occasions, I sprayed her with water from the garden hose, drenched her with a soapy solution composed of Cheer detergent powder and water, and scrubbed her with a stiff bristled brush. Her pink skin radiated, and her black and gray spots stood out in contrast.

It was now time for the 4-H competition at the county fair. My uncle, Glen Simpson, arrived one morning in his truck. He had already loaded my cousin Jerry's livestock. Nellybelle and the things I would need at the fair were loaded aboard the truck. We soon set out for Urbana.

When we arrived at the Powell Street entrance to the fairgrounds, Uncle Glen parked the truck near the gate. There were other friends there to help us unload the livestock, and move the animals to their respective stalls in nearby buildings. Once the animals were secure in their new surroundings, we returned to the truck. The old straw was removed, and the floorboards were swept clean. Fresh straw was applied, and a canvas tarp was draped over the wooden rails and tied down securely for protection from the rain and heat. Personal effects were distributed, and individual sleeping areas were set up for the kids who were to call this truck "home" for the next week.

Our chores done for the day, everyone set out to explore the fairgrounds. There was a flurry of activity as people set up their makeshift shelters, found stalls for their animal exhibits, or for their business-related exhibitions. People were busy setting up tents which would soon open as eating establishments, where hungry folks would be able to buy breakfast, lunch and dinner meals, as well as cold soft drinks, lemonade, and iced tea - or an occasional slice of watermelon. Vendors were setting up places where they could hawk their popcorn, cotton candy, ice cream candy, salt water taffy, candied apples, t-shirts and other clothing. Other vendors were busy along the "midway," setting up mechanical rides, games of chance, and the "freak show" exhibits which were popular back then. There was the constant ring of sledge hammer striking metal stakes, commands being barked by supervisors to their weary crews, and a calliope of other noises all thrown together. It was a wonderful world to see!

The coming week was filled with activities as 4-H and FFA kids prepared their animals or other exhibits for competition. The days started early, were hectic from beginning to end, and went on long into the night. Animals had to be fed and cleaned and trained. Meals had to be consumed. Rides had to be experienced. Sweets and other treats had to be enjoyed. Coins had to be wasted in the mechanical and electrical games and other activities in the arcade tent. Freebies had to be sought out from area merchants and tossed into plastic bags - accumulated treasures which could be enjoyed long after the fair had ended. What a great adventure! And what a great time to be a kid!

Nellybelle and I worked well together as we faced our competition in the show tent. She was beautifully cleaned, smelled of Cheer detergent, and walked with the proud grace of a purebred. I used a wooden cane to gently guide her around the sawdust ring, while I kept her between myself and the judge. She played her part to the hilt, basking in all the attention she was receiving. In the end, she was declared Grand Champion by the National Spotted Poland China Record. I was thrilled, Putt was thrilled, and Jay Dooley - who was there as a sponsor of the competition - was thrilled. Our little Nellybelle - officially, "Fancy Miss," - was a winner!

A reporter from the Urbana Daily Citizen was on hand to interview me, and to snap a few photos. The newspaper article appeared the following day. The accompanying photo showed Nellybelle and me, cane in hand, with a row of ribbons strung up behind us. It was glorious!

The week ended. The livestock was herded once again to awaiting trucks and trailers. The makeshift shelters we had called home were dismantled. The caravans of vehicles back to North Lewisburg and other areas of the county were on the roads. Fair week was over. But there would always be next year!

Note: the Champaign County Fair, perhaps the largest county fair in Ohio, is scheduled for August 5-12, 2011.

Circle the dates on your calendars. See you there!

The Hay Rides

2011-02-06T16:30:00.000-07:00

One of the quaint activities to be found in North Lewisburg and surrounding communities has always been the traditional hay rides. These events were normally held in the fall, when the night air was crisp, the moon was full, and the path clearly visible to the driver. In the old days, a sturdy team of horses was hitched to a long, wooden wagon upon which was piled fresh hay. Youngsters, teens, and adults climbed aboard the wagon, well-bundled up against the cold night air and carrying blankets for additional comfort. The driver slapped the team into motion, and the wagon with its precious cargo moved down the old gravel roads for a night-time excursion among the hills and valleys which surrounded the old hometown. Often there was a dance associated with the hay ride, either just before or immediately after the trip. Even if not, the sounds of music and laughter accompanied the team and wagon as it lumbered along, the voices of the kids and the adults mingling together in the joy of camaraderie. They sang old time favorites, or modern tunes - whatever struck their fancy as they plodded along the roadway. Melodious voices were merged with those of folks who could not carry a tune in a bucket - but it was all in fun anyway, so the choral attributes of the participants didn't really matter.

As the years passed, and as horses became less and less associated with modern times, the teams were replaced with tractors - gas-powered and eventually diesel-powered. The big Case, or International, or John Deere machines moved along effortlessly, the noise of their engines adding to the lulling, steady pace of the trip. The big mounds of fresh hay were replaced with bales of the fodder, stacked atop the wagon bed with ample seating areas provided for the wayfarers. There were quiet, shadowy areas where the more romantic types could sit and whisper expressions of affection and love.

Often, the drive through the countryside passed nearby or over some haunted feature of the landscape. There were to be found trips across the notorious "Cry Baby" bridge - located between North Lewisburg and Cable - for example, occasionally timed to coincide with the old traditional times associated with the tragedy which had supposedly occurred there. At midnight, people cupped their ears and craned their necks while attempting to hear the mournful cry of the baby which had perished there when dropped to the railroad bed below. Sometimes the folks who had arranged the hay ride had already designated someone to wait in the vicinity of the bridge and issue that "cry" as the hay wagon approached. This often had the desired effect upon the females, who snuggled even closer to their male companions.

Romances blossomed, or died, along the way. Some of those young couples were later to become engaged, and eventually married. Others were to part company shortly after the trip ended. Memories - some sweet, some bitter - were to forever become associated with the scent of hay, and the allure of crisp, autumn nights.

Skinny Dipping In Spain Creek

2011-02-06T16:02:00.000-07:00

North Lewisburg has never had a municipal swimming pool, nor privately owned and operated facility. It all has to do with the high cost of liability insurance - a reality on which the town's government and private entrepreneurs placed great emphasis. If the kids - and adults - of the 1950s and 1960s wanted to go swimming in the chlorinated-waters of a swimming pool, there were few options. They could go to the swimming pool which is located at the north end of the neighboring community of Marysville, some nine miles distance. They could go to the old Lakewood Beach facility that was situated on old Highway 55 between Urbana and Springfield. They could take an even longer drive to the YMCA swimming pool in downtown Springfield.

If the swimmers were not concerned about the quality of the water (and if they were reasonably sure they would not contract the dreaded polio disease during the "dog days" of summer),they could elect to swim in one of the various farm ponds which could be found in the area of North Lewisburg. Or, the truly daring swimmers could opt to make use of a few deep pools which could be found along Spain Creek.

Most kids - or their parents - chose to make the short drive to Marysville on those particularly hot days (and nights) of summer to make use of the American Legion swimming pool. It was clean and well-maintained. It was adjacent to a park where families could picnic or otherwise while away the time. It was relatively inexpensive. It had qualified life guards who stood their posts while overlooking the safety of the swimmers. Many youngsters of the era can undoubtedly recall the shrill whistle, or the admonition to "Stop running on the concrete!" which emanated from the life guards. The pool was often crowded as it attempted to handle the water-borne traffic of both Marysville and the surrounding communities.

Sometimes, families or groups (4-H, FFA, church, or scouts) made the longer trek to the quaint, lively Lakewood Beach - noted for its sand-bottom swimming area. Many young people and adults plunged into the frigid water of the pool, and stood up - teeth chattering - to walk the sandy bottom, grains of wet sand oozing up between the toes. The sand got into everything, and was often carried all the way home in wet towels and swimsuits. When they tired of swimming, everyone could take part in the midway-type games and novelties which were adjacent to the swimming area. There was the huge, covered pavilion when families and groups could gather for the traditional potluck lunch or supper. It all had an atmosphere of "Coney Island," with fun, laughter, shouting, and excitement for everyone in attendance. "A good time was had by all!" was often the line which appeared in the area newspaper's accounts of the Lakewood Beach festivities.

Church groups often scheduled weekly trips to the clean, expansive and chlorine-environment of the YMCA swimming pool in Springfield. The boys who were regulars in attendance at the Friends Church in North Lewisburg were packed into cars on Friday nights for the drive to Springfield - a ploy, by the way, which attracted a very large attendance at Sunday's church meetings. The Reverend Raymond Gram and other adults served as supervisors of this motley crew of boys who cavorted, dove, swam, splashed, and otherwise enjoyed the heated waters of the pool. Back in those pre-1970s days, before the YMCA was open to female participation in the many activities held in the building, it was not uncommon (as a matter of fact, it was encouraged) for the male swimmers to do so in the nude. There was a practicality to this - the lint and other debris from swimming trunks had a tendency to clog up the filtration system. Besides, there were no "prying female eyes" to observe the boys. "Back in the day," it was a perfectly normal way to behave. The modest church leaders from North Lewisburg, however, preferred that all of the boys come to the outing with the appropriate trunks.

Swimming in some area farm ponds were usually restricted to members of the owner's family, or close friends. Once again, insurance liability was a big issue, so some farmers denied the use of their ponds for swimming. Often those small ponds which were used were the habitats of rushes, and cattails, and other grasses, bushes and shrubs. Moss was a real problem on the surface of some of those ponds which had limited fresh water feed into them. The bottoms of the ponds were often slimy, with deep, oozing mud, and wet banks. Only a few more venturesome swimmers made use of these ponds.

Along Spain Creek could be found a few deep pools of slow-moving water, generally carved out where the creek made a wide bend and changed direction. Some of these pools were just deep enough for potential swimmers to walk on the gravel bottom with torsos rising above the waterline. Still others were considerably deeper, with water over the top of the swimmers' heads. Most were not deep enough for diving, but there were some foolhardy folks who chose to dive in just the same. Some places had nearby trees with branches which could support a heavy rope and the added weight of the swimmer. These places afforded the brave hearts to swing out over the water and to drop the short distance to its surface.

Two of these pools were very popular. One was located at the west end of the community, on a bend in Spain Creek which flowed behind an old meat-packing, concrete building which was owned by Tom Arthur, who owned and operated the local IGA grocery. On any warm, summer day could here be found a large group of boys - and sometimes, girls - who were taking the opportunity to cool off in the creek's cold water.

Another such spot was located at the eastern edge of town, just a short distance from where an old brick, single-room school building had stood. It was easily accessible from the nearby highway (designated State Route 275 at the time) which connected North Lewisburg to Marysville. But, most kids who made use of the pool hiked to it, and generally walked along the creek from town via Black Bridge and the narrow trails which had been carved out of the trees and shrubs which abutted the creek bank. Once again, it was not uncommon to see a large group of young people assembled here for frivolity and exercise in the creek.

Skinny dipping was a term which did not creep into the language until the 1950s and 1960s. In the urban areas of the nation, the very idea of swimming in the nude was unheard of. Swimsuits or trunks were the norm of the day, in all but the rural areas of the country. In places such as the latter, beyond the common daily traffic of people and vehicles, it was not uncommon for boys - and girls - to shuck their clothes down to bare skin and dive in. Many kids who grew up in this era of innocence might well recall the occasion - or occasions - when some prankster absconded with all of the clothes to be found near a swimming hole, and left the swimmers with some "em-bare-ass-ment" in getting home unseen.

Sometimes there were excursions away from town, to the deeper, more turbulent waters of Big Darby Creek. Many young people first learned to swim there, after being tossed unsuspectingly into the deep waters and told to "swim or drown!"

Those were all innocent days as we grew up along Spain Creek, much akin to Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn - barefoot, carefree, and full of zest for life.

Davy Crockett - King of the Wild Frontier

2011-01-30T20:57:00.001-07:00

He may have been "born on a mountain top in Tennessee," but in the mid-1950s he was definitely a hero in North Lewisburg, Ohio. Davy Crockett, as portrayed by actor Fess Parker, hit the television screens (and remember, this was in the days of black-and-white TV) in 1954. The program was made especially for the television market by Walt Disney Productions, and was an instant success. From the time of the first episode, "Davy Crockett, Indian Fighter," the series made TV history. Within a matter of days people of all ages were singing the "Ballad of Davy Crockett." And one of the greatest mass-merchandising campaigns in history took off like a bat out of Hades - not to be equalled again until the "Star Wars" craze of the 1970s.

Boys - and girls - were attracted to the famous coonskin cap worn by Parker during the series. Within a relatively short time, over $100 MILLION in sales were generated by the cap! (And remember...that's 1954 dollars, and about 6 times that in today's money!) I was one of those kids who nagged my folks incessantly until I had one of those hats in hand - or rather, upon my head. I wore the thing to school, while playing both outdoors and in the house, and even (on a few occasions) to bed.

I even went to great lengths to emulate my hero. I soon owned a Davy Crockett lunch box and thermos, a Davy Crockett gun set (with cap rifle, belt, and powder flask). For Christmas, 1955, I asked for - and got - one of the Davy Crockett "Alamo" play sets, which was manufactured by Marx. It consisted of a bunch of plastic figures who were the defenders of the "Alamo," and a host of Mexican soldiers, horses, cannons, and other accessories to supplement the tin, lithographed "Alamo" building and mission walls. I spent hours on the floor of our dining room, setting up the battle scene and playing with the figures and accessories.

I once knew every verse of the "Ballad of Davy Crockett," from start to finish. I even had one of the 45 rpm records which I probably wore out on the phonograph.

Davy appeared in four more made-for-TV movie episodes in 1955: "Davy Crockett Goes to Congress," "Davy Crockett At the Alamo," and then the prequels "Davy Crockett's Keel Boat Race," and "Davy Crockett and the River Pirates." These shows were so successful on the "Disneyland" show that the Disney studios did some quick patching and other editing to bring two feature-length movies to the big screen as theatrical releases. These compilations were just as popular as the TV series had been. And remember, this was the first chance we had to see them in color! It was almost another decade before they returned to the TV screen in color.

Fess Parker, as "Davy Crockett," and his sidekick "George Russell", as portrayed by Buddy Ebsen, were forever associated with these characters. Fess Parker was considered an American icon of the acting world. He toured 13 foreign countries and 42 American cities promoting his role as "Davy." In later years, he took on the role of "Daniel Boone" in the TV series of that name, one of the highest-rated television programs of that era. Unfortunately, the fact that he played both "Davy" and "Daniel" kind of blurred history a bit; many people who grew up in this era confused the two characters or combined them as one. When he eventually retired from acting, he owned and operated a 714-acre winery in California. Fess Parker died of natural causes at the age of 85 in 2010.

Buddy Ebsen was a multi-talented entertainer (song and dance man, as well as actor) who was first slated to play the original Scarecrow in "The Wizard of OZ." He and Ray Bolger, who was first cast as the Tin Man in "The Wizard of OZ," decided to change roles. Unfortunately, Buddy was allergic to the special body paint which was necessary to give the character his "metal" skin. Buddy bowed out of the picture. He was replaced by Jack Haley. Ray Bolger fulfilled his role as Scarecrow. Buddy was one of the highest paid actors in Hollywood in the 1940s, earning $1500 a week with his contract (about $24,000 per week in today's money). He went off to service in the Navy in World War II, and was later discharged as a Lieutenant. Buddy eventually went on to great personal success in three television series: "Northwest Passage," "The Beverly Hillbillies," and "Barnaby Jones." He suffered from lung ailments all of his adult life, which he attributed to his ill-fated role as the metal-skinned Tin Man. He died of pneumonia at the age of 95 in 2003. In accordance with his wishes, his ashes were scattered at sea.

Folks who are celebrating their mid-to-late sixties birthdays undoubtedly remember the "Davy Crockett" series with fondness. There are probably some who can still sing all 21 verses of the "Ballad of Davy Crockett." There are probably others who still possess some of the merchandise which was marketed in the mid-1950s. And if they do, they are holding on to some genuine treasures.

Values have been placed on some of the items from that era. For instance, that old 45 rpm record that I wore out is now worth about $50 to collectors. The "coonskin" cap (which was probably rabbit) is now valued at $250. The metal lunch box and thermos now sells for about $400. And the Davy Crockett "Alamo" set - which I once lovingly spread out across the dining room floor - is now valued at about $1000. I sure wish I had held on to that set!

If you would like to exercise your vocal cords with your rendition of the "Ballad of Davy Crockett," I suggest you check out the lyrics (all 21 verses) on the Internet at http://www.fiftiesweb.com/tv/davy.htm Now, everyone join in...

"Born on a mountain top in Tennessee,

Greenest state in the land of the free,

Raised in the woods so he knew ev'ry tree,

Kilt him a b'ar when he was only three.

Davy, Davy Crockett, King of the wild frontier..."

Young Lives Lost - But Remembered Forever

2011-01-29T12:09:00.002-07:00

War is a terrible thing, destructive, horrible, heartbreaking, and traumatic. Almost from the time of the founding of North Lewisburg, the town's sons and daughters have been called upon in times of war to serve and to sacrifice. The old Roll of Honor which is painted on the wall of one of the town's retail stores on Sycamore Street has stood as mute testimony to this fact. The new, marble Veterans Memorial on East street likewise honors these patriots who have answered our nation's call.

I would here like to pay tribute to three young men who were called upon to serve during the Viet Nam War. These three were drafted into service during the turbulent times of the 1960s, when the war was on every one's mind. One was a resident from within the boundaries of the community. The other two were not residents of North Lewisburg, but were part of the greater community - those who attended school, or who were our neighbors, or who were our friends. One name appears on the town's memorials; the other names do not. But, each paid the ultimate sacrifice in the cause of freedom. Each should long be remembered as patriots - young lives lost in the service of others.

Private First Class Walter L. Burroughs was born on March 13, 1947. He attended schools in the North Lewisburg area before being called to service. He became an infantryman, military occupational skill (MOS) 11B2P. He was jump-certified, meaning he had completed the requirements to earn his paratrooper/airborne "wings." He was assigned to Company B, First Battalion, 503rd Infantry, 173rd Airborne Brigade, in Viet Nam. He started his tour of duty there on March 28, 1966. He was hopeful, like so many others of his comrades, that he would complete his assignment without injury, and return home to his loved ones. This was not to be, however. On May 17, 1966, while on a mission in the Phuoc Tuy Province of South Viet Nam, he was killed by an enemy explosive device. After the battle, his body was recovered and returned home to North Lewisburg for burial in Maple Grove Cemetery. He was buried with full military honors, complete with firing squad to render the military salute. The whole town turned out for his grave site services - Walter was the first Champaign County casualty of the war. I was privileged to play the traditional "Taps" bugle call as part of his service.

Walter was the recipient of the Purple Heart for wounds received in action, the National Defense Service Medal, the Viet Nam Service Medal, the Viet Nam Campaign Medal, the Airborne wings, and the Combat Infantryman Badge.

Corporal Carl Richard Dagger was born on October 23, 1947. Although Urbana, Ohio is listed as his official home of record, he had attended schools in the Triad School District. He was a member of the United States Marine Corps, and saw service as a rifleman, military occupational skill (MOS) 0311. He was assigned to Company I, Third Battalion, 4th Marines, Third Marine Division, III MAF. His first day "in-country" in Viet Nam was September 14, 1967. Over the next eight months he participated in additional training and operational campaigns in South Viet Nam. On May 17, 1968, he died as a result of hostile small arms fire while engaged in battle in an area of South Viet Nam. His body was recovered, and returned home for burial.

Richard was the recipient of the Silver Star, the Purple Heart for wounds received in action, the National Defense Service Medal, the Viet Nam Service Medal, and the Viet Nam Campaign Medal.

Specialist Four William Emerson Shaffer's home of record in his military service file is Cable, Ohio. He was born on July 6, 1947. He served in military occupational skill (MOS) 13A10, as a member of the Field Artillery. He was assigned to Battery B, 8th Battalion, 6th Artillery, 1st Infantry Division ("The Big Red One"), USARV. He arrived in Viet Nam on May 23, 1967, for his scheduled 12-month tour of duty there. On May 5, 1968, less than three weeks before he was to complete his assignment, William was killed in action by enemy rocket, mortar or artillery fire while serving in the Binh Duong Province, South Viet Nam. His body was recovered and returned home for burial.

William was the recipient of the Purple Heart for wounds received in action, the National Defense Service Medal, the Viet Nam Service Medal, and the Viet Nam Campaign Medal.

These three young men who lost their lives in this conflict are memorialized on the Viet Nam Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C. The name of Walter L. Burroughs can be found on Panel 07E, Line 068. The name of Carl Richard Dagger is incised on Panel 62E, Line 002. The name of William Emerson Shaffer can be located on Panel 55E, Line 030. If you, the reader, should ever have the opportunity to visit the Viet Nam Memorial Wall, please contact one of the volunteer guides there for assistance in locating the names of these men, and honor them with a few moments of quiet contemplation.

If you do not have the opportunity to visit Washington, D. C., you can still honor the memory of these men by visiting the Viet Nam Virtual Wall on the Internet at http://www.virtualwall.org/ A great deal of painstaking effort has gone into creating this fact-filled memorial in cyberspace.

And, you - the reader - probably are unaware that the names of these three men (as well as all of the other names which appear on the Viet Nam Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C.) are destined to live forever in real space.

On February 7, 1999, the National Aeronautical and Space Administration (NASA) launched the "Stardust" spacecraft to pass by Comet Wild 2. This vehicle carried, as part of its payload, sets of microchips which contained the names of 1,136,000 individuals to be remembered for "time and eternity," to include the approximately 58,000 names from the Viet Nam Memorial Wall. These names were previously collected during 1997 and embedded as data in the microchips. "Stardust" rendezvoused with the comet in 2004. As part of the mission, a capsule containing a full set of these microchips was then jettisoned for the return trip to earth, and landed in the Utah desert on January 15, 2006. The recovered capsule was then taken to the Johnson Space Center, Houston, Texas, on January 17, 2006. The microchips were removed, and are now maintained in the Curation Facility there.

The other set of names contained on microchips are still part of the "Stardust" spacecraft, which continues on its journey through outer space. To see where this spacecraft is today, visit the NASA Website at http://stardust.jpl.nasa.gov/mission/scnow.html

Although nearly fifty years have passed since the Viet Nam War, it is comforting to know that the names of those who died there are remembered at home, on earth, and in the far-flung reaches of space. These are fitting tributes to their memory.

The Old Town Hall

2011-01-28T09:15:00.000-07:00

For a great number of years one of the most imposing structures in North Lewisburg was the old Town Hall. This three-story edifice was constructed in 1870, and stood for a hundred years on the south side of Maple Street in the "downtown" area. This brick-and-mortar structure was a hub of activity for the community. On the street level could be found retail shops and a tavern. On the same level, but outside the normal view of the townsfolk was the jail, a sturdy, interior, boxlike area for securing the town's ne'er do wells.

The second floor area consisted of some small meeting type rooms, with a large kitchen, and a much-larger assembly hall. This area was used by various organizations for a great variety of gatherings. In the years following the Civil War, the veterans of that conflict - now members of the fraternal organization called the Grand Army of the Republic - held regularly scheduled meetings here. Likewise, there were other civic affairs which took place in the hall - dinners, ice cream socials, Halloween carnivals, dances, and various holiday parties. As time passed, the introduction of silent movies and eventually "talkies" took place in this building as the equipment was set up to project the shadowy images on one wall, or a special screen which had been installed for just that purpose. Following World War I - "the war to end all wars" - the newly formed American Legion and its auxiliary held meetings and other events in the building. There were a great many "fish fry" dinners which were held here over the years as fund raisers for the local American Legion Post (which was originally named after Chester F. McCrery - 1897 to 1918 - the town's first soldier to be killed in action in France during World War I). Local fishermen would often travel the distance to Lake Erie to catch the fish - primarily perch - which were then cleaned, battered and deep fried and served as steaming mounds on plates or sandwiches. Often, these special dinners were part of poker nights, where tables and chairs were set up to accommodate card players. Beer was served, fish was consumed, and money changed hands as the evenings wore on.

One small office area of this floor was used by the American Legion for the maintenance of their membership records as well as minutes of their meetings and other activities. There was also an armory of sorts, where racks of Springfield M1903 rifles were secured away until they were used for military parades or firing squads at military funerals. These sturdy, dependable .30-.06 caliber rifles were first introduced into the U.S. military in 1905, and were widely used during World War I. They were supposed to be phased out of service by 1937, but were still in service when the United States entered World War II. As a matter of fact, the trusty rifles remained in service through the Korean War, and as a sniper rifle during the early part of the Viet Nam war. Several of the old rifles were consigned to the American Legion post for ceremonial purposes. Today, they are housed in the new Municipal Building.

In the mid-1960s part of the second floor was also used by the young men of the local Explorer Post - an organization for older boys who were enrolled in the Boy Scouts of America. They conducted their weekly meetings there, to include planning and preparation for their periodic excursions into the wild.

The third floor of the building was used by fraternal organizations made up of members of the community. The Masonic order and Eastern Star order held regular meetings in this area until they acquired the old Red and White grocery store on Sycamore Street which had been owned and operated by Burleigh Woodruff. They remodeled this building, to include the brick enclosure of the old store front in the 1960s. In addition to the regular meetings held in this remodeled facility, there were occasionally birthday, wedding, and anniversary receptions held on the ground floor level.

Goldie Millice operated a retail store on the ground floor of the old Town Hall. Townspeople could also pay their utility bills at her shop, and catch up on the local news. Goldie was the town's correspondent to the Urbana Citizen for nearly a half-century.

Spike Tanner operated a barber shop for a number of years which was first located in this ground floor area of the Town Hall. Later, he purchased a small masonry building at the end of the retail block and relocated his barber shop there. Prior to this, it had been the site of a television and electronics shop owned and operated by Richard and Leatrice Russell.

Probably the most popular of the facilities to be located on the ground floor of the Town Hall was the tavern which was owned and operated in later years by Junior James. He had a faithful clientele who frequented the tavern on a regular basis. He operated a small kitchen where sandwiches and fries were prepared to supplement the patrons' favorite brews. There was a juke box in the 1950s and 1960s which belted out the likes of Hank Williams and other country music artists. There was an electronic bowling game which saw hard use on Friday and Saturday evenings.

For a number of years, the southwest corner of the ground floor also doubled as the town's fire department. An interesting array of horse-pulled and combustion engine vehicles were used by the volunteer firemen to extinguish the blazes which periodically erupted in town. Later, when the building which housed the town's movie theater was converted for the fire department, the equipment was merely moved across the street.

The usefulness of the old Town Hall faded as time passed. It was determined that repairing and renovating the building would be too costly, so the decision was made to tear it down. Arrangements were made to do so, and shortly thereafter the old structure was gone. A vacant lot served as a reminder of its absence until a new furniture store was erected on that spot.

Old photos - and memories - are all that remain of the Town Hall.

Please Sign Up As A Follower

2011-01-27T06:04:00.000-07:00

If you will take the time to notice the left-hand column of this page, you will see two areas in which the followers of my blog are listed. The first major area lists those individuals who have signed up as followers through the Facebook networked blogs. As I write this, there are 18 folks who have signed up as followers. If you subscribe to Facebook but have never yet clicked on this area to become a follower, I respectfully ask you to do so. This will help to immediately notify you when new articles are added to this blogspot, and will help to spread awareness of this site through the Networked blogs system.

The second area in this column offers you the opportunity to sign up as a Google Friend Connect follower. As I write this, there are five listed followers. Even if you have already signed up as a follower via the networked blogs followers process referred to above, I would appreciate it if you would also sign up as a Google Friend Connect follower. This helps to spread awareness of this site through the Google network, and should bring more Internet traffic to this site.

Your support of this effort will be greatly appreciated.

The Three-Holer

2011-01-27T05:45:00.000-07:00

I spent eleven of the first twelve years of my life in that old frame house which still stands at the corner of Sycamore and North Streets in North Lewisburg. Mom had moved us there - herself, my sisters Charma and Norma, brother David and myself - within a few months after my Dad's death in the closing months of World War II. Mom was the recipient of Dad's life insurance, all $10,000 - which was the amount the government paid to the war's casualties back in those days. She decided, as a sole parent with five mouths to feed, to invest that money into suitable shelter for her brood. The old house, lacking a decent coat of paint at the time, was solid, and well-built in spite of its age. The old masonry addition which extended from the back of the house toward the north was generally cool, dark, and little-used. The attic of the structure had once been heavily insulated with a firm wooden floor to support the tons of sawdust which were scattered there. This place had once been used to store ice which had been carefully sawed from Spain Creek during the winter months. The construction of the storage area, along with the insulating properties of the sawdust, kept a great deal of ice usable for many of the warmer months of the years. Unfortunately, that practice of harvesting the ice and storing it away in this attic had ended many years before we took up residency in the old house. The sawdust had remained, however, and this area became a secretive place where, as I grew older - about eight or nine years of age - I could explore. There was an entry door high in the northern-most side of the structure to which I occasionally climbed. I struggled to open the door, and then entered the dark and dank long, but narrow attic room. It had a peculiar odor, and looked foreboding, and although I usually had a flashlight with me I never strayed too far from the entrance. It was just an interesting place to spend a few quiet moments when no one was around to keep my prying eyes away.

The old house consisted of seven rooms: the living room at the southwest corner, with two bedrooms which extended toward the east; a dining room which was situated in the middle of the house, and two additional bedrooms - a larger one which extended to the north, and the smallest one which extended to the east; and, finally, there was a large kitchen, with a back door which opened on the east onto a concrete porch, and another door to the north which opened onto a damp, musty-smelling fruit cellar. There were three entrances to the house - a front door with an accompanying unenclosed concrete porch which opened at the southwest corner of the house; a side door which opened onto yet another concrete porch at the west side of the house for entry into the dining room; and the back door, previously mentioned, which opened from the kitchen onto the back porch.

There was a driveway which ran adjacent to the house on the south side where the car was parked, although it was years before we ever had a car to park there "Back in the day," Mom did not own a car; she walked to the "downtown" area to purchase her groceries, to pick up and send out her mail, and to pay her utility bills. The local movie house provided periodic entertainment, as did a small roller-skating rink which Lionel Grauman occasionally made available in a part of his auto repair garage. We kids traipsed off in the early morning hours to make the long walk to the elementary or high schools which were located on East and Maple Streets. We walked in spite of the weather conditions, knowing that there was no one to transport us to or from school. (This eventually led to the argument which I occasionally offered to my own kids in the future that if I could "walk to school in bare feet, in the rain and snow, uphill, while fighting off Indians" they could surely do likewise).

My kids and grand kids today find it hard to believe in today's era of "luxuries" that we had no "indoor plumbing" in that old house when I lived there. Sure, there was a white, metal, porcelain-painted, free-standing, two-sink appliance which eventually stood there after plumbing was installed, but before that we washed dishes in a small metal bucket, and ourselves in a large, galvanized washtub using water which had been heated to near-boiling on the old kitchen stove. The water used for these purposes was gathered from an old metal pump which stood on the concrete back porch. There was always a bucket of water beside the pump, with a metal cup. The cup was dipped into the water, which was then poured into the top of the hand-operated pump to "prime" it so there was enough suction for the pump to draw the water up from our rain water cistern. Yes, that's right - rain water! The tin downspouts on our house led directly from the roof line to a hole in the top of the cistern. Whenever it rained -or later when snow which had been trapped on the roof and thence in the gutters melted - the liquid flowed through the system and was deposited in the concrete cistern for storage. Our only access to that life-giving liquid was via the old pump and its ever-demanding handle.

Buckets of water were carried into the house for use in drinking, or cooking, for washing dishes, daily hand and face washing, and for that once-a-week bath on Saturday night. Gallons of the stuff were heated up on a regular basis, then poured into that old galvanized washtub to which Ivory soap flakes and a soap bar were added to see to our hygienic needs. (Historical note: we used Ivory because it produced a rich, thick lather because it was "99 and 44/100% pure" according to the advertising campaign). Waste water from cooking or washing was collected - once again in a metal bucket - and carried outside where it was unceremoniously emptied out on the lawn.

Ah, but what you ask, did we do for our toilet needs if there was no running water in the house? We braved the elements (wind, rain, snow and dark-of-night) to walk the sixty-feet-or-so distance from the back door of the house to the outhouse - that stand-alone, wood framed, building which sat atop a pit which had been excavated for the purpose of gathering and storing human waste. The outhouse had an entrance door at the front which could be opened. As the user did so, he or she could step into a small four-walled chamber which had a raised platform into which two rather large holes had been cut. The user could then (standing if a male or seated if a female) urinate into one of the available holes. Or, if the other bodily function was necessary, the user would sit down to make use of the "facility." On an adjacent wall could be found the occasional roll of toilet tissue - more often or not, the old, periodically-received Sears & Roebuck catalog was sitting on the platform. It served three major purposes: as reading material while completing the body function, as a wish book for things the reader would like to have but knew that he/she would never, ever have, and as a source of paper to finish up the process. The waste paper - and other human by-products - left for deposit in the pit accumulated for a year or two, adding a particularly questionable aromatic environment to the outhouse. When it became necessary to do so, the outhouse was lifted up from its temporary foundation, and moved to another location, a new pit having been dug specifically for that purpose. The older pit was filled in with the soil, rocks and other debris which had been removed from the second pit.

Traveling to the outhouse in the dark-of-night was a particularly alarming situation. There was no outside light to illuminate the path to the outhouse, and there was no light inside the facility to dispel the darkness. Who knew what demons or other nighttime terrors roamed the shadows on either side of the pathway? Who knew what evil would be lurking just inside the outhouse door, waiting to snatch some poor, unsuspecting child to the dark side? And in the foul rainstorms of the springtime, or the cold, blustery snowstorms of the winter, it was a wet, cold, miserable trip to the outhouse. It was best to quickly finish "the business" and to scurry back into the relative safety, shelter, and warmth of the house.

By 1957, the size and makeup of our household had changed. Mom had remarried. Putt (our stepfather), and two additional kids - Cheryl and Jimmy - had been added to the fold. Charma had graduated from high school and left to marry Lee Arnold Forrest in 1951. David graduated from high school, and enlisted in the U.S. Air Force in 1954. The old wood-or-coal burning stoves which were used in the living room and dining room to heat the house had been replaced with fuel oil stoves. The back porch area had been enclosed with a sturdy addition to the house. Indoor plumbing was installed in the kitchen, with hot-and-cold running water replacing the old vacuum pump which had graced the back porch. The old rain water cistern was discontinued, filled in, and covered over with concrete. But, the configuration of the rooms in the house remained the same. We still had to make the trip outside the house and walk the pathway to make use of the "facilities."

On a hot, muggy 4th of July in that year, Putt and his father, Tom Forsythe, borrowed a truck and made a short drive into the farm country which surrounded North Lewisburg. Putt had spotted an old, no-longer-used wood frame outhouse on one of his many excursions into the countryside. He had negotiated a deal with the farmer to purchase the outhouse. So, early in the morning he and Tom drove out to the site to load the purchase onto the truck. An hour or so later they returned to our home, and backed the truck into the yard. They labored for a few hours excavating a new pit for the benefit of the new outhouse. As the afternoon wore on they finished the task, off-loaded the frame structure, and positioned it in place over the new pit. Just a short time later, a fresh roll of toilet tissue was hung from the new holder, and the new "facility" was "ready for business." The old pit was filled in, covered over with freshly-cut sod, the old outhouse loaded upon the truck for transport to the area landfill, and all was right with the world.

Only later, when the opportunity presented itself and the need was great did I open the door, step inside, and avail myself of the new surroundings. A couple of things I noticed right away - the new outhouse was wider, taller, and generally "roomier" than the previous one. And, it now sported three holes in that raised platform instead of the old, familiar two. We had moved up in the world!

Historical Note: my cousin, Betty Ruth Evans Dixon, and her husband Floyd bought this home in 1957, and our family moved "into the country" for one year before buying another home on East Street adjacent to the old high school. Betty and Floyd remodelled one of the bedrooms in their home to accommodate a bathroom, thereby dispensing with the "three-holer." Our house, on East Street, was the first place (at age 13) I ever lived with an indoor bathroom - believe it or not, kids.

Memories

2010-12-16T13:17:00.001-07:00

I enjoy remembering the people, places and events which link me forever to my hometown. When the cold wind blows out of the canyon, and the snow falls abundantly around the perimeter of the house I live in "on the bench" of the Wasatch Mountain range, I often find myself sitting in front the fireplace, a roaring fire warming my surroundings. At that time, I can usually be found with a notebook and pen in my hand, writing down those precious memories which may one day appear as blogs on this site. Sometimes, I wax poetic, and take a few minutes to pen an appropriate poem - there's a burning desire within me to someday publish a volume of my thoughts and poetry.

In this brief blog, I want to share a short poem with those who enjoy my writings. I think all who read it will find themselves in agreement with the message I have attempted to relay.

Memories

Looking back, I wish I had access to a camera

To record those many precious moments

Which are, fortunately, locked away somewhere

In the recesses of my mind.

While I can recall them in my mind's eye

At any time I want,

I would love to be able to share them with others

So they can understand why I laugh or cry.

Some folks have asked me about the swimming fish which appear at the left side of this column.

This is a very interesting - and fun - animated graphic created by Adam Bowman
which I've posted here for fun.

When the reader places his/her cursor in the box with the fish and clicks,

a bit of "fish food" is deposited on the surface of the "pool."

The hungry fish then swim to the treat!

Click in several different parts of the "pool," and watch the activity!
Click on Adam's logo in the upper left corner of the "pool," to access
more information about this clever illustrator.

Characters In My Play: Goldie Millice

2010-12-16T12:56:00.000-07:00

She was a short, dainty lady with a visible physical handicap, a raspy voice, sparkling personality, and no-nonsense approach to what she considered important - getting the news out to the people. Golden "Goldie" Millice was a friendly, sweet lady who was the voice of North Lewisburg for about 40 years while serving as a correspondent for the Urbana Daily Citizen. Her column of tidbits and facts about the day-to-day activities of the town's residents appeared weekly in the newspaper.

Goldie worked primarily out of a small retail store on the ground floor of the old Town Hall, which stood at the southeast corner of Maple and Sycamore Streets. It was interesting to enter the building, and to hear Goldie as she conducted business with patrons, or as she haggled on the telephone with some member of the Urbana Daily Citizen staff. She could "tell it like it is" and get her point across in no-nonsense terms.

She was born in North Lewisburg on November 3, 1889, a daughter of Thomas and Adra Hudson Heston. She married George Millice, who died in 1947. They were the parents of two sons, William and Charles. Goldie was active in the community all of her life, and probably knew everyone in town. She stayed in constant contact with people in order to have the latest news to be inserted in the pages of the Urbana Daily Citizen.

She died on Saturday, January 23, 1960, after two years of failing health, and serious illness during her last two months.

On January 27, 1960, the editorial staff of the Urbana Daily Citizen posted a beautiful editorial to Goldie's memory in the newspaper. The full text of that editorial follows:

Only One Goldie

"In all likelihood, ther will never be another "Goldie" as far as those of us at The Citizen are concerned. Her death leaves a place vacant in our heats which no one will ever fill.

"We venture to say that this same situation exists in North Lewisburg. Goldie Millice was something special in that community as she was to all her friends everywhere - and she had a lot. She will be sadly missed as one of the most colorful personalities in a community which has more interesting personalities than many towns of its size.

"In spite of a physical handicap which may have done much to shorten her life, Goldie's energies and enthusiasms were a strong influence for good in her town. Her little shop was a meeting place for small talk and one of the first places to get the news of more importance. While it was the best help The Citizen had in getting news of North Lewisburg, it probably was also our biggest competition.

"The fact is that it was important to most good causes to enlist Goldie's aid early in the game. And she was usually free to give it and could raise a fuss with the newspaper if she felt we weren't doing our share to help out, too.

"As a matter of fact, for about 40 years Goldie was The Citizen in North Lewisburg - and she frequently made this point to members of the newspaper staff who were in touch with her. In recent years she was proud of the fact that she had the longest tenure of anyone on The Citizen and lften let more recent members of the staff know that she considered them johnny-come-latelys.

"But this was probably what made us enjoy her so much. Goldie was forthrightly honest and always let us know what she thought. She seemed to enjoy it most when her viewpoint didn't exactly coincide with ours. And her "now, sweetie," could preface some pretty devastating arguments - and some pretty winning remarks of appreciation or affection.

"There is a special bond between a county newspaper and its small town correspondents which made us feel as sad about Goldie's retirement a few weeks ago as she felt herself. She told us she'd miss us and we knew she meant it as we did when we said we'd miss her, even though we both appreciated that the job should be turned over to more vigorous hands at last.

"We won't forget that crispy, crackly voice coming through the phone. We won't soon forget the sparkle of those eyes which had seen so much. We won't forget Goldie."

Golden C. "Goldie" Millice rests from her labors, beside her husband George, in the old section of Maple Grove Cemetery, off Gilbert Road, about a mile outside of North Lewisburg.

She was always, and remains, one of the characters in my play.

The Porch Light

2010-12-12T06:14:00.001-07:00

My Mom and Dad were truly in love. Both had experienced previous marriages which had not proven to be what they had expected. There had been precious few "good times," and both of those marriages had ended in divorce. In 1943, however, they found each other and by year's end had pledged their love to each other.

After the simple marriage ceremony in the little town of Unionville Center, in Union County, they had returned to an old farmhouse on the outskirts of North Lewisburg to take up their lives together. They enjoyed just a little over a month of wedded bliss before notification came that Dad could expect to be drafted into the military for service in World War II. He made an effort to enlist in the Navy, but during the physical examination learned to his sorrow that he was color blind. He enlisted in the Army, determined to be the "best marksman" that the Army had ever seen.

By March 1944, he was prepared to leave North Lewisburg for training at Camp Blanding, Florida. Mom walked with him to the old depot where he boarded a train for Urbana, where he was to link up with other young men who were leaving for service. Mom and Dad said their good-byes, tearfully to be sure, and waved to each other as the train pulled away from the platform.

That night Mom began a nightly ritual which she maintained all of the time that he was gone. Before retiring for the night, she walked to the front doorway of the old frame house, opened the door and the screen door beyond it, and stared out into the night, hoping to see Dad walking toward the house. Disappointed, yet still hopeful, she turned on the porch light, and let it shine through the night.

Dad was permitted to come home unexpectedly in late May 1944 when his mother, Eva Marie, died suddenly at the age of 52. Dad was home to provide support to his father, William Smith Coleman, as well as his siblings, and to serve as a pall bearer at his mother's funeral. He remained at home for a few days (fortunately for me as I was conceived during his brief reunion with my mother) before he had to depart again for training. Mom once again walked him to the train depot, hugged and kissed him, and sadly said goodbye to him. Dad leaned out of the passenger car window as he waved back to her, and continued to do so until the train was out of sight. Mom returned home (she had moved back into town to a small apartment on Maple Street), and once again renewed her nightly ritual. Before bed she opened the front door, looked out into the darkness, closed the door again and turned on the porch light.

Dad wrote to her regularly over the next ten months or so as he completed training at Camp Blanding, Florida, and departed for service in the Pacific area. He traveled by train from Florida to California, and passed through Wyoming in the meandering process. He fell in love with the West, and mentioned it often in his letters to Mom. In the back of his mind, a dream formed that he would one day have the opportunity to move to Wyoming.

He crossed the ocean via troop ship, stopping for a period of time in Hawaii. He was an experienced swimmer, and loved the short period of time he had to enjoy the beaches there. He wrote that he loved the sweet smell of the air, heavily scented with the fragrances of flowers. He marvelled at the twin rainbows which generally appeared in the Hawaiian skies after the gentle rains, and at the lush, green foliage which covered the mountain peaks.

He was assigned to Company H, 185th Regimental Combat Team, 40th Infantry Division, as an infantry scout. Equipped with an M-1 carbine, he trained extensively upon his arrival at New Britain, near New Guinea. In January 1945, he boarded his troop ship as part of the invasion force which landed at Lingayen Gulf as part of General Douglas MacArthur's pledge of "I shall return" to the Philippine Islands.

After the landing, he participated in the drive from the northern point of the island toward Manila. In the area of Bamban, he was awarded the Bronze Star Medal with "V" device for bravery under fire. In the weeks which followed, he also earned three Purple Heart Medals for wounds received in action. I was born on February 23, 1945, the very day that a contingent of Marines raised the flag above Mount Suribachi, on Iwo Jima. Mom wrote to Dad immediately with the news, but her letter had not yet reached him when another friend from North Lewisburg, Jake Evans, linked up with Dad in the Philippines to tell him he had a son. A couple of photos taken that day show both men, smiling for the camera.

Tasked later with the duty of participating in the invasion of Panay Island, Dad fought there until he was wounded for the fourth time in early March 1945. Unconscious, he was evacuated by hospital ship to Tripler General Hospital, Honolulu.

The War Department advised Mom of his most recent head wound. He was in a coma, and the prognosis looked bleak. She maintained hope, and each night walked to the front door, checked the darkness, and turned on the porch light.

Dad died on May 7, 1945, at the age of 32. He was originally buried at the Old Post Cemetery, Schofield Barracks, Hawaii, with full military honors. He was postumously awarded his second Bronze Star Medal and his fourth Purple Heart. Burnice Hill, telegraph operator at the old train depot in North Lewisburg, was given the unpleasant task of delivering to my mother the official telegraph from the War Department announcing Dad's death.

Mom's sadness knew no bounds as she struggled as a sole parent to maintain a family life for four children...three from her first marriage and me. Although she knew it could never come true, she went to the door each night and turned on that old porch light, hoping against hope that Dad would someday appear at the door. She petitioned the War Department (now known as the Department of Defense) for a number of years, hoping to have my Dad's body disinterred and brought home for burial in Ohio. She finally gave up the fight in 1948 when she was informed that a new, National Cemetery of the Pacific was to be dedicated in Honolulu, in an old, extinct volcano crater. Dad was to be reinterred there with full military honors. He rests there today under the beautiful Hawaiian sky, in Plot O-480, with more than 20,000 other comrades.

I never knew my father. It was thirty-five years from the time of Dad's death until my mother died of cancer in 1980. Although she had remarried in 1950, by force of habit she still maintained her nightly vigil for the balance of her life. She opened the door, looked out into the night, and turned on the porch light before closing the door once again.

In the years since my father's death, I have gone from baby, to toddler, to boy, to teen, to man. As I grew older and more understanding of my past, I maintained some old, ingrained customs and traditions. Even now, at the age of 65, each evening before I go to bed I cross to the front door, open it to peer out into the darkness, and turn on the porch light - hopeful, ever hopeful, that one day that door will open and my Dad will stand there.

The Hiway 559 Coffee Shop

2010-12-12T04:17:00.001-07:00

The gathering spot for most of North Lewisburg's teens in the 1960s and 1970s was The Hiway 559 Coffee Shop, located on Sycamore Street in the business district of the town. The site was previously occupied by a restaurant which went by several different names over the years.

In the 1940s, Jake and Vada Lease were the owners-operators. The place was well-known for its homemade pies, and home-cooked meals, carefully prepared by Vada. The restaurant of this era holds a special place in my heart - it was here in 1943 that my father first met my mother (who was a waitress there) over a piece of Vada's famous chocolate cream pie. One thing led to another, and on December 15th of that year my folks were married in a small private ceremony in Unionville Center, Union County, Ohio.

As a young boy in the late 1940s and early 1950s, Mom took me to the restaurant on a regular basis, although she had not worked there for a number of years. (My father died as a result of wounds received in action in the Philippine Islands during World War II when I was just a little over two months old). Mom had maintained a friendship with Jake and Vada, and they always seemed happy to see us when we stopped by. Often, Mom purchased one of Vada's pies to take home with us.

The Duffy family operated the restaurant later in the 1950s. I was a schoolmate of Delores Duffy for a few years, so I stopped occasionally at the restaurant for a quick cherry or vanilla Coke, served from the soda shop area of the establishment, while walking from school to my home at the north end of Sycamore Street.

Claudine Dunham, daughter of Claude and Dorothy Dunham of Woodstock, took over ownership of the restaurant in the late 1950s, remodeling the place a bit, and changing the name to The Hiway 559 Coffee Shop. The place was named for the state highway, State Route 559, which bisected the town via Sycamore Street.

Claudine had married a fellow named Vallery, but they had later divorced. She and her two sons, Mike and Tom Vallery, lived in an apartment directly above the restaurant. Mike was several years older than me; Tom was about three years older than me and became a friend over a period of time. In later years, he helped teach me to drive in his old 1949 Chevy convertible.

Claudine was later married to a guy named Kenneth Burlisle, so she went by that last name for a number of years. I believe that marriage ended in divorce, but the details of the time escape my present-day memory.

The restaurant was a busy place, providing breakfast, lunch and dinner meals, as well as catering to the teen traffic of hamburgers, cheeseburgers, fries and fountain Cokes. A regular crowd of men, primarily made up of area farmers and nearby factory workers, gathered in the restaurant for breakfast or at least a hot cup of coffee. At lunch time, the men who were employed at the Louden Brothers Tool & Die Company, a local business which was just a block or so away from the restaurant, stopped by. At this time, I was a student at North Lewisburg Elementary School, a few blocks away on Maple Street. Kids who went to school there had a few options when it came to lunch: they could bring a sack (or metal lunchbox) meal from home, walk across the street to take their meal in the basement cafeteria of the high school, skip the meal entirely, or walk the short distance "downtown" to The Hiway 559 Coffee Shop. I chose to do the later because I cared very little for the idea of a sack lunch, or for the bland, tasteless meals which were served in the cafeteria. Besides, I was more than a bit intimidated by the older high school students who ate (and bullied) in the cafeteria. So, I opted to make the walk to the restaurant, eat a quick lunch, and return to class at the school.

Mom had a good, friendly relationship with Claudine, whom she had known for many years. In the 1950s, my Mom and stepfather, Putt Forsythe, operated the local movie theater which was located on south Sycamore Street, beside Lionel Grauman's auto repair shop. Their supplier for the popcorn kernals used to prepare the theater's popcorn was purchased from Claudine's father, Claude Dunham. We made a weekly trip in our car to Claude's home in Woodstock to pick up that week's popcorn supply.

Mom was able to establish a "charge account" for me at The Hiway 559 Coffee Shop. When I went there for lunch, Claudine would take my order and write it out on a small pad. She kept the daily sheets until the end of the week when Mom would stop by to pay my lunch "tab." It was a great arrangement, and I felt very privileged. I was such a regular customer of the restaurant that once Claudine saw me enter the front door, she immediately began preparing what she knew would be my order - a cheeseburger with mustard and pickle, french fries, and a large cherry Coke from the fountain. I merely walked to one of the booths, took my seat, and waited just a few minutes for my order to be served. Often, I followed it up with a slice of one of Claudine's coconut cream pies. My mouth salivates to this day with the memory of those pies!

Once in awhile, when Mom went to pay my bill at the end of the week, she would find that there were no charges for one or two lunches. She asked Claudine about this, and learned that other regulars of the lunch time crowd - namely the guys from Louden Brothers Tool & Die Company - picked up the tab for my lunch those days. I didn't know this for a long, long time until I was a few years older. I learned then that Orley Mesler, one of the tool and die machinists, often paid for my lunch. It was a nice gesture, not appreciated until a lot of time had passed by. Orley was a great guy, a truly skilled worker, and exceptionally good at his hobby - woodworking. Some homes in the North Lewisburg - Urbana area are graced with furniture pieces, wooden bowls, or other items which were handcrafted by Orley Mesler. Still later, Orley, a widower, married my cousin, Betty Ruth Evans Dixon, a widow.

There was a juke box in the restaurant, and it was usually alive with the sounds of rock and roll during the afternoons when teens began to gather there. Claudine was kept busy preparing the many orders of burgers and fries, Cokes and other fountain drinks which seemed to go well with the music. There was a constant level of chatter as teens talked about school, friends, girl or boy friends, upcoming events, the most recent football or basketball game, or other conversations about current events. At the end of the seating area, near the kitchen, Claudine had installed a pinball machine. There was usually a waiting line of guys who were anxious to drop their nickels into the machine and take their turns at the flippers. It was a busy place, and one of the few places where teens could gather to while away the weeknights and weekends when there were no activities at the school.

Romances budded and bloomed at The Hiway 559 Coffee Shop as dates were made for upcoming sports events, or school dances, or those occasional trips from town to Urbana to catch a movie at the Gloria Theater or Salem Auto Drive-in Theater. Pizza was introduced to the kids' tastebuds about this time. Most people had been content to enjoy them at home, created from "scratch" using one of the popular Chef Boy-Ar-Dee pizza kits. Pizza parties were popular on Friday or Saturday nights at local homes, a few guys and girls gathering to savor the delightful tastes. Claudine introduced pizzas to her restaurant, and they soon became quite popular. Hot slices of pepperoni or cheese pizzas could be found in booth after booth during those nighttime hours.

Claudine operated The Hiway 559 Coffee Shop for 35 successful years. Many hundreds of customers passed through the door and consumed untold quanties of 'burgers, fries, Cokes, coffee, home baked pies, chili, and the other wonders which came from her kitchen. A couple of generations of patrons helped to make the restaurant the place to be at all hours of the day or night. - Claudine died in 1997.

In recent years, others have attempted to operate a restaurant from that same location. Operators have come and gone as tastes have changed, and as motor vehicles have compressed the distances from North Lewisburg to Marysville or Urbana. Sadly, the restaurant caught fire in 2009, and most of the interior was destroyed. As of this writing (December 2010) it has not reopened. I'm sure there are many folks in town who miss the accessibility of the place, and the good times they enjoyed there. Hopefully, some new entrepreneur will see the need for creating a new dining facility in town.

Other Driving Adventures

2010-12-10T22:41:00.001-07:00

After my experience with Bucky Sheehe's old red Jeep, it was a long time before I got to drive a "real" car. I was about 15 years old, and in the company of my good buddy Mike Chamberlain, when another friend - Tom Vallery - came driving by us in his old, beat up 1949 Chevrolet convertible. It was a real "rag top," with most of the convertible top flapping in the breeze, the rear window busted out, and the rest of the car looking like it was ready for the junk yard. But at least it had four wheels, and could move from point A to point B.

Tom asked Mike and me to hop in, and then drove us down to the local ballpark. He drove past the infield barracades - some poles which were laid out on the ground - and drove onto the outfield. We then drove around the area, circling the upright light poles which were spread out in a semicircle at the far end of the outfield. Round and round we went, covering every area of the grassy playing field, in and out, back and forth between the poles.

Tom stopped the car and asked Mike if he wanted to drive. The response was positive, so Tom and Mike exchanged places. Soon, Mike had us running around the field again, maneuvering between the poles and flattening the grass. When we came to a stop, Tom told me it was my turn. I jumped from the backseat into the driver's seat, and took control, exchanging seats with Mike in the process. Once again we were off and running, working our way across the outfield, back and forth between those ever-present light poles, dodging here and there and otherwise acting crazy. It was an absolute thrill, and our laughter filled the air!

But, all good things must come to an end. Tom had to soon go home, so I stopped the car and exchanged seats with him. He drove us away from the ballpark, down familiar streets, and stopped at the Cities Service gas station, where Mike and I got out of the car. Tom drove away in a "cloud of dust, and a hearty Hi, Ho Silver! Away!"

Fast-forward a month or so:

My stepfather, Putt Forsythe, had been looking for a good, used car for me. He found one he thought I would like, and drove Mom and me to Urbana to see it. It was at a used car dealership, with a $400 price printed on the windshield in white shoe polish. I fell in love with the car the first time I saw it. It was a 1954 Plymouth two-door coupe, metallic brown in color, with wide white sidewall tires. The car's front end had been lowered so the car had a strange look to it as it moved down the highway. Even sitting still, it looked like it was moving. It had a functioning radio and a heater, both considered "options" back in the day.

I was working at Arthur's IGA market in North Lewisburg, making all of 85 cents per hour as a grocery clerk and stockboy. I had no other expenses, so I knew that I could pay for the car. Putt and Mom signed a note to finance the car at the old City Loan in Urbana. In return, I was to pay $39 a month in installments until the car was paid for. The deal signed, Putt drove the car home - me riding shotgun - because I did not yet have my driver's license. Mom drove the family car home, our 1956 Dodge Royal Lancer. Within an hour both cars were sitting in front of our two-story home.

Mike Chamberlain, who already had his license, became my chauffer in that car until I got my driver's license about a month later. We travelled all of the roads around North Lewisburg, Woodstock and Cable. Eventually, I earned my license, and decided to drive the old Plymouth to school.

In the early morning hours, most of the young boys I knew would gather at the Cities Service gas station, owned and operated by Cat and Daisy Parker, on Maple Street. There, the guys would bum rides to school. Those who drove their cars would pull into the station parking lot, and those who wanted rides would come streaming out of the building and pile into the cars. Off the caravan would go to Triad High School, approximately 3 miles outside of North Lewisburg.

This particular morning, I got up earlier than usual, went through the morning ritual of preparing for school, left the house, and then strolled over to my car. I admired it once again before I opened the door on the driver's side and got in. The car roared to life as I inserted the key and turned the ignition. I made a little u-turn in the street, and drove back toward Maple Street. I made the turn, and drove the short distance to Cities Service.

I was full of myself at the time, so proud to be driving my "new" car. I turned off the street and began to pull into the service station, planning to fill the fuel tank before heading out to school. I could see several of the guys looking out the building's windows and doorway as I maneuvered the car to pull up adjacent to the "regular" fuel pump. "Pride cometh before the fall!" I just knew some of the fellows who did not have cars were envious of me and my newfound independence and mobility.

Crash! The right side of the front bumper of my car struck the gas pump with enough force to move it slightly backward and "off center." The glass plate which covered the meter fell loose from its mounting, and dropped to the ground, shattering into a million pieces. In that instant I had visions in my mind of the gas pump line rupturing and catching fire, and the whole station exploding into an inferno. Fortunately, that didn't happen. Instead, a chorus of catcalls and jeers erupted from the throats of the many, many guys who were by now all standing both inside and outside of the building. Cat and Daisy Parker quickly moved through the throng to see what damage had been done to the pump, and to determine if there was any danger. Cat shook his head, and Daisy began to laugh once they determined that outside of the broken glass there was little damage. Still the chorus of laughter filled the air as guys pointed at me and the car, grabbed their laughing bellies, and otherwise made me feel embarassed.

I got out of the car to assess the damages to my car, and to offer up an apology to Cat and Daisy Parker, offering to pay for the glass in the process. My face was red as I removed the gas cap from the car, and filled the tank with fuel. I remained the butt of the jokes all during the process.

I paid for my gas, Daisy extracting the huge leather wallet she always carried near her ample bossom, and gave me my change. A bit reluctantly, I asked if any of the guys would like a ride to the school with me. That opened up the opportunity for yet another round of laughter and wisecracks at my expense. Someone shouted he had no intentions of riding with "Crash" Coleman. Sadly to say, that became my nickname for a short period of time. And, guys would laugh with glee and waited expectantly each time I drove into the gas station for fuel in the future, wondering if I would repeat the "and then he hit the gas pump" fiasco.

Three or four of the more daring guys rode with me to school that first morning. Word of my misadventure quickly spread throughout the school, adding once more to my embarassment. By days end, I was anxious to get home. Fifty years have passed since that school morning. I am told that time dims our memories, but I'll bet there are some guys still around who remember the morning that "Crash" Coleman almost blew up the Cities Service gas station.

Fast forward a year or so:

I drove that old '54 Plymouth for another year. One day I drove to Basil Spain's Pure Oil station, at the east end of Maple Street, to fuel up. While there Basil, the owner, opened the hood and checked the oil, washed the windshield, and filled the tank (attendants used to do all of that stuff "back in the day!"). Basil closed the hood, I paid for the gas - about 17 cents a gallon, if I recall - and drove back west on Maple Street, and out State Route 275 (it has since been renumber State Route 245) toward Urbana. When I got to the city limits on the west side of town, I "opened" up the throttle on the car and watched the speedometer needle move up to 50 miles per hour. Suddenly, there was a terrible noise, and the windshield in front of me went black. It was all I could do to slow down the car and keep it on my side of the road; I could not see anything in front of me! I was finally able to stop the car without losing control, just short of the Milo Gilbert home. I got out to examine the car.

The hood had popped up and wrapped itself back over the windshield! It was bent almost beyond recognition, folded neatly over the top of the car. I found a piece of rope in the trunk of the car, pulled the mangled hood back down toward the front grill, and tied it in place. I turned around, and limped my way back to my house.

Mom and Putt were really upset when they saw the car! I told them it was not my fault, that Basil Spain had probably failed to close the hood latch properly after checking the oil. Putt drove me down to Basil's place, and told him what had happened. Basil was sorry to hear about the trouble with the hood, but did not accept responsibility for what had happened. Disappointed, Putt and I returned home.

The Plymouth sat in front of the house for a couple of weeks while I looked for a hood to replace the mangled one. Eventually, I found a man right there in town who had a junked Plymouth which was similar to mine - except that his car was blue. I offered him $50 for the hood, and he accepted the offer. He even disconnected the hood from the car so I could return in a truck to carry it away later that day.

Soon, the old Plymouth was on the road again, although it looked pretty peculiar with its metallic brown paint and an unmatching baby-blue hood! Still, the car provided me with dependable transportation to and from school, work, and the occasional trips to Urbana.

On Monday evenings, a gang of guys would pack into the car, and we would drive the 16-mile distance to the old Salem Auto Drive-in Theater for Guy Spangler's "Dollar A Carload" night. On one trip, there were eleven of us crammed into the car! We made it to the movies, and were on our way home when my fan belt broke midway between the drive-in and home. I drove the car until it overheated, and then did the steering while my passengers got out of the car and pushed it up and down the hills. Then, everyone would hop back into the car, and we'd drive down the roadway until the car overheated yet again. We repeated this process for the better part of eight miles, and arrived back home much, much later in the wee hours of the morning than we had intended.

Once the car was fixed, I continued to drive it for several more months, trying to decide if I wanted to get that old blue hood repainted. My old scoutmaster, John J. Tomlin, approached me and asked me if I would be interested in selling the car. He made me an offer, and I accepted it. For long, long time after that, John could be seen driving around town in that brown-and-blue 1954 Plymouth.

That old car was my first, but it was far from being my last. I've owned many, many others over the 50 years which have passed since then. And there were adventures with several of them - which leaves me with stories yet to be told.

How I Learned to Drive

2010-12-10T05:01:00.000-07:00

Putt needed some help in the late fall and winter when he went to farms in the area to "glean" the corn which had been missed when the fields were harvested by machines. There were always a great many stalks and ears of corn which had been missed, and pressed down into the soil in the process.

One of the farmers, Bucky Sheehe, had an old Willys Jeep - a red-painted and battered vehicle with an enclosed cab and a cargo bed at the back. The gear shift mechanism was on the floor with a long, slender lever rising up between the two seats.

I was about 8 years old when Putt took me to the fields one day in the borrowed Jeep. He taught me the fundamentals of starting the Jeep, putting it into gear, and steering it down the fallen rows of corn. He taught me how to use the clutch and the brake. He gave me instructions on what I was to do with the vehicle as he, and his father Tom Forsythe, walked down the rows on either side of the Jeep while tossing ears of corn into the back cargo area.

I spent hours that day pushing in the clutch, shifting gears, braking, and driving the Jeep slowly down the rows. It was cold and frosty, and the Jeep had no heater to keep me warm. It was strenuous and stressful as I tried to focus on driving the vehicle just as Putt had instructed me, while at the same time shivering from the cold.

At the end of the day, my first day of driving completed, we bagged up the corn into burlap bags. We took these to the local grain elevator to be weighed and redeemed for cash. We made quite a haul that day, as I remember it, and Putt rewarded my driving expertise with two one-dollar bills.

We repeated that same process at several other corn fields over the course of the winter months, before the deep snows arrived. Each time I sat behind the wheel of that old Jeep, clutching and braking and gearing while Putt and Tom walked the rows gleaning the corn. Funny how some childhood memories remain with me.

My Life In A Grocery Cart: Chapter Two

2010-12-10T04:48:00.002-07:00

I began working at Arthur's IGA store in North Lewisburg when I was 16 years old. It was a great job for a high school boy. It provided me with a much-needed income (at 85-cents per hour) at a time when I was learning that life could be expensive. While I maintained my paper route, it was occupying a great deal of my "after school" life, and not generating as much money as I thought necessary in my new-found status as a consumer. I suddenly wanted "things," and needed to generate more income in order to achieve them.

I'd rush home after school each day, change from my school clothes, and hop on my Lambretta motor scooter - I had progressed upward from my old Schwinn bicycle a couple of years before this - to quickly complete my newspaper route. Then, I'd either drive the Lambretta to my real job at Arthur's, or park it at home to walk the few blocks from home - we lived beside the old high school building at this time - to the store on Sycamore Street in the town's "commercial district."

I'd get to the back storage area of the store, grab my fresh, clean full-length clerk's apron, and find out what my duties were to be for that night. Generally, on Tuesday evenings, I'd remove the previous week's sale posters from the store's front windows, and then wash the glass inside and out before posting the new banners for the week. Other duties followed, primarily consisting of restocking the shelves with merchandise with intermittent stops to bag and carry out some patron's groceries.

Retocking the shelves was a multi-tasking chore. It usually involved two stockboys, working in tandem. My good buddy Mike Chamberlain, or Bob Impson, or Larry Foster, or Robert Short - or whoever was part of the designated restocking time that night - would take up one of two duty positions. One worker would walk the store's aisles, as the second worker in the back storage area would call out the product to be checked on the shelves. The floor-walker would shout out the number of cans, bags, canisters, or boxes of the product which were needed to refill that spot on the shelves. The guy in the backroom would load that quantity of products into a grocery cart. When the cart was filled, it would be wheeled out through the store's swinging storage room doors and onto the floor for distribution to the appropriate shelves. This was a quick process, and was generally confined to one particular area of the store at a time or on a designated evening. For example, the guy in the backroom might be busy getting down all of the containers of cereal boxes from the top loft. He'd call out the product, and the floor worker would call back the number of boxes of Rice Krispies, Life, or Quaker Oats which were necessary to fill the shelves.

At another time, or on another evening, the area of choice might well be the canned goods. In this situation, the backroom was filled with half-cases of canned goods which were stacked from floor to ceiling in neat rows. Working from the top down, the backroom worker would pull down a half-case (the original cases had been modified by the use of a handheld box cutter blade to hold 12-24 cans of products). That guy would then shout out the name of the product (Campbell's Tomato Soup), the floor worker would shout back the number of cans needed, and the backroom worker would put that number of cans into the grocery cart. The guy on the floor merely had to run around the aisle and quickly count. The poor guy in the backroom had to be a little more cautious in what he was doing - he had to carefully extract the half-cases from the stacks, moving across the rows. If he pulled all of the half-cases from one stack before moving on to the next, the subsequent stacks were prone to tip sideways and fall over.

Yet another night might be devoted to restocking the laundry detergents, household cleaners, and so forth. Or, canned and bagged dog food. Or any of the other thousands of products which filled the store's aisles.

On top of all of this restocking, there was the weekly resupply truck - a semi loaded with boxes and bags of products to keep the store fully stocked. Each week Tom and Evelyn Arthur hosted special sales, with greatly reduced prices on particular items. One week, the specials might be canned tomato soup (10 cents per can), or 5-pound bags of sugar (39 cents), or seven loaves of white bread ($1.00). Another week, the specials might include flour, or liquid bleach, or laundry detergent. The store printed and mailed a flyer to area patrons for the "specials" of the week. As a result, the store was one of the busiest in town - especially on Fridays and Saturdays when most area people did their shopping.

Tom and Evely Arthur were great bosses. Tom was generally gruff, detail-oriented, and totally committed to providing customer satisfaction. He was a real task master, but also had a great sense of humor and truly appreciated a good joke, or prank. Evelyn was a bit more serious; there was little frivolity while she was supervising the store. While she normally manned one of the two cash registers at the front of the store, she would occasionally walk the aisles and check to see that all of the clerks were earning their pay.

At Thanksgiving, the Arthurs were the most-generous of people to their employees (and to a lot of other people throughout the community). Each worker usually received a turkey, or a ham (or sometimes, both) as well as other foodstuffs for the table. Tom and Evelyn hosted a Christmas party at their home for the employees, and distributed nice gifts to each of us. They also invited everyone to their home on New Year's Day, so we could watch the Rose Bowl Parade and game on their color television - one of the few in town at that time.

I can close my eyes and picture Tom standing at the front of the store, black trousers and white, long-sleeve shirt, and full-length apron. He generally held an unlit cigarette in one hand, a wooden match in the other, always looking like he was ready to strike the match and light the cigarette (which he rarely ever did!). I once asked him about his long-sleeve shirt. He confided to me that he had once had some tattoos added to his arms, but he was now a bit embarassed for the public to see them. As a result, he kept them covered with those neatly-starched, pressed long sleeves. (A trivia tidbit: his full name was Thomas Jefferson Arthur, named by his parents for the former president. He had a younger brother, Theodore Roosevelt Arthur).

The Arthurs' son Tommy was the store's butcher, and managed the meat department. He was ably assisted by Christine Quinton, who was responsible for packaging the chicken, beef, pork, and other products in plastic-wrap. It was an efficient, clean, and busy area of the store. Folks in the town and outskirts consumed a great deal of meat which they purchased at Arthur's IGA.

Don Woodruff was a jack-of-all-trades who helped to manage the store each evening and on Saturdays. He worked during the day for the County Highway Department (eventually becoming the superintendent of highways before his retirement), but I truly think he liked the grocery business even more. He had an outgoing way about him which appealed to customers - and fellow workers - alike. He had a one-in-a-million sense of humor, full of jokes and pranks, and truly enjoyed a good laugh. He was knowledgeable about every part of the store, and could easily fill in for any task when called upon. He was a joy to work with (and has remained a dear friend for over half a century).

"Ham" (nickname for Mr. Hamilton) was in charge of the produce department. He ordered and maintained all of the fresh fruits and vegetables to be found in the store. He was a conscientious man, dignified in his appearance and demeanor, and proud of his responsibilities. The produce department was always clean, neatly organized, and well-maintained. Fruits and vegetables were proudly displayed, and were literally the best that money could buy for the time.

The worker-bees of the store were the stockboy/clerks. Tom and Evelyn employed several teenage boys during their many years of operating the store. In most cases, their jobs there were the first wage-earning responsibilities those young men ever had. The work provided income for clothes, school expenses, entertainment, car payments, insurance premiums, and all of their other needs. Most opened their first charge accounts at Artur's IGA. Tom and Evelyn kept small, retail sales books for each regular customer and all of their employees. When we needed a candy bar, or soda, or ice cream to take home and enjoy, Tom or Evelyn would record the purchase in our account books. At the end of the week - Saturday - when we each drew our wages, we'd "settle up" by paying off our accounts. Money in hand, we'd leave the store for the weekend's adventures.

There are many memories of my life in a grocery cart - the three years I worked at Arthur's IGA. There will be more tales to tell in stories yet to come in this blog.

When I Learned to Ride A Bike

2010-12-10T03:53:00.001-07:00

My folks bought me a bicycle even before I knew how to ride one. It was 1953, and I was about 8 years old. It was a beautiful bicycle - a theme bike. I was such a fan of the television series "Hopalong Cassidy," starring William Boyd, that they bought me a "Hopalong Cassidy" bike. It was a sleek black color, with white trim and accessories, and white sidewall tires. There were white streamers hanging from the handlebars. There were two leather holsters on the support bar, complete with operating cap pistols.

They rolled the bike to the end of Billy Curl's driveway, where a dirt road led into a corn field. There was quite a bit of distance between the graveled drive and where the dirt trail ended at the field, and it was covered mostly with grass.

Putt, my stepfather, held the bicycle while I mounted the seat and placed my feet on the peddles for the first time. He gave me a running push, followed by a quick shove and release. The bike carried on for just a few feet before I lost my balance completely and crassed, my butt landing on the bike's rear tire sprocket bolt. It hurt like hell! And, the whole episode surprised and disappointed me, as well as the family members who had watched it.

I dusted myself off, lifted up the bike, and pushed it back to the starting point, a bit humiliated. Three more times Putt and I tried the process, all three times ending in even worse crashes. By this time, hot tears were welling in my eyes. Family members were taunting me for my failures. Disgusted with my inability to master such a simple task as riding a bicycle, they turned and walked away, back toward the house. I was left alone, humiliated, bruised and battered. But, I resolved to ride that damn bicycle even if it killed me!

By the time I got back to the starting point, there was no one left to watch me. I steadied the bike, mounted, and gaining my balance pedalled for all I was worth. I made it off the gravel, onto the dirt road, and all the way to the corn field. It wasn't a picturesque ride as I wobbled and swayed side to side, and it took me a few seconds to learn how to use the bike's brakes without falling down, but I did it!

I was proud of myself! I walked the bike back to the starting point, put down the kickstand to hold it up, and went to fetch some witnesses for my next ride.

They came back outside reluctantly, sure they would see yet another castastrophe. Instead, I got on the bike, set the sprocket to turning, and rode the bike to the end of the trail and back again, passing the spectators on my return trip, and continuing on to the gravel driveway until I reached the hardpacked asphalt of Sycamore Street. I heard the cheering ringing in my ears, and the sound was oh, so very sweet!

That beautiful bike was my "set of wheels" for the next few years, until my long, skinny legs outgrew it. By that time, I was a paperboy distributing the daily "Columbus Dispatch." The bike passed on to my sister, Cheryl, a little bit worse for wear after being "ridden hard and put away wet" for a number of years. Most of the white accessories were gone, the holsters had long before lost their luster (and cap pistols), the white streamers no longer dangled from the handlebars. "Hoppy" was no longer to be seen on television, and I had moved on in the world - the proud owner of a brand, new, chrome-studded, shiny full-sized Schwinn, which I purchased with money saved from my paper route. And therein lies a story for another time.

The Firemen's Festival

2010-09-07T10:44:00.002-06:00

The annual Labor Day weekend in my hometown was very special. It served as the official end of summer. The day following the holiday, the hundreds of kids and young people who lived in our area would head off to school and another nine months of classroom drudgery.

But that weekend, starting on Friday evening, was one for celebration. It was an opportunity to get away from the house, to literally mingle with the crowds who attended the many events, and to share in the laughter and excitement.

In those days the two main streets of town – Sycamore and Maple – were closed off to vehicular traffic in the downtown area of the community. Although they were officially state highway routes, wooden barricades were emplaced, and the area roped off to pedestrian traffic only. (It wouldn’t be possible to get away with that now; the state highway folks would object strenuously).

All along the streets could be found various games of chance, booths with products for sale, great places to purchase snacks and treats. Kids and adults alike gathered around the ring-toss game, attempting to win one of the colorful wooden canes with the decorated heads by tossing a wooden ring over it. A huge wheel, with images of dice in various configurations generally stood on one of the street corners. The man running the game, as often as not was Wayne Henry, the local volunteer fire chief. He would entice folks to step up to the railing, and to place their bets on the various markings provided for that purpose. Coins and currency would be laid on the counter, Wayne would step to the wheel to give it a vigorous turn, and anticipation would be heavy in the air as the huge wheel went ‘round and ‘round. Eventually it would stop, and some lucky patron doubled or tripled his bet. Most however walked away, empty-handed to find some other avenue of entertainment.

There was a tent or sheltered area with tables and chairs, and a host of volunteers who scurried back and forth taking food orders from patrons. There were thick slices of luscious fresh-baked fruit pies, still warm with juices oozing out of the crusts. Apple, cherry, peach, berry, lemon, and even rhubarb pies were available for purchase. There were also inviting slices of cakes – chocolate, white, yellow, marbled, each with thick layers of icing and cream fillings. To top it all off, there were canisters of home-made ice cream – vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry – just waiting to be dipped and served. Nothing tasted better than a slab of white cake with rich, creamy icing, covered with hand-packed, homemade vanilla ice cream! Needless to say, the area was one of the favorite parts of the weekend’s festivities.

The Loveland cousins, Ronnie and Kelly, would bring their home-built go-carts to the festival. They would set up their concession on one of the pedestrian paths, and charge kids and adults alike for the privilege of driving their speedy, plywood constructed, gas powered cars up and down the street.

One of the old fire engines would be pulled out of the garage where it was stored, and put into service as a static exhibit for kids to climb upon and over while exploring all of its many features. Once several kids and assembled, the old truck would be fired up and driven up and down the street, the bell clanging or the siren wailing its warning to “get out of the way!”

The Firemen fast-pitch softball team would generally play a game or double-header at the local ball park. These young adult-to-middle-age men were known throughout the state for their skill and expertise on the ball diamond. Back in the day, fast-pitch softball was one of the many sporting events enjoyed by the public. North Lewisburg was happy to host the Firemen, state-level champions.

Friends, family, and neighbors would gather in small groups at various places around the Festival grounds. Conversations ran rampant about the events of the past summer, the highlights of vacation trips, sons and daughters going off to college, and plans for the coming holiday season. There was a lot of hand-shaking, back-slapping, laughter and loud talk. There was bragging, and questioning, lying, and just plain nonsense. But, it was a fun time to gather and to renew acquaintances after the summer’s work and activities.

The old festival, now known as the Fall Festival, is still an on-going annual event in North Lewisburg. Highways 559 and 245 are no longer shut off with traffic rerouted to side streets. The downtown area is no longer reserved for the many, many activities which once bustled there. Most events and activities today have been relocated to the community ball park. The old, familiar faces of the townsfolk which used to make up the crowds have been replaced with younger faces. So very many of the “old folks” are gone – the years have taken their toll. New people, who have no real idea of the fun and games which used to be so vital a part of this community, stroll by the park to “see what is happening” primarily just to get out of the house and away from the television for a few minutes.

If we had a magical time machine, it would be fun to hop aboard, and to set the dials for a trip back to 1958, 1959, or 1960. It would be fun to hear the machine go through its process and to eventually transport us back to that simpler time. It would be fun to walk the area around the intersection of Maple and Sycamore Streets, to see the familiar faces, to hear the familiar voices and sounds, to smell the pies, cakes, ice tea and firecrackers. It would be fun to hear the barkers calling our attention to the games of chance or the special exhibits. It would be fun to experience all of these wonderful things, and to be a kid once again.

In Memory of Dave Woodruff

2010-09-05T23:40:00.001-06:00

I am always deeply saddened when I receive word of the death of an old friend from the North Lewisburg area. Although I have lived away from the community for the better part of 39 years, my roots are still there. I look forward to the occasional trips “home” to walk the familiar streets, and to visit with familiar faces. As time passes, and death takes its toll of those I knew, I am deeply moved.

John David Woodruff -“Dave” to his family and many friends and who died just recently - was one of those familiar faces in our hometown. In the 1960s I had worked with him as an employee of the Champaign County Highway Department. He had a great sense of humor, and a knack for pulling pranks. Sometimes I bore the brunt of his jokes and pranks, but I knew it was always in fun. His laughter could light up a room. And his wisecracking was legendary.

One night around Christmas 1962, the weather had turned very severe. The wind was blowing and the snow was falling. The county road crews were called out to clear the fast-falling snow from the highways. I was attending a holiday party at the home of Tom and Evelyn Arthur, owners of the town’s I.G.A. grocery store, along with some of the other store employees. One of them happened to be Don Woodruff, Dave’s brother, who was also a county employee. When Don received the call to report to the county highway garage in Urbana, I asked him if I could tag along. He said yes, and we were soon driving around town gathering up other snowplow drivers. The trip to Urbana was slow and hectic because of the accumulating snow.

Upon arrival at the garage, the men spread out to check their trucks, to fuel up, and to prepare to head out to their assigned roadways. I followed along with Clarence Foster, and was granted permission to ride “shotgun” in his truck. The next several hours were tedious and stressful as we traveled the roadways clearing them for vehicular travel. It was dark, it was cold, the snow was still falling heavily, and we seemed to be making little progress in defeating it. Other drivers were experiencing the same monotonous drudgery. It was a tiring process, seemingly without much reward.

Suddenly, Dave’s booming voice could be heard over the radio system which united the trucks with headquarters. “I don’t care what your name is,” he shouted, “get those damn reindeer off the road!”

I don’t recall exactly where we were on one of the county’s roads when I heard that radio message. I will never forget it, or the laughter it evoked in me. In my mind’s eye, I could easily picture Dave shouting at Santa to move his sleigh and reindeer so he could clear the roadway. It was a bright and shining moment during the storm, and brought laughter to a lot of men who were performing a lonely duty that night. It broke the tension and gave us all something to talk about later in the morning.

I saw a great deal of Dave over the next several years before I moved away. He was a familiar sight at the ballpark. His son Derek played on a little league baseball team which I coached, and Dave was always there to show fatherly support. Sadly, Derek passed away earlier this year.

To Dave’s wife Karen, his large extended family, and to his many friends, I offer up my most sincere sympathies. He will be sorely missed.

That Old Time Religion

2010-09-05T22:22:00.001-06:00

When the Reverend Raymond Gram and his wife Evelyn came to North Lewisburg in the 1950s to take over the spiritual and social leadership of the congregation which composed the Friends Church, there was little fanfare. They were just another young couple, tasked with the duties associated with their calling in the old church.

They moved into the parsonage on north Sycamore Street, their old blue Ford automobile parked adjacent to the street. They were welcomed into the community by the members of the Society of Friends, and went about their responsibilities with dedication. Raymond supplemented their meager income working as a bus driver for the local school district.

Sundays became somewhat special in that part of the town when the members of the congregation met for services. Word soon went throughout the community that a new, vibrant pastor was manning the pulpit. His melodious, booming voice could be heard as he led the people in song, or as he preached a sermon with fervor. His wife, Evelyn, added to the new spirit within the little church as she told stories from the scriptures, visually creating them with characters and scenery on a large flannel board.

Attendance at the church increased as young people, attracted by the youthful minister and his family, arrived for services. Curtains were strung on wires and pulled into positions to separate the large sanctuary into smaller, more intimate classrooms. A youth program was established, which included Friday night trips to the Y.M.C.A. – in far away Springfield – for swimming sessions. The summer’s treat was Vacation Bible School, with activities, crafts, and treats to welcome each of the young participants.

Few of us knew the history of the old church building, and of the people who contributed to that history. We simply enjoyed attending there – singing the songs, listening with rapt attention to the stories, and participating in the fellowship.

That fellowship stretched into the distant past, long before most of us were even born. The early pioneers who had traveled from Virginia, Pennsylvania - and even as far away as North Carolina - were members of the Society of Friends – Quakers. Their simple rites of worship were held in members’ homes until the first meeting house was erected in 1842.

That old, frame building stood on the same ground which was later occupied by a much larger, brick building, erected in 1879. The old records show that the cost of the building (about $4245) was borne by Joshua Winder, one of the early settlers of the area. He left the money as one of the provisions of his last will and testament.

Hiram Pierce contracted to build the new meeting house. By 1879, it was fulfilling its purpose. Worshippers would travel by foot, horseback, and buggy to attend the regular meetings.

Another pastor even made area history – In 1890, Reverend Hannah Parvis, female minister of the Friends Church, was granted authority to perform marriages by the Judge of the Probate Court for Champaign County. She was the first female pastor in Champaign County to be given such authority.

Services ended in the old building in 1997, after nearly 120 years of use.

From time to time, members of the old congregation died and were buried in the little cemetery which was created on church property. One of the earliest burials was that of Phebe Winder on March 14, 1842. Many others followed over the course of the next forty years or so. The last burial was probably that of Caroline Pim on May 18, 1885. Surnames of those interred in the cemetery, which can still be found among the current residents of North Lewisburg and the area, include Berry, Brown, Cowgill, and Gibson. Some of the town’s streets bear other familiar names such as Townsend and Winder.

Harmon Limes, Jr., (1791-1861), the town’s first marshal, a lawman, is buried in the little cemetery.

Over the years, Linda Limes Ellis, a descendant of Harmon Limes, and a volunteer, has led the effort for preservation of the cemetery. She and her husband have spent hours of effort in cleaning up the burial ground, resetting stones, and recording the inscriptions before they vanish with time and decay. Today, the cemetery grounds are regularly maintained by Bob Davis, Jr., a dedicated village employee.

Through the efforts of many folks in the community, the old church building has been recognized as an Ohio historical site in recent years. A memorial to that effect now stands on the church grounds. The preserved, and updated building is also serving the community as a branch of the Champaign County Public Library.

If you should visit the site some quiet afternoon, just before the sun sets beyond the western horizon, you might be fortunate enough to hear the sound of gospel music, the laughter of children, or the booming voice of one of the many pastors who once pointed the way. Or maybe – just maybe – you will only hear the sound of a gentle breeze as it works its way through the trees near the cemetery. Hush, and be still – you are standing on holy, historic ground.

Characters In My Play: John J. Tomlin

2010-05-18T20:52:00.003-06:00

In the 1960s in the North Lewisburg area the biggest, most-accessible activity for young boys was Little League baseball. Practically every boy in the surrounding area participated as a member of one of the many different teams.

Another outlet for youthful enthusiasm and energy was Boy Scout Troop 87. Boys aged 12 through 18 who had an interest in camping, hiking, and all of the adventures those activities presented to them signed up as scouts. Adult supervisors were John J. Tomlin, Gene Fisher, Merrill Hollingsworth, and...later...Dick Carey. These leaders gave the boys ample opportunity to plan the troop's many activities. Overnight camping trips, weekend retreats to some secluded campsite, cross-country hikes from one point in the county to another, one-day jaunts along some historic trail way, week-long summer encampments, swimming events at an area pool or lake...these were all part of the adventures which awaited those boys who were willing to memorize the Scout motto, the Scout slogan, the Scout oath, and the requirements and milestones which came with advancing in rank from Tenderfoot to Eagle Scout.

The troop was in operation and full-swing in outdoor adventures long before I was aware of it. Lots of other boys had taken advantage of the many opportunities afforded them as scouts. I knew all of them...some were older, some were younger than myself. I was actively involved in Little League (although one of the worst players to ever don a uniform), 4-H (as a qualified breeder of award-winning pigs), and had a daily newspaper route. I also had a long list of customers who made use of my experience and hard work while caring for their lawns during the summer months.

The scout troop had a special-interest group made up of boys who were interested in the history of the area's Shawnee Indians, to include dancing. The group was known as the "Shawnee Warriors." Each of the boys created his own costume, based upon historically accurate garments worn by the Shawnees of days gone by. The chief of the local group was a guy named Robert Stokes. He was a ranking member of the troop, and had mastered the intricate, fluid movements and dance steps associated with the Shawnees. His costume was exceptional, and added to the overall atmosphere as he pranced, dipped, and gyrated around the traditional campfire. I had the privilege of watching him perform before I ever became a scout.

Robert was a neighbor who lived just a short distance from me across East Street. One Sunday morning, (August 14, 1960) he was talking about the local scout troop, and about how much he was enjoying the many camping and hiking activities. He also talked about the Indian dances, and how he truly enjoyed the history of the Shawnee Nation. His enthusiasm boiled over, so I asked him what I had to do to join the scouts. He encouraged me to talk with the troop's Scoutmaster, John J. Tomlin. I knew John from having seen him around town on different occasions. I knew that he was Navy veteran of World War II, and I knew where he lived.

My parents were away from town that weekend, so I purchased my Sunday lunch at the local restaurant, the 559 Coffee Shop. I then walked the few blocks to John's house, knocked on the door, and told him I was interested in becoming a scout. He talked with me for a few minutes, gave me some materials (along with an application) to read and study, and then made an appointment with me to visit him once again the following Wednesday, August 17th.

During the next few days, I diligently studied the information John had given to me. By the time of our appointment on Wednesday, I had memorized all of the things which he had spoken about...the motto, the slogan, the oath, and other things. He asked me questions, and I rattled off the answers, eager to please him. After just a short time, he offered his hand and his congratulations. "You're now a Tenderfoot," he said. He also told me that the troop was going camping that very next weekend in a wooded area in Logan County, and invited me to go along.

Consequently, I found myself that next Friday evening trailing along a hillside overlooking a flat field as John and the ranking boys in the troop looked for an appropriate campsite. They chose wisely, and soon the tents were pitched and a campfire was roaring, billowing white smoke into the air. I savored the aroma of the woodsmoke, the cackle of the gases as the flames licked at the wood. Later, after food was cooked and enjoyed, I gathered with the others around the campfire and listened in awe as John recounted a tale of the Shawnees who had once roamed this very land. It was magical!

As years passed, I had the opportunity to see John in action as he led by example. He was always willing and eager to help the scouts plan their various forays into the woods and hills which surrounded our community. He was there to tell a tall tale or scary story as the scouts gathered around the traditional campfire. He was there to lend a hand as the scouts crossed back and forth across Spain Creek, or as they hosted the annual Horse Show ( a fund-raising event) at the town's park. John was there when the troop traveled to the area of Ash Cave in south-central Ohio to hold a sunrise service under one of the rock outcroppings. He was there on that same occasion to point out to the non-observant boys a copperhead snake which lay basking in the morning sun. John was there when the boys in the troop decided to hike with full backpacks cross-county from North Lewisburg to Kiser Lake...and he joined us in that test of physical stamina and endurance as the task was completed. John led us from Springfield to Urbana along the old Simon Kenton Trail, stopping us periodically to point out yet another historic site on our journey. John J. Tomlin was there when each boy was awarded patches or merit badges for successfully completing yet another prerequisite while "trailing the Eagle." He epitomized "The Scoutmaster" as depicted in Norman Rockwell's famous painting of that name.

John J. Tomlin was honored in August 2009 with a surprise reception in his honor when he returned from his home, now in Kansas, to his old hometown of North Lewisburg. A small crowd gathered in the town's municipal building to cheer him for his efforts over so many years of dedicated service to the youth of the community. Old guys, like myself, who had been members of Troop 87 in the 1960s were joined by the 21st century rendition of troop members and leaders.

It was a special day for my old Scoutmaster, my mentor, and my friend. It had been a long time in coming, and was richly deserved.

Thanks, John, for your dedication, your exemplary leadership, and your untiring efforts in behalf of youth. Thanks for the many outdoor adventures, and the life-enhancing skills which you taught. You've justly earned your inclusion as one of the "characters in my play."

In Memory of John J. Tomlin

March 15, 1924 - October 20, 2011

Small Town "Decoration Day"

2010-05-18T09:54:00.001-06:00

There was a time when we were more patriotic in this country. Patriotism was an accepted, "normal" emotion. In those days of the 1950s-1960s we knew real life examples of "patriots;" they had just returned home from World War II and Korea. They walked the streets of our small town, owned or worked in the local businesses, and had sons and daughters who went to school with us. They served as Cub Scout den mothers, or scout troop leaders, or Little League baseball coaches. They marched in parades on Memorial Day and Veterans Day, many still wearing the old uniforms they had once worn in service, surplus Springfield or M-1 rifles on their shoulders, flags centered as they stepped down Maple Street. We had teachers in the school who helped instill in us a sense of who we were as Americans, and what it meant to be patriotic. We started each day with a pledge to the flag and "...to the republic for which it stands." and opened each baseball or softball game at the local park with the loudspeakers blaring out "The Star-Spangled Banner." And we faithfully observed "Decoration Day."

Memorial Day...or "Decoration Day" as it was known to most of us...was the unofficial start of summer activities. The school year had generally ended, so the boys and girls of our community looked forward to three months of "freedom" from classroom routines and occasional boredom. The weather was comfortable enough to hold family picnics, to visit the Ohio Caverns, to simply get out of the house and enjoy the great outdoors.

"Decoration Day" was the time to put colorful red, white, and blue crepe bunting on bicycles and motor scooters. It was the time to get out and wear patriotic shirts, pants, and skirts to add to the overall patriotic theme of the day. It was the time for the old veterans to don their uniforms...or at least their old uniform garrison cap if the other clothes no longer fit...to right-shoulder arms the old weapon drawn from the American Legion armory and to react to the military commands which were so ingrained in their memories. It was time for the Triad High School Marching Band to off load their yellow school bus or their family cars and to take up their parade positions near Dr. Polsley's home and office. It was time for the Cub Scouts in their blue hats, shirts, and pants, and bright yellow neckerchiefs to fall in behind their Den Mothers, with two of them offered the privilege of carrying the Pack or National flag. They were joined by the Boy Scouts, in brown uniforms complete with merit badge sashes, with a similar color guard proudly displaying the Troop and National flag. There were bicycles of every size, brand, and description, festooned with red, white and blue. Some pulled bright red wagons, similarly displayed, with a younger brother or sister holding the seat of honor. Even the family pets...dogs and cats... were decorated in the familiar red, white and blue theme. Scattered among the participants were one, two, or more men or women who had saddled up their faithful horses to take part in the morning's activities. The local volunteer fire department rolled out the old fire trucks, lights flashing and sirens occasionally blaring, to add to the parade. And there was a special car in which older war veterans were driven...those who had seen many such parades in the past and who were now the last of their kind.

At 10 A.M. the order was given to move out, and the make-shift parade began to wind its way from the old Knights of Pythias lodge toward the west. The band belted out the traditional marching music, the veterans in the nearby formation attempting to keep pace with the beat. Left, right, left, right, left, right as their boots met the pavement. A right turn was made at the corner where Clyde Arbuckle's home once stood, as the parade snaked its way along the highway. There was another right turn on to Maple Street, passing by the home of Burleigh and Helen Woodruff, and then past the Freshwater Funeral Home. As the procession made its way to the intersection of Maple and Sycamore Streets, the sidewalks were lined with the town folk who had come out to pay their respects. As the National flag passed by, they came to attention, hands formed in salute, or holding hats and caps over their hearts. And then they broke into applause.

The parade passed by the drug store, the Bank of North Lewisburg, Arbuckle's store, the post office, Junior James tavern, Goldie Millice's store, Spike's Barber Shop, Griff's Grill, Don Smith's restaurant, Swisher's Market, B. E. Willis' insurance office, and then made another right turn at the Cities Service gas station before continuing south one more block to make the final right turn. Soon the procession was back where it had started. It quickly disintegrated then as veterans, old folks, bandsmen, kids and pets broke formation to scurry away in other directions. Many loaded into cars or other vehicles to make the short drive to Maple Grove Cemetery for traditional "Decoration Day" observances there. Others returned to family or friends to spend the rest of their holiday.

At the cemetery, crowds gathered near the old cinder-block church (now a maintenance building) to enjoy a few musical numbers by the Triad High School band. Some boy or girl, previously selected to do so, would then recite from memory Lincoln's "Gettysburg Address." There would be a prayer, and some appropriate Memorial Day remarks by someone chosen specifically for that honor. An honor guard would march to the grave site of the veteran who was to be singled out for military honors. The commands would be given, the rifle salute would be rendered, and a lone bugler would sound the hauntingly moving "Taps" in final tribute. The ceremonies ended, the crowd would disperse, many people wandering the grassy hills of the cemetery to visit the graves of family and friends. Everywhere, the grave sites were adorned with freshly-cut flowers, or flowering potted plans, or other symbols of love and loss.

Today, it's not always "politically correct" to show patriotism. Love of country, national pride, and respect for our war dead and veterans has become somewhat uncomfortable. Many small towns and large cities in this great land will not pay the respect and render the honors which these patriots so richly deserve on Memorial Day later this month.

Fortunately, there are places like North Lewisburg, and Woodstock, in which people will take the time to organize, take the time to carry on those old traditions, and take the time to honor their dead. The parades will march down the old, historic streets which are lined with caring townsfolk. There will be a scattering of applause, backs will straighten, hands will cross hearts, and eyes will glisten with tears as the veterans and their flags march by. And later they will gather on the outskirts of town, at that quiet, peaceful cemetery which sits along Spain Creek. And they will remember. Those are my kind of people, and I salute them.

Spike The Barber

2010-04-26T11:29:00.001-06:00

It was about 1955 when Wilford "Spike" Tanner appeared in North Lewisburg as a new barber. I was all of ten years old, and curious about him. I lived at the north end of town, directly across a gravel driveway from the town's other barber, William D. "Billy" Curl. Billy had been "my" barber for the first ten years of my life. He, and his wife Lydia, operated a barber shop - beauty parlor on Sycamore Street, adjacent to the old Hiway 559 Coffee Shop. I had sat in Billy's chair there so very many times, listening to the rhythmic ticking of the old pendulum clock on the wall and the whirring sound of the electric clippers. Even the scissors he used for the trimming had their own particular beat. Hair fell to the floor to the "clickity-clack" of those scissors in his expert hands.

Billy and Lydia had brought presents to our house every Christmas...generally they were gloves, socks, or scarfs which Lydia had carefully knitted over the year. They were good, kindly people, and great neighbors.

But, I wanted to see just what this new barber could do for me. So, one day after school while walking home, I stopped at Spike's shop. He had a retail place on the ground floor of the old Town Hall building (and was to remain there many, many years before moving to another building just a short distance east on Maple Street). Spike was a tall, thin, man, dressed in a white barber's smock, open at the collar, with just a wisp of a dark moustache. He was slow and methodical, and talked with a slow, deliberate pace in a slightly high-pitched voice. He was an avid bowler, and his shop was a gathering place for men of like mind and skill. Sports topics were the rule of the day, and during the baseball season, the old black-and-white TV in the corner was usually occupied with broadcasting a game...usually the Cincinnati Reds.

The crew cut was popular about this time. Hair was closely cropped on the sides and back of the head, but left a bit longer on top. This forest of hair was then treated to a pink goo, sometimes from a "goostick," other times from a plastic jar, Spike's fingers liberally covered with the pink stuff. The idea was to make the hair stand up straight. Then, Spike took the electric clippers and with the precision of a lawn care expert, clipped off the end of the hair, making the top of the head perfectly flat. The result was clean, crisp, and durable. The Navy could land an aircraft on that flat-top surface.

I paid my $1.00, walked out the door, and felt the afternoon breeze as it worked its way through those upright hairs. There was a sweet odor which emanated from the pink goo as I crossed the street and turned north on Sycamore Street.

Half-way down the block toward home, a sudden realization struck me. I'd have to pass by Billy Curl's barber shop to get home. Billy would see my new "flattop" and realize that I'd been to see his competitor. I was almost in a state of panic; I didn't want to offend Billy. So, as I approached the Highway 559 Coffee Shop entrance, I dropped down to hands and knees and scurried past the plate-glass windows at the front of Billy's shop. Safely beyond his potential gaze, I stood up and quickly walked the remaining distance to my house. Over the next few days, I avoided being seen on my front lawn, concerned that Billy would notice my haircut.

A few days later, Mom sent me on some errand to one of the stores downtown. I made the necessary purchases, and had just turned the corner onto Sycamore Street, when Billy crossed my path. He was apparently on his way to the Post Office to retrieve his mail.

"Looks like someone has a new barber," he said. I was very embarrassed, and could have disappeared into one of the cracks in the sidewalk. "Well," he said, "it looks pretty good." And he went on his way.

For the next few years I tried to be ecumenical about the situation. Sometimes Billy cut my hair; sometimes Spike cut my hair. With Billy's death in 1964, the town lost one of its two barbers. Thereafter, Spike was the only person to cut my hair until I moved away from home in 1971.

By the time of Billy's death, I had lost my appreciation of the flattop. It always looked good at the start, but had a tendency to look wilted and fore lorn after just an overnight sleep. That's when Spike introduced me to the "pineapple." In this style of haircut, the hair was close-cropped all over...sides, back, and top. But a bit of hair was left at the front of the forehead which was dobbed with that all-to-familiar pink goo and combed to the side in a flourish. In my teenage mind, it looked "cool." I wore my hair that way from junior high school through my first two years of college.

I left North Lewisburg in 1971 and moved west to the mountains of Utah. Periodically, I returned home for visits with families and friends. I always made it a point over the next two decades to stop by Spike's barber shop for the usual trim. It was a good time to wax nostalgic with Spike, and to get caught up on the latest town news and gossip.

I was enroute to Panama in 1990 for my next duty assignment with the U. S. Army. I decided to stop in North Lewisburg for a visit. After spending time with family and friends who lived there, I drove by Spike's Barber Shop, only to learn that he had closed down the shop and was no longer practicing the tonsorial trade. I drove the rental car to his house, got out, and walked to his door. I knocked, and in a very short time there he stood at the door...the same thin, moustached Spike I had always known. He seemed pleased to see me, and invited me into his home for a chat. After a few minutes, it was time for me to leave. As I arose and headed toward the door, Spike called out" Wait a minute! I've got something for you." He went to another room and soon returned, a plastic jar in his had. It was white and blue, with an American flag sticker on the top. He handed it to me. "That's the last jar from the shop," he said. "I've saved it just for you."

I held in my hand an unopened jar of that familiar pink goo which I had used so many years before. I was overwhelmed to know that he had been saving that old jar just for me. We shook hands, I mumbled a "Thank you," and I left. I never saw Spike the Barber again; he died on November 29, 1990, just a short time after I departed for Panama.

Another twenty years have passed since Spike - my friend, my barber - gave me that unopened jar of goo. It has traveled with me from place to place, from Panama back to Utah, and from Utah to Ohio and other places around the country. It has seen a lot of miles, but I treasure it still. Today, it sits on a shelf on my bookcase, a reminder of other times and other people. But mostly it reminds me of home.

Honoring My Ancestors

2010-04-05T20:51:00.000-06:00

I'm proud to add the "Ancestor Approved" logo to "Along Spain Creek," with a sincere "Thank You!" to Linda Ellis for the honor. Family history research is more than a hobby with me; it is a passion. I've been at it now for over a half-century, and intend to continue my efforts until my last breath. Researching my family lineage has provided me with some exceptional perspectives:

I make it a point to take a few minutes each day to honor my father, mother, step-father, and the many other relatives who contributed to who I am today.
I have learned that true family history research is detail-oriented, requires source documentation, is time-consuming, and is one of the most rewarding experiences of my life.
I have come to realize that sharing of acquired family history information is just as much fun as researching it.
I am truly thankful that my ancestors were family-oriented, and that those long-ago family reunions were so vital to their lives.
I am thankful for the genes which have been passed to me by previous generations and which have provided me with longevity, stamina, courage, intellect, and other resources in time of need.
I am constantly amazed at the tribulations which my ancestors experienced in their lives, and at their resolution to overcome them.
I am thankful that I have been able to acquire all of this information to pass on to my children and my grandchildren so they can likewise be grateful for their heritage.
I am glad to be living in this age of technology and access to the Internet, and for all of the research which has resulted from this accessibility.
I give praise to my ancestors who sought a better life in the New World, who crossed the ocean, and who helped to build our United States of America. They paved the way for me, and provided me with the very freedoms and liberty which others covet today.
I am proud of the blood which flows in my veins, of the convictions which are deep-seated in my brain, and of the love of country which fills my heart.

Characters In My Play: O. D. Myers

2010-03-26T17:11:00.002-06:00

"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

2010-03-26T15:31:00.002-06:00

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

2010-03-22T10:11:00.000-06:00

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

2010-03-20T21:24:00.002-06:00

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

2010-03-12T21:09:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-11T12:40:00.001-07:00

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

2010-03-10T10:46:00.001-07:00

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

2010-03-10T09:53:00.002-07:00

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

2010-03-08T14:27:00.000-07:00

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.

Tommy Reid's Basement

2010-02-18T18:00:00.001-07:00

During the years before I started attending school, I lived in a clapboard frame house at the corner of Sycamore and North Streets in North Lewisburg, adjacent to the corporation boundary line. North Street was an incline which culminated at the city limits. Looking out the large plate-glass window of our living room, I wondered who lived in the large farmhouse at the top of the street, with the big, imposing white barn. After my first few days in the first grade at the local elementary school, I learned that I had a classmate who lived in that very house. His name was Thomas Vincent Reid, or "Tommy" for short.

Tommy's parents were Paul and Virginia Reid, and farmed an extensive area of land which abutted the corporation boundary. Their home was a two-story, white, wood-framed house. There were several outbuildings, to include that very large white barn, a milking parlor and stable area, and corncribs. As I came to know Tommy and to spend more and more time at his home - as opposed to my own - a whole new world of adventure beckoned. There were wide expanses in the big barn to explore, flocks of pigeons to scatter with our b-b guns, stored field corn to help shuck and grind, and tunnels and hide-aways to construct in the hayloft where the bales of hay were stored.

I had the opportunity to watch the cows - Holsteins, mostly - being milked, not by hand but with the elaborate milking operation. The warm, white liquid created by each cow was sucked into large, stainless steel containers. When these containers were full, they were carried into the milk parlor, and emptied into a large metal vat. The milk was stored there until the arrival of an especially-equipped truck sometime later in the week. The precious milk was then siphoned into the truck's bulk tank, and eventually found its way to an area dairy where it was treated and bottled for sale.

The cows fed on the luscious meadow grasses which surrounded the barn and lots during the warm months of the year. During the winter, the hay which had been grown, cut, and baled during the summer months was used as feed. This was supplemented with ground corn, wheat, or oats which were grown and harvested in the productive fields.

There was usually at least one - and sometimes two - large, dangerous looking Black Angus bulls which seemed to dominate the farm. The boys who were eventually attracted to play at the farm were warned about, and very leary of, those huge, scary animals. More than once, boys who had not been quite careful enough were chased around the premises by an intimidating, and often angry, black bull.

As time passed, and neighborhood boys like myself became more common visitors to the farm, our boundaries and limitations were extended. Boys roamed the fields, occasionally helped with the chores, and were treated to fishing trips to Devil's Well, a private pond owned by the Reid family. There is a great story about one very large wide-mouth bass, a rowboat and a bush...but that's a story for another time.

Paul and Virginia were hospitable, and treated the boys with trust. They asked only one major concession: absolutely no one was to go into the basement of the house where the family had installed a large, ornate, and expensive pool table. That rule was faithfully observed...at least for a short period of time. As the boys became more and more daring with age, and opportunities presented themselves, the pool table was no longer off-limits. When Paul and Virginia would get into the family car and drive away to go shopping, or to visit friends, the boys who were there slipped into the basement, using an old exterior basement doorway. The balls were racked up, the cue sticks were chalked up, and some very aggressive games of "Eight ball" transpired. The games would continue until the sounds of the returning car caught the boys' attention. Then followed the mad scurry to put the balls, rack, and cue sticks back into their proper locations, and to vacate the premises...all without being seen by either Paul or Virginia. Most of the time, the boys were successful. At other times, they were literally "caught in the act." Then came the stern lecture from Tommy's parents, to which all of the boys promised to adhere...at least until the next time. The boys never tired of the game of evading capture!

Tommy and I remained friends as we completed the years leading up to our graduation from high school. We went our separate ways after that, rarely seeing each other over the next 40 years or so. In 1990, I stopped in our hometown while on my way to an Army duty assignment in Panama. I drove on familiar streets to the Reid farm, knocked on the door, and visited for a few minutes with Paul and Virginia. I was very glad I took the time to stop by and thank them for the memories of the occasions I had spent on their farm. Sadly, Paul Reid died in 1992. Virginia Reid died in 2009.

Only this past summer did I have the opportunity to return to our hometown and to spend a few hours visiting with Tommy and his wife, Darlene. It was good to do so, and so very long overdue.

"Last Night I Wandered In A Dream..."

2010-02-17T22:33:00.002-07:00

One of my friends - someone I have known for many, many years - wrote a short article for inclusion in a memory book which was prepared in Champaign County, Ohio, a few years ago. I stumbled across her handwritten essay just a couple of nights ago, and thought I'd include some of her recollections in this blog. I've taken the liberty of editing these recollections and condensing the adventures which can be found in her original ten-page document.

Elaine Spain Chapman grew up in and around North Lewisburg. Her ancestors were some of the many who traveled from Virginia to settle in the fertile area around what was to eventually become North Lewisburg. In the prelude to her article, she wrote: "Words to an old love song go something like this: 'Last night I wandered in a dream along a stream and you were there among the moonmist.'

She wrote that the stream of her song and dream is not really a stream, but a creek, "or as we called it a 'crick.' " It was the stream of her forefathers, Spain Creek, which meandered and "gently flowed" from its point of origin near the present community of Mingo toward North Lewisburg.

"...the Spains settled all along the pleasant water supply. It's recorded that these early settlers built a few mills to care for their needs. Playing as a child along the "crick," (I) saw evidence of these long-gone mills - rocks and huge chunks of concrete."

As a child, and later as an adult, she hiked along the streambed. The stream was more winding and meandering than now. The original channel had yet to be dredged and straightened, and the banks made devoid of the native trees, shrubs, bushes and plants. Pollutants had not yet killed off the minnows, fish, and other creatures which depended upon the stream. There was no TV then, no video games to divert the adventurous behavior of children. The good clothes reserved for school were shucked at the end of the day; older garments were put on - maybe bib overalls for the boys, simple cotton dresses for the girls. Then, kids found their separate ways to the creek.

The boys rolled up their britches to wade in the creek. The girls just held their dresses up above their knees. Most kids went barefoot during the summer. Shoes were reserved for the school year. And those shoes went to a local shoe repair shop; there was not enough money in the family funds to buy more than one pair per child per year.

Boys carried a long string of fishing line in their pockets, a fishhook or two, and the every-trusty pocket knife. They used the knife to cut a stout, yet flexible willow branch to use as a pole. The line was tied on and a hook was added to the end. Maybe a worm or cricket or piece of popcorn was snared by the hook to use for bait. For a bobber, a piece of dry willow branch was tied to the line. The boys then cast their lines into a nearby deep pool, and hoped for the best. There were fish, and crawdads (crayfish), frogs, turtles and other forms of life in the water...fair game all. And of course, there were snakes!

There were water snakes, non-poisonous, but fearful looking all the same. There were no water moccasins or other poisonous snakes, but there were plenty of the dreaded blue racers. These long, slender snakes were aggressive in their behavior. "They were fast and they were scary! They acted like cobras," hissing and threatening "like they would strike." Run, and they chased you! Truthfully!

Some turtles, like the snapping turtles, were thought to be just as dangerous. Everyone knew that if someone was bitten by one of these monster turtles, the turtle would not let go until sundown!

There were stagnant pools of water along the streambed which became the breeding grounds for millions of mosquitos. They could carry many different kinds of disease. The biggest fear of both parents and children, however, was the ever-present threat of polio. In the days before the discoveries of Dr. Jonas Salk and a vaccine to prevent polio, the hot, muggy, "dog days" of summer were especially fearful. Kids were warned to stay out of the water. The regular "March of Dimes" featurette at the local movie theater reemphasized the tragedies of polio.

There was a railroad trestle which crossed the creek. It was scary to walk the rails, trying to keep balanced while looking down between the railroad ties at the water far, far below. No one wanted to get trapped on the bridge when a train was coming!

The railroad ran through the small towns, connecting one grain storage elevator with another. During the Depression, men who worked on the trains threw chunks of coal off to needy residents who stood waiting anxiously along the roadbed. Sometimes a kind engineer tossed off the Sunday newspaper "funnies," so kids could enjoy the antics of "Bringing Up Father," or "Mutt and Jeff."

Kids scoured the countryside for young dandelion greens, asparagus, wild strawberries, and mushrooms. Boys and men hunted the scrub brush and fields along the railroad and creekbed. Pheasants, rabbits, and squirrels abounded in the area, and were a welcome treat on the dinner table.

Elaine's article recalled with fondness these and many other sights and adventures from her youth, growing up "Along Spain Creek." I am grateful that she shared these recollections with me.

In Memoriam

2010-02-16T02:13:00.002-07:00

My good friend and life-long pal, Robert Lowell "Bob" White, died of cancer on February 15, 2008, just a couple of months beyond his 62nd birthday. He was a gentleman, a gentle man, and an active member of the community. A dedicated, loyal, and eager worker, he is sorely missed.

My Best Friend Died Today

In Memory of Robert Lowell White

1945-2008

It should have been a day like any other,

filled with the sights, sounds, and smells to which I have become accustomed

these past sixty-three years.

Yet, it was a day unlike any other which has come before.

My best friend died today.

We had been pals, bosom-buddies for more than a half-century.

We had shared the same middle name, a fact which we talked about so very many times.

He had shared his contagious smile and raucous laughter with me on

oh, so many occasions over the years.

He had introduced me to his boyhood farm, and the daily ritual

of caring for the land and the livestock.

He had shared his compassion when loved ones were lost to me; and I had

reciprocated when he had experienced his own losses.

He was the familiar voice at the other end of the telephone connection.

He was the written message on cards and letters in his simple script.

He was the funny guy who could cheer me up with a silly joke or story.

He was the friend who remembered my birthday with a subscription to a draft horse magazine.

He was a friend who had stood by me when so many others turned away

in my hour of weakness.

He had loved me for who I was and did not find fault with me.

When the call came today, I was unprepared.

Numbed, I listened to the words but could not comprehend them.

Only later, when I had a few moments to reflect, did the tears flow freely.

During the quiet times to come, when I am left alone with my thoughts and memories,

I will picture his face, hear his voice, and laugh with him.

My best friend died today.

He is gone, and I will miss him.

Fraternity, Charity, Benevolence

2010-02-16T01:59:00.000-07:00

About the time of, or shortly after, the Civil War, a fraternal movement swept the nation. The Masons had long been an established fraternal organization in the United States, with lodges (or local organizations) spread throughout the states. There was a renewed interest in the bonds of fraternal organizations, probably due in part to the comradeship which had developed during the dark days of the late war. As a result, new organizations, based upon fraternal values, appeared on the landscape.

Men sought membership in these organizations to provide themselves with forums for like-mindnesses in the cause of politics, religion, social status, or other reasons. Small, rural communities like North Lewisburg were just as prolific with the rise of these fraternal organizations as the larger cities. In the decades following the Civil War, North Lewisburg probably never exceeded a population of 1000 residents. Yet, in the community could be found members of the Masonic order, the Eastern Star, the Knights of Pythias, the Pythian Sisters, the Independent Order of Odd Fellows, the Rebekahs, the Woodmen of the World, the Fraternal Order of Eagles, the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks, and similar organizations. While the town was not the host community for lodges, or camps, or meeting houses of all of these organizations - some townsfolk had to travel to the nearby communities of Marysville, Bellefontaine or Urbana to actually take part in the various organizations' rituals - there were a few prominent memberships in the community.

The Masonic order was very active in the community and maintained meetings on a regular basis. The male-elite arm of the order was composed of prominent members of the community. The Eastern Star auxiliary was primarily a female organization, but opened its doors to participation by members of the Masonic order. By the middle of the 20th century, the Masons were the predominent fraternal organization in the town and surrounding communities. The organization purchased one of the old storefronts on Sycamore Street, and extensively remodeled the building to meet the needs of the burgeoning and quite active membership. On lodge nights, or at other Masonic events, the streets of the community were lined with the parked cars of the faithful. The building was aglow with lights and activities, camaraderie, meeting social and civil needs. Even young people like my friends and I were aware of the Masonic community in our midst; it was often easy to recognize Masons by the rings or other fraternal jewelry which they wore, or the way in which they conducted themselves in social environments. Some of the men in the community were actively involved in more than one fraternal organization.

Another prominent fraternal organization in the community was the Knights of Pythias, or K of P. This group had met in the second story area of one of the buildings at the end of the business block which fronted East Maple Street. They, too, held fraternal, social and civic activities in their meeting area. - I recall attending many dinners, ice cream socials, or similar activites in that area of the building, with evidence of the fraternity visible through the charter which was displayed in a place of prominence in the hall. I even recall once stumbling across a document of some sort in the meeting area which indicated my father had been a member of the organization prior to his induction into the service during World War II.

The primarily-female counterpart of the K of P was the Pythian Sisters. These women seemed to be more pro-active than the male membership. In addition to their regular meetings, they were always promoting dinners and other social outings. They used many of these activities to raise funds for the organization. And, they were wise when it came time to dispense those funds. Thus it was that in the 1960s they, and the Knights, decided to purchase an old church building and to convert it into a meeting hall. Accordingly, the deed was done and the old building was remodeled to meet their needs. - Once again, I recall attending many activities and functions in that old hall.

As a matter of fact, my old buddy Mike Chamberlain and I had been encouraged by Don Woodruff (we worked with him in Arthurs' IGA store) to join the Knights of Pythias. At the appropriate age - which I believe was 18 years of age - Mike and I both submitted our applications for membership. As members, we spent several hours helping to repaint the interior of the main hall of the building. In the course of time, we both progressed through three levels of membership in the organization - Page, Squire, and Knight. At the time we were two of the youngest members of the lodge. I looked forward to each meeting night, and the opportunity to gather with some of the "old men" of the community, true characters in every way.

They were a mixed lot of men who had worked, married, prospered, and socialized in the town. Even now, some fifty years later, I can picture their faces and "hear" their voices. Paul Chamberlain was the quiet one, unassuming and dignified in all his demeanor. Rarely did he speak during meetings; a former township clerk, he had long-ago earned the respect of his comrades. Chester "Chet" Louden was an area farmer, who had also played a prominent part in the town's celebrations, providing music as a member of the town's band. At every lodge meeting, Chet's voice rang out loudly and clearly with his cheerful "Are we having fun yet?" His hallmark greeting was usually associated with the traditional card game of "Spades" which was an all-important part of the prelude to or conclusion of each meeting. Floyd Simpson, Sr., was one of my personal heroes - a man whom I admired and respected. His voice and accent was like no other I had known before - or since. It was deep, melodious, and carried throughout the hall. In one of his periodic role-playing activities as the philosopher Pythagoras, his characterization, demeanor and voice created a dramatic aura in the room. There was Don Woodruff, who had a contagious laugh and smile which set him apart from others. He was always active, and a good role model for young men like myself. Whether at the lodge meetings, or at work at his "second" job in the grocery store, or later when I came to work with him at the Champaign County Engineer's department, Don knew how to enjoy life. His bubbling personality has never diminished over the years. (Now in his eighties, he continues to be an active member of the community and a valued friend of long-standing).

My mother was a prominent member of the Pythian Sisters. My step-father (William Robert "Putt" Forsythe) and I were active in the Knights of Pythias. Mom encouraged both of us to also join the sisters' organization. I look back with fond memories upon the time when my Mom - and step-father - became my "sisters," and the social activities we enjoyed as a family.

Something happened over the years. As the old members of the fraternal organizations died out, there were few young people who seemed interested in membership. Slowly, but surely, the life and glow of the lodges, camps, and temples disappeared. The K of P lodge and the Pythian Sisters ceased to exist in North Lewisburg before the end of the 20th century. The old lodge hall was torn down, the materials which had graced its walls and halls scattered. The members of the Masonic lodge joined with one in nearby Mechanicsburg; their old building now a church.

A revival of the principles upon which these fraternal and social organizations were founded would be a good thing for America. Important parts of a social and civic history we now seem to have replaced

with narcissism, it would be good to hear the cheerful cry of "Are we having fun, yet?" once again.

The IGA Store: My Life In A Grocery Cart

2010-02-12T02:17:00.001-07:00

I don't know when they actually came to town; it just seemed like they had been there a long, long time. Tom and Evelyn Arthur, with their only son Tommy, owned and operated the Independent Grocers Alliance...the IGA...store on Sycamore Street in North Lewisburg. In the 1950s, 1960s, and into the 1970s, their store was one of a few which graced the eastern side of Sycamore, in the "downtown" section of the community.

Carl and Mary Keene, assisted by Mary's father Harry Brown, were the owners-operators of the pharmacy, or drug store, which sat at the intersection of Maple and Sycamore Streets. The western wall of their building was the location of the town's "Roll of Honor," which memorialized the veterans of World War II and Korea. Next, on the same side of the street, was the IGA store. This was followed by a failing clothing store which had been in operation a number of years, then the Red and White foodstore, operated by Burleigh Woodruff, Vada's restaurant, and Billy Curl's barbershop. A narrow alley separated these business establishments from the "residential" area yet further north on Sycamore Street.

In time, the drug store switched owners, and eventually ceased to provide the pharmacy, sundries, soda fountain and ice cream parlor for which it was well-known. "Jeweler Jack" DeLong bought the building, and moved in his jewelry store operation from a short distance across the street. It later changed hands again, and is, today, a real estate office.

The old clothing store closed as a business, and that portion of the block was purchased by Tom and Evelyn Arthur, who remodeled it and doubled the size of their grocery operation. More about them later.

Burleigh Woodruff also closed the Red and White grocery. The building was acquired by the local Masonic and Eastern Star organizations, extensively remodeled, and made into a lodge meeting hall. In addition to the many meeting which were to be held there over the years, the membership of the organizations periodically hosted dinners as fund-raisers, or provided meals following funeral services of its members. - As the years passed, and the century changed, with less interest in fraternal organizations, the building was sold and is today a church meeting house.

The restaurant also changed hands over the years until it was acquired by Claudine Vallery in the 1950s and renamed the Hiway 559 Coffee Shop. It eventually became the gathering place for the town's teenagers, with its juke box and pin ball machines in operation, hamburgers and fries, and fountain-service sodas the daily fare. - Claudine actually kept the business going for 35 years before it was sold to yet another proprietor. (I personally wolfed down my fair share of cheeseburgers, fries, and Cokes during those many years of operation).

Billy Curl barbered in the community for over 50 years. His wife Lydia styled ladies' hair. The front of the store was a haberdashery of the latest styles of clothing and hats for men and women. After Lydia and Billy's deaths, the old tonsorial parlor and beauty shop saw many different, and short-lived businesses. It sits vacant today.

The constant presence on the street was the IGA store. Tom and Evelyn Arthur were people-oriented tradespeople, who knew a good thing when they saw it. They had weekly sales of the foodstuffs which were stocked on their shelves, a large, prosperous meat department, and an equally prosperous vegetable market. They printed and distributed their own flyer, which listed the many great bargains to be had in the store. The large, plate-glass windows at the front of the store were literally plastered with posters touting the weekly sales. On Fridays and Saturdays, buyers actually flocked to the store to make their food purchases, to visit with friends and neighbors, and to say their weekly hellos to Tom and Evelyn.

One Halloween night in 1961, after the 9 p.m. nightly closing of the store, my friend - Mike Chamberlain - and I got it into our heads that those large, plate-glass windows at the front of Tom's store were perfect candidates for a "soaping." Back before such antics were determined to be unlawful, and before the culprits were determined to be juvenile delinquents, such actions were commonplace in our small community. Wild were the tales of other Halloween pranks - like the time a group of young people put the wagon on top of the Town Hall. Ours was a considerably less daring activity, and did not involve heights. Mike and I merely took the bars of soap which we had taken from our homes specifically for this purpose, and "soaped" the store's windows. The soap bars were used like writing instruments to make squiggles, lines, circles, and various other designs on the windows. There were narrow strokes, and wide strokes, and whole areas of the windows which were obliterated with the waxy stuff. We might even have written a few words - my memories are a little hazy some 50 years later. But, proud of our work, and the fact that we had not been caught in the process, Mike and I laughingly made our way to our homes.

That following Monday, after we had spent the day in school and other activities, Mike and I joined up once again for another late afternoon and early evening of our regular activities. I do not recall where we had been, but we rounded the corner at the intersection of Maple and Sycamore Streets, walked past the Roll of Honor on the drug store wall, and were just passing the IGA storefront, when Tom Arthur - dressed in his traditional dress trousers, long-sleeve white shirt open at the collar, white full-length apron, and the ever-present unlit cigarette between the yellow-stained fingers of one hand, and unstruck match in the other - greeted us with a "Hey, boys! I want to see you! Come in." Mike and I exchanged sudden glances, and entered the store with trepidation. Silent words passed between us: "He knows we did it!" We both nervously awaited the brow-beating which we knew was soon coming.

"Boys, how would you like a job?" were the words from Tom's mouth. Mike and I looked at one another, awaiting the punch line. "I'm serious" Tom said. "How would you like to go to work for me?"

Feeling very lucky that he was not going to kill us for the mess we made of his windows - the squiggles, and circles, and lines still were evident on them - we both took all of a few seconds to respond with a tentative "Yes."

We reported for work the next day, the newest members of the Arthur's IGA work force. Tom and Evelyn introduced us to our daily duties and responsibilities, told us what our work schedule would be, how much we would be paid (85 cents per hour!) and issued our crisp, white stockboy aprons. We shared our hellos with the others who worked in the store - Tommy, who was the butcher and supervised the meat department; Christine Quinton, who worked with Tommy in that department; Bob Impson, one of my many cousins, who was another stockboy; and Don Woodruff, an indispensible "jack-of-all-trades" who would be our immediate supervisor, and eventual friend.

The preliminaries out of the way, Tom then sent us off to perform our assigned tasks - Mike to assist with the restocking of products on the shelves, as well as bagging and carryout of customers' purchases. Me, to find the bucket and squeegee and other materials at the back of the store - and to use them to clean off those awful-looking windows which "someone" had soaped over the weekend.

Did Tom know who the culprits were who soaped his windows? To this day, some fifty years later, I am uncertain. All I do know is that for the next two years I was responsible for taking down the paper sales posters from those windows, and washing them inside and outside as part of my regular Tuesday duties.

More tales from "My Life In A Grocery Cart" to follow...

The Old Five and Dime

2010-02-08T04:19:00.002-07:00

When I was a boy in North Lewisburg, I was quite the entrepreneur by age ten. I had acquired a list of loyal neighbors and family who entrusted their lawn care to me. Additionally, I was shortly thereafter a route carrier...a “paperboy”...for the Columbus Dispatch newspaper. And, to top it off, I had joined the 4-H organization, and raised champion hogs in county fair competition.

For my age, I had a lot of money, and then – as now – it literally burned a hole in my pocket. I eventually bought a Schwinn bicycle, with all of the trimmings. I bought a reel-to-reel tape recorder. I bought my own black-and-white television set, and my own stereo system. And, I still had money left over.

What better place to spend some of that hard-earned cash than the “Five and Dime” store on Maple Street, operated by Mrs. Alma Hall. She was ably assisted by a bevy of sales clerks, to include Mrs. Ruth Painter and Mrs. Helen Barnes, and others whose names I have forgotten over the years.

The store was a treasure house of goodies for a young guy with money to burn. Right at the front of the store, in a very big and tall glass and metal display case, was the “bulk” candy. The individual bins were filled with a luscious collection of mouth-watering treats. Alma, or one of the other ladies, would use the big metal scoop to dig into the piles of candy, and then transfer the sweet stuff to a scale. Candy was sold in ¼ pound, ½ pound, ¾ pound and 1 pound helpings...sometimes more if the buyer had a particularly needy sweet tooth.

My eyes always fell on the chocolate-covered peanuts. I placed my order for the appropriate weight, and watched with anticipation as Alma transferred the candy to a white paper bag, the open top of which she next folded over to protect the contents. Money and bag exchanged hands almost simultaneously, and I quickly opened the latter to extract with nimble fingers a few of the sweet-smelling chocolate confections. I enjoyed the candies as I moved about the store, seeking out additional treasures.

On the right side of the store, facing the back wall, could be found the “sundries and notions.” I never understood what that term meant, but knew that here I would find the crocheting needles, thread, yarn, and thimbles which my Grandma Katie Impson so often sent me to buy for her. There were pins of all sorts, bolts of beautiful cloth, and other similar items to primarily catch the attention of the female customers. There was a huge wooden rack, which held hundreds and hundreds of patterns for dresses, skirts, shirts, trousers, aprons, and other creations much-sought by the girls and ladies who knew how to sew. (Hard to believe, but back in those days many people actually made their own clothes! Imagine!)

The counters stretched to the far, back wall, on the right side of the store and contained pots, pans, utensils, flatware, knives, plates, cups, saucers, bowls of every color and description. Some items were plastic – although not many. Many others were ceramic, or metal - every little gizmo and gadget which the modern, 1950s kitchen would need.

On the left side of the store, right near the front window, was the magazine display. Someone could always be found standing there, browsing through an appealing publication – with the occasional reprimand from Alma or one of the other ladies that the magazines were for sale; it was not a public library. There was a wire which stretched from near the entrance door to the far left wall, complete with wooden clothespins (the ones which functioned like tongs, not the ones which often wound up with painted faces and hats and bodies, like very thin people). The pins held an array of magazines which were suspended in mid-air, just above eye level. Here could be found the DC comics, the Walt Disney publications featuring Mickey, Donald, Goofy and Scrooge McDuck. Here also were the most recent copies of that treasure above all others...”Mad” Magazine, with Alfred E. Newman's familiar “What, Me Worry?” repartee.

Down that same aisle could be found clothes – shirts, trousers, jeans, dresses, skirts, and even some shoes – to keep the town's patrons in fashion. There were a few hats – fedoras, straw hats, baseball caps, bonnets, and bandanas to cover the heads of those in need.

There was a toy section, with a large selection of toys of all kinds, and within every kid's (or parent's) price range. There were the cap guns, revolvers, rifles, machine guns, with which we boys defended the community from foreign aggression. There were boxes and boxes of caps, to add realism (but most especially NOISE) to the firearms and play. There were squirt guns, which when filled to capacity with cold water, were sure to surprise the unsuspecting. There were the balsa wood “model” airplanes, with the moveable main wing, rudder, and tail wing which could be adjusted to help prolong the gliders' flights. There were balloons of every description and color – and bags upon bags of beautifully-colored cats-eye marbles, the boys' trading medium of the day.

The very back of the store held shovels, and rakes, and galvanized buckets and tubs, mops, and brooms, and other such things which were available for those customers who were inclined to use them.

The lights which hung from the ceiling were suspended on long rods, and an acorn-shaped glass dome to cover and protect the incandescent bulbs. There were long strings dangling down the sides which were pulled to illuminate or darken the various areas of the store.

It was such fun to simply browse throughout the store and visually take in all of the wonders to be found there.

The old store is gone now, after years of dedicated service and prominence in the community. Alma Hall died in 1972, at the age of 76. Ruth Painter died in 1987; Helen Barnes died in 1991. Now, each rests from her labors in peaceful Maple Grove Cemetery, on the western outskirts of the community.

Over the years other retail businesses gave that same location a “go,” but there was never again anything to match the unique world of the “Five and Dime.” The pizza shop, which now occupies the former location of the Bank of North Lewisburg, has expanded its operation to include the old storefront.

I, for one, would just like another opportunity to enter the old store, to savor its atmosphere, to be greeted by one of the friendly ladies, and to plunk down my quarter for another bag of those chocolate-covered peanuts.

He Donned The Union Blue

2009-11-29T14:54:00.000-07:00

Benjamin Impson was 32 years of age, a shingle-maker and woodworker, when he made the decision in 1864 to enlist in one of the volunteer infantry regiments which was being formed for service in the Civil War. He left his wife, Maria, and their children behind on that cold February morning and made the trip to Columbus, Ohio, to enlist as a private in Company B, 32nd Ohio Volunteer Infantry. He was soon sent on to Louisville, Kentucky, to link up with his unit and experience some preliminary training as an infantryman.

His unit had previously seen serious fighting throughout the region, and had served as part of Major General Ulysses S. Grant's army at Vicksburg. By 1864, the unit had been transferred to Major General Sherman's command. In February, 1864, it operated under Sherman at Meridian, then returned to Vicksburg, re-enlisted, and, after the furlough home, joined Sherman's army at Acworth, GA, on the 10th of July. In the fighting around Atlanta on the 20th, 21st, 22nd and 28th, the Thirty-second took an active part, losing more that half its numbers.

Benjamin had been detailed out to another assignment in February 1864, accompanying bodies of deceased soldiers, their gear, and excess cannon to Bedloe's Island, New York. In the process of removing the heavy cannon from the ship, he ruptured the muscles in his right chest, which produced a painful, protruding bulge which he carried with him for the rest of his life. After recovering, he was transported to Georgia to link up with his comrades under Sherman's command. He fought at the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain, and lost partial hearing when he was in close proximity to the horrible cannon which decimated the Confederate ranks. He was hospitalized for a short period of time due to complications which accompanied severe diarhhea, and was plagued with that illness for the balance of his years.

After the fall of Atlanta, the regiment joined in the pursuit of Hood, participated in the historic "Sherman's March to the Sea" as it laid waste to a swath of Georgia some sixty miles wide before capturing the city of Savannah which was awarded to President Lincoln as a Christmas gift. The army then crossed through the Carolinas, and on the 20th and 21st of March, 1865, took part in the engagement at Bentonville, then moved with the national forces to Raleigh, and was present at Johnston's surrender. The victorious army marched through the Confederate capital of Richmond, Virginia, then on to Washington, where it took part in the Grand Review before the President and his cabinet. After that, it moved to Louisville, KY, was mustered out of the service July 20, then proceeded to Columbus, Ohio, where the men received their final discharge on the 25th day of July, 1865.

Benjamin returned home to Ohio where he continued once again in his trade as a shingle-maker and woodworker. He also developed some skills as a shoemaker and clockmaker while he worked to provide for his family. His young daughter Florence died in 1875 at age 8, followed just a short time later by the death of his beloved wife Maria in 1877. In 1879 he married for a second time...to Amanda Kaline Salsigiber. Beset with deafness and recurring problems of health, he applied for a Civil War disability pension in 1885. This was eventually approved in the amount of $10 per month, but was reduced to $6 per month shortly thereafter. He began an appeals process which lasted for the next twenty years as he attempted to regain that lost portion of his disability pension. At one point, he was ordered to travel from North Lewisburg to Delaware, Ohio, to appear before a board of medical doctors to determine if an increase in his disability was warranted. Unable to work due to his health complications, and already $10 behind in his rent, Amanda had to resort to selling her last remaining rug for $2.00 to pay for his trainfare to the examination. His appeal was initially rejected; in April 1907 it was approved in the amount of $12 per month. He died at the age of 76 in September 1908, and was buried in Square 131, Lot 2, Grave 1, Maple Grove Cemetery, North Lewisburg, Ohio. Amanda survived him as a Civil War widow until 1923. She was entitled to a $30 per month widow's pension. She was also legally blind.

A government limestone marker, weathered by more than 100 years of west winds, rain, snow, heat and freezing cold, marks his gravesite. A bronze Grand Army of the Republic stand is decorated each Memorial Day with an American flag. "He donned the Union Blue to serve his country."

I am very proud of my maternal great-great-grandfather, Benjamin Impson, Private, Company B, 32nd Ohio Volunteer Infantry, patriot, and of HIS grandfather, Benjamin Impson, for whom he was named, who served with distinction in four separate New York militia units during the American Revolution..

One November Morn

2009-11-29T14:04:00.005-07:00

John Tritt, 40, was well-liked by the townspeople of North Lewisburg...so much so that he had been selected to serve as town marshal. He took his responsibilities seriously, often remaining on duty well beyond the normal work hours as set by the town council. Such was the case on that Monday morning, November 16, 1908. He had made his customary rounds of the business section of the community, looking and listening for anything out of the ordinary. He passed by the small shops and post office as he made his way down to the Erie train depot with the intention of spending a few minutes with the telegraphy operator before "calling it a night" and returning to his home. After a pleasant visit with lively conversation, he offered to return to the council chambers to retrieve a couple of savory fall apples for his friend. It was about 3 a.m. when he approached the town square once again. He thought he heard an unfamiliar noise, and so cautiously stopped in the middle of the street. He could not determine if the sound emulated from a grocery store or the nearby post office.

He decided to check out the latter. As he approached the post office, the door suddenly opened and Tritt found himself face-to-face with an armed gunman. The man immediately fired at Tritt as Tritt drew his own revolver and returned fire. Stepping outside the post office, the gunman fired again, striking Tritt in the left knee and shattering the leg.

Two robbers quickly fled the scene as Tritt remained on the street writhing in pain and calling for help. The crooks ran toward the southern boundary of the town, where they confiscated a horse and buggy rig which was owned by Richard Curl. Charles Easton, who happened to be nearby, saw the rig as it speeded out of town in the direction of Urbana, some 16 miles away.

In the meantime, Tritt had gained enough strength to slowly rise and work his way toward the home of Dr. Hunter, one of the town's physicians. The latter was awakened from bed, and came to Tritt's aid. He sent a runner to contact Dr. Garwood, another local physician. The .38 caliber lead ball was located in Tritt's leg shortly thereafter, and surgically removed along with a section of shattered bone. M. F. Freeman, local mortuary director, was summoned and arrived shortly with his ambulance to take the wounded Tritt to a hospital in Marysville, nine miles distant.

Police in surrounding communities had been contacted via the new telephone system regarding the shooting and attempted robbery, and were on the lookout for the fleeing bandits. Law enforcement officers quickly traveled to North Lewisburg to assist in the investigation there. A team of bloodhounds were brought to the post office, and quickly led the police on a chase toward the town's fairgrounds and where the horse and buggy had been stolen. They were also able to lead the police officers in the direction of Urbana. In that community, the stolen rig was located, abandoned in an alley, the horse fatigued from having driven the crooks to that area in about an hour's time. The thieves then stole yet another rig, this one belonging to Judge T. B. Owens, and continued their flight westward from Urbana.

The criminals made good their escape while the faithful John Tritt lay recouperating in a Marysville hospital. He survived the threat of possible blood poisoning from the infection, only to be left with a crippled left leg which he could no longer bend. He walked with a noticeable limp for the rest of his life.

The good lawman was shot and forever scarred while protecting the $900 in cash and a large number of postage stamps which the robbers had failed to steal from the post office safe. They left their sledge hammer and chisel behind along with a wounded marshal laying wounded in the street, a victim of their botched attempt, and a new local hero. The faithful lawman died in 1937 at the age of 74 years, 6 months, and 2 days. He is buried in Maple Grove Cemetery, North Lewisburg.

This story was gleaned from an article which appeared in The Marysville Republican, Marysville, Ohio, Thursday, November 19. 1908, page 1.

Of Cherry Trees and Storms

2009-10-17T01:59:00.001-06:00

For a number of years, from age 1 to about age 12, I lived in a small frame house at the corner of Sycamore and North Streets in North Lewisburg. Mom had made a down payment on the old, clapboard house with some of the insurance funds she received after my father's death in World War II. There was a vacant lot adjacent to the south, which at the southernmost boundary sported several cherry trees. In the spring, I could look out the front room window and watch those trees as they developed bright, green buds. The buds then blossomed into beautiful white flowers which eventually became bright, red cherries. I always looked forward to the day when I could approach the trees for the first time to pluck some of those tart, but delicious red cherries, while scaring away the plundering blackbirds in the process. More than once, Mom joined me in the picking, gathering enough cherries to make a cobbler or pie. As we picked, we would talk about whatever topic came to mind that day; those were precious moments.

Once, we noticed a large number of caterpillars in the leaves around the cherries. There were small, but intricate webs which stretched between small branches. The green, repulsive-looking worms were busy crawling to and fro, apparently feeding on the tender leaves. Off-handedly, Mom remarked that we would have a lot of wind and rain for the balance of the spring. I asked her why she thought so, and jokingly asked when she had become a "weatherman."

She then told me a tale of her youth, when she and her older sister Henrietta and younger brother Harold, had listened to a neighbor's story. The old man...so many years had passed that she could not remember his name...had a scruffy, white beard which added character to his lean, chiseled face. He was sitting on a rickety wooden chair on his delapidated front porch, with the three kids seated around him on the old plank floor. He had a pipe in his hand - the tobacco long ago smoked away - which he waved from time to time as he accentuated his story.

He talked first of little, green caterpillars which could be found in cherry trees. He told my Mom and her siblings that those creatures were forebearers of what was to come. He said an abundance of the little crawlers, with their silvery, silky webs and nests, were an indication of how bad the year's weather was to be. He said that he had observed many such caterpillars and their nests in the leaves of some cherry trees just recently. He was sure their numbers indicated that the rest of the spring was to be wet and windy. He also said he had seen more and more such warnings over the years. To the horror of the kids at his feet, he predicted that the town, North Lewisburg, would one day be destroyed by rain and wind.

Mom later told me that she, her sister, and her brother all hurried away from the neighbor's porch to relate the story to their mother. Grandma Katie assured the children that it was all just a story, told with the intention of scaring them.

When Mom concluded her story, I stood quietly for a few minutes, thoughtfully plucking each red cherry from the tree and placing it in one of those small, woven wooden quart baskets. "Is that why?" I asked.

She responded with "Why what?"

"Is that why you are so scared when we have a thunderstorm and wind?"

Mom looked at me for a short time, then asked "You've noticed that?"

"Yes, I know how frightened you look. You get nervous, and usually move out to the kitchen. You sit on a chair by the door to the cellar."

She then told me that she had always been afraid of thunderstorms, with the lightning flashes, the thunder, the pelting rain, and the wind. She had never lived in a house with a basement, but she would usually find a place in the house where she thought she would be protected. In our little frame house, she took refuge in the kitchen because there was a small, damp "fruit cellar" there where she could quickly hide if the noise and wind became too much for her. She said the old man's story of how North Lewisburg would be destroyed by rain and wind came back to her each spring and summer.

I looked at my Mom without responding. She was a tall, muscular, dark-haired, and brown-eyed woman who had experienced much sorrow in her lifetime. But, I had always thought of her as a strong person...one who could withstand the challenges of life. I now understood that she could also experience fear.

As I grew up in that house, in the farmhouse to which we moved in 1957, and in the larger house on East Street where we lived from 1959-1968, I was always consciously aware of Mom's fear when the storms arrived each spring. I watched her each time as she made certain the doors were closed, and then made her way to some place of safety in the house...the stairway in the farmhouse, the stairway or furnace room in the house on East Street. She always found a place to sit while she nervously awaited the storm's passing fury, her head bent low and supported by her hands. Occasionally there would be a sigh or a whimper which escaped her lips. Sometimes there would be a tear or two cascading down her cheeks. Always there was that anxious determination to ride out the storm.

Mom became ill in 1980. I was home on leave from the Army, and at her bedside for most of the last 45 days of her life. We had many occasions to talk about whatever subject she wanted to discuss at the time. One evening, she brought up the old fear she had of thunderstorms and wind. In her last year, she was residing in a mobile home which sat on the once-vacant lot where we had picked cherries so many years before. Her niece, my cousin, had purchased the old frame house we had once called home. Mom told me that a fierce storm had swept through North Lewisburg, complete with driving rain, wind, thunder and lightning. She was sitting alone in the mobile home, the rain pelting against the aluminum roof and walls, the wind swaying the home ever so slightly to and fro. There were great flashes of lightning, and she was very, very scared. She decided to run across the lawn which separated the mobile home from the old, familiar house, to join my cousin in the safety of her home. While doing so, she said, she had watched a small, bright blue ball of lightning approaching her, seemingly rolling in the air as it approached her. It surrounded her as she continued on her way, a new burning sensation in her lungs. In a few seconds she was safely in her niece's house.

Mom became ill shortly after this, and eventually sought help from her doctor. She was sent for a battery of tests, and then on to a hospital in Columbus, Ohio, for a biopsy. The surgery disclosed she had developed lung cancer which had apparently metasticized to other parts of her body. Her prognosis was terminal.

Over the next few weeks we all took turns spending time with her. On September 23, 1980, we all gathered at the nursing home where she was being provided care. All six of her kids were there as a gentle rain fell outside the building, soaking the ground and freshening the air. My brothers and sisters and step-father all drifted away, back to their homes. It was my turn to spend the night with Mom. I walked outside the building, felt and smelled the rain, and looked up at the clearing sky, a field of stars twinkling in the night. I walked back to her room, sat beside her on the bed, and lifted her head and shoulders. I took her hand in mine...she could not speak, but she squeezed my hand firmly and held on. We sat like that for hours. I whispered to her that it was time to go. A tear formed in her eye, and she died. Outside the rain began to fall again.

One Quiet Moment

To Mom

She nestled in my arms,

Her raven hair streaked with grey.

Her cheek rested softly against my shirt,

She clasped her hand in mine,

And squeezed gently.

A faint smile crossed her lips.

She breathed deeply.

A tear formed at the corner of her eye,

And cascaded slowly down her cheek.

Then all was still,

Until my sobbing broke the silence.

Roll of Honor

2009-09-24T00:45:00.001-06:00

At the northeast corner of Sycamore and Maple Streets, the two primary arteries which crisscross North Lewisburg, stands an old, red brick building which has served as a pharmacy, jewelry store, and currently as a realty office. On the building's western wall is a unique memorial...a Roll of Honor...which lists the names of the young men and women of the community who went off to fight the nation's wars.

The original Roll of Honor was a hand-painted memorial on a wall of yet another of the town's buildings. It was created in World War I to honor the town's residents who were engaged in that conflict. As time passed, that memorial was "moved" to the red brick building, and graced that wall until another conflict - World War II - beckoned yet other men and women to service.

The names of the World War I veterans who appeared on the first Roll of Honor, and the graphics which accompanied those names, were eventually diminished in size and cast as a bronze plaque. This plaque was then attached to the stone base of the flagpole which stands at the entrance to Maple Grove Cemetery, on Gilbert Road, a mile or so from the town.

As World War II progressed, the names of the community's servicemen and servicewomen were hand-painted. Graphic representations of the American eagle, with outstretched wings, the flag, and stars adorned the wall. When word was received that one of the town's men was killed in battle, a bright, gold star was added in front of his name. Over the course of the four years of war, the number of names - and the number of gold stars - painted on the wall grew. By war's end, there were columns of names and stars.

The Roll of Honor remained that way until a new war broke out in Korea in 1950. Once again, the youth of North Lewisburg answered the call to duty. The wall was repainted to show the names not just of the veterans of World War II, but also those of the Korean War.

Years passed, and a new generation of youth was called to service in Viet Nam. New names appeared on the wall where there had only recently been blank spaces. Walter R. Burroughs, a young Private First Class serving with the U. S. Army in Viet Nam in 1966, was the first to be listed as a casualty of that war...in point of fact, he was the first casualty from Champaign County to be killed in that conflict.

Over the course of the next two decades, the wall and the Roll of Honor took on a new look. Practically all of the space on the wall was filled with the names of veterans from those three major conflicts: World War II, Korea, and Viet Nam. Occasionally, the fading paint was restored to brilliance, and a name which might have been overlooked was squeezed onto the wall wherever it was possible. But weather and time took its toll on the Roll of Honor.

In 1994, there was a concerted effort on the part of the community to build a new, more lasting tribute to the town's veterans. A fund-raising project was organized, and soon a new marble memorial, complete with etched names, floodlights, benches, and flagpole was erected and dedicated in a small park - where once the old high school had stood - on East Street, a few blocks further east of the Sycamore-Maple Street intersection. The bronze plaque bearing the names of the World War I veterans was removed from Maple Grove Cemetery, and attached in a place of honor on the new memorial. I'm proud of the fact that my name appears on that memorial.

After 1994, the old, original wall remained on the red brick building, the paint blistered, faded, and in sorry need of repair. It had been thought that the new memorial would quietly replace the old, painted Roll of Honor. But old things and old traditions have the habit of continuing.

The Roll of Honor, silent sentinel of the community's appreciation of liberty, has just recently received new paint. The names stand out once again, their numbers bearing visual proof of the sacrifices which must be made for freedom.

If you, the reader, should someday make your way to or through North Lewisburg, Ohio, pull your vehicle aside somewhere near the intersection of Sycamore and Maple Streets. Get out, and walk the short distance to that old, red brick building. Let your eyes wander over the many names you will see there. Heroes, some; patriots, all. Maybe you will find some name which stands out, or which gives you pause to reflect. Or, perhaps like me, you will be able to find one of those very special stars of the fallen - like my Dad - who gave all of their tomorrows for us. I made it a habit a long time ago in my youth, and continue it now in my advanced years whenever I return to the old hometown, to reach out and touch his star.

But, if you cannot journey to the Roll of Honor, pause where you are in your own community, and take the time to thank a veteran.