With all of the negative press focused on the I.R.S. I thought that this story was apropos.

 

I.R.S. and Taxes

My father’s father, Edison Beck held many jobs in his life. He was a justice of the peace, a farmer, an accountant, and a tax consultant. He ran a lumber mill. He was a squire, did surveying, and was a lay speaker.  A tall slender man, he was active even when he was crowned with sliver white hair. My granddad kept the books, did payroll, and did taxes of two multi-million dollar companies until he was in his early eighties. His penmanship was superb and I was envious for it.

Most of his clientele were average, everyday rural people who looked to him for help with taxes, deeds, and legal matters. His clients were small time farmers, small business owners, and regular citizens who would bring their information to him in much-handled envelopes, shoe boxes, and brown paper bags. Stacks of receipts wrapped with twine or wrapped in rubber bands for him to sort through. They came to him because they were simple folk, plain people; people who were easily intimidated by the government and its regulations. They trusted him with their finances and that he could sort their jumble of papers and then aptly ply the numbers to the jumble of government paperwork. Eventually he would give them the answer for which they anxiously awaited. Will they have to pay money to Uncle Sam or had they overpaid and would get money back?

When the taxes were readied, he would have them sign their returns and even placed a stamp on each envelope. The only thing that his clients would have to do would be to stick the finished returns into their mailboxes to be picked up.

I can remember my granddad sharing one story about a farmer coming in with his wife to get their taxes done. They sat on the opposite of his desk. He watched as the farmer would take out the receipts one at a time and show his wife saying what each receipt was for. Then he would say, “Isn’t that right?” before handing it to my grandfather. My granddad was an extremely patient man, but he was slowly reaching his limit. It came to a head when the farmer produced a receipt, showed his wife, but instead of asking her, he asked my Grandfather, “A commode seat, it is deductible, isn’t it?”

Keeping his voice steady, he replied, “Not unless the cows use it.” Granddad tactfully said, “Let me have the box. I can see what is deductible or not.” Reluctantly, the farmer handed the box to my granddad.

Another tax story revolves around another farmer who was a friend of our family. He kept his tax receipts inside of five metal milk cans. Each year of receipts were stored in the sealed cans with the date painted on the lids. On the sixth year, her would dump and burn the old receipts and store the new ones in the can after changing the date on the lid.

An I.R.S. agent came to his farm to audit him. Ken was the farmer’s name. He lowered a fold down desk in the milk house. That was where he stored his receipts. The desk was for the agent to work. Ken moved the five cans close and knocked off the lids with a brass hammer. (Brass is a softer metal and won’t harm the milk cans.) He put them within the agent’s reach and said, “There are my receipts.”

The agent leaned over and peered inside. Looking up, he said to Ken, “I can’t audit your account this way. You will have to get an accountant to put them in order for me to review.” expecting Ken to bow at his feet like other people that he intimidated with his audits.

Ken said, “The law says I only have to supply my receipts for you. It doesn’t say how I am to present them.” Ken turned and walked away, leaving the agent to his task. He said it looked like the agent went through the first few inches in a couple of the milk cans before packing up and leaving his farm.

 

 

Miniskirts and Grandma

My mother and I would take my grandmother Rebecca Miner to her doctor’s appointments. Mom would drive and I would be there for Grandma to hang onto when she walked. She did okay at home, but sometimes curbs and steps without a railing gave her problems. She was bow legged from arthritis and her hands and feet were gnarled and misshapen from rheumatism. She walked by herself, but sometimes when she was out she needed an arm on which to lean or to have a steadying hand.

When her doctor’s appointment was over, Mom would drive us to one of several nearby restaurants for lunch. Grandma looked forward to having a meal where she didn’t have to cook or do the dishes afterward.

Grandma Becky still wore the opaque “flesh-colored” cotton stockings that were held up by elastic garters and black shoes that tied and had short clunky heels. The hems of her dresses were always mid calf or lower. Although her joints were old and gnarled, she still had black hair with only a strand or two even into her late seventies.

We chose a booth near the door and had just settled in when the waitress came and asked what we would like to drink and delivered our menus. After she walked away, I could see Grandma reaching her hand underneath the table and pulling at her skirt. Sitting there studying her menu, she would tug on her dress, not happy that her knees were showing.

The young waitress came back and took our orders while standing at the end of our table. Tucking her pad and pen into an apron pocket, she gathered the menus and carried our orders into the kitchen.

Grandma’s hand disappeared had already disappeared under the table and she was pulling at her dress again. Obviously she was feeling uncomfortable. I knew she would never relax while we ate our meal unless I did something.

Before I say more, I need to describe our waitress. She was attractive with long, straight blond hair and had shapely legs although they were very solid with full calves and thighs. This was the age of mini-skirts and her skirt bordered on the micro-mini. Earlier when this blond, long-limbed beauty stood at our table taking orders, the hem of her mini-skirt hovered above the table top.

So when Grandma’s hand delved beneath the table for her skirt hem agaIn, I asked, “Grandma, did you see our waitress?”

She looked puzzled but said, “Yes.”

“Did you see what she was wearing?”

Again she replied, “Yes.”

I said, “Did you see her legs?”

Her answer was the same, “Yes.”

“With her walking around in this restaurant, do you think that anyone is going to be looking at your knees?”

We all laughed and she settled down to enjoy her meal.

All kids will have a word or two that they mispronounce as they grow up or they will have a funny happening with a phrase or using words. These are cute ones from my kids.

 

What Did You Say?

My children were like all other kids growing up. They played, went to school, fought with one another, but certain things that they said stuck with me and will come to my recollection when I think about them when they were young.

My oldest child Amanda latched onto a phrase that she picked up from a television commercial. It was for a dog food advertisement. The voice of a child would say, “My dog is so big…” and the dog would come on screen carrying a tree or something equally impossible for a dog to lift.

She added her own twist to the commercial. We had a larger dog. It was half German shepherd and half Alaskan malamute. Our dog was male and did heist a leg and hose down the side of his dog box, weeds, or bushes.

Her addition to the catch phrase was, “My dog is so big, he pees on trees.”

When we visited anyone, that catch line was the first thing out of her mouth. It usually caught people off guard and it was funny, so they would laugh. And the laughter would spur her to tell it at the next place we visited. It was a self perpetuating cycle. The phrase would cause a laugh and the laughter would encourage her to say it again.

We wanted to discourage it and stop her from doing it over and over again. Either my wife or I would go to the people we were visiting while the other would stay at the car with Amanda and her brother. The one who went into the house first would say, “Amanda is going to say, ‘My dog is so big…he pees on trees.” We know it’s funny, so get your laughter out now before she comes in.” They would laugh and I would signal the all clear sign to come in.

Amanda came in and would say, “My dog is so big…” and no one would laugh. Finally, she stopped because the laughter stopped.

Andrew my son had trouble with certain words when he was younger. He didn’t like storms and would come to us saying “It’s winny, Daddy. It’s winny.” meaning the wind was blowing hard. Another word he had difficulty getting his tongue around was watermelon. He called it a “waterlemmel.” His aunt Beverly was Aunt Betty. I am glad to say, he has grown out of it.

Anna, the youngest, is effervescent and it frequently bubbled over. One day at school, she was using the restroom. It was a small private school and the restrooms were near the classrooms. While she was inside, her mind wandered. The lyrics of a song popped into her head and it flowed out her mouth. In the empty bathroom, it echoed.

The teacher and students in the closest classroom heard, “La la, la, bomba!” pouring from the restroom.

Knock, knock, knock. The teacher rapped on the stall door and said, “Anna, You’re being much too loud in here. You need to be quieter. You’re disturbing the other students.”

Food and Fancy Pants

Just outside of Indian Head, Pennsylvania along Route 711, there used to be an auction every Saturday night. A man named Ethan Pritts and his wife Hazel bought it and ran it for many years. It was a large wooden building with brown Enisled brick tar paper and a tin roof. At one end was a raised stage and throughout the interior were the fold-up type movie seats and wooden benches to sit on. There was a raised platform where the auctioneer sat.

In the back right corner was a kitchen where Hazel cooked food and sold sodas, candy bars, and bags of chips. On one counter sat a machine that served Lemon-blend. It refrigerated and squirted the drink into a clear plastic dome and fell back down into the bulk of the beverage. The outside would sweat from the heat against the cold dome. The food items they served included hamburgers, hot dogs, French fries, and fish sandwiches.

Now the fish sandwiches were to die for. They served two pieces of fish, deep fried to a golden brown on an over sized bun. The portions of the fish stuck out about three inches on both sides of the bun. My mouth is watering even as I share this story. It cost $1.75. Its size was enough that even an adult who ate the sandwich felt full, but as a kid, my stomach was tightly full to feeling overfull. The flavor was so good that I would slowly gorge myself to almost bursting. I couldn’t stop until it was all gone.

At that time, smoking had not been banned and seeing the item for sale was often seen through a smoky haze. A low hum of voices chatting in the audience gave back ground to the auctioneer’s sing song, slurred cadence announcing the present asking price until he called “Last chance. Going, going, Sold.”

Ethan would hit the Strip District in Pittsburgh on Friday afternoon and buy produce that needed some work; cabbage where the outer leaves needed to be removed, onions that had a rotten one in the bag sorted and re-bagged, or fruit that needed sorted to remove the over ripened ones. He would do the sorting and re-bagging Saturday morning so that all would be ready for the sale that evening.

One night sales were slow. It seemed that neither Ethan nor the auctioneer could get the crowd into a bidding frenzy. Nothing was enticing them to bid. They tried interspersing the old and new with the produce and blocks of cheese. The food stuff sold but not at very high prices. Ethan was beside himself as he searched through the items that were stored at the back of the stage. All of a sudden, he wrestled a huge cardboard box about the size in which a clothes dryer would be packaged. Pushing it up to a spot beside the auctioneer, he jammed his fist through the top. As he withdrew his hand, he took the microphone from the auctioneer and said, “What am I bid for these?”

His withdrawn hand was filled with ladies nylon panties; all colors and all sizes. There was about ten pair in his clenched fist. He handed the microphone back to the auctioneer. The crowd went crazy. Each handful held different colors and sizes and each handful was bid on separately. They emptied that huge box, one fistful at a time.

The sale went on, bidding was improved, and Ethan seemed more relaxed.

These are my best recollections of the family tree. If any reader has anything to add or to correct the names and facts listed below, please reply and I will update and or correct them.
(Updated and corrected 7-18'2013)

My Aunts (and Uncles)

                Aunt Rachel was the oldest of Ray and Becky Miner’s eight children. She had eight children of her own. Her husband, Francis Peck was a coal miner before he had problems with black lung. They lived in a large house on farmland raising a cow or two and chickens. I can faintly remember they had a goat. One of their kids had a milk allergy. Their children were; John (J.R.), Jean, Gerald, Nancy, Rosella, James, Arlene, and Brenda. John passed away recently from cancer.

                The next was Cora who later married a man named Fred William Hyatt. She was a feisty person even as a child. Mom told a story of when they lived in a duplex. There was a “foreign lady” who lived next door. She would chase the kids from her part of the yard. One day the “foreign lady” decided to cut across my Granddad’s part of the yard. Cora flew out of the house with a broom in her hands and chased the “foreign lady” out of his yard. They had Frederick (Butch), Sara (Sally), Peggy, and Richard (Ricky).

Butch was killed in an auto accident. His car was found at the bottom of a quarry lake.

Violet married Charles Bottomly. He worked at Anchor Hocking in Connellsville. They were childless until they adopted three children all at once. The three boys were the sons of my Uncle Dale. When he got divorced from his wife Jean, he didn’t want to raise the boys on his own. (I was told that Jean went into a mental facility.) Dale put them up for adoption and Violet and Charles adopted them; Alan, Dwayne, and William.

Dale married a woman named Jean. His slovenly and irresponsible ways and Jean’s caring more about the lives of soap opera stars to the neglect of their kids was the downfall of their marriage and allowed their sons to be adopted. Dale died and I mention that in my other blogs.

Ina married Oliver Nicholson. They had four children and lived in Millersport, Ohio. He worked at for Alcoa and had a huge garden. The family rented a place on Buckeye Lake until Nicky (his Nickname) built a house for them. He finished the bathroom and the kitchen and then moved in. He had stapled cardboard to the two by four framing to separate the bedrooms until he could afford to finish the rooms one at a time. Their children were; Carol, Barbara, Oliver (Butch), and Elizabeth.

Butch was killed in an auto accident as well.

 

Cosey was next and married Clyde Brothers and lived in Connellsville. He worked at Anchor Hocking too. She was a stay at home mom. They had seven children; Clyde, David, Wayne, Linda, Debra, Ellen, and Darla.

Sybil was my mom and the baby girl of the family.  She married Edison Carl beck. (He goes by Carl.) He worked at Walworth Company in Greensburg until they moved until they moved to Mexico and at Robert Shaw. Mom did accounting work and as a bank teller. They bought a small house on Rt. 711 and kept adding on to it as our family grew. They had three children Thomas, Kenneth, and Kathy.

Theodore (Teddy) never married and had no children. As a child, he was assaulted by two adults and suffered a brain injury, functioning on the level of a third or fourth grader. He lived with my grandmother. Doing odd jobs of mowing, collecting, and selling nut meats and gin sang is how he made money. He did collect old radios and like to repair them.

That is a short genealogy of Aunts, Uncles, and first Cousins of my mom’s family

Estella was the oldest child of Anna and Edison Thomas (E.T.) Beck. She lived in the house next door to my grandparents in Indian Head, Pennsylvania. Her husband, Melvin Strawderman was disabled with black lung from the coal mines. They had two children; Shirley and Merle.

Helen Married Amos Jacob Stahl. They had six children; George, Barbara, Dorothy, Larry, Glenn, and Annagail. Jake was a mason. They moved to Orlando, Florida. Masonry work was too seasonal for him to raise their family.

Merle married Dorothy Randall. They lived in Melcroft, Pennsylvania. Merle had been a coal miner and then a custodian for the Clifford Pritts School. It was located next door to his home. He had four children; Phyllis Charlene, Larry, Edwin and Paul.

Larry drowned and Edwin died mysteriously while attending college.

 

Edison Carl Beck was my dad and is covered under Sybil, my mom's information.

That is a brief synopsis of my family tree on both sides of the family..

My Greats

                I met my great-grandfather Curtis and my great-uncle Wes. It was at one of the family reunions held at my great-grandfather’s farm. His farm had a large two story clapboard frame house that had a full basement beneath it. Across a country lane was his barn, shed, and several other outbuildings.

                Great-granddad  kept the farm and the buildings in immaculate condition. Fields were mowed, crops were weeded, and fences were repaired and kept clear of brush. The farm returned the favor by returning its bounty to granddad. The farm’s yield was given away in bushels; apples, pears, and ears of corn. He was generous and often shared with family and friends.

                From what I can remember of my great-granddad and my great-uncle they were sitting in a swing on the front porch. Curtis was a tall, stick-thin with a tiny moustache and a balding head. Great-uncle Wes was completely the opposite. He was round and wore a dark suit with a tweed vest covering the broad expanse of his belly. He had a full white beard that reached halfway down his chest. He had a deep laugh that made him jiggle all over.

                At the reunion he held at his place, I can remember the long tables of boards and saw horses were set out under several large trees at the edge of the field nearest to his house. They were covered with table cloths and food. Chairs lined the one table for the older people to sit. Everyone else found places to sit in the thick grass to eat their meal.

                Bees would buzz around, lured from nearby hives by the food and the sweetness of the desserts and lemonade. Even the apples under the close by trees in the orchard drew the bees to sip the juices from the damaged fruit. The bees were the special project of Curtis’ daughter-in-law Ruth.  She was a bee charmer and could handle her honey bees with her bare hands. She had to chase the older boys away when they started to throw apples at the hives.

                At one end of the table sat a huge crock. It must have held twenty gallons and it was filled with ice-cold lemonade. A tin dipper hung on the side to lift out the refreshingly sweet drink from the hunks of ice. The outside of the crock was glistening with condensation.

                In the back yard of the farm house was a hand pump. By moving the handle up and down, water could be drawn up from the well below. The water was icy, sweet, and tasted slightly of the rust from the iron pump. Great-granddad kept a tin cup hanging on the side of the pump for people who wanted a drink. If you didn’t hold the cup tightly enough, the gushing torrent of water would tear it out of your hand.

                Farther behind the house was the chicken yard. It was surrounded by a wire fence. There was a flock of chickens and one lone turkey. The turkey was huge and when the Tom fluffed his feathers, he seemed twice as large. Even the cocky roosters steered clear of him. The chicken yard was bare of any grass from years of chickens living there and eating every blade of grass.

                I was too young to cross the road and see his cows and pigs, but I could see them in the fields. They looked sleek and fat and well fed like everything else on the farm.

                There was a rope swing with a wood, plank seat. It hung from a massive limb in a huge maple tree at the side of the house and if we weren’t swinging, we were throwing stones into a small stream flowed at the end of the side yard. Sometimes if the adults weren’t watching, we would pull off socks and shoes to wade and search for crayfish, careful to avoid their dangerous pinchers, when we would catch them.

                The gathering of people would stay around through two meals; talking and eating before goodbyes were said and people made their ways home.

Resh's Red & White store had been the store for a coal company. It was purchased and run by a family named Resh. It still carried many of the things that a rural store would need to have on stock. My mom worked at the store and the following are a few of the incidents that were passed on to me.

More Red & White Stories

                While still in high school, my mom Sybil June worked at the local Red & White store in Indian Head, Pennsylvania. It was a small store that had been a mining corporation’s company store. It was the only market in town, so she was expected to learn all of the areas of the store from stocking and sweeping to working behind the meat counter and to manning the cash register. She had to know each product and where it was located.

Being the only store in Indian Head, it carried all sorts of products; groceries, shoes, clothing, and some things that are not stocked in many of the department stores today, like animal feeds, seeds, fertilizer, barbed wire, salt blocks, wiring, plumbing supplies, lumber, glass jars, and glass jugs. Resh’s stocked steel traps used to trap furs, work boots, work gloves, dresses, under clothing, brassiere, work pants, socks, stockings, jeans, and shirts. Assorted foods like salted dried fish, pickles from a barrel, and penny candies stored in jars.

                One day as she was restocking the shelves, a man approached her and asked her for assistance.

He was trying to buy a brassiere for his wife. My mom was young, innocent, and naive. It was a time when men didn’t talk in mixed company about a woman’s unmentionables, but I suspect that the man was a usual unpolished and rough-hewn red necked local resident. It embarrassed my mother to no end.

Of course, he didn’t know the size his wife needed nor did he have his wife with him.

It was an awkward moment, but it became even worse when my mom asked, “Do you know what size she is?”

                Blushing and red faced, she sputtered and continued, "You need to find out what size she wears or make a guess as to what size she needs, otherwise I can’t help you. You need to give me more information.”

                His reply, “I don’t really know, but she has two good handfuls”

***<>***

                Another incident occurred when a customer came into the store to buy a box of four glass jugs. MY mom had sold jugs to him before.

                Jokingly, my mom said, “I see you’re buying more jugs. Are making moonshine?”

                The man stopped in his tracks, turned, and snarled, “That’s none of your damned business, girlie,” spinning around he turned and left the store carrying his box of jugs.

***<>***

                My father met my mom at the Red & White store and began to flirt with her. He owned an Indian motorcycle and would offer her a ride home. She would always refuse. One day someone rode by her on a bike and grabbed the sleeve of her coat. It tore, she fell down, and she was upset. She always blamed my dad for the incident and he always denied that he had caused it. I never did find out whose story was correct, but they dated and of course married, and our family was created.

 The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

                In 1967 after I graduated from high school, but before I joined the Navy and went for basic training at the Naval Training Center, Great Lakes, I worked for a year in a factory that made valves. The factory was located in Greensburg, Pennsylvania. It was the Walworth Company and it made valves of brass and steel. The sizes ranged from two and a half inches to thirty-six inches. By spinning a wheel attached to a screw, the action opened and closed the valves. They were built as wedge valve and ball valve closures.

                I started as a hand trucker for the fifty-three, steel finishing part of the plant. For the most part, I was trucking for the welding section. I was given a heavy duty, thick-bodied wooden wagon. It had a solid steel handle to pull and heavy rubber wheels to carry the weight. I moved supplies and even valves from one section of the plant to another.

                Dad and I worked the same shift. We went to work together, came home together, and lived together. It was a disaster. He was tired. I was tired and we got on each other’s nerves. We argued all the time. Life at home became a nightmare.

                When a position opened on the afternoon shift, I jumped at it. The position was in the tool room. There was more responsibility and more pay. The icing on the cake was, although we worked in the same area, he was leaving when I came on duty. He was asleep when I got home and we saw each other only on the weekend. It worked out so much better for both of us.

                I would drive home after eleven p.m. each night. It was about a thirty minute drive. My car was a 1966 Ford, Galaxie 500 XL. It was burgundy and had a black vinyl top, black bucket seats, and a T bar shift. The engine was a 390 horsepower with two a barrel carburetor.

                I loved it. The seat was comfortable, the ride was smooth, and when I punched the gas, it would really move out.

                It was a dark night. There was no moon light and occasionally there were wisps of fog winding along the roadway. I was starting to get drowsy.

                I rolled down the window and cranked up the volume on the radio. The station had just started to play “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.” I was still tired and it didn’t seem that the cold air or the loud music was working.

                I had just driven across the top of a small knoll. As the front of the car nosed downward and the slightly haunting music was blaring, an owl swooped low. Its body barely missing the hood and the windshield and then it disappeared into the night. The wingspan of the bird was nearly as wide as the car itself. The owl’s eyes were as huge as I am sure mine were. My heart was in my throat and I wasn’t sleepy anymore.

                I pulled into the driveway at home ten minutes later. My hands were still tightly gripping the steering wheel and I was shaking. I was sleepy earlier, but now I would have to unwind before going to bed.

I Hear the Train a’ Coming

                I just came home from a funeral. It was my wife’s aunt Elma Jean. She was ninety-four years old, and at all sorts of things and memories were stirred. The one that were most prominent was the death of my wife ten years ago, my mother-in-law the following year, and the death of my mother on the third anniversary of my wife’s passing. So many familiar faces gathered for the same reason was bound to trigger memories.

Another was Elma Jean’s name. She was the child who had been born right before my father-in-law, Bud. Bud did not like his name. He felt his mother hadn’t gotten enough of whatever was going on when she picked names, because he was named Elmer Eugene. He had been given the nickname of Bud as a kid and kept it.

Although Elma Jean and her family had moved from Pennsylvania to live in Lorain, Ohio many years ago, she wanted to be buried in the plot next to her husband and that was in the Sands Cemetery in the hills above Ohiopyle, Pennsylvania. The family had her embalmed body shipped back to Confluence, Pennsylvania to a funeral home there where she would be viewed for three hours before the service at the funeral home and one at the graveside.

The family hadn’t talked to the funeral director, but left information that a Dale, a local nephew and cousin should be the contact person in Pennsylvania. Dale got a call from the owner of the funeral home who said, “Dale, we have your aunt here. What do you want us to do with her?”

My cousin hadn’t gotten a phone call either and he was in the dark as well, but after a few telephone calls, everything was worked out. I really cannot imagine how shocked he must have felt getting that call.

One of the stories that was told, as families are prone to do when they gather, was that Alma Jean, Doris Mae, and Freeda Iantha were sisters that often sang together at local churches. They had good voices and sang well together, but the biggest drawing card they had was that they were all single, young and attractive. When it was announced that they would be singing at the church in Ohiopyle, the church would be packed with teen-aged boys.

It just so happened that two of the sisters had their hearts stolen away and married brothers, Doris married Warren Dale Leonard (nicknamed Cappie) and Freeda married Warren Delbert Leonard (nicknamed Beanie). They had homes about three miles from each other, Cappie and Doris had a dairy farm and Beanie built up a business selling and repairing lawn mowers, chain saws, and other small engine tools.

I had no idea of the amount train and freight traffic that went through the small burgs of Confluence and Ohiopyle. In the three hours we were at the funeral four trains rolled through hauling multiple cars of freight. The trains made me think of stories of my youth. One I have told already and one I shall tell at a later time.

Wedding Crashers

                It was my oldest child’s wedding. My daughter looked beautiful and it went off without a hitch. (Other than the two of them getting hitched.) The church had been decorated with white bows and calla lilies. When I walked her down the aisle, it was as if I was walking in a dream. So many things were swirling around in my mind. I was aware that this ceremony was very much different than my son Andrew’s wedding two years before.

                My wife had passed away five months before his wedding and at that time I was still in a complete fog, but my wife would not have wanted us to delay it. The crowning touch was that Andrew’s wedding was in Cottonwood, Arizona and we lived in western Pennsylvania. It added to the stress in my life. I had to herd my daughter, my mother-in-law, and the luggage as we flew from Pittsburgh to Phoenix Arizona.

 

                The wedding was great and the weather was as beautiful as the bride. My daughter’s wedding was over. All of the people of the wedding party went to have photographs taken while the other guests were invited to attend the reception and to enjoy cookies and other snacks until the picture session was over. Music was playing and punch bowls were filled. Guests were nibbling and mingling while they were waiting. Everything was going well. It was like almost like every other reception.

                Before I tell the rest of the story, I need to explain. The reception hall we used was a community center in a rural area between two very small towns. There are no major recreational draws in the summer. There are two ski areas, but this was August. Two Frank Lloyd Wright homes and some white water rafting are the only draws.

                The bridal party had just arrived in their stretch limousine. They had just stepped out and were about to go up the outside stairs to enter the reception hall when a small car sped into the parking lot. It surprised my daughter and her new husband. They stopped to see what was happening.

                Initially they thought it was someone arriving late and were hurrying to get there on time, but when the car stopped in the middle of the lot and the car doors popped open. It was almost like a Chinese fire drill.  The wedding party watched in stunned amazement. A whirlpool of people emerged. Four people jumped out, ran up the stairs, and asked to take pictures with my daughter and new son-in-law. One of the wedding party accepted the strangers camera and snapped several pictures.

                While the pictures were being taken, the strangers talked to the newly-weds. The visitors were from Israel and on a whim, seeing the bride and groom, stopped for photographs. As soon as they got the pictures, they returned to their car and sped away.

 

                My daughter told me later, once the strangers had gone, the bridal party looked at each other like “What happened?”

                The reception went well. Good food, good friends, and good music made the night enjoyable.

                After the honeymoon was over, my daughter told me about the strangers and the photo shoot. I said, “Why didn’t you invite them in. We had plenty of food.”

                She said, “Dad! We were so surprised and they were back in their car and gone before we could say anything.”

                All I can say is somewhere in Israel, pictures of my daughter and husband are in someone’s vacation album.

Everything and everyone is trying to go green. My grandparents had been there and done that long before it was chic. They couldn't afford not to be green. These new companies using food to make things biodegradable is ridiculous. They say that people in America are going hungry, not to speak of the rest of the world, and they waste food. Let them use scraps and other waste items. Don't drive up the cost of the necessities for life. It sickens me that the government is trying to force the issue. Entrepreneurs will find solutions when it can be made profitable.

Green Granny

                Long before “going green” and recycling was hip, my grandparents were doing it. It was nothing new to them. Where do I start? Old catalogues were never tossed away. They were put inside the outhouse, the privy. My grandparents’ privy was deluxe. It had two holes; a large one for the adults and a smaller one for the children. The covers were cut at an angle so they would not fall through. When I went inside, I always hoped I would find some dull, flat pages because the shiny ones left sharp corners and little to clean my bottom.

                Left over food scraps were fed to the chickens or added to the pig slop to help fatten the animals. The animals’ manure was spread on the fields to help the crops to grow. The crops of corn, wheat, oats, and hay were foods that fed the animals and people. Egg shells and coffee were tilled into the garden to enrich the soil.

                A produce huckster would stop at my grandmother’s house and sell her at reduced prices what he knew would spoil before the weekend. It was his last stop before he would drive to his home. She would cook, can, or serve it to her family. He would give her produce that had started to spoil and outer leaves that would not sell. She would cut out the spoiled spots and toss it and the leaves into the pig slop and use what she could save as food.

                Walking into Grandma’s kitchen, I would see plastic bags hanging after she had washed them to allow them to dry. Folded and stored, she would reuse them. Washed plastic margarine bowls or Cool Whip bowls and lids were used to store leftovers or sent home with visitors containing food.

                Pencils were used until they could no longer be called stubs. Used envelopes received in the mail were kept to make grocery lists or to keep score when we would play “Muggins” dominoes.

                She would look at the pictures of clothing in the catalogues. (Before they made the migration to the outhouse.) Pinning newspapers together, she would make patterns and sew school clothes. Scraps of fabric and old clothing magically were transformed into works of art as she hand stitched the different designs of thick quilts.

                Newspapers were used to start the fire in her coal stove or lit, they would singe the hair off the plucked carcasses of the chickens or used as a catch all when cleaning fish.

                Empty cans became spittoons for my granddad when he chewed his “Cutty Pipe” tobacco. (He was a miner and chewed to remind himself not to swallow the coal dust.) The metal Spry or Crisco cans became shining miniature Christmas trees when they were cut into strips and curled away from the seamed backbone of the tin. She would put a shiny ball on the free end and a bigger bulb on the top. One year she made their Christmas tree out of wire tight from ceiling to floor and attaching pine boughs to it.

Orange crates became table, chairs, and a small cupboard for her girls at Christmas. Cocoa tins and small boxes became doll sized sofas and chairs when padded and covered with bright fabrics.

Even the ashes from the wood stove could be used to make lye. The lye would be used to blend with some of the lard from the butchered hogs to make soap. Wash water was used to was the white clothing, then the towels and sheets, darks, overalls and work pants, and if it wasn’t too dirty, the rugs. The water was used to water the geraniums in her flower boxes and on the gardens’ plants.

The only clothes dryer she knew was a length of rope and clothes pins, making use of wind and solar power.

Yes, my grandparents were definitely ahead of the curve.

George has passed away, but we can all be thankful that the memories of friends and loved ones don't if we keep them in our hearts. Good memories about good friends can cheer us and make us smile.

Leasure Time

                George Leasure was a good friend of my dad and they worked at the same factory. It was Walworth Company in Greensburg, Pennsylvania. The company made valves of all sizes. I worked there for nearly a year before going into the Navy. George became my mentor when I started to work in the tool room.

                I had to learn how to learn how to read blue prints so that I would know which drills, jigs, and other supplies that would be needed to complete their project. I would have to pull the right equipment for the machine operators to make the correct part for the needed valve.

                Many times I would have to sharpen the drill bits or shape the carbon tips that were affixed onto the end of a metal bar. Grinding the correct bangle on the tip was absolutely critical to make the cuts on the metal valves. If the angle was off, the valve would not seal and the whole thing would be ruined and would leak.

                George was a prankster, quick to smile, with an easy laugh. One of his favorite pranks was to place a paper cup with water in it on the top edge of a partially open door. When the door was pushed open, the cup would tip over spilling the water on the person below. Someone would get wet.

                I was no exception. He pulled a prank on me by placing the cup of water on top of a blue print he knew that I would need. The blue print was on a shelf, just above eye level. Pulling the print off the shelf, the cup came with it. I had fairly quick reflexes and was able to jump out of the way. The cup hit the floor and the water splashed onto my pant leg.

                I glanced back to where George was sitting. He was at his machine where he sharpened the milling machine blades. He was smirking around the stub of a stogie he always had clenched in his teeth. His job was tedious and time consuming. The stool he sat on was covered with rags. The rags cushioned the hard seat and if it got soiled with oils and accumulated dirt, he could toss the dirty one in the trash and apply a new one.

                I wanted revenge and devised a plan to get even. It had to be more complex than just a cup of water on the top of a door. I needed a diversion from the real vengeful stunt. George went to the bathroom and I set about with my plan. I put a cup of water on the open tool room door. Then I set in motion the rest of the idea. Using a Baggie, partially filled with water, I slipped it beneath the rags on George’s stool. I smoothed the rags to conceal the booby trap below.

                Quickly I moved back to my station and went to work. When George returned, he kicked the door open. The cup fell to the floor. Even the splash of the water missed him. He removed his stogie and chuckled as he headed back to his machine.”You’ll need more than that to get me.” he smirked. I pretended that I was disappointed.

                George returned to his seat. He took out his cigar and started to say something. The smirk on his face quickly changed to one of surprise when the Baggie burst and the water soaked through the rags.

                I never did find out what he was going to say. The seat of his pants was wet.

                It was my turn to chuckle.

Tin Toboggan

It was a few weeks after Christmas and it was very cold. The snow that fell was light and fluffy. It wasn’t good for sledding, building snowmen, snow forts, or even making snow balls. When we tried tramping it down to go sledding, it made only a thin crust that crumbled easily and riding on the slender runners nearly impossible.

We were starving for things to do in this winter wonderland. We were dying to play in the snow. Flinging fluffy snow at each other was no fun at all. This was a time before the disc sleds and no one was rich enough to own a toboggan. Heaps of snow was around us and it almost seemed like we were in a icy desert.

My dad decided to visit one of his friends who owned a large dairy farm. He had three kids, although they were older my brother and me. When we got there, dad’s friend said they were sledding in one of the fields, “Just follow the tracks.” he directed. We hurried out to meet them.

As we approached, my brother and I watched in fascination as the toboggan swept down the steep hill and shot out into the flat field below. We hurried to join them, thinking “Wow!”

“Can we ride?” we asked as we followed them back up the hill.

“You’re too young.” was their answer. We were disappointed, but we trudged along to the top of the hill with them.

The toboggan was home made. It had started out as a twelve foot long piece of corrugated aluminum roofing and was about thirty six inches wide. Someone had curled back thirty inches of one end to form curved front, just like the wooden toboggans. It had a folded piece of burlap sack sewn onto the sharp edge. Binder twine passed through punched holes in the metal held it in place.  Two pieces of binder twine was fixed between the top edge and the bottom surface to keep the curved shape. The seating on the sled was more feed sacks fastened together. They ran the entire length of the toboggan.

We made it to the top of the hill and they all climbed on the sled. We asked again, “Can we ride?” The only response we got to our question was “Give us a push. Come on, push us.”

I looked at my brother, shrugged and thought, “They didn’t say we couldn’t ride.” We began to push. The toboggan picked up a lot of speed before my brother and I jumped onto the back. Now with the extra weight and the shove we had given it, we went flying down the hill. The slope was whizzing by us.

We were at the bottom in no time at all, but the story and the ride doesn’t end there. The extra push and weight propelled us out farther into the field than they had ridden before.

Meandering across the field was a small stream. Its banks were about two feet deep and almost four feet apart. We weren’t slowing at all and the stream was looming closer and closer. Everyone aboard was beginning to panic. It was cold and no one wanted to go swimming, especially at this time of the year. In an instant the edge of the ditch was in front of us and in the next moment, it was behind us.

The momentum of the extra push and weight had caused the toboggan to shoot over the ditch and went another thirty feet beyond the stream. Everyone was upset with us and yet exhilarated at the same time. Whether they had planned the ride to be their last for the day before we came or not, the kids decided that it would be the last ride for them.

Dale was an uncle that bragged about being the biggest story teller around. Not just the tall tales, but outright lies. He was proud that fiction and truth struggled constantly and often truth was mighty battered. I've shared some of his stories, but here are a few more.

Topping Whopper

I’ve mentioned my uncle Dale before. He was a man who told lies and tall tales as an integral part of his life and was incapable of completing a full sentence without using a variety of curse words. He cultivated his swear words until he was able to reap a huge crop. It came to the point that he would use profanity without consciously knowing he was using it.

He was in the local snack bar one morning bragging about how many fish he had caught while waiting for his food and sipping on a cup of coffee.

After a few minutes, a man got up from a nearby table and approached Dale who was sitting at the counter. He stopped beside my uncle and said, “Sir, do you know who I am?”

When Dale swiveled his stool to where he could see the man, he said, “No.”

The man pulled out a badge and said, “I’m Charlie Cunningham. (fictitious name) I am the fish and game warden.”

Dale said, “Do you know who I am?”

Charlie said, “No sir, I don’t.”

Dale replied, “I’m Dale Miner and I am the biggest bull shitter in Indian Head.”

Charlie just shook his head and walked away. That ended the conversation.

One day I challenged him. “Dale I can tell a bigger story than you can.”

Insulted, he took the challenge and I said, “Dale, you go first.”

He said that he had been fishing along the railroad tracks when a storm blew in and as he was hurrying home, the lightning hit the tracks behind him. He looked back and saw the lightning racing along the steel rail following him. He knew if he didn’t make it back to Indian Head and throw the switch; it would blow the town off the map. He threw down his pole and tackle and ran full speed into Indian Head ahead of the lightning. He said, “It was close boy. I felt my fingers tingle as I threw the switch.”

He took every bit of ten minutes to relay the story and details.

I said, “Are you finished?” He nodded and I started my story. “Dale, you’re the most honest man I know.”

He looked stunned for a few seconds before laughing and saying, “I’ll be damned if you didn’t beat me.”

Another morning, ne of Dale’s friends asked, “Dale, how many pancakes did you eat this morning?”

When Dale replied that he had eaten fourteen pancakes, his friend said, I beat you Dale. I had sixteen.”

Dale wasn’t one to go down in defeat easily said, “But did you have an egg between each cake?”

I.R.S. and Taxes

My father’s father, Edison held many jobs in his life. He was a justice of the peace, a farmer, an accountant, and a tax consultant. He ran a lumber mill, was a squire, did surveying, and was a lay speaker.  A tall slender man, he was active even when he was crowned with sliver white hair. My granddad kept the books, did payroll, and did taxes of two multi-million dollar companies until he was in his early eighties. His penmanship was superb and I am envious for it.

Most of his clientele were average, everyday rural people who looked to him for help with taxes, deeds, and legal matters. His clients were small time farmers, small business owners, and regular citizens who would bring their information to him in much-handled envelopes, shoe boxes, and brown paper bags. Stacks of receipts wrapped with twine or wrapped in rubber bands for him to sort through. They came to him because they were simple folk, plain people; people who were easily intimidated by the government and its regulations. They trusted him with their finances and that he could sort their jumble of papers and then aptly ply the numbers to the jumble of government paperwork. Eventually he would give them the answer for which they anxiously awaited. Will they have to pay money to Uncle Sam or had they overpaid and would get money back.

When the taxes were readied, he would have them sign their returns and even placed a stamp on each envelope. The only thing that his clients would have to do would be to stick the finished returns into their mailboxes to be picked up.

I can remember my granddad sharing one story about a farmer coming in with his wife to get their taxes done. They sat on the opposite of his desk and watched as the farmer would take out the receipts one at a time, show his wife, and saying what each receipt was for, saying to his wife, “Isn’t that right?” before handing it to my grandfather. My granddad was extremely patient man, but he was slowly reaching his limit. It came to a head when the farmer produced a receipt, showed his wife, but instead of asking her, he asked my Grandfather, “A commode seat is deductable, isn’t it?”

Keeping his voice steady, he replied, “Not unless the cows use it.” Granddad tactfully said, “Let me have the box. I can see what is deductable or not.” Reluctantly, the farmer handed the box to my granddad.

 

Another tax story revolves around another farmer who was a friend of our family. He kept his tax receipts inside of five metal milk cans. Each year of receipts were stored in the sealed cans with the date painted on the lids. On the sixth year, her would dump and burn the old receipts and store the new ones in the can after changing the date on the lid.

An I.R.S. agent came to his farm to audit him. Ken was the farmer’s name and he lowered a fold down desk in the milk house where he stored his receipts for the agent to work. Ken moved the five cans close and knocked off the lids with a brass hammer. (Brass is a softer metal and won’t harm the milk cans.) He put them within the agent’s reach and said, “There are my receipts.”

The agent leaned over and peered inside. Looking up, he said to Ken, “I can’t audit your account this way. You will have to get an accountant to put them in order for me to review.” expecting Ken to bow at his feet like other intimidated audits.

Ken said, “The law says I only have to supply my receipts for you. It doesn’t say how I am to present them.” Ken turned and walked away, leaving the agent to his task. He said it ooked like the agent went through the first few inches in a couple of the milk cans before leaving his farm.

 

Fathers

                My father was never an emotional man. Showing love wasn’t easy for him. A pat on the head or a swat on the behind was his way of saying “Good job.” He did give occasional hugs, but I can’t remember a kiss, although as a baby when everyone kisses, I can’t say.

                He went to work, bought us the things we needed, kept us fed, and built more onto the house when the size of our family grew. I guess he put his love into the tangible things in our lives. He meted out justice, gave us chores to do, and taught us right from wrong. One taboo for him was never to be late. It was always, “If you’re not early, you’re late.”

                Growing up wasn’t always easy, but then again life isn’t always easy. If you are finding it is easy, you’re going with the flow and most of the time it’s the wrong direction. He took us to church Sunday mornings and evenings and to prayer meeting on Wednesday evenings. We worshipped God In a small congregation in the Clinton Church of God. My father’s fixation on being where you are supposed to be and “On Time” (Which actually meant early.) can be best described in the following vignette.

                It was winter and very snowy. The roads were slick and snow covered. Sunday mornings meant we WERE going to church. All of us piled into our car and started out. I am sure it was thirty minutes early for a fifteen minute drive. There were several ways to get to church and all of them involved going uphill. Dad tried one way without success, the second way and no success, and on the third try we managed to get there. Pulling into the parking lot of the church, we opened our car door to get out and we could hear the congregation singing the first hymn. Dad called, “Kids. Get back into the car. We’re going home.”

                I found out later that he was so upset with a woman at another church who would dress to kill, arriving late every Sunday and “parade” her children to the front of the church to show off her kids and herself. Another woman at the same church would bring her kids in, well dressed and ready for the church services, but she would still have curlers in her hair and an old dress. Once she deposited her kids, she would go home, do her hair, dress, and put on make-up and jewelry. Then she would return LATE coming into the church. Both women did this Sunday after Sunday. It was a reoccurring incident.

                I think those two women firmly made my dad an early bird.

                My dad is in a nursing home. He couldn’t stay at home and care for himself and we couldn’t keep two people in his home to help him walk. It was more than balance and it always took two people to help him.

                He will be ninety years old in a few days. He says, “I was born on the longest day of the year.” I visit him about twice a week and when I leave, I always tell him “I love you.” I want him to know that I understood that he was saying “I love you” for all of those years.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

House of Horrors

                My uncle Dale was an unusual man or should I say odd. I have tried to understand over the years the things that he did and why. Most times he was unwashed, unkempt, uncouth, and irreverent. He either had a little black Renzie stogie in is mouth or a chew of Beechnut tobacco wadded in his cheek. When he died, he died alone in his small trailer that my mom and dad had set up for him on an area at the back of their property.

                He was found sitting on a chair at the kitchen table face down on the tabletop.

                After the funeral, it was up to me and my immediate family; my mom, dad, brother, and occasionally my sister to clean and sort through his things. I coincidentally happened to be on vacation and spent most of it at the trailer working. We were confronted with the monumental task of cleaning, sorting, and throwing away. We would be unpleasantly surprised at what we would find in the various and sundries that he had accumulated and stored in his trailer.

                Let me give you an inkling of what I found inside. He was quite willing and often would tear down a motor, a gasoline engine in the middle of the carpet of his living room and it only got worse from there.

                In the kitchen, food was left in pans. Pots were not clean and sitting on the counter or in the sink. I started to clear an area to open up the sink to have water so that I could begin to clean up. Accidentally, I bumped the Crockpot. The lid slid to the side coming ajar. The stench was instantaneous and horrendous. I gagged. The odor chased me out of the trailer. After a few minutes of gagging, I regained my stomach. As much as I hated to do it, I pulled my tee shirt over my nose, I dared to re-enter the torture chamber. Ever-so-carefully, I secured the lid and cautiously carried it outside. I wanted no more of that odor.

                I opened the back door to allow the air to circulate. I went back inside now that the smell had dissipated. I was going to attack the accumulated grime. “That’s funny. Even the flies had abandoned the trailer.” I started by opening garbage bags and scraping scraps of food and other bits and pieces into the bag. Slowly working my way through the trailer, I marveled at the variety of obscure and odd items. He had a cupboard of home canned fish, ramps, and other things that he had gathered.

                I cringed when I got to the bathroom. I was afraid of what I would find, but my imagination would have never thought of what I actually did find. The fixtures were not that bad, but there were live fish swimming in his bath tub. A slow trickle of water from the faucet aerated the water and kedt the water fresh and the fish alive. That explained why he was so dirty.

                The bedroom wasn’t a problem. There were things that needed to be gone through, bed linens, papers, and his clothing. Some weren’t worth saving and were tossed. The personal papers were passed on to his children. They had been adopted out to another one of my aunts and uncles and we still knew them. They could do whatever they wished with his personal things.

                Dad had a shed garage combination that was next door to Dale’s trailer. Dale used it as his workshop and storage area. He tossed all of the nuts, bolts, screws, and washers into empty Redman tobacco tins. They were from the motors and other things that he had disassembled.

It took several more weeks to go through and divide them into the comparable items.

Sundays at Home

Sunday afternoons seemed special to us kids. After coming home from church and we had eaten lunch, my dad would drive to a small local store and buy a Sunday newspaper, a large bag of Snyder’s potato chips, and a half pound chunk of “gummy” longhorn cheddar cheese. When he came back he would give Mom the cheese and he would settle himself in his swivel recliner. Mom would cut the longhorn cheese into long pieces that resembled French fries. She would bring them into the living room and put them by the sack of chips. Dad would toss the comics to my brother, sister, and me. We would read the “funnies,” lying on the floor, occasionally reaching for a piece of cheese or a handful of chips until they were all eaten. It had become almost a Sunday ritual.

Mom would curl up on the couch to watch a movie. The program was narrated by Rege Cordic. She managed to stay awake until about half way through the program. Soon, we would hear soft snoring emanating from the couch. It happened every Sunday. When she would wake up the movie would be over and she would say the same thing, “Oh shoot! I wanted to see the end of that.” She began to call her naps Rege Cordics.

Dad’s favorite chair was overstuffed fake leather recliner that swiveled on its base. It was parked close to the television set. Before he settled into it he would turn the dial to his favorite channel and there it stayed. It wasn’t bad when he was watching sports, the Pittsburgh Pirates was his first choice other sports came in second. My brother and I had no problem with watching sports, but he loved to “watch” The Lawrence Welk Show. “You have to be kidding. Any channel but that.” we would moan.

Not long into the program, the soothing and unexciting music would begin to lull Dad and he would doze off. When one of us would get bored with his “wonnerful” music, one of us would gather our courage and sidle up to the television. Slowly we would turn the dial. At the first click of the knob Dad would snort awake and yell, “Turn that back! I was watching that!” Dutifully we would turn the dial back to Lawrence Welk and sit there bored to death until the program was over.

One day I got s brilliant idea. If I could prove that he wasn’t watching Lawrence, but was sleeping, maybe we could watch another channel.

As soon as Dad fell asleep, I grasped the bottom of his chair and ever so slowly I turned the seat until he was facing away from the television set. Boldly I approached the television. I reached out for the dial; looking back over my shoulder to be sure Dad was still asleep. I began to twist the knob. Click. Click. Click.

I heard Dad stirring in the chair behind me. I knew what was coming next.

“Turn that back! I’m watch..i..n..g…” his voice trailed off. He saw that he was facing away from the television set.

To say that he was upset was a major understatement. We still ended up watching the end of Lawrence Welk Show. (Dad didn’t like to be proved wrong, at least not by a wet-behind-the-ears son.)

Later he showed me just how upset he was, I walked past his chair and he tried to kick me in the seat of my pants. His foot failed to connect and he slid down and out of his chair. That did nothing to change his mood. He was grumpy the rest of the evening and shot darts out of his eyes when I moved.