Dad and the Jehovah Witnesses

The missionary commitment and zeal of the Jehovah Witnesses is commendable but intrusive and often undesirable. Most people want to be respectful of another’s religion no matter how incorrect it is. After you have politely said “No thank you.” For the umpteenth time, you lose patience and can get a little testy.

This is a story about my dad and mom and an unannounced encounter with the Jehovah Witnesses. Their home was situated along a busy highway and often had visits by travelling salesmen, lost drivers, and the Jehovah Witnesses..

My mom and dad were working in the garden one afternoon, getting it ready to plant, when a car pulled into the driveway. When three people, two women wearing nice dresses and a man in a suit and tie got out of the car with a wad of papers in their hands, my mom figured out who it might be and slipped away.

At the back edge of the garden ran a small stream. It was at the bottom of a drop off. The bank was steep and she rolled over the edge, hiding. She peeked over the rim, escaping the confrontation and the unwanted solicitations and yet seeing what was going on.

My dad found that he was left alone to face the inevitable and zealous barrage of their cult’s misrepresentation of the Bible. Dad turned, only to see that Mom had disappeared and it was too late for him to follow. Frustrated and angry at being left to face them alone, he could only watch as these unwanted people approached.

Politely, the Witnesses tried to persuade my father (a staunch and devout Christian) to understand the point of view of their religion. He knew their twisted view on Christ and His deity made them a cult.

My father stood there refusing their premises politely and refuting what they were saying. All the while, my mom would peep over the top of the bank. Because of where my dad was standing, he could see her looking, but the Witnesses couldn’t. My dad got more and more upset, mostly at my mom because she had abandoned him.

In a final attempt to persuade my father to understand what they were saying, one of the misguided missionaries tried to give my dad copies of “The Watchtower” and “Awake”, (Now they try to sell them to you.) saying, “At least take some of our news letters to read.”

Dad made no movement to accept the proffered tracts. To him, it was the last straw. The irritation and anger that had him seething during their visit, bubbled over and Mom’s hiding had lit the fuse.

He responded with a honey sweet refusal, saying, “No thank you. We have enough toilet paper.” His response terminated their visit and stopped their visits for many months.

I am still wandering down memory lane, trying to share my past and put it in writing for my kids and grandchildren if they choose to read it. So much has been lost that my mom and dad shared. I want to capture as much as I can. It's not that it is so unusual to other kid's lives, but it is a history of older times and activities.

The Skinny on the Ball Field

There was a kid created and maintained ball diamond where we played. It was on a level plot of ground that no one used, so we claimed it. It became the place where we played softball or baseball. Each kid would bring his equipment; a bat, a glove, or a ball if they had one and we would play ball.

It always depended on what type of ball that was brought as to whether we would play baseball or softball. If no one brought a ball or if we wanted to cool off after several hot innings, we would make use of another natural resource near at hand. The stream ran alongside the ball field, nearly parallel to the first base line.

Let me describe the layout of the ball field. Route 711/ 381 was almost parallel to the third base line, a teacher’s yard was just beyond the outfield at second base, and a weedy patch of briars grew along the base line to home plate. The stream and the highway was far enough away not to be a concern, but occasionally a ball would roll into the teacher’s yard or driveway. That wasn’t a problem either, but when a foul ball ended up in the briars and weeds, we had to search for it or quit playing. With only one ball available, finding it was imperative. Even when we found it, we sometimes stopped the game. Emerging hot and sweaty with legs scratched and burning from the thorns, we would decide on going for a swim.

None of us ever brought bathing suits; it was skinny dipping or getting our underwear wet. (No one wanted to be called a sissy because he was afraid to swim naked and no one wanted to be called a baby because his underwear were wet.)

The cool water of Indian Head Creek would stop the burning of the scratches. The water was slowed by a rock dam that we built. We maintained it and it was chin high at its deepest part. The stream ran behind a line of trees and clumps of Laurel bushes. There we were hidden from the traffic and from the teacher’s windows. Nothing disturbed us as we swam other the passing of an occasional train.

The train tracks ran on a ledge about twelve feet above the water. When we heard the rumble of an approaching train, we all headed for deep water until only our heads bobbed in the water.  We would wave at the engineer and most times, he would give a short toot of the locomotive’s whistle.

It was an odd feeling when the train passed. The heavy rumble made the creek bed seem to shake beneath the water. Even before the rumbling died away, we were back on the bank diving and playing tag.

My granddaughter Hannah visited Saturday. It was great. I sat down this morning to type into my blog and found the paper on which she was drawing. I flipped the page and there was a hand outline that I drew and then placed her hand in the outline and traced her hand. That made me smile. It's not a bad way to start a Monday.
It got me thinking about the times we visited my grandparent's home. It was a huge, old farmhouse. The upstairs and the "sitting room" were off limits to us kids, but there were so many other places to play and to snoop, and I was a snoop.
Each room had a lot of furniture that had a lot of drawers. She also collected salt and pepper shakers. I couldn't touch them, but I left nose prints on the glass looking at them. Friends always brought her more when they visited her. They were stored in the dining room in cabinets. The most fun for snooping was in the dining room. She had a large side board that had three small drawers just under the flat serving area. Under them were two doors, and under them were drawers. Perfect for storing the odds and ends I liked to look and snoop.
On its flat top sat two frosted glass lamps that had cut crystal prisms. They dangled down and circled each lamp. When the sun came through the windows and hit the crystals, it was magnificent. The room exploded into hundreds of rainbows.
The three upper drawers were filled with all kinds of exciting tings for a nosey kid to explore: from buttons and hair swatches, to pencil nubs and pen nibs, from thimbles to thumb guards for shucking corn. All were jumbled together in those drawers.
My favorite thing to handle was a brass and steel hammer. It was so cool. The hammer was just a hammer until I discovered its secret. It was smaller than a regular claw hammer, but was still functional. Its length was about nine or ten inches. The head and shaft was steel, but the handle was brass. The handle was scored into a checkerboard pattern to make a grip. I discovered that the end of the brass handle unscrewed and inside was a screwdriver. Its handle also unscrewed and inside was a smaller screwdriver. Just like those Russian nesting dolls.
The smallest screwdriver was about an inch and a half long. It was fun and intriguing for a young child to see it. Dismantling and reassembling it was a fun thing to do while at her house.
Recently I found a similar hammer. It was smaller, but still had the screwdrivers hidden inside. I hope that when my grandchildren find it tucked away in a drawer, they will have as much fun as I did, unlocking its secrets.

I Want a Four Wheeler

My son Andrew was at the age where he wanted to test his wings a bit and be in control of something with a motor. Some of his friends had a four wheeler, a quad and he wanted one as well. The fathers of his friends used them for hunting and farming. I didn’t have the need for one and it was a luxury we could ill afford at the time. After several requests, he didn’t ask anymore, but he did drop frequent hints.

One day after he came home from school, I said to him, “We got a four wheeler for you today, but there are rules you will need to follow before you can ride it.”

A huge smile washed across his face. A sparkle appeared in his eyes and I could see this “WOW!” pop into his head.

“The first rule, you cannot ride it outside of the yard without special permission.” I told him. “The second, if you leave the yard, you must wear a helmet and number three, no hot rodding with it in the yard.”

Almost dancing, he agreed.

I pulled the key from my pocket. It was dangling on a ring. I tossed it to him saying, “It’s parked out back.”

It was almost as if he was launched from a catapult. He flew across the living room floor and out through the front door.

Now, I must confess something before I continue with the rest of the story. The four wheeler that I bought was a bright red lawn mower. I know it was in a way a mean thing to do. It was parked beneath a window at the back of the house.

I am proud of my son. There had to be some disappointment that it was a lawn mower and not a quad, but he took it in stride. He didn’t utter one word of complaint. He just hopped on, stuck the key in the ignition, and looked over the controls. Pushing the throttle into the start position, he turned the key in the ignition. He put it into gear, lowered the mower deck and shot off across the yard.

Speeding and wheeling the mower through the yard, it didn’t take long at all before the lawn was neatly mowed.

Our neighbor boys had some cherry bomb firecrackers that their older brothers had bought for them. This was a time when fireworks were legal in Pennsylvania. I was visiting them and they were looking for an ingenious way to use them. The loud noise wasn’t enough for them.  An idea came to them as they were rummaginging around in a scrap pile. They had already put a fiirecracker under a can and watched it fly into the air with the explosion.

Pulling an old metal bedstead out from the other items in the pile, they carried it to a level place. They pushed one end into the soft ground at a slight angle, while the other open end aimed skyward. They dropped a lit cherry bomb into the tube, It was cool to hear the ringing thunder and see the flying paper and smoke. It was impressive, but not impressive enough.

They found the large tomato can that they had used earlier, lit another sherry bomb, dropped it and then the can collowed down the bedstead tube.

Boom! The can flew nearly twenty feet into the air. I thought  it was great, but they wanted more.

Retrieving the can, they filled it nearly half full with the pea –sized gravel and dropped it down the cannon after the lit firecracker. (That was what they were caling the bedstead by now.)

BOOM!. The weight of the can must have caused a greater compression before the can wa forced out, because it shot about another ten feet higher. The gravel flew out of the can. Some it ripper leaves from the branches of the oak trees overhead. The scattering gravel fell back onto our heads, some down the driveway, and some hit their dad’s pick up truck parked near the house.

Although they still had several cherry bombs, they wisely chose to save them for another day and the cannon went back to the scrap heap.

A True Redhead

Often my brother and I would hop onto our bicycles and ride to our friend’s house about half of a mile away. He and his brothers would join us and we would take to the shaded lanes and abandoned fields near their home. The one area where would ride was an abandoned campground, the one that Les and I encountered the Boy Scout troop in his old car.

The roads ran through wooded areas and through large and small open areas of the campground. Some were large open meadows, where our families would pick wild full-flavored strawberries and by quiet little niches that would hold a tent or a small Scotty trailer. The camp had been abandoned, but people still came in to use the campsites.

Sometimes we would ride to the old camp to swim in the stream that had been dammed up and other times we rode for the joy of feeling the wind in our hair. It almost seemed like a paradise to us kids. We had the freedom to ride long distances without the fear of traffic. If we got warm, we rode in the shaded areas.

This particular morning, was sunny and cool, the perfect weather for riding our bicycles. It was cool enough to ride in jeans and a polo shirt without overheating when pedaling furiously. Here and there, wisps of fog curled in low lying areas of the road and the campsites.

It was a time of freedom. We were riding for the sheer joy of it, feeling the cool air rush by and through our hair. The morning was filled with the aroma of honeysuckles and wood smoke. There had to be campers about.

Tucked tightly in a small campsite was an older Scotty trailer. It was turquoise and white. Coiled around its bottom was a large bank of fog, reaching about thirty inches high.  The door to the trailer was open and framed in the dark doorway was an alabaster skinned, statuesque woman. She was sky clad…absolutely naked… not wearing a stitch of clothing. It was as though Aphrodite herself was standing there. With the tendrils of lingering fog swirling below her feet, it seemed as though she was standing on a cloud.

Her skin shone as translucent as milk glass. She had wide hips, a narrow waist, and breasts the size of small grapefruit. She was “Venus on the Half Shell” alive and living here in rural Pennsylvania. It was a titillating moment for us boys.

We stopped our ride just out of sight. We weren’t sure what to do, but the only road leading back out would take us back by the Scotty. We decided to make ride back, but we were disappointed. The door was still hanging open, but empty. The one thing that I can say for sure was this woman was definitely a red head.

Again I am falling back to share old recollections with you. Each day, I am penning them down, but I am not feeling the need to write poetry, which I am sure to some, considered a blessing.

This is an anecdote about an old car ride.  As a kid, I used to wander next door to visit the neighbor boys. They were older than I was but it was something to do. They were always tinkering on an old car, either dismantling one or fixing it so they could drive it. They would sometimes do something unusual.
I can remember that they raised the rear end of an old truck and by using a long loop of leather belting and a home made stand for a saw blade, made a way for their dad to saw slabs for the wood burning furnace.
Another time, by raising the back end of a car and sliding a wooden trough under the one tire, they could take the outer skins off the green walnuts. The spinning tire was hovering above the trough about 3/4 of an inch. By rolling the walnuts down the trough, the spinning tire would scrape the husk from the nut. We would gather the nuts up and spread them out to dry.
The exact experience I wanted to share, happened as follows. The younger boy was rewiring an old car. He had the interior stripped for easy access to all of the wires that he was replacing. Only the front bench seat, dashboard, steering wheel, and gear shift were left inside. The car was an older Dodge I can't remember the year, but the hood was hinged at the back. The front of the hood curved down like an eagle's beak almost meeting the bumper, between two frog-like headlamp eyes.
When I said, "Hi.", he said, "That's enough for now. Let's go for a ride." and closed the hood of the car.
I grabbed the thick chrome handle and twisted it downward. The door clicked open. Giving a tug, the heavy door swung open and I climbed into the passenger seat. The bench seat was plush, full and comfortable. There were no seat belts in the cars at that time.
Les jumped into the driver's seat and turned the key. The engine coughed once and then rumbled to life. The noise reverberated. It bounced off the bare metal interior of the body. Les was sitting behind the large steering wheel. It was cream-colored and had a matching "steering knob" attached to it.
Spinning around in the driveway, we were off. At the end of the driveway, we stopped, then shot across a busy highway and onto the series of dirt roads beyond.
One of the dirt roads ran through an abandoned camping area. Some people still used it and sometimes the local Boy Scout troops still camped there. The road was actually a narrow lane, little more than two bare grooves with a hump of grass in the center and grass berms on either side. It had rained and water was laying in some of these channels.
Les was speeding through the long straight aways and rooster tails of water were arching out behind the old car.
This is the exciting part. I was watching the fan of water when I heard Les say, "Oh no! Boy Scouts!"
I swiveled my head around in time to see a double line of Boy Scouts hiking on the berms of the lane. It was too late for Les to stop without wrecking the car and possibly hitting some of the scouts, so he said, "Hold on!" and pushed down harder on the accelerator. "I don't want to be here in the middle of a bunch of angry and wet scouts."
The rooster tail rose higher. I could see scouts diving off the berm into the woods beyond. Just as we made the middle of the scout troop, WHAM! the hood of the car popped open, flew up, and blocked the view through the windshield. Les was blinded, but not for long, By squatting down and leaning forward, he could see through the crack between the dashboard and the bottom of the hood. ZOOM! we sped by the confused and wet (I'm sure.) scouts.
Out of sight, Les turned the car down a dead end lane and turned the car around. He shut the car engine off, and we sat there. The only sound was the car engine cooling. He finally said, "There's no way I'm driving back that way right now. I know those scouts will be looking for us." Then he said, Reach back into the back of the car and grab some wire. That hood won't pop open any more." I grabbed a long piece of the wire that was left on the floor from the rewiring project and climbed out of the car to help. Pushing hard, we managed to get the sprung hood back into place. While I sat on it, Les slid under the car and wired it shut.
We sat on the bumper in the sunshine and relaxed for about twenty minutes before we drove back home. The Boy Scouts had gone. We were safe.