The Woodland Avenue Paperboy Remembers:
A series of recollections of growing up in Tyrone, by Gary Long.
A PENNY SAVED
When was
the last time you stooped over to pick up a penny on the
ground? Last
week? Last
month? If
you’re under thirty, an answer of “never” wouldn’t
be surprising. By
the same token, an answer of “every time I see one”
might be the norm for those over sixty.
Last week
an acquaintance of mine, John, stooped over and picked up a
penny in the parking lot of a local coffee shop.
His friend, Art, began to give him a hard time about
his frugality. “Collecting
money for your next vacation?” John smiled and the banter between the two men continued
across the lot and into the shop.
Art put his hand on John’s shoulder and told him,
“You ought to leave that money for the younger kids”.
John is 84 while Art is one of the younger kids of
72. With a
twinkle in his eye John grinned at his friend and said,
“If the kids are anything like my grandson they won’t
stoop to pick up any money that isn’t made of paper.
Besides, this penny is going to help pay for my movie
ticket tonight.” Pennies
for movies – I remember them well.
I don’t
remember anyone over on “buryhill” getting a weekly
allowance although we tried.
When I got old enough to debate the issue with my
parents, I remember using the rationale that they received a
tax benefit every year from my $600 exemption.
This came to about $12 per week but I calculated the
“real” tax break for their bracket at closer to $4 per
week and I’d be willing to settle for half that amount in
cash. They
stared at me without any apparent reaction.
Then, without a word, they walked outside onto the
porch. From their reaction it was evident to me that I had won the
debate and we just had to settle on an amount.
Big mistake! At
supper time the following Friday my dad presented me with
two crisp one dollar bills.
I was elated! The logic of my argument was flawless and it was apparent
that they now saw things my way.
The smile on my face was short lived as mom then
presented me with an itemized bill detailing charges for
room, meals, laundry, clothing, and various sundries
totaling $47.85 for the week.
The eighty-five cents gave it a touch of reality.
As dad got up from the table he picked up the two
dollars, smiled, and said, “We’ll settle for half the
amount in cash.” The
topic of allowances never came up again nor did the issue of
room and board.
Along with
the other kids on the hill I finally came to realize that
our real needs were already being met.
Our parents took care of all of our needs and more to
the best of their respective abilities. Food, shelter, clothing were always available with generous
portions of love and discipline when appropriate. The occasional treat of an ice cream cone, a comic book, or a
bag of candy from Gardner’s was to be savored as something
“special” and not taken for granted.
Besides, we could always earn extra money on our own
if we wanted anything above and beyond those rewards.
Pennies were the prize – get seventeen and the
movie was mine to see.
Earning
money for a movie or some other luxury item was usually
easy. Before I
was old enough to have a paper route, I looked for odd jobs
that people in the neighborhood wanted done.
The number of jobs was limited so I had to be the
early bird to get one.
Cutting someone’s grass was a “regular” job not
usually available on a first come basis.
Pulling weeds in a garden or in a flower bed might
earn me a dime or so but I had to be tactful by saying
something like, “Your vegetables/flowers really look great
this year. I know from helping my mom that it’s a lot of work to keep
it weed-free. Let
me know if you ever need any help.”
Bang, there’s a dime from Mrs. Dixon.
The Wertz sisters were usually good for a nickel for
sweeping the sidewalk in front of their house but Billy
Skelton usually got that job.
Suzie Miller paid with a glass of lemonade and a
smile for sweeping her porch but that didn’t buy a movie
ticket. Red
Harshbarger and his brother Charlie both had gardens that
needed to be kept weed free.
While doing
odd jobs was a good way to make money, these jobs weren’t
always available when I needed them.
Chances are the movie I wanted to see would be this
coming Saturday and I didn’t know what would be playing at
the El Patio until Tuesday or Wednesday.
I tried planning far in advance to accumulate money
“just in case” but most of the time it would be spent
before I knew what was playing. As my mom often said, “That money just burned a hole in
your pocket, didn’t it?”
Sometimes I could make a few pennies just by walking
down town. Straddling
the curb I kept one foot on the road and the other on the
curb. I kept my
head down looking into the gutter searching for brightly
colored copper circles.
On sunny days I would always walk on the right
(north) side toward downtown.
I would glance toward the gutter on the opposite
(south) side periodically where the bright sun might betray
the presence of a shiny coin.
A good trip could yield as much as three or four
cents but the results were inconsistent.
The real
way to make money consistently was a junk trip to
Sealfon’s. Papers,
tin cans and scrap iron were always in demand and most were
readily available. Paper
had to be loose, i.e. unbundled, when taken to the yard.
The price per pound varied but the most common price
was about a penny for every ten pounds.
They had to be loose because a few folks had been
known to soak the inside papers with water or even hide a
brick or stone inside to increase weight.
Tin cans had to be clean and couldn’t be crushed or
flattened for the same reason.
Tin brought about a penny a pound.
Scrap iron was around two cents a pound which is why
my dad lost many of his old horseshoes.
Once he gave me a lecture on the finer aspects of
economics after I had taken a five pound length of bar stock
to the yard. A
ten cent return on a $2.50 piece of iron wasn’t good
economics. Someone
at the yard knew my dad, recognized the flaw in my plan, and
set the bar aside. After
sweating bullets and struggling to repay the value of the
bar dad informed me that he had the bar and returned the
money I had earned. Lesson
learned! Copper
was a rare and precious metal in my neighborhood.
Even if it went for a nickel a pound I could never
find any and never took any to Sealfon.
Aluminum was kind of new and, to my knowledge, it
wasn’t a metal that could be sold at the junk yard.
Most people were more than happy to have us haul away
their paper and old soup and vegetable cans.
On the surface the price for paper was so low that it
didn’t seem worth the effort.
Fifty pounds of paper would generate one nickel and
fifty pounds was about the limit for my wagon.
Still, if they were available, I could easily do two
trips from 12th Street to the alley near the
Hookies to get to Sealfon.
Tin brought more money per pound but cleaning and
preparation of the cans took too much time when I was trying
to beat a Saturday morning deadline.
By 11:30 AM
it was decision time. Is
there enough time to go to a few more houses in the hope of
getting enough paper for another load or do I move on to the
next funding scheme? The
starting time for the Abbott and Costello Meet the
Invisible Man is scheduled for 12:45 PM.
Realistically, I know there will be previews of next
week’s movies, at least one cartoon, and maybe a newsreel
so the movie won’t start until after one.
On top of that the Saturday matinee is shown
continuously at least until six or so.
Still, I want to be there at the start!
Taking to
the alleys I begin looking into neighbors’ yards.
I’m drawn to those that have burn barrels.
I walk up to one and peer in toward the bottom.
Using a stick I stir through the ashes but come up
empty. Two
houses in the area (White and Maninno) have burn cages that
were sold by Dean Phipps.
The sides are open wire which means I can see the
contents without stirring with my stick. After six or eight burn barrels I found what I wanted: pop
bottles! There
were three of them which meant I was six cents closer to my
goal but I was still six cents shy.
Now I have to beg!
One by one
I rap on the doors of people I know and who know me.
I went to ask Snyder, Kerchner, McKinney, Livingston,
Sullivan, McClellan, Wertz, Walk, and Harshberger the same
question. “Do
you have any bottles that you don’t need?” At house after house I came up short. My fortunes changed when Suzie Miller gave me a Waples’
bottle – that’s worth a nickel!
Then Mrs. Dixon gave me a Hagg’s bottle – another
nickel! I was
four cents over the goal and it wasn’t even noon.
On my way downtown to redeem my fortune Mrs. Fleming
came outside and added one more pop bottle to my collection.
Rolling my
wagon from store to store I cashed in the two milk bottles
and four pop bottles. I
couldn’t wait to get home to add this to the nickel I
already had from this morning’s paper run.
I got out paper and pencil and wrote down numbers.
10+8+5=23
23-17=6
Not only did I have enough for
today’s movie, I have six cents toward next week’s show
– if it doesn’t burn a hole in my pocket!
Pennies still count just a little when it comes to
financing a trip to the movies but they give us a little
exercise when we stoop over to pick one up.
Sled Riding on "Bury Hill"!
Special
Delivery
By
Gary Long
Christmas was over; the New Year had been ushered in to blasts of fire whistles, horns, and the pop of an occasional firecracker. Now we waited it out through cold mornings and dreary days until the spring thaw.
Every cold January morning grudgingly gave way to the heat of a stoked fire and a fresh charge of black diamonds. As heat gathered in the belly of the furnace we would stake out positions near a grate or radiator. Sitting on chairs brought in from the kitchen, we warmed our hands and feet while socks, shoes and even corduroys and shirts were spread on the grating to capture heat. Warm clothes felt good on a cold morning and soon we forgot that frigid air that had greeted us just minutes earlier. Getting dressed would sometimes be punctuated with dancing, jumping or screaming as of overheated metal buttons or zippers came in contact with unsuspecting skin. Once dressed, all were welcomed into the kitchen for a hearty, stick to the ribs breakfast of oatmeal or cream of wheat. Then we’d bolt out the side door ready to take on the world.
After less than a half dozen steps down the street we were reminded just how cold a January morning could be. As smoke rose from the chimney of every house on the street we saw condensate from kitchens form frost on neighbors’ windows. By the time we reached Blair Avenue my hair was frozen. I reached into my coat pocket for my hat but changed my mind. It wouldn’t do any good now. By the time we were at Logan Avenue I felt as though I was frozen solid. I guess I should have kept my coat buttoned even after I was out of mom’s sight.
On cold days like this we normally arrived at school well before the bell. We’d go inside, hang our coats on the hooks in the hallway and head for our room. In the 40’s and 50’s, St. Matthew School had four classrooms all on the first floor. The second floor was a hall or auditorium with a stage used for special occasions like Christmas or Thanksgiving. Restrooms were in the basement with the girls’ room on the “convent side” and the boys’ room on the 12th Street side. Each classroom housed two grades – first and second together; third and fourth together; etc. The lower four grades were on one side of the hallway and the upper four grades were on the other. Anytime we had a chance (like when we got there early on a cold January morning) we’d venture across the hall to have a look into these “upper” classrooms.
They were much different than the one to which I was confined. The blackboards seemed larger and the alphabet above was in “cursive” not block letters. There were maps of the world at one end of a blackboard. And there was a world globe sitting on top of a bookcase which held a whole set of about 25 or 30 red books. I found out later that they comprised an Encyclopedia. Even the desks were different. They were larger, had fold down seats, were bolted to the floor, and had room under he desk top to hold books. In one corner of the room there was a fairly tall cabinet with doors. In the cabinet were books and science supplies for special activities. We could hardly wait until the day we moved across the hall. Heck, anybody could learn things in rooms that had all that stuff!
When the bell rang we settled down in our measly little desks and tackled our topics one by one while envying the “big kids” across the hall. Lunch time finally came and, except for a few kids who brought a sandwich, most of us headed back out into the January cold hoping for some hot soup and a grilled cheese at home. Even if it was too cold to play outside we usually were back at school by 12:30 or so. If we weren’t allowed in right away, we’d get together a fast moving game of tag which would warm us up. About five before one we’d hear the faint sound of a hand bell being rung by one of the sisters. Once, on a really cold day, Sister Theodore rang the bell but hardly anyone heard it. She was so cold that day she was wearing a heavy black woolen shawl over her habit and coat and the bell was somewhere muffled under the layers. The afternoon would usually move at a fairly rapid pace and before you knew it, 3:30 was here and we were on our way home.
If we were lucky, there would be snow on the ground and we could go sledding before supper. If not, we’d listen to the “Lone Ranger” or “Sky King” then homework and supper. January was like that – back to school after Christmas, cold and dreary days, not much happening around town and a long wait for the celebrations of February. February was coming but it seemed to take forever to get here. I really liked the second month for a few reasons: (1) we almost always had a lot of snow, (2) school was closed for either Washington’s or Lincoln’s birthday, (3) my birthday was during the third week and, (4) even if Lent came early and I missed out on birthday cake, we still had candy on St. Valentine’s Day. As the first day of February approached the countdown began. First I checked to see when Lent started, and then I’d look to see if I was going to have cake, candy or both this year.
As I remember it, February was a festive month in our classroom. Pictures of Lincoln and Washington were hung on the walls. Streamers of red, white, and blue connected the pictures along with evenly spaced American flags with 13 or 48 stars. Classroom and homework assignments were peppered with references to facts and folklore surrounding the first and sixteenth president. We read of the felled cherry tree and a boy who “could not tell a lie”. We also heard of the youngster in Springfield, Illinois who walked miles to return a penny to a store customer. We saw how one man helped forge a nation and how the other saved the union. Classes on our side of the hall made construction paper cutouts of these presidential icons and displayed them in the school windows for all on Cameron Avenue to see. We heard that on the other side of the hallway they were hard at work writing essays on the life and times of theses great men – maybe ours was the better side!
In addition to the presidential décor there was evidence of other festivities in the rooms. Red and white crepe streamers were hanging over the entrance and red chalk had been used to draw hearts in the corners of the blackboards. Red construction paper was distributed to each of us to “create” something special for our mothers. We were told to fold the paper in half lengthwise. Next we had to draw a tear drop shape on the outside half. Using sharp scissors, we then cut out the teardrop shape without unfolding the paper. We lined up near the back of the room waiting to get our hands on one of the three pairs of scissors we had in the room. Once cut out, we unfolded the paper and voila, it was a heart. Crayons and pencil were used to decorate the heart with our individual words of thanks and love for our moms. Some of the kids went so far as to decorate the edges of the heart by cutting up a lacy white paper doily and gluing it on the back. We learned that St. Valentine was martyred for his faith during the early days of the church. Over the years a celebration in his name evolved which centered on remembering those who were special to us. A special card for mom seemed only fitting!
Other people were also special and we often sent them cards. I remember sending one to Aunt Gert but I was too embarrassed to sign my name and I didn’t deliver it in person. It only cost two cents for the postage as long as I didn’t seal it. In our classroom we also exchanged cards. The 5 & 10 had packages of cards for twenty-nine cents. Most of the cards were funny, a few were “cute” but none were serious (how romantic could a ten year old be?). For a nickel you could buy a card that was bigger and had its own envelope – Aunt Gert got that one. On Tenth Street the left front window of Gardner’s candy store was filled with red, heart-shaped boxes adorned with bows and flowers and filled with chocolates. Scattered among the boxes were tiny multicolored candy hearts with little sayings like “oh you guy”, “sweet thing”, “bee mine”, and “hubba hubba”. Inside the store was more of the same including spicy cinnamon hearts, pink and white marshmallow hearts, chocolates shaped like hearts and, small boxes of candy hearts. Even the 5 & 10 had special candies for the coming occasion. This day was going to be alright!
Around the 10th of the month we were told it was time to get our “mailboxes” ready. We attached a brown paper poke (the kind used to carry lunch) to the side of our desk with scotch tape. With a little luck mine would be filled with cards from the 5 & 10 by Valentine’s Day. We weren’t allowed to take out any cards until the 14th but each day I looked down inside to see what I had. On the 11th it was empty – darn! The 12th came and still nothing. Everyone hated me, I just knew it! On the 13th I saw two cards lying on the bottom which made me feel a little better. Finally the 14th came and we were told to let the bags alone until after recess (that’s when we went into the main hall and lined up for the bathrooms). During this recess we’d sneak back into the room and subtly deliver cards to the proper “mailboxes”. Many of the cards weren’t signed but that really didn’t matter. It was just important that you got a lot! At about 11:00AM we were told we could retrieve our mail but….leave the “mailboxes” in place. Out came the cards and onto the desks. I got a couple of cards that were animated. There was a slit with a paper tab protruding and when you pulled the tab a cartoon figure tipped his hat or a dog sat up. These two weren’t the cheap 5 & 10 cards. A couple of the cards were signed as “your friend” or “from a pal” but most were plain. I spread them out and began to count: one, two, three….fifteen, sixteen. Wait a minute! There are eighteen kids in this classroom and no one’s out sick. Two people must hate me! I gave everyone a card and so did those around me. It had to be someone from the other grade. I really felt bad but my disappointment was quickly erased by the presence of pink frosted cupcakes and apple juice. Within seconds I was laughing again. Danny, Ray and I howled as we watched a cup of juice and a half eaten cupcake slide off the desk and onto the floor below. “You boys get some towels and clean that mess up.” We were back to normal.
When lunch time came, most of us bolted toward the door then out into the bitter cold. Even though today didn’t seem too cold, tomato soup and grilled cheese would still warm me up. When we got back from lunch the school doors were locked. That seemed strange but we could always amuse ourselves with a hearty game of tag. There weren’t as many people in the yard as there usually were. As a matter of fact, none of the big kids from across the hall were out here with us. As I ran by our classroom window I glanced up and saw a couple of them inside. While that was puzzling, it wasn’t enough to distract us from our outdoor activities. Hearing the faint sound of the summoning hand bell we charged toward the school door on the convent side. As the clamor settled to a din of foot shuffling and muffled laughter I reached to hang my coat on a hook. As I turned to enter my classroom, the coat fell to the floor. I glanced at the coat lying there and headed toward my room. Despite the sounds of giggling, laughing and talking in the hall I was able to distinguish the unmistakable sound of “fingers snapping”. Sister Verona pointed at me, then at the coat on the floor, then at me again and motioning toward the empty coat hook. “Yes, sister,” I said as I retraced my steps to retrieve the fallen garment.
Settling in at my desk I began to finger through the small pile of cards when we were told to put the cards back in our “mailboxes”. As I put mine away I noticed a small cardboard box of candy hearts on the bottom of the bag. I stopped putting my cards away and retrieved the little box. It was just like the ones they had at Gardner’s and everyone in our room had one. We looked at each other wondering how they got there. The mystery was solved when we were told why the doors were locked at lunchtime. Those big kids from across the hall made “special deliveries” to each of our mailboxes.
"USED TO BE"
While
standing in line at the Sheetz store in Greencastle, PA a
couple of weeks ago I overheard a conversation that gave me
a hometown “flashback”. A young man had asked an elderly lady for directions to the
town’s historical museum.
I couldn’t help but smile as I saw her first point
left, then right all the while giving critical landmarks
which were aimed at helping him in his quest.
Nearing the end of her instructions, she told him to
keep going down this street and to turn right “where the
dress shop used to be”.
Not being familiar with the area, his face developed
a quizzical look as he asked for further clarification of
the exact location of this dress shop.
“You know”, she said.
“It’s right next to where the model store used to
be”.
When I was growing up in Tyrone, I don’t remember
anyone giving directions much differently than this lady.
While route numbers and street names were rarely
used, landmarks, both past and present, stood out as beacons
to those in search of a store, a park, a church, or a lost
friend’s house. I
never knew route 220 by anything other than “the road to
Altoona”; 453 was the “Janesville pike”; while 350
(now 453) was the way to Water Street.
I also learned that Altoona was “up” beyond
Bellwood and that Penn State was “down the valley”.
When I gave directions of “up to Altoona” or
“down the valley to State College” I probably confused
many weary travelers. A
point of a finger in one direction or the other would still
send them on their way.
Those wanting to get to our Athletic Park were often
told to head out Columbia Avenue (northwest) through “East
Tyrone”. We
watched as they drove about a half block and then pulled
over for a “second opinion” on how to get to the same
park.
With time comes change and an even greater need for
clear and concise direction to help us get around.
Since I left town, a lot of changes have taken place
and getting around can be a bit of a challenge.
My mother, God rest her soul, was always willing to
help. She could
direct a misguided friend or out of town relative from our
hill to my Aunt Ag’s apartment on Pennsylvania Avenue,
then to Aunt Gert’s house on Bald Eagle Avenue and finally
to Uncle Paul’s place on 14th Street and the
path given would be a masterpiece for the ages.
Motioning with her arms, hands, and twisting or
nodding her head, she would laboriously detail every turn
and key landmark to the weary traveler while they nervously
glanced then stared over a shoulder with trepidation prior
to setting out on the journey.
If she gave directions today, they might go something
like this:
“Getting to Ag’s place is pretty easy.
She lives in an apartment right above Black’s
Garage - I think they sell Fords.
Anyway, you just go down this street past where the
laundry field and the laundry used to be. Cross over the bridge past where Cowher’s Beauty shop and
O’Rourke’s used to live – they were on the left. Catty corner from O’Rourke’s you’ll pass where Flemings
and Morningreds used to live.
When you get to the corner, turn right where
Freeman’s news used to be.
Freeman’s is where Deb always bought his “dime
novels” and the Police
Gazette. You
can’t miss that corner because Hickes market (best pies in
town) used to be on one corner, Fresh’s music store and
Fuoss and Glass Funeral Home were on the other two. Harry Glass liked to go horseback riding with Deb and others
in the Tyrone Horsemen’s Association.
“After you turn right keep going down the street
and you’ll pass where Dr. Glasgow’s office and Shope’s
Garage were. We
bought our 1946 Dodge at Shopes – it was supposed to be
black but we settled for blue when we found out we’d have
to wait another 3 months to get the right color.
After Shopes you’ll come to where Wolf’s was then
an alley. Go
across the alley and you’ll pass where Kreiger’s Esso
station was. He
used to get into the biggest price wars with the station
across the street and I can remember seeing folks from over
Janesville pike coming to fill empty barrels. The Neptune Fire Department was next and on a hot day
there was always an on duty fireman sitting in uniform on a
chair in front of the station.
Just beyond the station is where Black’s garage was
and the door to Ag’s place is on the left. If you go too far, there was to be a row of houses near the
corner that had front porches.
Turn around and look for Ag’s door right before
Black’s.
Blue
’46 Dodge: Even though it was still new, the Dodge was unable to move the horses
from the garage and always had to be parked in the wrong
side of the street on the hill.
Note the flags waving from the homes in the
background on June 14, 1946.
“Getting
to Gert’s house from Ag’s is easy.
You can either continue past the row of houses and
turn right at the corner or you can go back to the alley
between where Kreiger’s and Wolf’s were and turn left.
If you go down the alley, cross the street and pass
the Hookies Fire Department.
That will bring you out at the spot where the “dry
run” empties into the Bald Eagle creek.
Turn left you’ll pass where Sealfon’s used to be
and if you close your eyes and listen hard you can even hear
kids pulling their wagons loaded with tin, iron, or
newspapers going in to collect their “penny a pound”.
Burgess Hagerman used to live in a house across the
street from Sealfon’s.
Keep going down the street and cross the intersection
where Rossmans used to live on the right.
Next you’ll come to an alley and on the left side
is where Havens lived.
Cross the alley and on the other side of the street
is where Antikols lived. Gert’s
house is right next door to Antikols.
“Paul’s place is a little farther but, from
Gert’s is about a ten minute walk.
Continue down her street toward the mill past where
Haneys lived. A
little further down you’ll pass where Minemiers and Colts
lived. Next to
them was Gerty Reed’s place.
At the next corner, turn left and you’ll pass where
the Lynch family lived before they moved to Washington, PA.
Cross over the next street and keep going straight.
You’ll come to a major intersection where Rudy’s
was on one corner and Red’s Atlantic gas station used to
be across to the right.
Rudy’s had the best popcorn and his own made
“banjos” but his best candy was milk chocolate with
ground peanuts. I
think they still make it at Gardner’s.
Go across the main drag past the EUB Church and look
on the right for where the Logan School used to be just
beyond the alley. Paul’s
place is right across from the school next to the AME
Church. If you
go too far you’ll see Donoway’s store (good spot for a
cold bottle of pop) on the corner so turn around and it will
be on your right.
“Now we’re having a get together at Stephens Park
later this afternoon and you’re more than welcome to join
us. It’s on
the road out of town towards Janesville so to get there
you’ll have to head up………..”
You may have noticed that there is never the mention
of a street or avenue by name or route number.
The personality of the town was from its people and
in many cases weary travelers came to know many of the
people in town by name even if they never met them.
Times have changed.
Triple A gives out maps and “Triptiks”.
Garmen sells a computer assisted guide based on the
global positioning satellite that gives turn by turn
directions anywhere in the United States.
Directions are precise, accurate, and specific to
three feet or less. Today,
the directions always give route numbers, street and avenue
names, and precise distances but never landmarks that give a
feel for the personality of the area.
But then there was that Sheetz in Greencastle, PA……..
Wintry Mix!
"Fun on Bury Hill" (Brewery Hill) is a picture of yours truly standing in front of Kerchner's headge on 12th Street. The house on the left was across the alley and belonged to Suzy Miller. On the right is the double house (still standing" that John Kiensle and G. C. Wilson lived in at one time. Beside it is the "laundry field" before they built the 12th Street playground..
Sledding on Bury Hill is looking up toward Woodland Avenue. The sled passing down is Joe Turiano's short model and the house in the background belonged to the Wertz Sisters.
Wintry Mix
By
Gary Long
It finally came! This morning our streets and sidewalks are white as wind blown snow crystals danced and spun in search for the right place to land. While the intensity of the storm ebbed and flowed, excited school children laughed anticipating their activities at the end of the school day.
Until today, despite weeks of forecasters’ promises, there has been little reason to look forward to a day on a hill. Frequent prognostications of the storms of tomorrow raised the hearts and hopes of youngsters only to have them dashed with a thud at dawn’s early light. Sleds and snow saucers that were set out in anticipation of a day of winter fun had to be dragged back to the garage or put back into the basement. Today will be different! Today they will be in search of a hill, a mound, a rise, a mountain covered in white and the source of dreams and screams.
The excitement of the neighborhood kids as they prepared for day’s end took me back in time and brought a flood of memories. When winter came, we always looked forward to snow and the fun it brought. Forecasting snow was left to the experts but over time each kid in the neighborhood would learn how to read the “signs” of snow. At night there would usually be two or more sets of eyes looking skyward to see if snow was coming tomorrow - a “halo” around the moon was a sure sign. If my Aunt Gert’s (Ritz) right ankle was swollen change was coming. The slower than usual gait due to pain in Mr. McKinney’s back meant sidewalks would need shoveled tomorrow. Another predictor of snow was the aroma of cookies or cinnamon buns coming from the Largent home. Mrs. Largent was using the heat of the kitchen and kneading of warm dough to provide therapy for her aching hands.
Our “signs” never told us how much snow was coming but whether an inch or a foot, a dusting or a blizzard, sleet or freezing rain, they were always right. We all knew there was going to be a wintry mix on the hill tomorrow. The mix would include sleds of all sizes, skis, boxes, toboggans, and shovels.
Once the forecast was known, preparations were put in motion. Sleds were the preferred mode of transport down the hill so they were pulled from storage and readied for the first of many runs tomorrow. The runners were cleaned of last season’s rust using steel wool, sand paper or emery cloth. Next came a coating of wax. The method of application varied. The simplest way was to rub each runner with a square of Cut-Rite wax paper. Other sources of wax included old candles or Gulf canning wax. Heat generated by rubbing the runners rapidly or by lighting the candle helped the wax penetrate the pores of the metal runners. Once done, the runners glistened like silver and the sleds were set outside in the cold allowing the wax to harden in preparation for that first run.
While the sleds sat, other means of sliding were considered. A quick trip down to Getz’s, Aults & Crane, Hickes or even out to Heberlings just might turn up a flying carpet for the hill. Sometimes these markets received their meat products in special cardboard boxes which had a wax coating inside. By breaking down the sides of the box we were able to turn the box inside out exposing the wax interior. The wax treatment added speed while protecting the box from getting wet – at least for the day.
Billy Skelton had a pair of skis which he broke out at the first sign of snow. With one person riding on each ski, two could enjoy the run at the same time. Someone had a toboggan which was rarely used. It held about six people but it was hard to get started down the hill and it really didn’t go that fast. Barrel staves were tried but discarded as was a bicycle with one of Billy’s skis attached to each wheel. Joe Turiano had a sled that everyone wanted to ride. It was the smallest one on the hill (about 24 inches long) but it was the most maneuverable. When we made “trains” and “cracked the whip”, this sled was always put at the end. As the train zigged and zagged, the little sled flipped its rider from side to side finally discarding the snow encrusted intruder midway down the hill.
Of all the ways to slide down the hill there was one that everyone used at one time or another. It was the shovel! Not all shovels were created equally, however. The best shovel was a narrow bladed, long handled coal shovel. The grit from the coal kept the metal polished and smooth, the narrow blade was built for speed on snow or ice, and the long handle was great for grip, balance and steering. Those new to shovel riding were scoffed at for showing up with snow shovels. The wide blades made them cumbersome, slow, and difficult to maneuver. Despite all the advantages, there was one significant disadvantage to using a coal shovel. Since it was needed to fire the furnace, you’d better remember to bring it home at day’s end. There were more than a few evenings when three or four boys could be seen combing the side of the hill, flashlights in hand, in searching for this critical winter tool before night fall.
Some things have changed over the years. With most homes now heated with natural gas or oil, coal and coal shovels are things of the past. Wax lined cardboard is hard to find because neighborhood markets are gone. Toboggans, sleds, and skis are still with us and snow saucers can be found just about everywhere. Hills for sledding are a little harder to find. If you’re lucky there’s still a hill nearby even if you have to load everyone into the wagon or pickup and drive to it. In some ski resort areas they’ve added runs for toboggans, tubes, saucers and sleds. What goes around….
One thing that hasn’t changed for me is the meaning of wintry mix. While meteorologists may define it as a combination of rain, sleet, and snow, for me, “wintry mix” will always be sleds, skis, boxes and shovels sliding down “bury hill.”
SOMEONE’S IN THE KITCHEN WITH …
By
Gary Long
Captains of industry, politicians, jurists, educators, military leaders, and others in authoritative positions make critical decisions as part of their daily responsibilities. They conduct meetings in which alternatives can be discussed and challenged. It is in board rooms, chambers, and offices that decisions are made that affect our cities, our schools, the products we buy, and even the future of individuals. In many instances the meetings are held in specially designed board rooms, offices, or chambers. These rooms, while conducive to airing opposing views, are often designed to reflect the hierarchy of the organization while unmistakably recognizing the person in charge. The birth of a quality decision only come from the labor of critical discussion and challenge which emanates from the individuals assembled. In industry and government, today’s decision, good or bad, is often tomorrow’s news.
On the surface, family decisions are not as dramatic or far reaching. However, critical life-changing decisions have always been and continue to be part of the fabric of every family. Near the latter part of the 19th century each of my European ancestors had to make a decision on whether or not to immigrate to the new world. In the early part of the 20th century my father had to decide between college and staying home to work with his elderly father. In 1941 my brother Deb wrestled with joining the Army and going to war rather than complete his academic studies at California State Teachers College. Later in that same decade my sister Pat decided on a nursing career and left for the big city of Philadelphia.
In the fifties my brother Ken opted to enter the seminary rather than complete his high school years in his hometown. Later in the fifties I told my parents of my decision to enter the Air Force rather than attend Villanova. While each of these decisions was unique and individual, it affected other family members as well. While not as dramatic as those made in board rooms, these types of crucial life altering decisions are made by every family every day. In our family, my decision and many of those that preceded, were made or announced in our “boardroom” – the kitchen.
Many, but not all, homes have a “decision room”. Urgent as well as humorous topics are discussed, decisions made, punishments meted out, laughter shared, and forgiveness granted. The rooms aren’t “oval” nor are they “chambers”. The location and structure of each room varies. Formality is neither a necessity nor a hindrance. The most daunting problems can be handled in casual atmospheres while frivolous matters may be addressed in parlor elegance. The room is special to each member and is molded over time to reflect not the hierarchy but rather the personality and comfort of the family. The formula to creating this special room isn’t magic but once you have one it’s really magic.
In some homes this room was where the family sat around listening to the radio, reading the paper, or watching television. People with an ear for fine music and who owned a piano would argue that the room from which the music came was most special. For others it could be the basement since this was home to hobbies, fun, collections or the Lionel train platform “put away” until next Christmas. The formal dining room was often held in highest honor because that’s where the family gathered for their daily bread while holding discussions of the day’s events as well as planning for the future. In the summer, one could make a case that the front porch was the place to be and, therefore the most special “room” in the house. Each family member could have their own room or space within a room that was special. Grandpap Soulerin liked the corner of our living room because he could sit there on the daybed for hours on end watching the happenings on 12th Street. At day’s end he would regale us with his observations of the days’ happenings as seen from his special spot.
Every Tuesday evening he would set me down and describe the days’ events in detail. With a slight French accent his strong, measured voice described each of the people who ventured onto our hill in their automobiles to take the road test for their driver’s license. He chuckled in disbelief as he described those poor souls who approached the hill from Woodland Avenue. “If they used the brains God gave them, they would come up the hill from Bald Eagle Avenue”, he’d say. Then he wagged his finger and said, “When you come up the hill, as soon as the K turn was done you’re finished. No need to pull away from a dead stop facing uphill – remember that.” It was a small detail that I remembered long after his death. I “used the brain God gave me” when I picked up the trooper across from Rupert’s on 10th Street and headed toward Bald Eagle Avenue to come up the hill on 12th.
At our house on 12th Street our “decision room” was small, clean, aromatic, bright, and usually busy. Without fear of contradiction I’ll bet over half of our waking hours were spent in this room. In the morning it was one of the first to be lit as dad prepared to leave for work and in the evening it was the last on the first floor to be darkened. Lights in the living and dining rooms may be extinguished by 8 P.M. If neighbors noticed lights were out in our “special” room they knew something was wrong. Like cafes and roadhouses along busy arteries, our kitchen was always open.
There was nothing unique or outstanding about our kitchen. By most standards it was rather small, although large enough to accommodate a metal framed table that could seat six. The colorful linoleum floor reflected the bright and cheery mood of the room and was subject to change no less than four times in twelve years. Neither moss nor linoleum grew under our feet. The curtains and painted walls were changed with greater frequency but the colors and designs were always coordinated with that spotless floor. Around the room there was white plastic “tile-like” paneling with black trim at the top which was the only constant in this room.
Against one wall was a Frigidaire refrigerator with a small freezer section that barely held two trays for ice. Leftover ice cream boats from Rea & Derrick would be jammed as close to the ice trays as possible to keep it frozen as long as possible. Dad always finished the boat before he went to bed because he “didn’t want mom to have a mess in the morning when it melted”. The gas stove was on the wall between the cellar door and the steps to the upstairs. The stove had legs and it was beneath the stove that my brother, Deb, placed his homemade electric mouse trap. Regrettably, his invention worked and the stench of an electrocuted mouse greeted us early the next morning. This wasn’t the best day for a hearty breakfast!
The steps to the upstairs were different, or at least I thought so. There were two steps that went from the kitchen, through a door to a small landing.. On the other side there were two steps but no door from the living room to that same landing. The two steps in the kitchen served as extra seating during family discussions or just a place to sit and listen to the adults. Under the landing and the steps was open space. The tread on the bottom step was loose and provided access to a place to put things for safe storage (like someone was going to burglarize our house). My brother and I kept all sorts of things in there: our ball gloves, comic books, a cigar box full of marbles, baseball cards wrapped by gum bands, and part of a deck of cards which were wedged into the bicycle spokes to make motor noises. Once I placed a brand new baseball under the step then listened in horror as it rolled under the landing and came to rest under the steps on the living room side. Try as I might, I was never able to retrieve that ball. If I had left it in the original box it never would have rolled over to the other side. Over the years there were quite a few treasures that rolled to the “other side”. Oh to be there when the house was razed.
Up until the early ‘50’s, mom always did the laundry in the basement using the Speed Queen wringer washer. Then she would hang it out to dry on two lines that stretched from the house to the garage. Then it happened! While feeding wet clothes through the wringer her right arm was pulled into the mechanism up to her shoulder. She could reach neither the controls nor the electric cord so it kept turning with her arm trapped. Her screams for help were heard by our neighbor, Sam McKinney, who rushed over and stopped the machine by pulling the plug. He couldn’t pull her arm out but, with the help of another neighbor they were able to disassemble the wringer mechanism enough to remove her arm. She was at Dr. Glasgow’s office on Pennsylvania Avenue when dad got home from work. Mrs. Walk and Mrs. McKinney intercepted him at the bridge and told him what happened. As he turned toward Doc Glasgow’s office, he saw mom walking, arm in sling, with Aunt Gert. Bruised but not broken, she related the details of the accident to dad. After listening, he gave her a peck on the forehead, walked down to the basement, and glared at the washer. Had it been a horse, he would have shot it! “We’ve got to get rid of that ___ ____ thing”. Within ten days we had a brand new Frigidaire automatic washing machine sitting in the far corner of the kitchen.
This new washing machine didn’t have a dangerous wringer. Water was removed from the clothes during the spin cycle. The demonstration of the spin cycle at Reinschmidt’s house is what sold my folks on the Frigidaire. It was so smooth that a nickel standing on its edge would not fall over. Since it was “automatic”, mom loaded it the same way she did the Speed Queen. Heavily weighted items went in with lighter materials as long as the colors were the same. Unfortunately, when it went into the spin cycle an out of balance load would trip the safety. The knob popped out and the cycle was stopped. When she came back into the house and opened the lid to the washer she found the clothes were still soaking wet. The service department was contacted and a repair man showed her how to balance the load. Everything was fine – for a while! She just couldn’t seem to get the balanced load thing right. “This thing is supposed to be automatic and it’s not as good as the wringer washer,” she groused. “If I could just stop that doggone knob from popping it would work fine.” Then it happened. Over the next two days dad took control of the problem. He made a few measurements, sketched something on a tablet and went to the garage. The following Saturday he walked into the kitchen and proudly informed mom that he “fixed” the washer. Heating a length of steel strapping in the forge, he used the sledge hammer and anvil to shape a device to prevent the knob from popping out. It was a long and slender and it fit around the right side of the washer. The front part had a donut shaped ring which fit over the knob perfectly. The other end clipped around the back. Spring tension held it in place. Never again would that washer shut down because of an unbalanced load! An unbalanced load would cry out “ga-thunk, ga-thunk, ga-thunk”, but the knob didn’t pop. There was a time that the load was so unbalanced the washer “walked” in a robotic-like manner across the kitchen floor. After it pushed the table to one side it turned and halted abruptly. It had walked so far the electric plug was pulled from the wall outlet.
The kitchen was a gathering spot for everyone.
Weekdays started with coffee and oatmeal on the
stove. Near the
cellar door there was a bowls of dog food and water for
Muffet. On the
kitchen table a few waxed paper wrapped sandwiches waited to
be put into a lunch box along with a couple of apples or
oranges. Off to
the side were school books and tablets and dad’s empty
lunch box ready to be filled.
Later in the day a box of groceries from Hickes might
occupy the table as well as a new round of school projects
and homework papers. By
four thirty the kitchen table was cleared so it could be
readied for the supper that was usually served by five.
Tonight’s meal will be meatloaf with potato cakes,
macaroni with stewed tomatoes.
Tomorrow will probably be leftover roast beef on
toast with gravy. If
the month has an “R” in it we’ll probably have oyster
stew this Friday. Conversation
continued while we ate but it rarely delayed completion of
the meal. By
six the dishes were washed and put away unless seconds on
dessert were warranted.
Once the table was cleared homework papers were
retrieved from the dining room and we finished our work
while trying to eavesdrop on the adult conversation still
going on. After
homework the Philco in the next room was turned on and
programs like Beulah,
Jack Benny, or Fibber Magee and Molly would compete
the night.
Weekends were a little different. Saturday mornings evolved at a slower pace with each family member making what they wanted for breakfast. Lunch was promptly at noon and consisted of grilled cheese or chipped ham sandwiches plus a bowl of soup. During the afternoon while most of us were out mom had the kitchen to herself and, depending on the season, she’d use that time to bake dessert for the big meal on Sunday. Sunday after church was my favorite time in the kitchen. We always had a “country breakfast”. The odor of pancakes, homemade “syrup”, sausage, eggs, and fried potatoes filled the air and tickled our senses with anticipation. Other Sundays might greet us with French toast, grapefruit, bacon, sausage always with mom’s homemade “syrup”. Autumn Sundays were extra special since buckwheats and scrapple were in season. Sunday breakfast was the one meal that no one in our family ever missed. It was also a favorite of many of our parents’ friends who often dropped by in time to enjoy the fare. Dad always said we used the dining room for guests but we used the kitchen for friends.
Sunday suppers were usually served around three and always included roast beef, roast chicken, or pork and sauerkraut. There were always mashed potatoes, and a green vegetable. If we had a friend or two there would also be a salad and a relish tray. To make room for friends at the table we’d drag a dining room chair into the kitchen. Supper was served without fanfare but with a lot of conversation. We knew the meal was finished when dad would say, “Well, Mary. I’d have to say that was a little bit of all right!” When supper was done, the dishes were washed, dried and put away while conversations continued in the kitchen. Some would gather around the table talking and playing cards throughout the continual chatter. Others leaned on the sink or sat on the kitchen steps still talking about yesterday, last week, tomorrow, or even next week. The sink remained full of hot, soapy water for that last minute plate or coffee cup. Around 7 o’clock someone would usually go in to the dining room and turn on the radio to get the news or get the station that carried Red Skelton. Still, most everyone stayed in the kitchen and conversation and laughter drowned out the sounds coming from the Philco in the next room. By eight thirty or nine o’clock things began to wind down. Dad went down to the stable to check on the horses. A few friends began making their way out the side door and down the street. My brother and I were getting ready for bed after frantically searching for the arithmetic homework that was misplaced. Mom washed and put away the last of the dishes because the house had to be in order since “…you never know when you may have to call a priest or a doctor during the night.” Sometimes there would be one or two people still mulling bout in the kitchen and I’d hear dad say, “Come on Mary, we’d better get to bed. These people probably want to go home.”
Monday morning starts the cycle all over again. There will be new problems to be discussed and important decisions will be made. We’ll have some things to laugh about and maybe even a few to cry over. At some point our sense of smell will be excited by the aroma of pot roast or chicken pot pie. And it’s a shoo-in that someone’s coming for breakfast next Sunday- guess who? A lot will be happening but if you’re not in the kitchen you’ll miss it all.
Baseball, Apple Pie, Chevrolet ….
and Grandpap
By
Gary Long
It was a typical Sunday afternoon in July: hazy, hot and humid. Church services were over before noon, Sunday dinners were on the table by two and by mid-afternoon people sat on their front porches listening to the final innings of a Pirates’ game as they sipped cups of coffee or iced tea and ate slices of a fresh fruit pie.
Mom usually sat on the glider still clad in her kitchen work clothes, a red and white floral apron. Dad would always lean back in the red metal porch chair and, as he rocked back and forth, we all watched and waited for the extended ash from his Lucky Strike to drop. In the middle of a hot afternoon, Grandpap Soulerin’s only concession to the heat was to remove his suit coat. He still had grey wool slacks, matching vest, and a white shirt with stiff cellulose collar, a tie and suspenders. He looked much like Connie Mack ready to come out of the dugout at the start of a doubleheader at Shibe Park. My brother Ken and I would usually sit on the floor nearby vaguely listening to our elders’ conversations while going through our baseball cards.
Porch conversations were usually lively and stories of “life in the good old days” were both humorous and thought provoking. Mom told of her days as a girl growing up in the coal mining town of Smoke Run and working as a housekeeper for a doctor in the “big city” of Houtzdale. Dad’s tales were centered on Tyrone and his blacksmithing apprenticeship under his father’s watchful eye.
Then there were Grandpap Soulerin’s stories. Born in Marseilles, France in 1870, he came to New York in 1888, and finally settled in Smoke Run in 1892. He would speak of the home he made for his family, the garden he prepared annually which provided fresh fruits and vegetables for his family. He never believed in using credit to make purchases and he held “company stores” in contempt. But no matter how informative or interesting the current topics of discussion, grandpap would inevitably change to a subject that caused the hair on the back of my dad’s neck to stand up. He complained about the weather (couldn’t grow good wine grapes), work (mine owners treated men like slaves), medicine (cost too much), and politics. He didn’t like Roosevelt and blamed him for not getting involved in the war in Europe and providing military support earlier. Since we had a serviceman’s star hanging in our front window complaints about U.S. involvement in the world war didn’t go over well. Dad would remind him that France was liberated by the allies but grandpap would deftly move to a new topic.
Even though he contributed for less than five years, he often complained about the small amount of his Social Security check. “If I were still in France, my retirement check and my medical care would be much better.” After a half hour or so dad would get tired of the complaints. He’d flick the ashes from a final Lucky, get up from the red chair and walk around the side porch toward the stables. As he turned the corner we could sometimes hear his fading voice murmur, “If he doesn’t like it in this country why in the h