Recollections

By Carl Romney

This memoir outlines the life of a scientist spanning much of the twentieth century. It began at a time before radios were found in most American homes, and before the advent of talking pictures. His interest in science was born at an early age, sparked by his mother, as she introduced him to the stars in a dark Utah sky.

Early experiences and training were much the same as for any other boy at the time. But with the beginning of war in Europe, and the U.S. response by instituting universal conscription (the draft), he realized the importance of education in fulfilling his military obligation, and enlisted in a Navy training program. Navy service took him to Chicago and Southern California, and eventually to little-known Peleliu Island in the Western Pacific, a foretaste of a life of frequent travel to follow.

World War II was followed all too soon by the retreat of the Soviet Union behind an Iron Curtain of secrecy, a massive buildup of conventional forces and armed occupation of neighboring countries. It became essential to know when they succeeded in building the atomic bomb. This book is a first-hand account in non-technical terms of some of the ways in which this was accomplished. This was followed by attempts to ban the bomb, or at least to ban nuclear testing. The author was fortunate to be near the center of U.S. efforts in many of these attempts, and the book describes important activities and events that ultimately led to achieving the lesser of these goals.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468506334

Carl Romney

Dr. Carl Romney was a pioneer in the development of scientific means for detecting and determining the characteristics of nuclear explosions at ranges of thousands of miles. He was instrumental in the design and development of the seismic component of the U.S. National System for detecting foreign nuclear explosions. His initial research on nuclear test detection was done in 1949. In 1955 he was hired by the Air Force Technical Applications Center (AFTAC), the U.S. agency responsible for monitoring foreign nuclear testing, where he became Assistant Technical Director for Geophysics. He was a key member of the 1958 Geneva Conference of Experts, the first substantive meeting between nuclear powers about a nuclear test ban; and he continued to advise or participate in test ban treaty negotiation teams through 1980. In 1972, he transferred to the Department of Defense’s Advanced Research Projects Agency (ARPA), and in 1980 became Deputy Director of ARPA. After leaving ARPA he became Director of the Center for Seismic Studies for eight years, and continued assisting the Center on a part-time basis until 2001. Romney has earned numerous awards for his work, including the Air Force Exceptional Civilian Service Award, the Department of Defense Distinguished Civilian Service Award (twice), the Presidential Rank of Meritorious Executive, and the President’s Award for Distinguished Federal Civilian Service. He lives with his wife, Barbara, in Northern Virginia.

Book preview

© 2012 Carl Romney. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 4/18/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-0632-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-0631-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-0633-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011961758

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

AN INTRODUCTORY NOTE TO READERS

PART ONE

THE EARLY YEARS:

Childhood through World War II

CHILDHOOD IN SALT LAKE CITY

GROWING UP

GOLDEN DAYS

WEST HIGH SCHOOL

THE U

ILLINOIS INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY

CALTECH

MIDSHIPMEN’S SCHOOL, AND MARRIAGE

WESTERN PACIFIC DUTY

BERKELEY

PART TWO

DETECTING THE BOMB

AND BANNING NUCLEAR TESTING:

AVERILL PARK

LARAMIE

BERKELEY AGAIN, AND EARLY DAYS WITH AFOAT-1

COLD WAR, HYDROGEN BOMBS AND PEACE EFFORTS

THE CONFERENCE OF EXPERTS

NEW SEISMIC DATA

TWG-II

A TRIPARTITE MEETING ON RESEARCH

A LIMITED TEST BAN TREATY

PART THREE

THE LATER YEARS

PITCAIRN TO INDIA

THE GOLF EVENT AND THE SCORPION

IRAN AND ARCTIC ADVENTURES

A PACIFIC TOUR, INDIA AGAIN, AND EVENTS AT HOME

THE THRESHOLD TEST BAN TREATY

THE PEACEFUL NUCLEAR EXPLOSION TREATY

ROMNEY’S RIDGE

A CHANGE IN CAREER

NOTE: HALLEY’S COMET

EGYPT

COMPLETING THE CENTURY

To my mother,

and to Barbara

01.jpg

Mother and Marie, 1922

AN INTRODUCTORY NOTE TO READERS

This book was inspired by my daughters and their grown-up children, each of whom snuggled close to me from time to time during their childhood, asking me to tell them stories. Sometimes my stories were of long-remembered personal adventures; often they were fairy tales, which I had recently read or reread in preparation for just such treasured moments. I usually drew from the Arabian Nights, or light Italian folklore, rather than from the Brothers Grimm or similar dark and sinister northern European tales. Often the stories had a moral: "Old man of the sea! Come listen to me! For Myrtle, my wife, the bane of my life, has bade me to ask a boon of thee. . ." Remember?

The stories that follow are not fairy tales; they are true, to the best of my recollection. My intent is to give images of life over three-quarters of the last century as seen and experienced by myself. But what follows are not only stories based on personal experience. There are also stories about others or as told by others. Interspersed among the stories there are also references to national and international events, and bits of history. They are included along with the stories because they affected my life in some way, or added to the depth of my experiences.

Many of the stories I can now tell revolve around my work, much of which was classified SECRET, and thus unknown to my family and friends. It was often both intense and rewarding. It took me to far-flung places and brought me in contact with many interesting people. Both have left me with rich memories.

But my work was centered on a relatively unknown science: seismology. Much of it took place during the Cold War — an interval of great tension between the Soviet Union and the United States — and as a result, my science was applied to problems of U.S. national security. I was fortunate to be able to work with senior U.S. and foreign scientists and senior officials of the U. S. Government on these security issues. Events that occurred while carrying out this work affected my life in major ways. I cannot write about those events without asking the reader to try to understand them in the context of the science and the times. Part of my job in writing this has been to try to place events in context, and in simple terms. I hope I have done so.

My activities during the last century can be described in three principal phases. First, there was a quarter-century of learning, initially through the normal activities of childhood, followed by instruction in schools and universities. The later years of learning were strongly influenced by World War II, both during the war and after it. Next came an interval of applying the science I had learned to develop new methods and means to detect nuclear weapons tests by potentially hostile nations. This was followed by intense activity in pursuit of a treaty banning nuclear testing. This objective was only partially achieved by the Limited Test Ban Treaty in 1963. Nevertheless, the diplomatic pace eased up at that time, and a third phase began, focused on attempts to solve some very intractable seismic detection and identification problems. Attempts to restrict nuclear testing continued during the next three decades, but rather sporadically, and an actual test ban was only achieved after ending the Cold War. The stories that follow are described within a framework of these phases.

A number of people close to my life or my work helped me write this through much appreciated suggestions or corrections to my stories. I wish to acknowledge particularly my daughter, Carolyn Lock, who designed the cover and also helped in editing the manuscript. The cover photo is by my granddaughter, Dorothy Paine. Finally, the book would have been impossible without the essential help of Holly Lanigan at each stage in writing, editing, and preparing the manuscript for publication.

Carl Romney

September 2011

PART ONE

THE EARLY YEARS:

Childhood through World War II

Oh give me a home, where the Buffalo roam

Where the deer and the antelope play,

Where seldom is heard a discouraging word

And the sky is not cloudy all day.

Traditional song,

Home on the Range

Yesterday, December 7, 1941 — a date which will live in infamy — The United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.

President Franklin D. Roosevelt,

Address to Congress on the Declaration of War

on Japan and Germany

CHILDHOOD IN SALT LAKE CITY

I was born in Holy Cross Hospital in Salt Lake City about two o’clock in the morning on June 5, 1924. Several times — much later — my mother gave me vivid accounts of my birth. Dr. Gallagher, who helped deliver me, was a personal as well as a professional friend of my mother’s. She was a Registered Nurse who had graduated from Holy Cross, and had known the doctor since her student days. He had been to a performance of fabled movie star, Rudolf Valentino, the previous evening. As they waited for my emergence, Dr. Gallagher hummed and sang ceaselessly…

I’m the Sheik of Arrr-a-byyyy

Your love belongs to me

Eight centimeters, Lois, try to push a bit harder.

Each night before I sleep

Into your tent I’ll creep

And the stars that shine above

’Atta girl, Lois, keep up the pressure.

Will light our way to love

Almost there. Good work, Lois.

You’ll rule this land with me

The Sheik of Arrr-aaa-byyyy.

Mother said she was so damned mad that she could have cheerfully strangled him, had she not been under such trying circumstances.

I was named after my father, Carl Fredrick Romney, a son of Albert Romney and grandson of George Romney, a pillar of the Mormon Church¹. George had sailed from his native England to New Orleans in 1841 at the age of ten, the eldest of the still-growing family of Miles Romney and Elizabeth Gaskell, both recent converts to the Mormon church. Once in America, Miles and family traveled up the Mississippi to help construct a temple for the Church in Nauvoo, Illinois. There, in 1844, a murderous mob of other Good Christians lynched Joseph Smith, the founder of the Church, and drove his followers out of Illinois.

After moving to St. Louis and working several more years to be able to afford wagons and provisions, Miles and his entire family packed their belongings into six covered wagons and followed the earlier Mormon pioneers westward. Walking and driving their six ox-teams 1400 miles across endless prairies and the rugged Rocky Mountains, they arrived in Salt Lake City in October, 1850. George’s young wife gave birth to their first child two months later. George eventually had three wives (for which he was jailed for several months in 1863 after polygamy was banned in Utah Territory), and he founded a large and mostly successful family.

My mother, Lois Estelle Trenam, was born in Lost River, Idaho. Her father, Arthur, was a Federal Land Agent, I believe, managing claims of early homesteaders in Idaho. When I last met him in 1945, he had recently remarried and, at age 75, he was hand-working abandoned mercury mines in the Mojave Desert — his contribution to the ongoing World War II, since mercury was an essential component of explosive detonators. My mother’s mother, Grace Foote, died when Mother was 10 years old; Arthur’s remarriage to a recently widowed mother of a young son turned out to be an unhappy event for Mother and her three sisters who each left home as soon as she was able. I know little else about Mother’s family background, beyond that she was descended through her mother’s mother from the family of Meriwether Lewis, of Lewis and Clark fame. (Not from Meriwether himself, who never married.) But this is not to be a genealogy — onward!

I suffered from colic as an infant, so I was told. Much later, my mother pointed out — several times — the small apartment (on C Street) that the family had been forced to vacate as a consequence of my loud wailing late into the night. Thereafter the family (four at that time —my sister, Marie, was two years older than I) lived in rented houses in Salt Lake City, at a half-dozen different locations, depending on our family fortunes at the time.

I have some possible memories of events and places from my very early years, but cannot be sure they are not stimulated by old photographs, or Mother’s stories. My earliest absolutely certain memory was of a cool morning while sitting on my rocking horse on our front porch. I had been dressed up in imitation leather chaps, a bright red bandana had been folded into a triangle and tied around my neck, and a broad-brimmed hat had been placed on my head. Suddenly, a real cowboy came riding down the street! He was dressed much as I was, although his chaps were of real leather, and he seemed at least ten feet tall on his huge roan horse. He was riding easily and deliberately westward past our house, which was located high up on the east bench of the city near Fort Douglas and the Wasatch Mountains. Behind him were still more tall cowboys — driving a herd of buffalo! It was the kind of magic moment no child could ever forget.

I learned many years later that the bison had been rounded up in the Wasatch Mountains and were being driven down into the Salt Lake Valley to board cattle cars on the Denver and Rio Grande Western Railroad line. There, they were taken by various means to a refuge on Antelope Island — a large island in the southern part of the Great Salt Lake. My mother must have known that this wonderful event would take place, and had dressed me accordingly, as I finally realized more than fifty years later. Curiously though, I have little recollection of her at that time. She was just Mother, always there, and doing what mothers always do.

My first certain memory of my mother, as an individual, must date to about a year later — we were living in a different house, where we continued to live for several years. She took my hand one night and led me out into the blackness of our quiet neighborhood and showed me the stars! She pointed out the Big Dipper, high overhead in the dark, clear Utah sky, and the North Star, to which it pointed. She showed me the Summer Cross — which I now know as Cygnus the Swan — and the Milky Way running through it like a celestial river of light. I must have seen the night sky before, but this was a revelation. Just imagine! Those scattered points of light had identities, names, and relationships with other stars! It is still a vivid and emotional moment for me, and I believe it helped launch me on a path toward a career in science.

02.jpg

Dad with Marie, Carl, and baby Bobby; 1927

I have no such certain, first memory of my father, but perhaps it was the day he brought home — a radio! It was not just an appliance, but a piece of varnished furniture labeled Majestic, standing four feet tall and three feet wide on ornately turned hardwood legs. It was not only our first radio, but apparently the first in our neighborhood, for Dad placed it out on our front porch that first evening so that our neighbors could sit with us and listen to boxing matches — a far more important sport at that time than either football or basketball and probably a close second to baseball. Radios must have been uncommon as late as 1930, because I can remember again sitting with neighbors on that same porch to hear the highly controversial fight for the Heavyweight Championship of the World when Jack Sharkey lost to Max Schmelling for striking him repeatedly below the belt. And the song, Making Whoopee still conjures up memories of what must have been the only adult party my parents ever gave. There was dancing in the living room, while bootlegged whiskey must have been flowing as freely as the songs that flowed out of the radio.

03.jpg

Marie and Carl in Sunday-best clothes

We lived for a number of years in that house on 11th South Street near the foothills of the Wasatch mountains. Many of my earliest memories come from those years — my mother showing me the starlit sky, and my father bringing home our first radio among them. I also remember the excitement of seeing my first partial eclipse of the sun, observed through overexposed photographic film (not considered adequate eye protection these days).

It was from this house at about age four that I strayed one morning, following some older boys through Fort Douglas and up into Red Butte Canyon. There were picnic tables here and there, and the creek was deep enough to paddle around a bit, although I didn’t swim yet. Well, it was an interesting place, and I must have felt rather grown up in the company of the older boys. Going home near sunset we were met by a group of policemen who questioned us and took me home to a frantic mother, who had reported me missing hours earlier. My punishment for this escapade was being restricted to our yard for the next several days. To make sure of this, Mother tied a twenty foot clothesline cord to my coverall straps in the back, and tied the other end to the front porch railing. I knew I could easily unfasten the coverall straps and untie Mother’s knot, but I didn’t tell her that, nor did I dare to do it.

Our house was at the foot of a steep slope marking one of several shorelines of the ancient Lake Bonneville, which once filled the Salt Lake Valley. Lake Bonneville extended westward from the Wasatch Mountains over most of western Utah and into eastern Nevada, and northward into southern Idaho. It was comparable in size to Lake Michigan, but deeper. Its water came from rivers and streams that drained the high mountains that surrounded it, and from melting glaciers near the end of the last Ice Age.

About 15,000 years ago, the water reached the height of Red Rock Pass, in Idaho, which dammed the lake on its north side. Water pouring over the pass began to erode the relatively soft conglomerate rock of the pass. As the water cut deeper and wider, more and more water rushed over the pass, rapidly increasing the rate of erosion. In a relatively short time the stream had cut a gap in Red Rock Pass that was 300 feet deep, allowing vast quantities of lake water to gush out and flood down into the Snake River, which flowed north and west into the Columbia River. Enormous blocks of rock were forced down both rivers, scouring both riverbeds and canyon walls as they rolled and tumbled downward.

The lake was stable at its new and lower level, and as the climate moderated at the end of the Ice Age, the water began to evaporate, leaving any dissolved minerals behind — chiefly salt, which is more soluble than most other minerals. During stable periods in the lake’s level, it carved steep shorelines into the Wasatch Mountains and left wide beaches, still visible for hundreds of miles along the Wasatch Range. The remnant of that once huge lake still exists as the Great Salt Lake.

I knew nothing of its origins as a child, but I knew that the steep slope was a great place for riding a scooter. Dragging my scooter up the slope as far as I dared, I would whizz down the steep sidewalk at breakneck speed, softening the inevitable tumbles when I could by landing on someone’s front lawn. My brake was a steel bar that rubbed against the rear wheel when I stepped on a foot pedal. I remember the day when the steel bar finally wore through — and the end of my scooter.

Life was good for our family at the end of the 1920s. My father had a good job as an accountant with the American Smelting and Refining Company in nearby Garfield, Utah. Two younger brothers, first Bobby, and then Billy, had arrived at two-and-a-quarter year intervals after my birth. Mother’s sister, my Aunty (pronounced Antie) Frances Brenton and her toddling daughter, Joanne, had come to live with us for awhile, apparently after a divorce. I became Fritz or Fritzi at about that time to avoid confusion when Mother and Aunty Frances talked about me or Dad.

For my fifth birthday I was given a party attended by a few neighborhood kids, and my main gift was a pocket watch, or dollar watch, as it was called. I remember afterward searching for, and finding, a tiny screwdriver in Mother’s sewing machine drawer, and using it while sitting on the front lawn to find out what made the watch tick. A big mistake! You can imagine what happened to all those tiny screws — not that I could have put the watch back together again, anyway.

Later during that summer I had a strange experience. It was shortly after lunch, and Marie and a couple of her pals were playing hop-scotch on the sidewalk in front of the house. With my right knee in the wagon and my left foot pushing, I drove my red wagon along our driveway to the front walk, and began to watch the game, somewhat to the annoyance of the girls, who had little tolerance for younger brothers. For some unknown reason, I foolishly stood up in the wagon, which inspired Marie to grab the wagon tongue and give it a playful jerk. You can guess some of the rest.

Well, the next thing I remember was seeing a small group of neighborhood children staring down at an inert boy stretched out on the sidewalk. I joined the group, and watched as my mother came rushing out of the house carrying a basin of water and a towel. She raised the boy’s head up, cleansing it of blood and drying it. This vision is still very clear to me, and I can almost feel the warmth of that sunny day. It was night time when I actually woke up, inside the house, my head bandaged and both Mother and a doctor in attendance. I don’t think I even had a headache, but both Mother and the doctor seemed very relieved to see me waking up.

A major event at about age five was to have one’s tonsils removed. This was, apparently, just routine — not a question of need, but simply a pre-emptive strike against future disease. I remember well the long streetcar ride into downtown Salt Lake City, and then back east again toward Holy Cross Hospital. Passing the Mormon Temple at the hub of the city, I was conscious for the first time of the golden angel perched atop its highest spire, sounding a trumpet. Look, Mom, I cried out, to the embarrassment of Mother and the amusement of the other passengers, he’s drinking a bottle of beer!

At the hospital, I was put to bed for what I thought was to be my usual afternoon nap. I woke up later in a high-sided bed in the hospital, and was allowed to eat nothing but ice cream for the next day or two. A very satisfactory conclusion of my interesting trip to the hospital.

I started kindergarten in the fall of 1929 but remember little more than that we had a snack each day — a half-pint of milk — and a nap on pads made of heavy brown paper, creatively decorated by each child using crayons. I do remember walking home with other neighborhood children, laying copper pennies on rails of the streetcar line we crossed. After the streetcar passed, our pennies would be spread to an inch or more in diameter, the visage of Lincoln still visible. Dimes, at that time made of real silver, would also work — but who could afford to squander such treasure?

Marie and I, as young schoolchildren, were exposed to virtually every known disease of childhood, which we brought home to our younger brothers and cousin, Joanne. We were often quarantined, with signs posted by public health officials in our front windows, warning of the current plague — measles, chicken pox, whooping cough, you name it. It was a time when doctors actually made house calls, which proved to be fatal for Joanne. During one visit of mercy, she wandered outside unnoticed and in back of the doctor’s car, perhaps looking at her own reflection in the shiny bumper of this machine parked in our driveway — unusual for us, since my parents never did own a car. When the doctor started to leave, the worst happened. I cannot write more about this tragedy. Aunty Frances left our family soon after, to start a new life for herself in Pocatello, Idaho.

Later, I contracted a debilitating case of influenza and a long-lingering fever. It was a miserable time, being confined to bed for weeks — but not uncommon in those days long before antibiotics. But my personal cloud had a silver lining. I was just learning to read, and to keep me occupied while bedridden, both Mom and Dad kept my bed heaped with books from the public library. And they selected them well. On the day when I at last returned to school, my class was issued a new book. You may recall the routine. Each student was also issued a large sheet of brown paper, and the teacher talked and walked us through the various folds to make a protective book jacket. Then write your name on the upper, right hand corner of the jacket. Now read the first chapter. In a few minutes, my hand went up. I’m finished. Good, start the next chapter. No, I meant I finished the book. After a short quiz at the teacher’s desk, she found a much more challenging book for me to read. Mother, wisely, refused the school’s recommendation to promote me to a higher grade.

Our family next moved to a small house on Norris Place, a short, dead-end street leading west off 11th East between Second- and Third-South Streets and convenient to Holy Cross Hospital where Mother sometimes worked. It was 1931, and the Great Depression had begun, certainly for our family. Dad had lost his job, and we were fortunate that Mother had a profession, although private duty nursing jobs were scarce, since few families had the money to pay for individual care.

It was also a time when prohibition of alcohol was the law of the land, but every corner grocery store was well stocked with sugar, yeast, malt and hops. Our house was always in ferment. A twenty-gallon crock in the warm space behind the kitchen stove was a fixture, brewing beer. When times were good there might also be a five-gallon crock beside it, brewing root beer or ginger beer for us kids. Adult neighbors seemed to be divinely inspired about when one of Dad’s brews was mature, and there was frequent company in our kitchen at bottling times, mostly professed Mormons, to whom alcohol was prohibited by scripture as well as by law. Bottles were filled and capped, then stored on rough shelves in a cool earthen cellar under the kitchen end of the house. Knowing when fermentation has come to an end must be a bit of an art that Dad had not fully mastered — so the sound of a bottle of beer exploding now and then is deeply etched into my memory, as is the yeasty smell of the cellar.

Norris Place was great for children. We were separated from a small city park by just a few houses, and we had the park’s wide lawns to run on, and swings, slides and sand-piles to enjoy. My brother Bobby and I took lessons in boxing and tumbling, and there were frequent softball games to join. We saw what must have been our first movie while sitting on the grass in the park one warm summer evening. Although sound had been introduced a few years earlier, the first movies we saw were silent. Being silent, the action had to tell the whole story, and there was plenty of action: a stealthy cat watching a mouse steal cheese, and then pouncing, only to be countered by a blow to the head with a large mallet, causing stars and other angular symbols to appear above the cat’s head. I doubt that park directors today would be permitted to show such scenes to children, although no serious damage to the cat ever seemed to result.

There were also bouncing ball movies in which written music and words to a familiar song would appear. A pianist near the screen played along to the beat; a moving ball bounced from word to word, while the audience sang. Well, simple pleasures for simple people, I guess. But singing together was an important part of most festive activities throughout my childhood, and I still know most of the words to many of those old songs.

There were tennis courts in the park, and Bobby became an astonishingly good tennis player at a tender age. He was aggressive and short-tempered, and in spite of his two-year age handicap, he frequently beat me by the time he was seven. He seemed to have an innate understanding of bouncing or colliding spheres, and only a few years later, was a whiz at billiards (pool) and marbles. He won second place in the Salt Lake County marble tournament. And afterward, in a follow-on game for keeps, Bobby won all of the champion’s marbles (except for his taw, of course). Later, as a senior in West High School, he earned a place on the tennis team and won his singles match with arch-rival East High.

I have only scanty memories of Marie and Billy from Norris Place days. Marie, being both older and a girl, had little use for her younger brothers. A household chore the two of us shared was clearing the table and washing and drying the family’s supper dishes. Marie complained that my frequent bellyaches after supper were made up to avoid work. I don’t mean to imply active hostility, but age and gender differences were profound and a source of annoyance at our ages. Billy, the youngest child, was more a responsibility than a companion at that time. Watch out for Billy was our charge from Mother when we left for the park. He had been a beautiful baby — his photographs might have been displayed on baby food containers or condensed milk cans — and he possessed a happy, good nature. He was loved by all, but too young to participate in much of our play.

We had frequent snows in winter, and often woke up to the jingle of sleigh bells and the slightly muffled clippety clop of a horse-drawn snowplow clearing our sidewalks. The plow was little more than two wooden planks, joined in a V, with a chair and driver mounted on a small platform on top. I don’t recall that our road was ever plowed, but then the sidewalks were more important — they were what adults used to walk to the streetcar line, and children used to walk to school.

Milk was delivered to us each morning from a horse-drawn wagon. On cold mornings we would find the circular cardboard cap perched atop a column of frozen cream, extruded from the heavy glass bottle as the milk turned to ice. (Homogenized milk had not been invented yet.) Sometimes Mother would allow kids to taste this ice-cream, but mostly the cream was separated and saved for coffee or cooking.

In the summertime, a neighborhood sight was the early morning spectacle of the lady across the street, her hair still in curlers and wearing a chenille bathrobe and fluffy slippers, sweeping up all traces of the milkman’s horse for the benefit of her roses.

My first exposure to politics came during this time. As hard times spread, my parents spoke of the need to support the new guy, as did many other people. Franklin D. Roosevelt was swept into office in the election of 1932, and