His Eyes Were on the Starling: How Grampa Grew Up—And Lived to Tell About It

By Larry Rubin

Occasionally, a reader will happen upon a book that is excellent as a bedtime sleeping aidbut not this one. With nearly five score different events, happenings, and adventures with dozens of related and pertinent rabbit trails lending credence to the excursions, the reader will be thumb ready to eagerly flip a page, seeking the outcome of the last daring deed of the adventuresome author. Wide is the variety of decent and noble escapades at a time when seat belts were unknown, standing up in the center aisle of the school bus for six miles was permitted, and unwritten laws of the land promoted unlimited homemade adventures and the unshackled variety of down-to-earth fun. Youthful minds, unabashedly, often ran rampant in the myriad of rare adventures that were available to pursue. We attempted many and lived to tell about our assorted and varied shenanigansmost of them with a grin!

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Nov 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9781512716856

Larry Rubin

Living and working in the big wild West, especially as a timber faller in the rugged Montana forests, forces one to learn quickly or perish. The author had little choice but to keep extremely observant so as not to get injured or maimed and thus be able to work another day and provide for his family. Working during sweltering, hot summer days as well as frigid winter days of down to twenty-five degrees below zero brought vivid life to the old adage of “easier said than done.” In spite of his constant vigilance, occasional mishaps were in the making. The author worked for nearly twenty-four years as a Montana timber faller and made it through, alive.

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Copyright © 2015 Larry Rubin.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

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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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-5127-1686-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-1687-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-1685-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015917324

WestBow Press rev. date: 10/30/2015

Contents

Preface

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Chapter 1 Real Life

Chapter 2 A Crib For A Jail

Chapter 3 Danger In The Basement

Chapter 4 Happenings At Home

Chapter 5 Lost In the Snake house

Chapter 6 The Good Ol Days

Chapter 7 Country Life For A Five Year Old

Chapter 8 Dangerous Toys for a Kid

Chapter 9 The Life of a First Grader

Chapter 10 We Learned In School

Chapter 11 A Bad School Day

Chapter 12 Sledding On the Slippery Slope

Chapter 13 Winter Time ; Kick The Can

Chapter 14 Farm Work For The Neighbor

Chapter 15 The Lost Reading Glasses

Chapter 16 With-in An Inch Of Drowning

Chapter 17 Sometimes, We Were - ‘Little Devils’

Chapter 18 Rescued In The Corral

Chapter19 The ‘McNess’ Man Pays A Visit

Chapter 20 Battling The Doctors

Chapter 21 Singing Around The Piano

Chapter 22 A Day Of Huge Pain

Chapter 23 The Punching Bag ‘Demo’, Gone ‘Amiss’

Chapter 24 A Problem Getting Eggs

Chapter 25 Getting Involved In Archery

Chapter 26 The Maiden Voyage Of ‘Big Beauty’

Chapter 27 A Beach Full Of Snakes

Chapter 28 Shooting The Big Bull

Chapter 29 Heart Broken At Christmas

Chapter 30 Learning The Art Of Ski-Jumping

Chapter 31 The Little Cub That Could

Chapter 32 Our Private Ice Skating Rink

Chapter 33 The First Grade History Lesson

Chapter 34 A Bit Of Badness In Us

Chapter 35 A Huge Wreck By Our Home

Chapter 36 The Day Mom Went Into ‘Battle’

Chapter 37 Mom Could Please Our Palate

Chapter 38 A Secret Stash Of Food

Chapter 39 Mom Learns To Drive

Chapter 40 Meeting A Band Of Gypsies

Chapter 41 The Day We Lost Our Corn Crop

Chapter 42 The Day We Lost Ol ‘Spot’

Chapter 43 Learning A Bit About Music

Chapter 44 Our Car Was Really Stuck

Chapter 45 The Joys Of A Coal Furnace

Chapter 46 The Black Beauties In Mutton Hill Pond

Chapter 47 A Scream Of Pain In The Night

Chapter 48 Wrecking The New Home-Made Bobsled

Chapter 49 The Early Autumn Apple Fight

Chapter 50 A Game Of ‘Kick The Can’

Chapter 51 Reaching For The Sky

Chapter 52 The Seven Foot Tall Ghost

Chapter 53 My Broken Bicycle

Chapter 54 Critters In The Vines

Chapter 55 The Shocking Things Kids Do

Chapter 56 Digging Down To China

Chapter 57 Our Changing Telephone

Chapter 58 Playing In The Treetops

Chapter 59 The Art Of Gun Safety

Chapter 60 The Simple Little Tractor

Chapter 61 The Little Engine That Could

Chapter 62 PART 1- Hunting Exploits Near Home

Chapter 62 PART-2, Hunting Exploits Near Home

Chapter 63 Kids Love To Swim

Chapter 64 The Little Old Hen House

Chapter 65 The Boy Scout Camp

Chapter 66 Learning from Uncle Shorty

Chapter 67 Finding Our Christmas Tree

Chapter 68 A Storm On The Bay

Chapter 69 Caution : Scientists At Work

Chapter 70 Boat Building - 101

Chapter 71 Excursions With Uncle Shorty

Chapter 72 Our Home Was A Mansion

Chapter 73 Life At Our Cottage

Chapter 74 The Big Hunt At Mount Arab

Chapter 75 True Fishing Adventures

Chapter 76 How ‘NOT’ To Fox Hunt

Chapter 77 Learning Responsibility

Chapter 78 All Of My Pop’s Cars

Chapter 79 The Deadly Farm Tractor

Chapter 80 Catching Baby Foxes

Chapter 81 Kids Love Sports

Chapter 82 Big Fish By Our Cottage

Chapter 83 Excursions And Exploring

Chapter 84 Fun At Our Cottage

Chapter 85 School Years- Apalachin Elementary School

Chapter 86 U.S, Marine Corps : All About ‘Boot Camp’

Chapter 87 U.S. Marine Corps : Camp Pendleton

Chapter 88 Overseas Deployment - S.E. Asia

Chapter 89 Additional Training; On To South Korea

Chapter 90 Additional Tour To The Philippines

Chapter 91 Transition: From Okinawa To Stateside

Chapter 92 Duty At The Earle Naval Ammunition Depot

Chapter 93 Surviving Events At Earle

Chapter 94 Counting Down The Days

Chapter 95 Burning ‘Time’, Around Earle

Chapter 96 Military Duty Finished; —Alaska, Here I Come

Chapter 97 ‘Lost’ - In Alaska

Bibliography

Epilogue

About the Author

PREFACE

I n the fall of 2011, a couple of my children, simultaneously, asked if I might be willing to start writing a few ‘stories’ of things I did as a boy when growing up in the rural countryside of New York state. The reason for their request should have been obvious; they simply wanted some written chronicles of things that their ‘dad’ had done, when growing up so they could read the stories to their children. On the surface, it sounded fair.

Procrastination is one of my premiere ‘fortes’, so I easily waited 5 or 6 months, before I began jotting down an easy list of 70 or more ‘episodes’ that readily came to mind. Without realizing it, the more I pondered the events of yester-year, the more memories that came pouring forth; almost like a gusher. In practically no-time, I had scrawled out a lengthy list of nearly 190 separate, memorable episodes, for approximately just the first 55 years of my existence, excluding completely the last nearly 16 years of ‘life in the fast lane‘.

The clincher for deciding to start the series of stories was the several times I brought to recollection an incident of confronting ‘death’; there were several. Only with fear and trepidation, could I ever face my ‘guardian angel; oh, the frequent vexation I inflicted on my ‘keeper & protector‘. Of a truth, ‘he‘ must assuredly thought that I was a ‘basket case‘; completely incorrigible. –How would my grand kids ever know that in all reality, I shouldn’t even be ‘around’ today. I almost fear to go to ‘Heaven’ some day and have to face my ‘guardian angel’, with all the extra ‘work’ I sprung on him. I can just hear ‘him’ now, chewing me up and down, royally!

Seriously, in spite of my probable and deserved ‘brow-beating’ forth coming; I wouldn’t want to miss the ’trip’ to the Promised Land, for anything in the world. And the truth is; I’ll be there if HE has anything to say about it and if HIS word is ‘absolute’. He does ; and ‘it’ is!

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

T he first debt of gratitude easily goes to my son Mark Rubin along with his wife Jennifer and their tribe of 5 children, who faithfully persisted in getting me to put on paper, the myriad situations, events and excursions of seemingly, near ’ancient history’. An additional huge encouragement was that of my daughter, Kristie, (along with husband Steve Bennett with their 2 ’kiddos’) and her frequent reminder to bring the dormant ‘past’, to vibrant ‘life‘. Additional thanks also to my other 2 sons, Matt and Tim for their positive input and comments.

Special appreciation is due to my sister, Carole Hauser and my 2 brothers, Bruce and Tom for their occasional input concerning details in ‘refining’ the said, ‘ancient history’ dialogue. And I would certainly be remiss if I failed to mention the valuable contribution of my 2 very good lifetime buddies that I started the first grade of school with; Barry Angel and Howard Seymour. Their recollection of various names, places and details of ‘days gone by’ have added immeasurably.

And last but not least, I extend a huge heart-felt debt of gratitude to my wife and best friend, Janet for putting up with me for hour after dogged hour of seemingly ignoring her while (with my head seemingly in a cloud), I attempted to transfer my slowly ageing thoughts onto the ’word processor’ using the ’Columbus’ system of ‘hunt and land‘.

INTRODUCTION

E vents and adventures of ‘yester-year’ often are diametrically the opposite of so-called similar situations of ‘modern times’. As kids, we had never heard the term, seat belts or any negative connotations associated with standing up in the isle on our school bus for the entire 6 mile ride to school. Riding in the open back of a pick-up truck was nearly ‘common place’, at least in the countryside. We never had to wear a bicycle ‘safety helmet’ as they hadn’t even been invented yet. Climbing a ‘mile-high’ fire look-out tower was completely permissible as there were never any closed and locked gates at the bottom of the 10 to 12 flights of ‘stairs to the stars’. Scores of kids hauled their ‘flexible-flyers’ to school in winter if there was a hill close by; at least we did and at recess, would fly down the icy slopes at break-neck speeds. Trash papers at school were typically burned right on the school playground with eager kids sometimes discretely stirring the ‘pot’. Our entire first grade class would walk a full mile and a ½ through town, across a major highway, across 2 sets of ’in-service’ railroad tracks and down to the adjacent, sprawling, wild river thinking; this is the ‘norm’, not the exception.

Since restrictive rules, regulations and ‘red-tape’ were few and far between back in the 1940s and 50s, we took advantage of the ‘system’ and reached out to ‘sample’ many of the most adventuresome ‘ideas’ we could invent. Some we conquered; some we didn’t. Occasionally we even enlisted ’tid-bits’ of data from the school’s encyclopedias and would experiment with making our own brand of ‘home-made’ gun-powder. Never once were we hurt or injured but learned a heaping helping of chemistry first hand. We probably didn’t realize it at the time but our ‘home-made’ safety measures were undoubtedly, the pre-cursers to the modern OSHA.

Adjacent hills to our homes were a virtual magnet to our wintertime activities. Runner sleds were relatively ‘tame’ by comparison so we absolutely jumped at the chance to try out the skis, bobsled and new hardwood toboggan; occasionally demolishing the ’equipment’, but never our enthusiasm.

The ’world’ was at our doorstep; why not live and experience it? The military was certainly not unique but why pass up a free ride to see the other side of the globe. A 4 year tour in the Marine Corps was the perfect ticket to observe several 3rd world countries and acquire a smidgen of the tons of history there-in. Learning to fly a small airplane gave valuable insight to the realm of our planet where the eagles never fear to soar. A seven year ‘stint’ in brisk Alaska gave additional credence to a ‘gold mine’ of rare, adventuresome opportunities.

Real life was huge and open but we knew it was never going to be handed to us on a platter. We had to ’dare’ to venture forth and see for ourselves. Without shouting it out loud, we subtlety lived out the age old saying about the ’cowards dying many times before their death but the valiant never taste of death but once‘. Thus, the following ’saga’ touches just a portion of the total make-up of what is referred to as ’life’ for one adventuresome lad in primarily a chronological order and most of it in an ’auto-biographical’ setting. In retrospect, it is an on-going narrative of, –how grandpa grew-up and lived to tell about it.

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‘Author’, 14 months old, being held by

Grandma Fleishour, — my mom’s mom.

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CHAPTER 1

Real Life

L ittle boys of about 2 years of age don’t know very much usually, but if their parents have been showing them some ‘kids’ books with pictures of animals in them, they think they know quite a bit. At least I did and what I saw coming around the side of our house, towards me, then running past the front of our house and continuing on into the back yard was an honest to goodness ‘tiger’. It looked quite long, all covered with mostly orange fur with a few dark markings, had a long tail and he was trotting along, just like the ‘tiger’ was in my animal book. You better believe I was scared!

I had been standing out front, somewhat close to the old gravel road that ran past our little, ‘wee’ house out in the country. Usually, there was so little traffic on the road that Mom would let me outside and I would walk from our house out toward the road. Even though I was by myself this particular morning, I’m sure Mom was constantly glancing out the front door to check on me. The old gravel road was the Tracy Creek road that was located way out in the country about 1/2 way between Apalachin and Vestal, New York. Surely a remote setting like that could have real live ‘tigers’ running loose. At least, that thought was what ran through my little mind.

After the ‘tiger’ had run past me and on into the back yard, I made a ‘bee-line’ for the house, clambered up the front wooden steps and went bawling into the house. I’m sure I tried to tell Mom what I had just seen but don’t remember if I convinced her that it was a ‘tiger’ or not. If she did comprehend me, I’m sure she corrected me right away and reassured me that there were no tigers in the area. Surely, she would have told me that what I had really seen was the big, furry, orange tom cat from the neighbor’s farm that was running through the area. But back then, I just knew it was a real, live, terrible, ‘Tony the tiger’!

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CHAPTER 2

A Crib For A Jail

T he spaces between the bars of my crib looked quite far apart, almost wide enough to slide my whole head out, so I slowly started pushing and sticking my pointed head through the bars. It was a bit of a struggle to get my ears passed the bars but after a little persistent pushing, they popped through and now my entire head was sticking outside of the bars of my crib. But, then, after only a minute or so, I thought I’d better be pulling my head back in, just in case.–– Big surprise; big, big surprise! I couldn’t get my head back in!

Our new home was now near the small town of Appalachian, NY. The house was an old 2 story farm house. As I was only about 2 and 1/2 years old, my bed, which was still a crib, was located in my parents bedroom up on the 2nd floor. Naturally, my age required me to still take ‘afternoon’ naps but, when you can’t fall asleep right away, little tykes don’t just lay there staring at the ceiling or twiddling their thumbs; they got to learn, so, usually, they start to explore.

One of the best ways to explore is to try something you’ve never tried before like attempting to stick your head out through the side of the crib. So even though I learned that I could push my little, bony head out, it just never dawned on me that I also had to pull it back inside; sometimes know as ‘fore-thought’. Now, if my head had been sticking out for a week or two, I could have concluded that maybe it had grown a bit bigger. This, however, was not the case. As I began to pull my beady-head back in, harder and harder against the bars, my tiny ears were starting to ‘scream. Naturally, I was getting concerned that they might even pop off the side of my throbbing head, at least that’s what ran through my mixed-up mind when I started to see lots of ‘stars’ flashing around my itty-bitty brain.

I don’t remember just how long I was stuck there, seemed like nearly a couple of hours or so. But constant and steady pressure ‘won the day’. Finally, one ear ever so slowly began to slip past the bars; then the other one made it’s triumphant entry, back inside the ‘jail-like’ crib. Victory at last! Oh, sweet joy! Happy days were here again and I hadn’t even screamed for Mom to come to my rescue, like I had wanted to. Apparently, I must have thought that I ‘matured’ quite a bit that day because later, when Mom got me out of that ‘juvenile slammer’, she stared at my ears and then asked me why they were all red and swollen? I should have told the truth and revealed the whole sordid story which might have gotten me in a big heap of trouble. Instead, I said something that I thought was rather ‘innocuous’. I replied, ‘I don’t know, are they really red’?

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About April 1946, Pop & Mom Rubin,

Larry, lower left, 5 yrs.; sister Carole, 7

and little brother Bruce, 16 months.

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CHAPTER 3

Danger In The Basement

I t’s only natural that most little guys of about 3 years old love to follow their dad around the house, for several reasons, the biggest one being of wanting to see what they do and how they do it. Learning has a sense of ‘ urgency’ at that age. I was no different. Little guys don’t realize it but, while watching their parents, sometimes their older siblings and especially their dad, their teenie brains are actually in an extreme ‘learning’ mode, almost like an ‘apprenticeship’ program. They will follow their dad nearly ‘anywhere’, just to feed that voracious hunger their immature minds still crave; that is, ‘ALMOST’ anywhere. But there was one place that I refused to go.

Pop was a handyman of sorts; he could fix almost anything. Often times when he finished his 8 hour work day at IBM, he would spend an hour or so down in the basement of our old farm house. Standing at the work bench, he would get involved with all sorts of little repairs or fix-it projects. It was also somewhat the beginning of my multi-faceted learning curve. Pop had bought me a little tricycle that I dearly loved to ride down there in the basement. However, keeping a sharp eye on everything that Pop was up to, was ‘job # 1’. Little guys learn ‘lightning fast’ though and I quickly mastered the art of riding my shiny trike while at the same time, watching every single thing that Pop did.

At the bottom of the basement steps, there was a large rectangle area that was flat, smooth concrete. Off the back side of that concrete was another small area, that was only semi-level dirt. Additionally, at night, the light over Pop’s work bench did not penetrate into that small, dirt covered area. To me, that unlit area was the blackest, spookiest, and scariest space in the entire planet. I was absolutely positive it was inhabited by goblin’s, ghosts and the wildest animals that are only found in the darkest jungles. It was a ‘no-brainer’ that it was the safe haven for dozens of crouching lions and tigers. Seemingly, whenever I got even a bit close to that black jungle area, I’m sure I could not only hear the crouching animals breathing but I could also actually smell their putrid odor. Fact is, I’m not sure if Pop was ever aware of that situation, but I sure was!

That pitch black dirt area, where the tigers were hiding was completely ‘taboo’ to me. It was the only place that I absolutely refused to go at night. Whenever I rode my trusty tricycle toward that portion of the basement, I deliberately would steer it several feet away from the entrance to that ‘death hole’. Little doubt did I have that if I even accidentally strayed too close to that dirt floor, death-jungle area, it would have been ‘curtains’ for me! And even though I was vibrantly aware that ‘death’ and ‘horror’ resided in that black hole, not once did I ever mention it to Pop. I knew he loved to work in the basement, but my little mind thought that if he actually knew the horrendous danger lurking close by, he just might not be able to handle it, might be overcome with fear and unwilling to ever work down there at night-time! So, I never, ever told him.

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CHAPTER 4

Happenings At Home

T he kitchen in our old farm house was not very large. On one side of the kitchen there were two doorways; one door opened into the bathroom, the other door opened into a small entry porch. The entry porch had several large windows on one side and the adjacent side to them had a large, solid, hardwood door that was painted yellow. The ‘plain-Jane’ door had no window in it and it opened to the outdoors. The door had no ‘modern’ key-type lockable handle that turned; only a small ‘pull-handle’ to pull the door closed and a medium-heavy duty ‘hook’ on the inside that we could lock the door firmly shut with.

One day when our whole family returned home from town, my parents couldn’t find the key for the ‘key-lock’ side-door by the basement landing that would allow us entry back into our home so Pop went up the old wooden steps to the yellow door. He tried pulling on the outside handle to see if he could pull the hook on the inside loose and there-by open the door. Several serious tugs produced no results. Then he put his right knee up against the house and pulled extremely hard again. After about the 4th hard jerk, the hook on the inside gave way and the door came flying open. So did Pop and if he hadn’t been still holding onto the door handle, he would have been sprawled at the bottom of the steps in a heap. I tried not to show it but I was nearly dying of laughter!

One morning in the month of May, I was going to open the door from the kitchen and go out into the back porch. Mom saw me and hollered that us kids wouldn’t be able to go in there for several more weeks. I asked her why but she only replied, ‘you’ll see’. Pop had been taking almost everything out of the porch and had been fixing it up. A hooded contraption with a heat lamp had been suspended in one corner, a 12 inch tall cardboard barrier erected on two sides and a bunch of newspapers had been laid out under it.

Within a couple of days, pop drove up to the post office in town and brought home a funny looking cardboard box full of holes. Strange, peeping noises were coming from inside the box. Mom and Pop let me watch as they picked up what looked like little balls of yellow cotton, one at a time and placed them under the ‘warm heat-lamp brooder’. I was amazed at how these little yellow cotton puffs started running around, making cute little ‘peeping’ sounds. I dearly wanted to play with these new ‘yellow toys’ but Mom said, no way. She explained to us that some of these little ‘peeps’ would soon grow up and become adult chickens that would lay eggs for us to eat. Others would become ‘roosters’ and we could butcher them occasionally for a tasty, roast chicken dinner.

Later that Fall, after the roosters were mature, Pop would occasionally pick out the largest rooster on a Saturday afternoon and butcher it. Then, Mom would prepare a succulent Sunday dinner of roast chicken with stuffing, mashed potatoes, light brown gravy and all the trimmings. Those meals were some of the best times of family fellowship we ever had in our lives! —Meals to remember! Nostalgic meals, indeed!

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CHAPTER 5

Lost In the Snake house

H ow amazing and extremely interesting to look into all those scores of glass cages containing such a variety of multi-colored, slithery snakes. As I tightly held my dad’s hand, we would walk from one cage to the next. And for a 5 year old little guy like me, that put many of the cages right at ‘eye’ height. After 15 minutes or so of holding my hand up while clasping my dad’s hand, my puny little arm started to weigh a ‘ton’, so I let go of Pop’s hand. I continued walking from cage to cage, gawking at each one of those creepy specimens .

Maybe 10 minutes later, I turned to ask Pop a mundane question but Pop was no-where to be seen. I hurriedly glanced all around the show room floor, but still, no Pop! I’m sure I wandered out the entrance door hoping that maybe Pop was waiting outside for me. Still, he was nowhere in sight!

Our family had driven down to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania one summer, probably in 1946, to visit my Uncle Ed and Aunt Mae Etta. For a ‘day-outing’, we decided to go visit the very large Philadelphia Zoo close by. As I remember, only us guys, Pop, Uncle Ed and myself,from our family, had elected to walk through the ‘Reptile’ house that day. Mom, Aunt Etta and Carole said, ‘No thanks’! The sprawling zoo was huge, so there were thousands of ‘milling’ people everywhere.

When I failed to see Pop or any of my family outside of the snake house, I started slowly and aimlessly walking down the crowed sidewalk in a fear of ‘panic’! I didn’t have a clue where I was heading but distinctly remember that I was leaving a trail of tears.

In as little as 5 or 6 minutes of walking along and slobbering like the most forlorn kid in the world, an elderly ‘colored’ man stopped me and asked if I was lost. I was so upset and frightened that I don’t remember saying anything to him but could only shake my little bony head, ‘yes’. He gently took me by the hand and we started slowly walking away as he said, let’s go over to the ‘lost and found’ where you can wait for your parents.

When we arrived at the ‘lost and found’ house, the man on duty there told us that some people had just stopped there a few minutes before, checking on their ‘lost boy’. I was told to remain there and the ‘parents’ would be back in a few more minutes to ‘check-back’. The ‘clerk’ even had me sit up on a hi-stool so that I could look out the window easier. After what seemed like an ‘eternity’, I finally spotted my Pop walking up the sidewalk toward my location. My spirit ‘soared’, as I ‘flew’ out the door and raced to meet my eager parents. I jumped into Pop’s open arms as he picked me up and held me ‘oh so tightly’! For several minutes, I reveled in that occasional exuberance one feels of; ‘life is so sweet’ and my joy is complete’! Rescued at last!

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Photo, taken about May 1944,

Mom & Pop Rubin,

Carole & Larry

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CHAPTER 6

The Good Ol Days

M any times, when we think back of events or how tasks were done when we were kids, we usually admit that we are much better off today, in many ways, than ‘the good ol days’. Take for example, the manner in which mom washed the family laundry. It was usually an ‘all day process’!

I can still quite vividly remember back when I was only 4 or 5 years old, I would follow Mom down into the basement of our old farm house as she began her ‘wash day’. Typically, it was a Monday morning and since we did not have a ‘laundry chute’, Mom had to carry all the smelly clothes down to the basement as well as back up when they were clean. The area where Mom did the laundry was in that area which I ‘deplored’ at night, as it was the dark, ‘jungle’ area full of the crafty lions and tigers that hid in our basement. In the daytime, the area was miraculously transformed into a much more secure and sane working area in which Mom could safely work without fear of ‘attack’. I was always mystified at how those crouching jungle predators could so mystically disappear during the daylight!

The earliest washing machine I remember Mom using had an old grimy electric motor which was irritatingly noisy! Mom had to fill the water tub by hand at first, bucket by bucket. Finally, Pop purchased a couple of shiny new ‘garden’ type rubber hoses that could be easily attached to an old laundry sink and then routed over into her washing machine. Occasionally, a slick water hose would gradually work its way out of the wash tub and the water would be shooting all over the floor, making a miery mess. Invariably, such a situation would prompt Mom to issue forth a few disparaging words that she would mumble under her breath.

Inside the center of the water holding tub stood a tall, dirty, white, agitator device. The agitator vigorously sloshed the clothes around in the discolored, soapy water until some of them were almost clean. After 15 minutes of such an outright beating, many of the clothes were severely twisted, lots of them were unbelievably frayed, and some nearly worn-out! But Mom thought it sure beat using the old-fashioned ‘wash boards’.

Next, Mom would ‘fish’ the clean clothes out of the dirty tub water using one bare hand and in the other-hand, she used a short 13 inch laundry stick. One at a time, she would pull an item out and hold the dripping material up against a ‘wringer’ arm assembly. It held two counter rotating rubber rollers that were disgustingly stained. Almost automatically, the clothes item would be ‘sucked’ in between the two turning rollers which squeezed most of the wash water out of them. Then they would come flying out the opposite side where Mom would grab each one and drop them into a waiting metal laundry tub. Invariably, if Mom accidentally allowed her fingers to get too close, the rollers would grab onto her fingers also and start to rapidly pull them into the voracious assembly. In such situations, Mom used her free hand with lighting speed to hit the ‘release bar’, just above the rollers. And every time she attempted to hit it, she was right on the ‘button’; she ‘never’ missed!

After rinsing the clean clothes in a tub of fresh, clean water, they would be wrung out and thus be ready to be hung out to dry. If the weather outside was ‘rainy’ or too cold, Mom would hang the damp clothes on the clothes lines in the basement. Nice weather meant that she must carry the clothes back up the basement stairs, out through the side door and over to the outdoor wire clothes lines erected between our garage and the garden plot. Many, many times, in the warm days of May through September, Mom would carry some of the wet bathroom towels, wash cloths and washable cloth diapers out onto the smooth lawn across the driveway. There stood a robust Italian plum tree where Mom would usually lay these items beneath. The shiny green grass of that area received full sunlight and the wet items would dry quite rapidly, laying there flat on the grass.

‘Laundry day’ back then was much more laborious than it is now-a-days. It must have been at least the early 1950s before my parents could afford to purchase what we now call, an ‘automatic’ clothes washer and dryer. But, I know, I was 50 times happier than Mom was, the day she received her shiny new automated machines. My continuous following her, up and down the stairs, in and out of the house, down and over the yard and helping lay the wet clothes down and picking them back up later, liked to ‘kill me off’. But not my Mom, she was a tireless ‘trooper’, exhibiting ‘endless’ endurance on those ‘good ol laundry days!

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CHAPTER 7

Country Life For A Five Year Old

F ive year old boys just ‘love’ to be outdoors, especially in the summertime. I was no exception. Since we lived out in the country, our back yard area was quite large with numerous trees of all kinds. One day in about June of 1946, when my Uncle Vic was still living with us, my Uncle saw me playing outside. Maybe it was something I said to him or maybe I ‘dared’ him, but he got the idea to ‘tie’ me up to a tree in our yard.

Uncle Vic had located some supple cotton rope and lured me over by a tree next to our driveway. Probably by deception, he had talked me into putting a ‘loop’ of rope around my mid-section and proceeded to wrap several coils of the rope around me with my back to the tree. With my arms down by my side and my legs close together, I stood there as he tied my whole body securely to that 20 foot tall tree. He watched for a while as I struggled in vain to get free and then, just walked off and left me.

The Second World War had ended only about a year earlier, so when Uncle Vic was released from the Marine Corps, my parents had offered to let him live with us. He had gotten a job with IBM Corp. but his work shift was the swing shift, from 2 pm in the afternoon until 11 pm in the evening. It was on such a morning as this, before he had to go to work one day, when my Uncle caught me playing outside and decided to play a bit of ‘Cowboys and Indians’. On this particular day, I was apparently chosen to be the ‘Indian’. In just a minute or two, he had me bound securely to that tree. After a few minutes of futile efforts to get untied, I started to cry.

I must have been tied there nearly 15 minutes or so. Eventually, Mom must have been looking for me, so she walked outside. I’m not sure if she saw me 1st or heard me crying 1st, but she walked part-way out from the house and asked me what in the world I was doing there. In the most mournful, blubbering voice I could conjure up, I told her that Uncle Vic had tied me up.

Immediately, Mom turned around and nearly ran into the house to find Uncle Vic. I haven’t got a clue what she said to him, but within just a minute or so, he came hurrying out of our house and reluctantly untied me. Other than my ‘pride’ being hurt, there were absolutely no rope marks or anything on my arms or legs. In-spite of having to be the ‘Indian’ that afternoon, Uncle Vic became one of my very favorite Uncles and always was. Uncle Vic was very good at tying knots in ropes, too.

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CHAPTER 8

Dangerous Toys for a Kid

S cores of small appliances and implements we used only a few years ago are now either obsolete or have been changed so drastically that one would scarcely recognize them now-a-days. Remember the old ‘reel’ type lawn mowers that were prevalent back in the 1920s through the 1960s before the gasoline powered mowers came on the scene? They all had a long handle on them that was used to manually push this ‘wheel-driven’, ‘grass cutting device’. Pop had two of these ‘grass manicure machines’.

Most of the old concrete sidewalk that ran out from our house was on a gradual slope as it led down to our driveway. Even at 5 years old, I was able to open the single, ‘narrow side’ of our garage door, pull out Pop’s small ‘reel’ type lawn mower and drag it over to that sloping sidewalk.

I don’t know why, but I had discovered that if I turned the ‘push mower’ upside down, I could kneel down and balance my tiny body on the handle of the mower as it drug along on the ground, creating a crude ‘cart-type’ of machine that I could ride on. I further realized that when I pushed on the curved cutting blades, the main wheels of the mower would thereby be forced to turn, thus becoming a ‘self propelled’ little machine. On the flat driveway, that presented no problem. As I began propelling it ‘up the slope’, of the sidewalk, however, it became a completely different story!

I quickly learned that as soon as I would let go of the curved blades, gravity would immediately begin to pull the mower back down the sloped side-walk. At the same time, the curved cutting blades would start to rapidly spin backwards, turning forcefully against the cutting bar. And at such a young age, my immature mind was not aware that if I had accidentally allowed my fingers to get ‘into’ those spinning blades, my little fingers could have been drastically cut or maybe even severed.

To the best of my knowledge, I don’t ever remember my Mom scolding me for using that old lawn mower like I was. Surely, if she had seen me, she would have severely reprimanded me and forbidden me to ever ride on the inverted lawn mower again. Probably, not until many years later did I ever really comprehend how close I had actually come to potentially cutting some of my tiny fingers, — clean off’!

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CHAPTER 9

The Life of a First Grader

T here goes the school bus, hollered my sister Carole. The school bus would go past our home a couple of hundred yards to a side road that went up past our neighbors. The bus driver would turn the bus around at that road junction and then come back to our house where he would stop to pick us up. Carole and I were the 1 st ones to get on that old orange school bus every school day. After maybe 15 stops or so, the bus would be nearly full and would go up to the Appalachian Elementary School, where all of us ‘future- Einstein’s’ would get off.

Little guys in 1st grade are not too much up to speed on how all the events of the school day fit into a pattern or ‘routine’. Naturally, the teacher, Miss Catlin, had been teaching for ‘eons’, (or slightly longer, maybe), and had a handle on every event that would occur during those long, drawn out days. During the first few months of my 1st grade, there was a frequent ‘happening’ that nearly worried me to ‘death’.

During the school day, all of us 1st graders were beginning to learn how to print our ‘alphabet’ letters. Now, I’ll be the first one to admit that maybe some of my ‘letters’ weren’t ‘perfect’, but Miss Catlin had the habit of constantly finding fault with mine. I distinctly remember that she always wore a very thick pair of ‘glasses’ and I thought she had two very big problems. Apparently, she could not afford to have her eyes examined nor could she afford to ever buy ‘new glasses’. Thus, I reasoned that because of ‘her’ huge sight problem, she took it out on me by making me ‘stay after school’ and practice printing my ‘letters’ some more. Personally, I thought they were ‘gems’!

All the rest of my class mates would race outside when school was out each day and would be just a whoop-in and a holler-in and havin a ‘ball’ while they waited for the school bus. Now if my teacher had been thinking correctly, she would have known that a little kid, like me, could not, in any way in the world, begin to concentrate with all that commotion and fun going on outside. And to me, the greatest worry was that Miss Catlin would forget that I was still inside, practicing, and I would miss my bus. It’s no wonder then, that the letters I printed after school weren’t nearly as good as those I made during the day.—At least, that was my opinion.

Seems like every couple of minutes or so, Miss Catlin would sneak up behind me, gawk at my newly printed A-B-C letters and immediately demand that I ‘erase’ them and ‘do them over, right’. It’s impossible to remember how many erasers I wore out on the end of those old yellow # 2 pencils. The resulting grey and black smudges would prevent almost anybody from being able to clearly see my ‘handy-work’.

Shortly, the bus would arrive to pick us up and the teacher would hurriedly encourage me to get out there and get on the bus. ‘Oh joy’, what a relief to get out of the classroom and be getting on the bus. In all fairness though, I’ll have to give Miss Catlin ‘one big plus’. Not once did she ever forget me and allow me to miss the bus home! And I thank her for that, very much!

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CHAPTER 10

We Learned In School

O ften, it was tough to behave in school. With all the energy that 6 and 7 year old kids have, it was a miracle that we ever sat still for 10 minutes or more without getting all fidgety and such. A couple of times each week, we would have about a 40 minute session called ‘music’ class. That was better than most classes as it allowed us to not only exercise our lungs, but also beat on the ‘rhythm sticks’, tambourines and triangles. Our little bodies were just stuffed with energy and itchin to do some wigglin!

Then one morning, Miss Catlin surprised us by walking over to the classroom door, stopped and made an announcement to us. She said that she had to leave the classroom for a few minutes and that while she was gone, we were to remain in our seats and say absolutely nothing. Then she turned, went out of the room and pulled the old wooden door tightly closed behind her.

We all probably thought she was just going to the bathroom but that wasn’t the important thing. Being ‘unsupervised’ for a few minutes was just the opportunity we were all waiting for. For a least a couple of minutes, we would be ‘free’ to act ‘ourselves’ and boy, did we ever!

Probably not a single kid stayed in their seat. One hopped up and stood on his seat, one crawled up on his desktop on hands and knees, another hopped up on his seat and then up onto the desk top and several stood up and danced a bit of a ‘jig’ around their desks. My ole buddy Barry got down and crawled around his desk on his hands and knees. And everybody was talking out loud. We were havin a ‘ball’; ‘this’ was ‘livin’!

Suddenly, we heard the ‘squeak’ of the door handle turning and the hinges of the old wooden door starting to ‘creak’ as it began to open. Like a flash, everyone was almost ‘immediately’ back in their seat acting like little angels. We had just pulled off one of the best ‘scam jobs’ possible on our teacher, - so we thought.

In just a couple of seconds, that beautiful serene setting turned into a roaring storm. With scowling glares and vengeance in her voice, Miss Catlin began systematically to point at each one of us and describe in detail, precisely what we had each done. And she was 100% correct. I remember that she took away our ‘recess’ time for both morning and afternoon that day. But every one of us kids wondered, how in the world did she know?

I don’t remember exactly how we found out, but by the end of the school year, we finally knew the ‘secret’. It seems that the classroom door was a style that was constructed with ‘panels’ in it. Mostly from age probably, one of the panels in the upper half of that old door had shifted, just a bit. Actually, it had readjusted to one side about a quarter of an inch, leaving a very narrow gap that you could see through if your eye was placed up close to it. It was now so very obvious. Miss Catlin had stood outside the closed door and had placed her eye up close to that shifted panel, to watch. All of us ‘ little angels’ were prancing through our shenanigans as she peeked through that crack in the door! —She knew how to ‘check up on us’ but we eventually caught on. As a result, we were nearly always much better behaved when ‘left on our own’.

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CHAPTER 11

A Bad School Day

I watched helplessly as the rubber ball, (which was just a bit smaller that a basket ball), took two more bounces and bounced directly into the burn barrel where Miss Catlin was burning some trash papers. I could see the flames leaping slightly above the top of the rim of the rusty, old 50 gallon drum and knew that within a few more seconds, our rubber ball would be ‘history’! Miss Catlin was several feet away and her back was turned toward us as she watched some other students on the playground. So I did what any ‘responsible’ kid would do. I grabbed about a 2 foot long stick laying on the ground and began poking in that burning inferno, attempting to rescue our ball from the flames. Big mistake, big, big mistake!

The ‘Annie, Annie, over’ game that our 3rd grade class played was probably the most exciting recess game we played. We had the almost perfect location to play it as there was a small ‘entrance’ shed that was attached to the back side of our big old two story school house. The entrance shed had a peaked roof on it and was ideal for throwing the ball over to the team on the other side of the shed. If the ‘other side’ caught the ball, the person that caught the ball had the privilege to come around to our side and would throw the rubber ball at somebody. Only if the ball ‘hit’ someone, would they have to join ‘their side’.

There were, however, two drawbacks to the location where we played the ‘Annie, Annie, over’ game. The 1st drawback was that just about 15 feet out from the end of that entrance shed, began a moderately steep hill. Occasionally, no one was able to catch the ball when it came over the roof and after a couple of ‘bounces’, it would sometimes bounce over to the beginning of that long hill and start to roll down. A mad scramble would ensue to get the ball before it began rolling faster and faster, all the way to the bottom of the hill. Stopping the ball ‘in time’, meant saving a long run down the hill to retrieve it, as well as many valuable minutes of our recess time.

The 2nd drawback was that just on the edge of our area where we played this game, there stood an old rusty metal 50 gallon barrel with the top cut out of it. About once a day, a teacher would bring out some trash papers and would burn them in that old ‘burn’ barrel. Back in those days of the 1940s and early 50s, it was completely permissible to burn papers in a ‘burn’ barrel, even on the school property with 20 or more future ‘Einstein’s’ running around.

That old burn barrel was nearly 3/4ths full of ‘ashes’ that day and I could still see our ball lying in there among the dancing flames. Naturally, when the teacher heard the commotion and turned around, the only thing that registered with her was that some ‘foolish kid’ was poking around in her fire barrel while the flames were still leaping high. Let me tell you now, she scooted over to me like lighting, latched on to my shirt and gave me the hardest ‘yank’ that any kid on the planet ever received. Hallelujah, I’m glad I was a skinny and a ‘light weight’ kid. If I had been any heavier, she would have ripped the shirt right off my back.

Really, I don’t dare repeat the harsh words she had for me that day. Let’s just say, they weren’t real kind; maybe appropriate, but not very kind. In truth, her emphatic words to me were completely for my benefit; to admonish me and alert me to the drastic dangers I had exposed myself to. I was concerned about a ‘toy’; she was concerned about my ‘life’.

However, the greatest fear she instilled in me that day occurred during the initial 6 minutes from the second she first spotted me diggin in her ‘fire’. A ‘looming’ look of concern and huge worry from her was directed straight at me. And if looks could immobilize a young lad, it sure worked on me. All I remember was that her lighting fast advance toward me clued me in that I had committed a huge ‘no-no’. I remember, I wasn’t too smart back then, but I was just smart enough to know that, this little ‘butch’ was ‘in for a gigantic reprimand!