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This is the season when grasshoppers become prevalent; when they are young and more susceptible to chemical treatment. And this is the ‘off season’ for mice to enter the warmth of residences. But this is not a lesson on insect and rodent control; that’s better left to specialists as you’ll soon discover. Instead, it’s a report about incidents involving a grasshopper and a mouse that happened to me and how I handled or, more accurately, mishandled, each problem.
Carrots boiled and carrots baked, carrots raw and carrot cake; Some thick, some thin, some long, some short, served by the pound and served by the quart. I’ve had ‘em in good times and had ‘em in bad, ‘they’re good for your eyes,’ I was told as a lad; But if carotene in carrots is good for our sight, will paraffin in chocolate turn brown candy white? Now I am old, some 80 I think, I’ve worn out more glasses than my pen used up ink; My walker has slowed down, and my talker now squawks, from the bed to the bathroom is where I take walks. So you’d think that by now I’d have well earned the right, to say ‘NO’ to carrots; ‘not even a bite’; But no, that’s not the way the ball bounces, now I get carrot juice served by the ounces. I thought I’d retire to a home for the aged, and leave carrots for monkeys and rabbits not caged; But no, oh no, not so says the chef, ‘you’ll get ‘em; you’ll eat ‘em; I don’t want any left. ‘You’ll get ‘em in soup, in salads and stew, leave any you’ll get ‘em in breakfast food too.’ So I say to the chef, unless I get ‘em in wine, put those dumb carrots where the sun cannot shine.
This is a story about food--salads in particular. However, a bit of diversity is necessary in order to get my point across. Naming all the various dinner salads available today is virtually impossible--an endless list that wouldn’t hold you readers’ (or publishers’) attention, and this article would never get read if even published. So I’ll just say that prior to the 1950s salad varieties were fewer. The old standard served at banquets and in hotels, cafes and restaurants was a lettuce salad. No, not the chopped or leaf variety you now know, but a lettuce wedge covered with Thousand Island dressing.
Here comes one of the diversions mentioned in the first paragraph. During the 1940s, ‘50s and ‘60s, nearly all business people and office workers wore suits and ties in or out of their offices. Even during the 1960s, when I worked in the editorial department on the Nebraska Farmer magazine staff, we had to wear a tie and suit or sport suit. We could leave our office without a coat as long as we didn’t leave the building; then full dress was mandatory.
I recall taking a trip to Missouri with our editor and one or two other staff members one hot summer day. We had removed our suit coats during the car trip, but before entering a small town cafe for lunch we slipped back into our coats. Our editor asked the cafe owner if we were too late to get a little something to eat. Her response was “No. Not if you take off those hot suit coats.”
That unwritten dress code at our business office changed abruptly a few years later with the hiring of a new publisher. On his first day at the job he arrived wearing a Tee-shirt--no tie; no jacket. From that time on formal dress ‘went out the window,’ and we could work in more comfort. So much for that diversion. Now let’s go back in time to 1943 and World War II. I was on a troop train, part of an Air Corps squadron being transported from Texas to Massachusetts to prepare for an unknown destination overseas.
We were let off the train in Little Rock, AK, marched a couple of blocks up a steep hill to a very prestigious hotel where we were served lunch. Seated in the huge, beautiful dining room were a lot of well-dressed businessmen, some with (we assumed) their wives, also splendidly arrayed. As was the custom the first item served was a salad; a wedge cut from a whole head of lettuce, floating in Thousand Island dressing. Apparently I hadn’t secured my lettuce wedge firmly enough on the salad plate. When I began to cut it with my table knife it jumped off the plate, hit the table and skidded part way across the dining room.
Now I’m not going to tell you about my embarrassment; that’s easily understood. However, it made me glad to be going overseas. I don’t recall ever eating another wedge salad. In fact, I may have been at least partially responsible for their demise. For those of you who preferred lettuce wedges, I apologize. For those who like a diversity in salads, I can take partial credit for their inception as a staple in finer dining. And for those of you who have read all of this article, without leaping ahead to this closure, I extend my sympathy.
over the past several decades
I had just started my 12-block walk home from Saratoga grade school when a man in a 1929 Model A Ford, parked outside the school, honked his horn and motioned for me to get into the car. He was wearing a billed cap and I couldn’t see his face very well, so I ignored him and kept walking. He then reached across the passenger seat, removed his cap, stuck his head out the window and called me by name. It was then that I recognized my father. He had traded the old touring car in for the used Ford and had bought a new billed ‘tam.’ I had never seen him wear that style of cap, and was unaware of his intention to trade cars. Even in those early ‘30s we were taught to not get into cars with strangers. Now that clothing styles seem to change constantly, a slight change such as that mentioned above no longer creates a loss of recognition of the wearer. Clothing styles were fairly standard in those years, but beginning with the 1940s have undergone dramatic changes. For instance, we never see men wearing gaiters--commonly called ’spats’--which were common in the ’20s and ’30s. Spats were cloth or leather coverings that overlaid the insteps of men’s shoes, and extended up the ankles They were held in place by a strap under the instep.
Another item that has disappeared is the garter; an elastic band that fit around the ankles and held up men’s socks. A similar band was placed around a man’s upper arms to take up the slack in shirt sleeves; sleeves that were rolled up in hot weather because there were no polo shirts then.
Women, too, wore garters, but they were attached to their corsets and clamped onto the tops of their stockings to hold them in place. Also giving way to more modern refinery were the lace-up corsets that preceded girdles.
You recognize, of course, that I am reporting speculatively about the feminine attire; I have no first-hand knowledge on that subject, except that I have not seen any hanging on clotheslines for years; in fact we are seeing fewer clotheslines in these days of electric dryers. I often wondered what kept clothes from breaking when frozen solid hanging from outdoor clotheslines during Nebraska winters.
My wife bought a dressy jumpsuit when we lived in New Mexico that was designed and manufactured by a local resident and sold in women’s clothing stores. It was called a “Fanny Flap.” That referred to a hidden zippered flap that negated the need for removing the entire suit when ’nature called.’ I don’t know how successful the item became, but it always seemed to me a very practical innovation in women’s wear.
We still see men wearing bow ties on occasion, but they’re not as prevalent as they were 70 years ago. I couldn’t get a good ’do’ on tying a bow tie, but liked wearing the later style of clip-on bows. I never tried the clip-on four-in-hand ties. Also, I would rather have frozen my ears than wear those leather skullcaps with ear flaps that snapped, buckled or tied beneath the chin.
I think farmers, ranchers and folks working outdoors in winter still wear ’long johns,’ as I did as a kid. They weren’t too bad; usually comfortable and always warm.
I’ve written before about over-the-knee stockings and knickers for boys, and I’d just as soon once and for all forget about those embarrassing items.
Formerly, the trend in dress codes was to cover everything up. Now it seems that has changed to ‘less is better.’ So where do we go from here? Surely the tailors, weavers and clothing manufacturers someday will say enough is enough if they want to remain in business.
(enduck@hotmail.com)
‘Older Americans Month’ if you remember . . .
Construction of Nebraska’s present State Capitol building and demolition of the one built in 1888. Due to “faulty construction and inferior building stone,” it was replaced by the present structure in four phases between 1922 and 1932.
S&H (Sperry and Hutchinson) Green Stamps. The stamps were issued by groceries, filling stations, department stores and other businesses with every purchase. Green Stamps later gave way to red stamps then blue ones. S&H has since become S&H Solutions and distributes a digital version of the former stamps through participating groceries.
Shopping Guide--Lincoln’s premier free distribution weekly (Thursdays); a business advertising publication. Rolled and with a rubber band attaching it to virtually every porch doorknob and apartment door in the city during the 1930s, it was delivered after school by young boys and girls. I had a route in what was then South Lincoln.
My pay was 25 cents per hundred which was about the size of my route. When I wasn’t available on Thursdays I hired a neighbor as a substitute at fifteen cents a hundred. Later I was ‘promoted’ and got out of Everett Junior High School half an hour early on Thursdays to deliver multiple copies to groceries and drug stores (now called pharmacies). I no longer had to walk a route but rode in a car driven by the company owner’s wife.
Home deliveries of coal, milk and ice, and doctors making house calls. Traveling vendors also plied their wares from bicycles in residential neighborhoods. Most of them had a box attached to the bicycle, or a box on wheels (cart) pulled by the vendor’s bike. Vendors would ‘hawk’ their products, calling attention to their wares as they rode throughout residential areas. But food products weren’t the only items sold or delivered around town. Traveling photographers also were available, as were magazine and other salespeople. I have a photo of me as a one- or two-year-old on the seat of a wagon hitched to a goat. And later I was among the many depression-era kids who sold Liberty magazines door-to-door. They sold for five cents a copy and, if I remember correctly, our ‘cut’ was one or two cents out of each nickel.
Gypsy caravans. Watching those colorful wagons, horses and gaily dressed people riding or walking past our South 11th Street home was nearly as enjoyable as watching the circus parades in downtown Lincoln. Falling somewhat into this category were the shopping night (Saturday, later Thursday) musicals put on by the Salvation Army band or a German band. They oftentimes performed on the sidewalk at ‘Gold’s’ corner, 11th and ‘O‘ Street, or Miller and Paine, 13th and ‘O’ during the 1930s. Their pay was a few coins dropped into a nearby bucket.
A less popular, but still thrilling event during those years was the ‘charivari,’ sometimes spelled ‘shivaree.’ Those were noisy celebrations, mostly rural, following weddings. Beer and food abounded as was noise made by beating on kitchen pots and pans with wooden ladles or sticks. That usually was followed by a dance. Mostly they were held outside. Oftentimes during the celebration the bride would be ‘abducted’ for a short time, but long enough to cause the groom some concern.
Reported here are but a few of the activities from the 1920s and ‘30s which have gone by the wayside--for better or worse. Hopefully the present downturn in our economy will not mandate a reoccurrence of similar efforts by individuals trying to earn a few bucks, and low-or no-cost entertainment as a means of reducing expenses.
A 'Gentle Giant' Visited Lincoln
Most of us go through life without attaining any great deal of recognizable success. Still, there are times when we can gain a modicum of cognizance by latching onto the coattails of someone who is famous. And that’s what this article is all about. A recent taping for Channel 5 TV, moderated by Ruth Ann Lyness with panel members Dennis Buckley, editor of the Neighborhood Extra, Gil Savory and myself as writers for seniorsfoundation.org, were asked how we decide what to write about. Usually I write about events embedded in my memory, mostly from the 1930s. But since the taping one nearly forgotten memory was brought to mind during a 55 Plus bus tour to St. Joseph, MO. Our first tour stop was at the Patee House Museum where I discovered and zeroed in on its display of the world’s tallest human--Robert Pershing Wadlow. Young readers may not be aware that he had ties to Lincoln. He was, as I recall, a nephew of the former owner of Wadlow Mortuary. Also, he had a personal connection with me. He visited in Lincoln, I think it was in 1937, and came to our home. My mother owned a large two-story frame apartment house on the corner of 11th and Garfield, site of the present parsonage for Calvary United Methodist church. It was my home throughout my school years. Our family lived in one apartment and rented out the other half of the first floor and two apartments on the second floor.The nearly 9-feet-tall Robert Pershing Wadlow had a relative or friend living in one of our ‘upstairs‘ apartments, and when he came for a visit we got to see and meet him. I was 12 or 13 years old at the time. My sister, a year younger, also remembers Wadlow; sometimes called the ‘Gentle Giant.’ Born on Feb. 22, 1918 in Alton, IL, Wadlow weighed a nearly normal 8.7 pounds at birth. By the time he started walking he weighed 40 pounds. At age 5 he was 5’ 6 1/2” tall and at age 10 was 6’ 5” and weighed 210 pounds. His unusual growth was the result of an over-active pituitary gland. To my knowledge he still holds the ‘official’ title in the Guinness Book of World Records as the World’s Tallest Human.Wadlow’s father drove him to most of his appearances and probably to Lincoln. The front passenger seat had been removed from the car so Wadlow could sit in back with his feet on the front floorboards. I recall him entering our house and walking up the stairs to visit his friend or relative, and seeing him on the sidewalk and front steps at our house, being introduced to my parents. Had I known in 1937 that I would be writing this today, I certainly would have paid more attention to him and now wish I had gotten some comments and a photo of him. Although my mother used a Kodak box camera quite frequently, I don’t recall seeing a picture of him at our house. I do remember my father saying that when Wadlow sat in the bleachers at an event, he would sit on at least the third row and keep his feet on the floor. The ‘giant’ earned a living by representing the company that manufactured his size 29 or 30 shoes. Other reports list his shoe size as 37AA or 18 1/2”. I stood in an outline of his feet at the Patee Museum and had plenty of space all around my size 12s. Wadlow also traveled with Ringling Brothers Circus in 1936. He died July 15, 1940 from an infected blister on one of his feet. At the time of his death, Wadlow was 8’ 11.1” tall and weighed 439 pounds, down from 492 a year earlier. A growth chart lists him as about 8’ 6” tall and weighing around 435 pounds at the time he came to our front door. An estimated 40,000 people attended his funeral in Alton, IL, and a dozen pallbearers were needed to carry his 1,000-pound casket. So for those of you who may have seen the Channel 5 interview, story ideas come to writers in a lot of different ways. Had I not taken the bus trip to St. Joseph, MO, this story probably would never have been written because my memory of his visit to our home had all but been forgotten.
An article I recently wrote about automobiles owned by our family, even grandparents, also described some of our trips including one to Arches National Monument near Moab, Utah. I described a welcome we received by Warner Brothers Studio as they were filming a Western movie starring six-foot, six-inch Clint Walker. Walker also played the role of Cheyenne Bodie in a TV series entitled “Cheyenne.” After writing that article I looked through some old newspapers I have kept because of their coverage of the ending of World War II and other major events. Some of the material and advertising in those papers will be ‘grist for the mill’ for future articles. But one issue, the March 5, 1961 Sunday Journal and Star, contains, in addition to the original article I wrote about Cheyenne Bodie, some other material that may pique your interest or trigger some memories. For instance: United Air Lines was advertising for stewardess trainees with “weight proportionate to height.” Big Shoe Store had “better grade loafers and oxfords” on sale for $4.99 a pair. The Lincoln Army Store (where I worked for a short time after returning from military service) advertised “Imported Work Shoes” for $2.99 a pair. Wells & Frost had Lee Riders (jeans) “not imperfects” for $3.69. Zale’s Jewelry, at that time--47 years ago-- sold Dormeyer Electric Mixers for $27.89. Also, you could have purchased 10 cans of Campbell’s soups for 88 cents, regularly 10 cents a can, at Kresge’s (5 & 10 cent store) at 12th and O Streets. These prices were Monday night rates between 6 and 9 o’clock. The 84th & O Drive-In theater was featuring Gary Cooper in “The Hanging Tree.” Other Lincoln theaters in 1961 included the Joyo (Havelock), State, Varsity, Stuart, Lincoln, Cooper and Nebraska. And in that1961 issue was this AP news item from Hollywood, headlined Hubby, Convict Are Compared: “Frank Sinatra, who plays a convict and a married man in The Devil at 4 O’clock, says there isn’t much difference between the two. “The average married guy arises, gulps coffee, rushes to a building where he’s confined eight hours, rushes home, gulps dinner, collapses on the divan, watches television, crawls into bed. There’s one difference. The married man can open his door from the inside.”
Although we’re still facing some cold weather, summer travel months are not far ahead. So I thought I’d jot down a few of my automobile and travel experiences. My earliest vehicle memory was the electric car driven by my grandmother. I don’t recall seeing anyone else, not even Grandpa, driving or riding in that huge (to me at least) black monster. It had only one bench seat which I remember sitting on beside Grandma once when parked at the curb. The seat required less space than the battery storage compartment behind the seat. I still visualize her electric car silently sneaking up to the curb at our South Lincoln home. Grandfather had a large Packard. My father frequently mentioned that when I was very young, Grandpa backed over one of my legs. I doubt if the wheel really went over the leg since both legs have always functioned more or less normally. Perhaps Father got things turned around and the Packard ran over the other end. I recall, as a very young lad, a ‘touring’ car owned by my parents. It had canvas side flaps that could be opened for air circulation and snapped shut to keep out the cold. The flaps had isinglass side windows and that’s all I remember about that auto. I’ve written before about a couple of cars of mine--a 1935 coupe with a rumble seat, and a 1942 sedan. But my first new car was a 1951 with automatic transmission. I never found out why I could get only 7 to 9 miles per gallon of gas in town, and 10 to 12 on the highway. A few years later the manufacturer ran an ad campaign asking owners to tell, in 25 words or less, why they would like to own a new model. Feeling certain that I would not be in the winner’s circle for the new car to be given for the best answer, I wrote: “To compensate for the lemon I bought in 1951.” That triggered a lot of activity--from the out-of-town dealer where I had bought the car, and the Lincoln dealer. Both diligently inspected and replaced parts including the carburetor and fuel pump. Even a factory specialist came to Lincoln in an unsuccessful attempt to isolate the problem. I did receive a great offer from the manufacturer--a very generous trade-in on a new model. However, at my then ‘young’ age with a wife and three children to support, I couldn’t afford even that tempting offer. Later I traded for a used station wagon. It wasn’t until 1969 that I was able to buy another new car. I believe it was in 1952 or ‘53 that my wife and I drove the 1951 vehicle to Boston to attend a convention. In addition to low gas mileage, the car developed a valve problem as we neared ‘Bean City.’ We had to stay there an extra day after repairs were made because a heavy coastal storm prevented our crossing a river to pick up the car. After stopping for a day or two in Detroit on our way home, we drove through another bad storm. The small creek our two-lane highway paralleled was overflowing and trash, wooden crates, even pieces of furniture were tumbling down the stream. In one area the water completely obliterated the roadway and we appeared to be driving across a lake. My wife opened the passenger side window and stuck out her arm; she could feel water splashing on her hand. But there was an 18-wheeler ahead of us and I assumed he could see the highway, so I drove in his ‘wake’ and made it across the ‘lake.’ Admittedly that was a dangerous and stupid venture and I certainly would not recommend it to other drivers. Three other problems developed with our early automobiles. Twice along Highway 20 as the family traveled toward my favorite trout fishing stream near Long Pine, NE. once we blew a tire and our spare was flat, so I started walking toward the next town. It was hot, and a rattlesnake slithered a little ahead of me. But I hadn’t gone far when an elderly man in a pickup slowed down, looked me over, then turned around and picked me up and took me to a Co-op service station. The manager sold me a used tire and patched the other, then drove me back to my car and mounted the replacement tire--all at a cost of $8. You just don’t get bargains like that any more. The other time, along the same highway, a damaged piston necessitated leaving the car at a garage for several days and stuffing the family into our friends’ car following us. Later he drove me back to pick up the repaired vehicle. Also, in New Orleans, LA, I was sure I’d get ‘ripped off’ when an employee at the downtown hotel auto parking area said he would arrange to have a wheel vibration problem looked into. He took the car to a garage, had it diagnosed and repaired and returned for less than $20; much less than I had expected to be charged. The 1954 station wagon we had traded for served our family traveling needs quite well. We took a lot of trips, mostly in western states, and slept in a tent most places. At Arches National Park near Moab, Utah we came across Warner Brothers filming a movie. Then-popular western actor Clint Walker was starring in “Gold of the Seven Saints.” We visited with him and a couple of cameramen who explained how they train horses to fall and how the rocks are painted and other landscape features emphasized. The filming crew members were very cordial and Walker, naked from the waist up, stood behind our youngest son, was flanked by the two older boys, and said, “Now let’s get the long and the short of it” as I focused my camera on them. We still have the picture. That was one of those unplanned surprises that added a lot to our family automobile travels. I’ve owned or been assigned by employers a dozen or more cars since the above events. Thankfully, we remember the good trips and fun times more readily than the breakdowns and other travel difficulties. However, I am very concerned about the safety of one of the “rarest new cars in the country,” as reported in the Feb. 5, JournalStar. It’s called a “Smart Car.” Apparently only two have been purchased by Nebraskans, and until their safety has been substantiated, I believe that should be the extent of their sales and use here. Perhaps it’s just a ’fad,’ but even so it appears to me to be a very dangerous one. The vehicle reportedly is just over 8 1/2 feet long and a little more than 5 feet high. I have been unable to ascertain its weight, but it must be considerably less than other passenger cars in use here. I wonder too, is its body plastic, aluminum or steel? The article reported the Smart Car as being capable of speeds up to 90 miles per hour. I visualize these almost ‘toy’ cars being sucked into the sides of 18-wheelers on the state’s highways. Most of us have experienced the ‘pull’ created by the vacuum between a truck and passenger car at highway speeds. Surely it would be much worse for tiny vehicles like the Smart Car. Not only would that put the cars’ driver and passengers in great danger, but also truckers trying to avoid a collision and persons in other vehicles in the vicinity should an accident occur. I worked with a young lady whose auto was ‘pushed’ by a wind gust partially into the inner lane of an interstate highway near Kansas City. A pickup passing at the time collided with her and she died at the scene. I don’t remember what make auto she was driving, but it had to have been heavier than the Smart Car. Concern over highway safety and that of Nebraska’s citizens should prompt a legislative inquiry into the feasibility of allowing such small vehicles on any Nebraska highway. Or should we allow scooters and tricycles on the streets of downtown Lincoln and Omaha?
Rising above all our problems, inflation and recession; shortages and high prices; wars and rumors of wars; sickness and death, there is and always will be this symbol of faith—the Cross.
The pain that crossed our Savior’s face, When nailed upon that rough-hewn cross; Was meant to take away our sins, But tell me, was it worth the cost? On this day we’ll lie and steal, And let the hungry stranger cry; Then falsely justify our sins, His ancient teachings to decry. But our Lord will share the glory, God granted Him that Easter morn; He’ll forgive and still will love us, While weeping ‘neath His crown of thorn.
This year Easter will be celebrated on the earliest possible date—March 23. In 325 A.D., in Nicaea, an ancient city in northwest Asia Minor, a council convened by Emperor Constantine ruled that Easter would be celebrated on the first Sunday after the first full moon on or after the vernal equinox. Since the ecclesiastical or vernal equinox falls on March 21, this year Easter must be celebrated between March 21 and April 25. Thus was born what we know as the Nicene Creed. Constantine also decreed the Cross as the official symbol of Christianity. Easter bunnies, bonnets and eggs . . . well, they came later based on custom rather than creed. Easter itself was not widely celebrated in America until after the Civil War. Lent began on Ash Wednesday, Feb. 6. The Lenten season and Easter are celebrated in many ways around the world, but began as a pagan festival. I’m sure this isn’t dramatically newsworthy to you. But I just want you to know about it in case you see me in your yard on March 23 looking for Easter eggs and chocolate bunnies.
from the ‘dirty thirties’
A lot of ink has been used describing historical buildings, houses and the scenery in and about Lincoln, NE. But this article is about aromas or odors and sounds associated with growing up during the depression and ‘Dust Bowl’ years. Readers from my generation may vividly recall what I’m attempting to describe here. You ‘youngsters’ will need to use your imagination since some sounds and smells are indescribable. For instance, nearly everyone recognizes the odor of a skunk, although they were more prevalent in early Lincoln than now. But the aroma of flour being milled at Gooch’s Mill near 6th and South Streets, or the sweet essence of freshly baked items emitting from Wendelin Bakery at 15th and South, or Klein’s Bakery at 11th and G Streets, could open wide the nostrils of persons living in those neighborhoods. I recall the somewhat pungent odor of smoke from kerosene lamps, mingled with that of cobs soaked in kerosene for starting a fire in a rural cookstove. That was followed by the sometimes pleasant, sometimes caustic aroma of burning wood that had been added to the cob fire base. Then there was the sooty, black smoke emitted from very tall smokestacks at foundries and other manufacturing facilities throughout the city. An odor nobody liked. Although Lincoln’s air, like that elsewhere in the central U.S., was polluted by dust during the ‘Dust Bowl’ years of the 1930s, I don’t recall it as having a particular scent. It did affect some persons’ eyes and, primarily in more rural areas and small towns, caused ‘dust pneumonia’ from extended inhalation of the blowing and drifting soil. But sounds associated with the blowing dust are vivid memories--outdoors we could hear the ominous roar of the wind, and indoors the almost steady sound of that wind finding it’s way through cracks around doors and windows. Of course, it brought with it a fine sifting of dirt inside the houses. One of my most vivid memories of sounds during the 30s was the noon whistle at the Havelock Shops. At precisely 12 o’clock that deep, loud whistle from the CB&Q freight car repair yard just north of Havelock would send its signal across most of the city of Lincoln. I grew up 16 blocks south of ’O’ Street on 11th, and it was definitely audible there. Men would set their stem-wind pocket watches, and housewives their alarm clocks, by that whistle. Apparently that sound no longer is heard across Lincoln, at least not as far south as I now live. But I miss hearing that somewhat lonesome wail. A few other ‘lost’ sounds that seldom, if ever, pervade our ears are those of the clicking of tire chains or ’lugs’ on the streets of Lincoln in winter. ’Lugs’ were short chains attached to leather straps with the straps threaded between wheel spokes and buckled with only the chain sections striking the concrete or brick streets. I never found them as effective as regular chains but they were easier to install. Both of those gave way to studded tires which now are mostly obsolete. But each had its own particular sound, especially when a chain would break and a loose end would ‘clack’ against the underside of a fender during each revolution of the wheel. Here are a few more sounds of the past. The solid ‘whack’ of an ash baseball bat meeting the ball as opposed to the ‘twang’ of metal bats now in wide use. Wood chopped with an axe or cut with a two-man buck saw. Mother scrubbing our dirtiest clothes on a corrugated metal washboard. Reel-type, hand-powered lawn mowers. Children attempting to play Jews harps and tonettes (pictured and described in Webster’s Dictionary). Listening to championship boxing bouts over loud speakers set up on the City Hall lawn on the northwest corner of 10th and ‘O’ Streets. Model T and Model A Fords. Hand cranking automobiles. Car horns that emitted more than a weak ‘peep.’ Pedlars hawking food items--fruits and vegetables and ‘red hot tomales’ from boxes attached to or pulled by bicycles. Dogs nipping and barking at the wheels of passing cars. The happy laughter of children playing in the water behind motorized street sweepers. Finally, whether or not you ever spent a winter overnight in a farm house without indoor plumbing, comfortably snuggled into a toasty featherbed, you know, or can correctly imagine, how a cold, cold pot fulfilled both aspects of this article’s title.
Free ‘Air Taxi’ Service
Volunteer program also aids Most of us can recall events in our lives that imbued in us a sense of pride for those being honored – weddings, births, graduations, promotions, etc. Recently my wife and I were privileged to attend an honors ceremony held at Warbird Airport at Virginia Beach, VA. Use of the facilities, a single grass runway and a pair of aircraft hangars, privately owned, was made available without cost for a program dubbed “Halos and Heroes.” Honorees were participants in Air Compassion for Veterans, a branch of Mercy Medical Airlift (MMA) Angel Flight. This non-profit organization flies war wounded and/or their families to facilities when medical treatment is needed; veterans also have returned to America from Operation Iraqi Freedom and Enduring Freedom (Afghanistan). They have been released by the Veterans Administration, but need special follow-up treatment not available near their hometowns. The term “Halos” refers to pilots who provide their professional service as a means of honoring our wounded military personnel. Volunteer civilian pilots fly their own airplanes, or rent them, and pay all expenses such as fuel (at more than $5 a gallon), maintenance and landing fees. “Heroes” are the combat wounded. “I was going to play my guitar for you today, but decided that wouldn’t work,” said one returning war casualty. He left an arm and a leg in Iraq, the result of a roadside bombing of the vehicle in which he was riding. He and other Heroes and Halos gave first-hand reports of their involvements in the Air Compassion for Veterans program. A 2-year-old boy present at the ceremony, a victim of child abuse, had suffered severe brain damage. A facility where he could be treated was too distant via ground transportation for him to receive the immediate care he needed, so he and his grandfather flew in an air ambulance with Air Compassion for Veterans paying for the trip. The boy’s father, a sergeant in the U.S. Marine Corps, was stationed in Iraq at the time, but was kept apprised of his son’s condition. “We contacted Air Compassion for Veterans and a few hours later were at the hospital. He needed an air ambulance and this program came through for us,” the boy’s grandfather reported. A recent article in New York Times carried the headline: “Pay the Doctor, but Don’t Worry About the Pilot.” A quote in the Time’s article pointed out the “miraculous change in self-esteem,” referring to the patients being flown to treatment. Another MMA program works with federal and other agencies in providing free air transportation for non-military persons such as victims of Hurricane Katrina. There, more than 2,600 volunteer missions were flown, second only to the U.S. military. At the ceremony I attended, nearly 800 persons filled a hangar and overflowed onto tarmac between the hangar and the runway. Several tents housed personnel passing out literature explaining the various MMA programs. After a flyover at the ceremony, a chance to view vintage aircraft, a great outdoor barbecue buffet and USO entertainment, Ed Boyer, President and CEO of MMA, asked all war veterans to rise, beginning with those who had served in World War II. What a poignant feeling with fewer than a dozen of us from that war standing. My thoughts drifted back to those with whom I’d served, wishing they could have been present. It was difficult for this curmudgeon as I recalled many of them, now dead, which points up the validity of the frequently cited statistic that WWII vets are dying at the rate of 1,000 a day. Regardless of one’s feeling about the war in Iraq, Air Compassion of Veterans is a most rewarding program and one which I am proud to support. Although the event I attended was on the East Coast, the program is available nationwide. Costs are financed by grants, contributions and the donation of frequent flier miles. Incidentally(?), the facts that our oldest son, Lee, a retired Navy Captain, is MMA’s Vice-President for Development with this non-profit charitable service, and the event was held on my wife’s birthday, made the day even more special.
You know about the P-40 ‘Flying Tigers’ of World War II fame. Now here’s a post-war story about ‘Sailing Tigers.’ In late summer 1976 I was a guest on the USS Tripoli, a helicopter carrier. It was on the final ‘leg’ of its summer cruise. I flew, at my expense, to Hawaii via San Diego, CA. The program, known as a ‘Tiger Cruise,’ allows ship personnel to have a relative on board during the final week of summer maneuvers. At that time sailors were authorized to host one male relative each, over the age of nine. We were called ‘Tigers.’ Changes now allow females to participate. Would they be called ‘Tigeresses’? Upon arrival we were trucked from the airport to Pearl Harbor where we boarded the 602-foot carrier, sailed past the sunken battleship Arizona, and out to sea aiming for San Diego. Let me digress a bit. The first of several events began with my arrival in San Diego the day before flying to Hawaii. I spent the night at the home of my daughter-in-law and two grandchildren. That evening we went to a drive-in for soft drinks. Afterward my young grandson inadvertently poked me in the eye with a plastic straw. That was before seat belt laws so I was holding him on my lap. The straw scratched the cornea necessitating a trip to a doctor. The MD put some medicine in the eye, gave me the rest of the bottle, patched the eye and sent me on my way. Once aboard the Tripoli the ship’s doctor, reportedly a gynecologist, treated the injury. Boarding the ship was embarrassing. My son, unaware of my injury, and a lot of other sailors lined the deck. They undoubtedly thought I was ‘smarting off’ when I walked up the gangplank sporting a black patch over one eye. The purpose of a Tiger Cruise is to orient the public about life aboard a naval vessel. Each day we would take guided tours of the working areas—communications; armament; electronics; engines, etc. All of us were greatly impressed by the knowledge and capabilities of the sailors. I forget the order of events that happened during our trip, but one day a minor leak developed which necessitated sealing off the compartment. On another day the routine head count didn’t tally, and there was fear someone may have fallen overboard. The ship was put into a figure eight search mode while a recount was taken. All personnel and guests were accounted for that time. Although the maneuver affected me a little, I didn’t get seasick as reported in an earlier article about my trip aboard a small troop transport during WWII. But the big event of this Tiger Cruise was when the Tripoli was asked to participate in a search and rescue effort for victims of a capsized 42-foot ketch between Hawaii and California. We were two days out of Pearl Harbor when diverted northward to refuel a destroyer escort searching for survivors. The refueling effort started after dark with the destroyer pulling alongside, nearly touching the carrier. All lights on both ships were turned off with the exception of red lights which permitted limited lighting without the glare. A line fired from the carrier to the destroyer deck was attached to increasingly larger ropes, eventually becoming strong enough for the destroyer crew to reel across the hose through which the fuel would be transferred. However, the ships could not be held stable enough to keep the hose coupling from disconnecting, so it was necessary to await daylight for a successful fuel transfer. Later we heard that three members of the capsized sailing vessel were saved, but two drowned. The rescue effort involved four naval surface ships, several coast guard vessels, four marine Huey Cobra helicopters from the Tripoli, and numerous fixed wing aircraft. Total cost of the effort must have approached a million dollars. I wonder how many other nations would spend that much time, manpower and money on such a life saving effort. My son served on the Tripoli five times; twice as a helicopter pilot. His last assignment was as executive officer in charge of safety during Desert Storm. On Feb. 18, 1991, the ship struck a mine which tore a 20’ x 25’ hole in the hull below the water line. I have a paperweight made from the damaged hull. It reads: “The ship that took a lickin’ and kept on tickin’.” There were no casualties, but three or four minor injuries. The Tripoli, named for the Tripolitan War (1801-05) against the Barbary Pirates, is believed to have been the first U.S. ship since the civil War to sustain major mine damage and continue operations. It was ‘patched up’ at a port and sailed safely to its home port at San Diego. A few years later the Tripoli was ‘mothballed’ and by now probably has been dismantled and scrapped. With or without all the unexpected happenings, that Tiger Cruise remains a memorable event for this Midwestern landlubber.
Lives on . . . .
On Dec 24, 2006, a talented Lincolnite died but left a legacy that virtually all University of Nebraska sports fans will enjoy for years, possibly decades, to come. The late Bill Goggins, Lincoln artist, was the creator of a cartoon character that later evolved into what you now know as NU’s mascot, Herbie Husker. In November 1964 a photo of some University of Nebraska football players eating beef at the special diet table at the University, appeared in the Nebraska Farmer magazine. The Husker Beef Club provided the meat donated by members of the Nebraska Cattle Growers Association. That was during the coaching years of the late Bob Devaney. Accompanying the article and photo was a caricature drawn by Nebraska Farmer Printing Company Artist Bill Goggins. In January 1971, Goggins was asked by Marvin Russell, then editor of the Nebraska Farmer magazine, to recreate the caricature for use with an article Russell had written. That sketch was used on the front cover of the issue and credited Nebraska cattlemen with helping ‘beef up’ the University’s football team. At that time Don Bryant was information director and the late Jim Pittenger headed ticket sales for the NU Athletic Department. Pittenger approached Editor Russell for permission to use the caricature on posters promoting the upcoming Cotton Bowl game, Jan. 1, 1974, in which NU defeated Texas 19-3. Russell suggested that Goggins at least be honored with some NU football tickets for the next season. Although the original cowboy type caricature with the over-sized red cowboy hat, now kown as Herbie Husker, has undergone name and ‘physical’ changes during the intervening years, he’s still, and forever will remain, the ‘offspring’ of Bill Goggins. So the next time you see Herbie Husker at an NU athletic event, or his facsimile in print, smile and offer up a prayer of thanks to the man who created the original caricature of that laughable, lovable, legendary NU mascot.
Aha! Gotcha didn’t I? You thought the above headline referred to my obvious loss of mind. Nope! Not this time. What I’m writing about here are those small glass or agate spheres now frequently used in aquariums or with decorative crafts. But for most urban male teens and pre-teeners of the 1920s and ‘30s, their primary use was for the game of ‘marbles’—a very popular pastime. Most boys carried marbles in a tobacco sack with a draw string, or in a leather pouch sold wherever one might buy marbles; usually at the ‘dime store.’ The game’s popularity was enhanced by environmental conditions at the time—severe drouth, little grass and even less money to spend on fun and games. Now, seeing residences without lawns is a rarity. When I was growing up it wasn’t difficult to find at least one dirt yard in nearly every residential block—usually with a marble game in progress. Marbles, as a backyard game, is quite simple and can be played by two to six players. To begin a game a line would be scratched in the dust. Then participants, from about 10 feet away, would ‘lag’ a marble toward the line. Closest lag started the game with others following in order of their nearness to the lag line. Players would drop a pre-determined number of marbles inside a circle drawn in the dirt. Then, in turn, each player would ‘knuckle down’—curl his index finger over his favorite ‘shooter,’ place at least one knuckle of his shooting hand on the ground, and with his thumb tucked toward the palm of his hand flip the shooter toward his opponents’ marbles in an effort to knock them outside the ring. Playing ‘keepsies’ meant that a player could keep all of the marbles he knocked outside the ring, until he missed or his shooter went outside the circle. Although the game was simple, adeptness at shooting was what separated the consistent winners from the rest of the pack. I was not a good shooter. Oh, I’d win some, lose some, buy some more. But eventually ‘I lost all my marbles.’ What’s really embarrassing about it is . . . I lost ‘em all to my little sister. She still has them. You’d think, after all these decades she’d at least return my favorite ‘shooter’ to me. I got even with her though—a couple of times over. I took a corner too fast while pulling her in my American Flyer wagon. She broke a collarbone that time. And then, during one of our frequent arguments, I hit her on the head with my cast iron fire truck. She got stitches; I got a trip to the proverbial ‘woodshed.’ She should have kept the fire truck instead of the marbles. It would be of more value today. But all that sibling rivalry is past. Only the pleasant memories—except for ‘ ‘losing my marbles’—remain. Sometimes I think the more siblings fight when young, the closer they become with age.
I was near the end of my hour-long walk when I noticed a young lady with a small puppy on a leash standing on the sidewalk a short distance ahead of me. Friendly barking and a rapidly wagging tail awaited. As I approached them I was told that the dog refused to walk any farther until it struck up a friendship with me. As I patted her head and scratched behind her ears (the dog, that is) I wondered why human beings can’t initiate new friendships as readily as do most pets. In previous articles I have described some of the close relationships I’ve observed among birds and other wildlife forms. Perhaps our problem is the caution humans have developed because of the crime- and predator-ridden society we seem to have evolved into. And that’s a shame. All of us have read about the wealth of benefits gained through outdoor exercising—bicycling, jogging, walking—how they are good for the legs, heart and lungs. I’m not too sure about the kidneys if you get too far from home. I’m too old to jog and if I were to mount a bicycle again everyone outside their homes would be endangered. Besides, too much attention must be placed on possible physical dangers when biking or jogging. So I settled for walking which offers an exercise in peace and contentment that I believe is as important as the physical benefits. I prefer walking early in the morning, enjoying God’s handiwork before some thoughtless character gets out and ruins it. My wife and I had been walkers for several years—usually three miles a day, five or six days a week except when there was ice or deep snow on the sidewalks. Wherever we’ve lived we searched out a variety of routes to walk. In recent years we had a choice of five walking paths—reduced to four when the missus discovered that my favorite and most frequented route took us past Victoria’s Secret. Don’t know why that should have upset her; none of the items I saw in its windows would look good on me anyway. We don’t walk as much as we used to, and the wife’s walks have been reduced to shorter, indoor stints. But there’s still that peaceful and comforting inner feeling experienced through walking and observing nature or objects around us that one can’t get in an exercise room. So if you want to regenerate the ‘inner you,’ and you’re able, get out and walk while the weather is nice. Be observant and enjoy the people you meet and the beauty that abounds in the out-of-doors. It will lift your spirits and make the rest of your day much brighter.
Most of my writings have been about events I have experienced or witnessed. But only the opening and closing sentences of this article were written by me. The quoted material was sent to me by my grandson’s wife, Marney, from Colorado. I found it not only interesting but with an important message. “One morning, after dropping off my young son at our babysitter’s house and giving him his goodbye kiss for the day, I made my way out of the neighborhood to the snail-pace traffic of suburban commuting. Despite being short on time I pulled into a gas station for a quick car wash. I drove to the entrance, punched in the code I was given by the attendant, the garage door opened and a green light beckoned me to pull forward. Tucked nicely inside, with both the front and rear garage doors closed, I sat back for my three minutes of silence and solidarity from the outside world that only a $5.95 car wash can provide. “When the sound of water hitting the side of my car was replaced with noisy air dryers, I put my car in drive and waited for the green light and front garage door to open. The light shone brightly, but the door refused to open. ‘Not to worry,’ I thought. ‘You are an intelligent, patient woman. You can figure out how to get the door to lift and get out of this situation.’ “I decided the most obvious way to trigger the door would be to back up, then drive forward, repeating the intricate maneuver until the switch or movement sensor engaged. To no avail. The garage door remained closed. After a few minutes my patience ran out and I found myself saying out loud, ‘This isn’t happening. I’m stuck in a car wash?’ “Meanwhile, a ‘friendly’ commuter waiting outside was honking his or her horn. I honked back thinking this would send the signal of a ‘damsel in distress.’ Again, my actions did not improve my situation. Although our car horns had a rather interesting conversation with each other, my fellow driver left, not only without a clean car, but apparently without telling the station attendant that someone was stuck in the car wash. “After 10 or 15 minutes of honking my horn and yelling, I realized this technique wasn’t improving my chance of getting out. I would have to leave the car and try pulling or pushing on the garage door. Keep in mind that getting out of the car was a big step for me. I was already stuck in the car wash and who’s to say that it wouldn’t start up again if I got out of the car? Despite the risk of getting wet I exited the car and pulled up on the garage door. All I gained was getting my hands covered with grease. I looked for a button to push. Nothing. It was clear that I needed help to get out. “I looked at the gas station receipt for a phone number. Again, nothing. I called information on my cell phone and asked for the number of the filling station. Its name and address were on the receipt. But a long ‘beep’ indicated that I had been connected to a fax machine. Again I called information and before the operator could interrupt me, I informed her that I did not want to be connected to a fax machine, but she told me there was no number listed for that gas station. I gave her the address again. Again she replied: ‘No number.’ Now frustrated, I called the third time and explained my dilemma. She then transferred me to the Aurora (Colorado) Police Dispatch. I was transferred three times before I spoke with someone who made me realize how ridiculous the whole situation was. She said: ‘You’re stuck in a car wash? I think that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.’ “Then she transferred my call to the Fire Department. Thankfully, they were able to pull up the gas station’s phone number for me and a few minutes later the rear garage door opened. I quickly put the car in reverse and exited .The station attendant was apologetic, to say the least.” Although Marney’s experience parallels something the Three Stooges may have parlayed into a comedy routine, it contains a valuable lesson. If you are a cell phone user you should have an emergency number on your contact list, and possibly a telephone directory in the vehicle. Following this frustrating entrapment adventure, my granddaughter-in-law won the 2006 Mrs. Colorado contest, and now wears the 2007 Mrs. America crown. She grew up on a farm near Wallace, NE, graduated from the University of Nebraska, and now resides in Centen
Dear Uncle Bull: I suppose I should call you Bill now, but old habits sometimes are hard to break. I believe some, even if not proper, should be continued if they make someone happier. I’m sitting in the ‘head’ wishing I were thumbing through an old Montgomery Ward catalog in the outhouse at your farm. By now you probably have indoor plumbing and don’t even have to pump drinking water. I suppose the water bucket and dipper we all drank from no longer are being used. Are you doing your own cooking now that Aunt Em is gone, or do you eat most meals at the highway cafe?? I’ll always remember Em’s cooking. Even when we kids had to wait for ‘second table’ she made sure there was enough chicken for us, and always plenty of mashed potatoes and gravy for me. I’m not sure, but suspect, that she would check with Mom to see what pie was my favorite at the time, because she rarely missed baking the kind I liked best. Uncle ‘B’ you may be surprised to learn that I have joined you, Grandpa and my other Uncle Billy in taking up pipe smoking. Mine isn’t as large as the ones you three smoke; it’s only about three inches long and doesn’t hold much tobacco, but it keeps my nose warm. My hometown girlfriend sent it to me for Christmas. A couple of weeks ago it fell out of my coverall pocket onto the hangar’s concrete floor, breaking the threads between the stem and bowl. I don’t know why I was carrying it there because we can’t smoke in the hangar. But during a time without incoming flights one of the GIs in the machine shop drilled and tapped it and put in a threaded brass fitting. It works like a charm now. Some of the mechanics carry Beechnut chewing tobacco. I seldom chew and dipped snuff only once. I got so sick I never tried it again. Somehow pipe smoking and reminiscing—recalling memorable events—seem to go together. I remember you holding me on your lap when I was five or six years old, and bearding me with your scratchy stubble. It sometimes hurt a little but I always went back for more, probably because you are the only person I remember having held me on their lap. Are you still doctoring horses? Don’t recall you ever having a saddle horse, but do remember a pair of draft horses. Several times you took the team and a hayrack or a single horse and buggy to the Kramer house, which was on a gravel road. You’d pick us up there when the road to your farm was too muddy for Dad’s car. I don’t imagine harnessing was much fun for you, but the rides sure thrilled us kids. I also recall going fishing in the creek, usually with Dad and Grandpa. Don’t think I ever caught anything, but they would catch a bullhead or two occasionally. Do you still cut ice off the creek and store it in the straw-lined icehouse dug into the hillside? Never could fathom how that ice could stay frozen well into summer to be used for freezing homemade ice cream. Thank you for helping me learn to play pinochle as a youngster. Remember what an awful time I had holding all those cards, and an even worse time shuffling the double deck? Still play a little here, but it’s four men with a single deck and it’s cutthroat; every man for himself. I just wish those good times we had together could have continued after Aunt Em died. Guess I never really understood how a family could split over whatever difference caused it—a separation that left us kids caught in the middle. After this war ends I hope we can see each other again. Well, Uncle Bull, my pipe is empty and it’s time to ‘hit the sack’ as we are supposed to have incoming aircraft early in the morning, some probably with maintenance needs. It has been nice chatting with you. If you get snowed in some night and have nothing better to do, drop me a line. Your favorite (and only) nephew, Eddie.
for secondhand uncles . . .
All of us face choices each day; have for nearly all our lives. Usually the choices we make are for the betterment of ourselves or someone else. Also there is an old saying "You can pick your friends but not your relatives." As I look back over my life, I think if I’d had a choice I might have sold my uncles, or traded them on e-Bay for different ‘models.’ Here’s why . . . One incident with an uncle happened while I was very small and I don’t remember it happening. However, my father told the story so many times that it must have been true. It seems the uncle was holding me and fed me a teaspoonful of horseradish. Apparently I nearly choked to death as a result of what he thought was comical. Later, when I was about 8 or 9 years old, the same uncle pulled another stunt that I do remember. He farmed near Roca, NE and his barn was built into the side of a hill. The path from the house to the barn led to the hay storage area; actually the’second floor’ level. A path along the north side circled around and down to the opposite entrance at the lower level. That’s where Uncle had his milk cows. One evening while he and my dad were milking, I decided to go into the hay mow to play. I was unaware that there was a hole in the flooring. My uncle, who would rather play pinochle at ‘The Jog’ than make repairs at home, had covered the unsightly hole with a pitchfork full of hay. You guessed it! I fell into the opening and all that kept me from dropping into the lower milking area were my outstretched arms. Dad heard my yell and looked up to see me hanging from the ‘ceiling,’ ran around the barn to the upper level and lifted me out. I don’t rec all going into that barn again. Uncle No. 2. I mentioned this in an earlier article which you may not recall. He fancied himself as a ‘gentleman golfer.’ As such he had to dress the part; always wearing a pair of knickers when he golfed. He was rather small, and whenever his knickers would show some wear, he’d give them to my mother who would cut them down to fit me and I’d have to wear them to school. Such embarrassment! I’ve never forgiven him for that. When I was in grade and junior high school, a third uncle was a girls’ softball coach. One night, while my family was attending one of his team’s games at the old Muni Field, a player had forgotten her glove, so my uncle ‘borrowed’ my baseball glove which was in our car. I never got it back. I did wind up with a piece of leather that somewhat resembled a baseball glove, but it was a far cry from the one I treasured. Finally, to Uncle No. 4. I don’t know what precipitated this, but one day when I was playing outside his house, he picked up a BB gun and chased me around, shooting at my legs—and slightly higher. It wasn’t serious, but sure did sting when he hit a thin spot in my overalls. That uncle was a Golden Glove boxer and when I was a little older, he and I would spar occasionally. One day, forgetting that he wasn’t ‘in the ring,’ he took advantage of a drop in my defense, and tagged me with a hard right to the chin. I didn’t go down, but the left side of my jaw hurt for several days. If I’d had my choice during those years I probably would have had four different uncles, and you wouldn’t have the piece of trivia to read. All four have since died, and I look back on those memories with love for them; even though at times I still catch myself rubbing my jaw and posterior. *** MainBody |
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