I Suppose It Could Be by Grandpa Jim

My Dad always wondered if maybe he had invented instant coffee.

Dad was living in an efficiency apartment on the north side of Chicago in about 1950. This area was often referred to as the "Gold Coast," made up of artists, writers, musicians, etc. Housing was old and a little run-down, and affordable for such struggling people. His apartment was in the basement, sometimes euphemistically called a "garden apartment." He was nearing 70, retired and working part-time at his trade as a photoengraver.

During that period, he was also painting and writing. He wrote a novel, a book of fairy tales, and numerous short stories. Unfortunately, nothing was ever published.

Now, Dad was very fond of his coffee. Some say it was quite strong, and some say he liked a little coffee with his cream or milk. One day, he made his usual pot in a percolator on his tiny, two-burner gas range. When it was done, he emptied the grounds, poured his first cup and turned the gas down low to keep the pot warm.

Later on, he decided to go to a movie and left the apartment. When he came back, probably two hours later, he smelled coffee clear out on the sidewalk and suddenly recalled that he had left the burner on. Coming into his room, he then smelled it even stronger, of course, so he turned off the stove and didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the waste of a whole pot of coffee. When the pot got cool, he opened the lid and looked at it. He described it as resembling a stiff clump of black mud in the bottom.

He couldn't recall the reason he did so, but he decided to put a spoonful of the "mud" into a cup and added some hot water. He always claimed that it was the strongest "stuff" he ever drank, but with about 2/3rds cream in it, it was acceptable. Barely.

Google tells me that a Japanese man, Satori Kato invented instant coffee in 1901. Dad must have known, obviously, that instant coffee already existed in 1950. But maybe he needed an excuse to tell a story on himself. I may have inherited that trait, do you think?

In another post I want to share with you a method Dad DID invent that has to do with graphics.
It also involves his little apartment, his stove, and droplets of steam!

Letting My Hair Down by Grandpa Jim

(The title is a joke. To see the humor, you need to look closer at my picture. Even then, it isn't TERRIBLY humorous.)

The thing is, I am running out of tales to tell. In one or two, I've had to go back almost 75 years or so. In many, I've summoned memories of 60 years. Here's my point; in the beginning, I said I did not want this to be just about me and MY memories, but I hoped we would SHARE some recollections. I see myself as a "prompter," one who prompts, prods, or even goads others into doing something. BUT HARDLY ANYBODY IS 'BITING!" OK, so I'll try another.

It was late summer, 1958. Jean, I, and the girls (now 8 and 10) had driven from Bettendorf, Iowa to Charleston, Illinois, where I was to be interviewed for a teaching job at CHS. The job opening read: wanted; speech and English teacher/drama director. I was excited, because I had been patiently waiting for six years for just such an opportunity. How I happened to quit at BHS is too long a story. (I was even out of teaching for 15 months and missing the classroom a lot.)
When the interview was over, the principal informed me that the job was mine, and that was not all that unusual in those days. So, we started out on the five-hour drive to Bettendorf, thinking that we would probably stop for the night, somewhere. (Now, we had a great excuse to do so in celebration, of course.)

Just a few miles out of Charleston, on a black-top, county road, the car slowly quit running and
a glance at the gas gauge told us the bad news. It was five miles in both directions to a gas station, but there was a farmhouse about one half mile away. I walked to the neat, white, inviting structure and found the elderly farmer in the yard. I asked him if I could borrow a can of gas, and would be glad to pay for it. He may have mumbled something, but I didn't really catch it. I followed him out to a tool shed where he got a can, walked to the gas pump, and filled it. Next, he walked to his pick-up truck, and, as he expected, I followed him. On the way back to our car, he said, "Not from around here." I answered, even if it wasn't really a question. "No," I said. "What brings you to these parts?" "I was in Charleston, interviewing for a job."

"Did you get it?" "Sure did." "Doing what?" "Teaching school." "Hmmm, he said. Appears to me that anybody smart enough to be a teacher oughta be smart enough to look at a gas gauge."

The man wouldn't take any money for the gas. He had found another way to collect a toll.

What Should I Do? by GJ

Call this a contest, if you wish. Here are my options. (A) I can have 30 or 40 of my memoirs collection eventually posted on this blog. (B) I can have them put into a small, paperback book at Kinko's (as long as they are transcribing them, anyway,) and try to market them myself. (C) I can invest a few hundred dollars and let an internet publisher market them in a similar book. There is a multitude of such publishers, but should I trust them?

In order to best prepare yourself for the contest, you might want to look over those posts on this blog that I did not write. They would be just like the bulk of the collection. I would include about six or eight of my own, maybe. They might form 20% of the lot.

In general, the majority of my authors are gone, and often write about the early 1900's. They would be the age of great, great grandparents. (The grandparents of your grandparents!)

If you have an opinion, pick an option and explain it in an e-mail. Best (meaning simply the one I like best) entry receives a free book...not the one I'm contemplating!

Guardian Angels? by GJ

An e-mail received the other day implied that maybe there are guardian angels. It got me to thinking a little, which can be hard work these days.

Sometime in the 1960's, Jean, I, and the two girls, probably 13 and 15, were driving to a lake in Missouri for a week's vacation-within-a-vacation. (Teachers and their kids have summer off, but usually stay home most of that time.)

It was very dark and I was behind a semi-truck as we started up a steep incline, probably a foothill to some mountains. It wasn't long before the semi slowed a lot. Impatient to get to our destination, I "peeked around" the truck, and the driver waved me to come on ahead. What a lucky break, I thought. The car I was driving was not particularly new, and had only average power, so it was a struggle to pass the truck. Right alongside, suddenly lights came on from a logging truck headed straight for us. Panic time. I actually recall thinking, in a flash, "I don't know what is over there (on my left,) ditch, trees, or sheer cliff, but whatever it is, it beats that which is bearing down us!"

I swung to the left and my lights illuminated a wide, flat, smooth bank of hardened dirt. I slowed to a stop and wiped sweat off my forehead. The logging truck zoomed past us, causing the car to sway...a lot!

The semi had stopped, too, over on his lane. The driver got out and ran over to us, asking if we were all right? I said yes, and he wiped sweat from his forehead. He remarked that the idiot in the other truck sure should have known better than to race down a mountain with lights off. We agreed and thanked him for his concern. It was at some point during those last ten seconds or so that the girls woke up in the back seat and wanted to know where we were.

Was there a "guardian angel" watching over our little family? I don't know, of course. But if I add this near-miss to some others in my 81 years, I must say that I won't argue the point. I subscribe to the belief that God in Heaven has absolute control. If he wants us to have such things, who is to thwart Him? Why else such a POPULAR phrase as, "Thank God?"

Time to pause by GJ

First, a little celebrating. Found answer to transcribing old memoirs. Place called "Kinko's" will do the job, quickly and reasonably. They have a scanner that will even accept the basic graphics of my collection. (Illustrations.) Now all I have to do is organize the stories. By author? By topic? I'll just hope a method will occur to me.

These memoirs I keep referring to come from two year's of publishing (24 issues) what I always called a "newsletter," named "Memoirs," just because I didn't know what else it was. It wasn't big enough to be a magazine; usually ran 4 to 6 pages, sometimes 8. ($15/year.) At its peak, in 1984, I had 100+ subscribers from all corners of US. Less than 20 were dependable contributors.

One of the very positive benefits was meeting five or six of the twenty, and already knowing four or five others. (One was a cousin, Betty Neal.) Three of the former five or six were already in their nineties, and their work rarely needed editing. Many stories went back into late 1880's and 90's. (Not many dealt with The Depression, which I found interesting.)

I was never happier than when I was running off the pages on my copier, addressing the envelopes, stuffing the letters, adding a P.S., now and then, stamping, and mailing my 100+ "babies." Paying the illustrator and the type-setter proved to be too much overhead, plus Jean was just about to retire, too, and giving it up was the prudent, but sad thing to do.

Within the next week or two, I hope to post the first memoir from the new "technology."

Pacific Story #3 of 3 by GJ

Not far from Okinawa, a very large island which is not far from Japan, there is a tiny island named Ie Shima. ( eye ee shee ma.) There was a battle on Ie Shima, but it didn't rank up there with Iwo Jima, or others, because it was so small. And so late, with Japanese rescources failing. Our little LSM pulled up on the beach after the island was "secure," and the fighting was over. Some of us went ashore just to feel land under our feet and to see whatever was worth seeing. The first thing we saw was a crude, wooden marker that read "On this spot Ernie Pyle was killed." There was more, but I don't want to be wrong in recalling it. Pyle was the most famous war correspondent (print media) of WWII. He was the GI's "buddy," who spent a lot of time right alongside troops "on the line," and in the foxholes. He had recently arrived in the Pacific after long, hard years in Europe. That he volunteered to continue his work after VE Day is the real testament to his courage.

As we strolled along the beach, we came to a huge gathering of gray, four-wheeled, Ford farm tractors. They were probably intended to do beach "clean up," or other, maybe "Seabee" services.

We looked at each other and made ourselves ready to be tempted! (Most of us were only 18 or 19, remember.) What would it be like to DRIVE something, again? To steer, and accelerate (a little) and feel the wind in our faces, and pretend we were at the Indy 500? Sure enough, there were keys in the ignitions. We mounted and drove around and were just getting the hang of it when SP's showed up. (Shore Police. The Navy's Cops.) They informed us that we had better return the vehicles and go back to the ship. For one, we were trespassing, and two, they hadn't fully cleared the island of MINES!

Well, it was fun while it lasted, and the SP's could have been a lot nastier than they were. Seems to me we saw slight smiles on their faces as we departed. MINES? Hmmmm. They couldn't have been pulling our legs could they? Now that I'm a few (!) years older, I think they well could have.

First Story for Mrs. by GJ

Thanks to reader “Mrs.” for helping me to recall some of my stories, here is the first recollection of WWII that comes to mind.

It was late summer, 1945 and we hadn’t been in the South Pacific very long. We were sailing in a convoy of other LSMs and approaching an island…one of the outer islands of the Philippines, as I recall.

We were last in line and the line was curving, snake-like ( in an S ) around some reefs or sandbars, or something. I was on duty on the “conn” and watching for any signals that might concern us, personally, or us, as part of the convoy, meaning all ships.

Suddenly I saw a message being sent by the lead (command) ship and it was meant for us, specifically. As I recall, it said, “LSM 435, alert…there is a submarine reported off your starboard side.” I yelled to the captain who was up on the conn, also, where he was always on duty when nearing port or uncertain terrain. He got on the intercom and alerted the crew to our danger. Since we were already at “battle stations,” it was easy and natural for everybody to look at our starboard (right hand side) and start scanning the water to see if we could spot a periscope, or something signifying submarine. Soon someone called out, “torpedo, four o’clock! We looked a little to our right and sure enough, there were bubbles heading straight for us. Seconds later, the bubbles passed underneath us, and came out on the other side and gradually trailed off, out of sight…probably to sink to the bottom?

We always believed that there were two possible reasons why the torpedo passed beneath us. One, that because we were in relatively shallow water, we had probably dumped our ‘ballast,’ which is sea water that is taken on or pumped off, or two, that the submarine captain misjudged our depth, and had set the torpedo’s depth deeper than it should have been. (Remember that, this late in the war, it is possible that sub officers were lacking in experience.)

Our depth (the amount of ship below the water line) was usually five or six feet, as I recall, but when approaching a beach (similar to how we were proceeding) our depth was supposed to be only three or four feet. IF the Japanese Captain knew we were supposed to be at six feet, let’s say, and set the torpedo for four or five, and we were really at three or less, it would explain the “near miss.” Some might say that a third possibility existed…that so late in the war, the torpedo was faulty or, even a “dud.

Whatever the truth, we were stunned and relieved and incredulous! I somehow recall that there was a seemingly lengthy period of speechlessness, followed by several audible “whews!” It is easy to think that, if we had been a larger vessel, our families as we know them would not be here…us included. A torpedo vs. an LSM would mean certain and absolute demolition. “Poof…into orbit you go.”

An open letter to "Mrs." by GJ

In her comment to yesterday's post, "Mrs." asks me to deal with my time in the South Pacific in 1945. Because my blog-friend has requested the only topic I've received, I'll try to accommodate. But I need to preface my recollections with a caveat. Before anyone gives me too much credit, let me explain that I got to the Pacific in late 1945. Our little amphibious ship was not at Iwo Jima, and even Okinawa was secure by the time we got there.

In the back of my mind, I have this long dissertation on "how to prioritize risk." I don't know if I can ever get that concept down on paper (cyber-or-otherwise) but at times I'm a tad embarrassed to talk about WWII. I received a university education on the GI Bill, and am allowed to wear the Pacific Victory Medal. But I have always felt that I just barely qualified for those benefits. I am way, way down the line from those who died in any battle, those who went down with their ships at Pearl Harbor, those who were held captive in the Phillipines for years, those who were wounded, anywhere, and those who came back terribly changed in any way. I was lucky in so many ways I can't count them.

First, I was "protected," something like armor, by age. I was not yet 18 when we set sail for the Pacific. 17-year-olds think they are invincible. They think of things, even war as an adventure. I didn't know anything of battlefields, bloody beaches, or "bombs bursting in air." I only knew that everything seemed so much better than a high school classroom!

Second, I had the luxury of being aboard ship, where we had hot meals, a dry bunk, and the "image" of safety that comes from being constantly moving. Even in Buckner Bay, Okinawa, with the last of the Kamikaze planes overhead, we were on the move, because our job was to lay down smoke to camouflage the big ships from the enemy's sight. We were the "little guys," running interference for the "big fellas," and subject to equal amounts of fear, bustle, and excitement.

So, I will post some "Pacific" recollections. Three come to mind. In one, I'll deal with the enemy torpedo that passed UNDER us! In another, a visual message that travelled a good 100 miles, I think. In a third, an "R 'n R" on Ie Shima. I will need some time to pull these together for you. Thank you, "Mrs." for the request. You've given me some needed incentive. GJ.

A Storm and an Uncle by GJ

It is August 17 and storm "Fay" approaches us, here in Florida. It is predicted that Fay will become a hurricane by that name. That is the extent of what we really know.

I had an Uncle Fay. His nickname was "Jake," and I'd love to know how that came about, but there is nobody left for me to ask. And this is why I promote the writing of memoirs. It's like my own nickname, "Grandpa Jim." My grandson named me that when he was very little...I'd guess three or four years old. At that time, Chad was living in an area where he had two grandparents, two or three great grandparents, and one great great grandmother, I believe. At any rate, together with Jean and me, he had a slew of grandparents. Whenever his parents announced that we were going to visit (two, sometimes three visits per year) he would get frustrated and want to know which ones. Finally, he asked what everybody's first name was and that became our titles. Simple, but effective. (Isn't it always?)

I can't say that I ever got to know Uncle Jake very well. He died while I was in the South Pacific. He never wrote much, but I found out much later that he was keeping a "war map" on his wall that traced my travels, as best he could. (Navy censorship forbade my being too specific.)

My brother, "Bud," had quite a story to tell about Jake. In the fall of 1929, Jake and Bud were having breakfast or lunch on the north side of Chicago, near Jake's candy business. (The Ravenswood Novelty Co.) The two men were discussing plans for the business. Things were going well, Jake decided, and thought maybe it was time to go international. (They were beginning to get inquiries from abroad.) He said that there was $100,000 in the bank, and that that ought to finance the expansion. (It was also a LOT of 1929 money!) When Jake went up to the cashier to pay the check, he said he'd have to write a check. The cashier said, "Oh, Mr. Van, I'm sorry, but haven't you heard?" "Heard what?" "The bank closed its doors this morning."

That is how Uncle Jake got the news that his 100K was lost, that the stockmarket had crashed, and the business was probably going to follow. (It did also fail, but it took several years. I recall a whole room full of shipping boxes of candy where they were stored in our house in about 1938. A pal and I opened a couple, gouged ourselves and I was never fond of candy again. Well, until some years ago, anyway. Matter of fact, it was about 1942 when I discovered the "Power House" candy bar. It was the largest bar on the market, so that it and the largest soda, "Royal Crown Cola" were more than an adequate lunch!

I have no idea how my brother Bud got his name, except that it was logical that he would gain one. His real name was Harrison Saunders Van Delinder, and nobody with such a name should go without a "moniker." He went on to name his only child Fay in honor of Uncle Fay. But the boy was never known by anything other than "Jake."

A Minor Correction by GJ

Daughter Nancy tells me I omitted something from yesterday's train story. I forgot that the very young "mamma" had a toddler with her! So she had a tiny baby, a toddler, and luggage and no wonder Jean saw her need for help!

The Traffic Stopper by GJ

Our family had just moved to this central Illinois community. There was Dad, Jean, myself, and the two girls. The only rental we could find (because it was a college town) was a very old farm-house about three or four miles out of town. We hadn't been there long when Dad suggested that "Folks living in the country ought to have a dog." I went to school the next day and announced to the faculty lounge that we were looking for a dog. One colleague came forth, the home-ec teacher. She said they had two dogs, but the older one had been "replaced," the dog felt, and we were welcome. Turned out to be a medium-sized, long-haired, black and white female of unknown ancestry.

We hadn't had "Molly" long when Dad announced that we got more than one dog for "our money," because Molly looked pregnant, to him. Sure enough, Molly thanked us with 12 pups! Now, Dad was sort of a "scrounger," and had a talent for finding useful things. Our landlord had told Dad that he could use anything he found out in the seldom-used barn. What did Dad find, this time? A trough normally used to feed chickens. (About five feet in length, I'd guess.) Twelve puppies lined up, six on each side, very comfortably. Along about December first, the puppies looked old enough to leave the nest. I placed an ad in the paper, "free puppies," and they were taken (all except one) in short time. (I may have suggested, "for Christmas?")

The puppy we kept had a huge amount of white on his face and chest and front legs. The rest of him was tan and white. During a rain storm one day, the pup crawled under the porch to get out of it. Spotting the girls' wagon, he circled three times and laid down in it. Under him, it turns out, was the girls' cheap, very red, doll's blanket. Yes, the blanket turned his white fur PINK. Lots of pink on face, chest and front legs.

After that, we often heard screeching brakes out on the road in front of the house. It seems that cars passing by would see this PINK PUP and were compelled to stop and look again.

Got a "dog story?" E-mail it to me! It's probably a genuine MEMOIR.

Can anybody ought there help me? by GJ

Here's my problem. I have a collection of previously printed memoirs. There are several different fonts used, but all are quite normal, easy-to-read type fonts. All are between 12 and 14 points, I'd guess. Some are on parchment paper. Many have illustrations. All are black ink. It is an extremely varied "lot." I only care about the TEXT.

There are about 50 to 75 pages (81/2 X 11) of these stories.

I want to somehow store these pages in my computer, or put into some form (CD?) which I can use in order to put them in Microsoft Word. I want to be able to do just a little editing, such as add a title, for instance. Or add a label, such as, "Part Two."

Next, I want to be able to copy the slightly "new" version into a POST for my blog. Aha! It is here that all text would be same type and size!!!!

I have been told that there is a program called OCR (Optical Character Recognition) that is supposed to do what I want. Does anybody "out there" know if this is true? Is it possible that a store, such as Kinko's, can do this for me? (My local Office Depot cannot.) (Three local "copy shops" cannot.) The only software I have seen was in a catalogue at OD that had prices such as $3,000 +/-.

I am basically computer illiterate, so I have nowehere else to turn. I suppose most of you think I must be pretty dense? I would be grateful for any tips or advice.

Next Stop: Unknown by GJ

It was in 1970's, probably. Chicago, Illinois. Winter. Downtown Chicago, VERY cold. Wind off Lake Michigan made it colder. We and two old friends, he a student in class of 1961. We had just been to a movie...too dumb to stay home by furnace. Night time, maybe 9:00. Before we can drive home, Jean announces need to use restroom. Where to go? All I could think of, as we were about to pass it, was the railroad station. I pulled up and parked and Jean went in. I needed to stay with the car, and friend Leslie offered to go with Jean, but Jean told her to stay put. We waited quite a while. Finally Larry said he'd go in and look for her. He couldn't find her in the huge cavern of a waiting room outside the restrooms. He came back and three people are about to panic. (Make that two. I had already reached that state.) I asked Larry to stay with car and I went in. No sign of Jean. A woman went by. I asked her to inquire inside restroom. She came back and said NOBODY in there! I asked a worker if he had seen her. No help. Finally, here she comes, all out of breath!

Her story: As I walked into the area outside restrooms, I saw a baby on a bench. A tiny, crying baby. I looked around and nobody anywhere near us. I picked up the baby to calm her (pink blanket) and a young woman came out and approached me. I told her the baby had been crying. Mamma was carrying two suitcases and a bagful of baby stuff. She said she had to hurry for her train. I told her I'd carry baby if she could handle rest and we took off for the gates. I explained I was just helping and gateman said OK. Mamma and I stepped aboard and found a seat when conductor announced, "All aboard, last call." The train actually started to move, just a little, as I rushed to get off. The conductor took my arm and helped me off as the train moved even more. All this time, I couldn't help but wonder: what's the next stop? How'll I tell Jim where I am?

As it turns out, next stop for the "City of New Orleans" was a Chicago suburb, about twenty minutes south. Who knows how that twenty minutes might have been spent by all of us? The very young mamma was extremely thankful. We four elders were even more than thankful!

Stalling by GJ

Yes, I'm stalling. Been meaning to post something, but two distractions are keeping me slowed. First, I'm trying to find one-room-school-like memoirs that I know I have, somewhere. Second, I'm trying to find a way to convert them into either e-mail, or WORD, so that I can post them. Daughter Nancy has been trying to work with scanner on my printer, which is probably not more than basic. That doesn't work, so far. Old stand-bye Charlie says he thinks there is software that will allow me to convert and edit (which is essential.) Anyone know of anything that would help? (All Nancy can get is a "picture," but not the "text" of what I need.) I looked up programs on internet and it's all Portuguese in a Chinese dialect to me.

So, I've been thinking. Maybe a younger reader would get a little something about "ancient economics" from this story.

In about 1950, while studying at U. of Illinois, Jean and I got a letter from Dad one Friday morning just as we were starting out to get grocieries for the weekend. Dad informed us that he wanted to drop down on the train from Chicago on Saturday. While there was often a five dollar bill, or more in his letters, there was none this time. I asked Jean how much we had for groceries, now that we needed more. "Five dollars," she said. "Will that do it," I asked? "Nope," she replied. So, we started out on the ten-minute drive, both deep in thought as to how to stretch five dollars to feed three adults and a toddler, and assuming there was already enough for the baby. For five meals each, that is.

At an intersection downtown, I pulled up behind a very fancy, limousine-like sedan, possibly a Packard, or Lincoln. When the light changed, I heard the woman trying to start her car, but thought she was in danger of wearing down the battery. (Often happened in older cars those days.) I finally got out and approcached her window. She said she was out of gas. There just happened to be a gas station about 100 feet across the intersection, and our "bumpers" just happened to match pretty well. (Historical note: 1940's car bumpers were much better fit for pushing one another.)

I offered to push her into the station, no big deal whatsoever. I did so, but before I could pull away, she got out and came over to my window, thanking me profusely, and trying to hand me money. I told her it wasn't necessary and gently pushed her hand back at her a little. She tried again, and I said I couldn't, or some such thing, and just as she was asking for the third time, I felt this jolt on my right leg...the one down near the floor next to Jean's left foot. Before I could say a thing, the woman dropped the five dollar bill onto my lap, smiled, and walked away. "Twice was enough to be nice," Jean said. We now had doubled our purse and Dad never knew how "tight" the weekend could have been.

Anonymous says "thanks."

I just found your blog and wanted to thank you for sharing all your memories and stories with the world, especially your kids and grandkids! I am 19 and had to write a paper for school about something that happened in the lives of my grandparents, with their exact words. So I interviewed them and I loved learning all the things I had never known about them before! Some of us 'younger people' do appreciate it! :)

GJ Asks: "May I Summarize?"

Dear Friend,

If you are 20 or under, you are young enough to be my great grandchildren. (I have six, now, and one in heaven. Her name is Ellie and she is sharing stickers with The Lord.) I would imagine that you are too young to care about such things as memoirs, and that's OK. On the other hand, maybe you'll get a small "feel" for history by browsing through these posts.

If you are 20 to 40, you are young enough to be my grandchildren. For years, now, you have been my favorite generation. (I have eight now, and two are in heaven, now. One is asking around to see if there is a golf course or bowling alley. He was a foot taller than everybody else in the family! The other is asking The Lord about some scriptures that always puzzled him. He and I spent a whole day one Christmas, trying to see how much weight a balloon could carry up to the ceiling.) I appeal to you to somehow get your grandparents to share their memories. There will come a time, trust me, when you will wish you had. Generally, I believe that the fewer regrets you have, the more pleasant will be your journey.

If you are 40 to 60, you are young enough to be my children. Many in your generation are close to my heart because of your interest in history. I beg you to ask your parents to share some memories, preferably in writing, but any old way will do. I know, first-hand, that you will have questions and regrets. Don't let that happen, please. Your inheritance will not be in tangibles...it will be in knowing your parents better...and that leads to far better understandings.

Love, Grandpa Jim.

Time's a-wastin'

Only 6 and 1/2 hours left to enter the contest!

Thinking Out Loud by GJ

Granddaughter Sarah has advised me to "hang in there," because her experience in blogging for over a year suggests that "feedback" is rare. I've tried, and am beginning to wonder if I'm doing something wrong. Other than family and old friends, only two "new people" have sent in a comment or memoir. That's two out of over 1200 people who have "hit" the blog, and out of about 15% who were curious enough to go to my "view" page. Please understand that I can't continue to post my own thoughts at this rate of about 15 to 1! Why? Because I can't tell which topics people are interested in! Dogs didn't do it. Family "mysteries" didn't do it. Even a "storm" didn't do it. It's getting pretty hard to think of what might interest people. I will say this. Some of my posts I can print out and put in a beautiful scrapbook that was given to us on our 60th anniversary. So, maybe I'll make a little "direction adjustment," and post less often while aiming more for the scrapbook. (Any new memoirs sent in will be welcome diversions!)

Please try your hand at a memoir!

A morning storm by GJ

Woke up around 4:00 A.M. because of quick, bright flashes of light that came through the closed blinds of our bedroom. Due to my hearing loss, I couldn't hear any thunder at the time, so I kept wondering what the flashes were about. Later, I did hear a burst of thunder. (It must have been quite loud.) The storm lasted at least two hours that I knew of. As I thought about the weather over breakfast (a micro-omelet that wasn't all that great) I recalled the "great typhoon" of 1945, when our tiny ship (55 men) went to sea to "outrun it," and got out-foxed by it. (The storm, called typhoons in Pacific, hurricanes in Atlantic...same thing, basically) was expected to turn east, but decided to turn west. We were headed west, of course. Estimates placed the winds at 100+ mph, and waves at 100 feet. (I do recall that we spotted a very large, US cargo ship, with masts maybe 75 feet high over water level, and as we passed each other, a wave got between us and we could not see its masts!) We were completely at the mercy of the storm, and simply turned our stern (rear) toward it and "rode it out." Back in port at Okinawa, several ships our size sank and some were blown ashore, which was as safe as anything else. It was really the only time, up until then, that we were so painfully aware of our smallness. A number of sailors lost their lives in that storm. Tragically, it was within days of the armistice.

A brief foray into politics by GJ

It could come as a surprise to my family that I took a "flyer" into politics in 1952. I was a senior in college, 25, and about to embark on a teaching career. I read an article about a state representative who, the paper documented, had charged the state for two hotel rooms in two different cities for the same night's lodging. (As I recall, there were other implied transgressions.) Since the man was unopposed, I thought, why not give it a try? The charges against my opponent apparently made no difference to "the party" because they totally ignored me and didn't invite me to take part in any "get-togethers." I spent about $50 of my own, scarce funds, raised about $100 from well-wishers, and lost, of course. (I openly endorsed General Eisenhower for President, while the party preferred Senator Robert Taft. Our whole area went for Taft, but Ike won the rest of the continent.) I did get some fairly nice coverage in the local papers, and I did win maybe 2,000 votes, or so. (Newspaper readers, apparently?) It's just as well. I had only one qualification, really. I wanted to serve my state and one hotel room at a time was plenty.

The One-Room Country School: 1898

In 1904 we moved. Here the farm was less fertile. We were amongst hills, jungles, ditches, and oh, how changed we found the school. In the schoolroom were desks for the pupils, one for the teacher, a bell, broom, stove and blackboards. Not a map or dictionary to be seen. There was one outdoor toilet, and the door to it was missing. The girls used this building while the boys were assigned to cornfield and woodshed. The next year a double toilet was built. We tried to tell them that it was not prudent to build one dividing wall between boys and girls, but they had their minds made up to save on the cost. On the bank of Plum River stood the Pleasant Valley Church. As the ministers came and went, their children were welcome additions to our school. They brought new ways with them, and they seemed to serve as mascots. There was one minister who vaccinated his children against small pox. His son was my brother's seat-mate. The boy's vaccination was taking effect. He told my brother that if he scratched an open spot on his arm, and then they were to place some of the serum from his vaccination on it, that my brother, too, would then be vaccinated. It took effect. Both boys got severe scoldings. In suitable weather, we played outdoors. The games we played were; "Drop the handkerchief," Fox and Goose," London Bridge," Pump, Pump, Pull Away," "Anteover," Baseball, and "Prisoner's Base." The games we played indoors during harsh weather were; Pussy Wants a Corner," and "Fruit Basket." These were competitive games, and dust rolled up in clouds as we sped across the room. There was a big hill near the school house, and when there was snow, we would slide down the hill on home-made sleds. There was one lad who liked to take sleds away from girls after they had pulled them all the way up the hill. Finally, one girl lit into this bully, and a real battle was on. They pulled each other's hair, pushed each other into the barbed-wire fence, and they were bleeding. The ringing of the bell ended the fight. It was an even match, with no winner, no loser, no tattle-tale, and no hard feelings. When the boy combed his hair, there were wads of it that had been pulled loose. The girl began to laugh. The boy said, "Wait until you comb yours!" When the girl put a comb to her long tresses, hair came out by the handful. But the victory was hers, actually, for from then on, the girls' sleds were not bothered. We all learned the lesson that children's quarrels never left hard feelings as long as parents didn't interfere.
Reply

This memoir was written by Hattie Flickinger, of tiny Loran, IL., about 140 miles west of Chicago. About 90 at the time, Hattie sent this in to me in 1984. I had occasion to visit her a couple of times, and found her to be bright-eyed and charming. This episode is part three of a three-parter. Wish me luck as I search for parts one and two.

Let's Have a Contest!

Send me an e-mail in which you list, by title, the blogs you liked best. Choose one, two, or three, or even more, if that's the way it is. To win a prize, write your reason for choosing any one. Contest ends 8/11/08. If this works, we'll do it again in the future.

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A Gift's A Gift by GJ

I was the recipient of a gift that you'll find hard to believe. I actually received 12 semester/credit hours (4 courses times 3 hours over two years) from my alma mater whose name I shall keep to myself. (Those who care can find it.) There I was in 1949, trying to register for college. I was 22, a veteran, husband and father of a one year-old daughter. I was eligible for the GI Bill which not only paid tuition, books, and fees, but $140 per month living costs. Housing was cheap, about $40 per month as I recall. Was the remainder enough to feed a family of three? Of course not. Where did we get extra? First, I tried to take every part-time, temporary job that I could find. The university had sources and the newspaper sometimes offered a few. I drove taxicab, shoveled coal, planted trees, and sold tickets to the annual Fireman's Ball, among other, similar "opportunities." (Each one made me more and more determined to get a degree!) Second, there was my Dad. He had this uncanny habit of knowing when we were probably "up against it," and would send $5 or sometimes more in one of his weekly letters. On registration day, I went to sign up for a foreign language, not ever having one in HS. My first choice was Spanish, because I was told it was easiest. But Spanish was closed already because we applied in alphabetical order, and my V was too far down the line. I asked for options. Somebody recommended Portuguese, because of its similarity to Spanish. "Portuguese," I asked? All I could think of was that tiny nation just west of Italy. "No, it is also spoken in Brazil," I was told, and "Today we are growing closer to Brazil in foreign affairs." What could I do? I signed up. On the first day I was already two weeks behind! (Yes, it was like Greek to me.) A few days later, as the deadline for dropping a course neared, I went to the professor and told him I was convinced I could never make it. He assured me I could. I assured him I couldn't. Finally, he said, "Look, there are 12 in the class, you are number 12, and if I don't maintain 12 we have to drop the class for these other 11!") Well, that was a shocker. (Today, I'd wonder if any of the 11 were armed!) So, I decided to take him at his word. If he flunked me at end of semester, I would only lose 3 hours out of 16 and I planned on going to summer school , anyway. Of course I got further and further behind, totally lost. A classmate informed me one day that I should hang in there. He told me that the "other 11" were LANGUAGE MAJORS, and this was an elective for them! I got a C for that and three more semesters. It helped that the second year was Portuguese Literature, and this was easier for me to "fake." I guess I was the prof's "anchor man?" I give a lot of credit to my classmates. They were quite gracious, really...or maybe they knew how vital I was to their options? It doesn't matter. (They all got their A's and B's, anyway.) I don't know how to spell it in English, but I did memorize one phrase that I used over and over; "Fasu favordi, falar, di vigar." "Please speak more slowly!" Was I lucky? I think I was incredibly lucky. I hit a "hat trick," being in the right class, at the right time, with the right professor. To tell the truth, I probably qualify for the nickname "lucky." (And I've got more memoirs to prove it.)

Introducing Aunt Vick by GJ

A while back, I introduced Jean's Aunt Ruth. Today, I thought I'd introduce Aunt Vick, short for Victoria. "Vicky" as we often addressed her, was born about 1875, I'd guess. (I'd look it up, but what we call our family tree is up in the attic in one of the boxes belonging to our grandson who is in New Guineau.) Vicky never married. Vicky also never worked, except for a few years, and that is for another memoir. (One which concerns Uncle Jake.) Vicky was known as a "fuss-budget," and this was often the reason given for her being a "spinster." (Never married.) I was too young when around her to see what fussiness meant. I now wonder if maybe it isn't female for "tinkerer" in men? I guess these terms apply to people (and we all know some) who seemingly spend most of their time doing little, inconsequential things...keeping "busy" doing "nothing." Vicky lived with relatives all of her 90-some years. She was very short, about four feet 10, I think. When young, she had long, flaming red hair. I doubt that she weighed much over 100 pounds. Late in 1944, Vicky's brother, Jake, passed away and she went to live another brother, my Dad, Scott. (I was away in the navy.) Three things happened rather quickly, it seemed to me. First, Dad wrote that he was going to move into Chicago. He wrote that he was tired of commuting after 30 years or so. Second, he informed me that Aunt Vick was going out to live with my brother, Chick, on their little farm. Not long after, he wrote that Aunt Vick was going to live, alone, in the small town of Mount Carroll, IL., about 125 miles west of Chicago. (She chose the town because she knew it from her early days.) Truth be known, Vicky got to be too much for Dad, and too much for Chick and his wife, Leona. Rather soon, she got that way. In all fairness to her, she was in her 70's and some of her traits had simply worsened with age. My story is how she got to be too much for my Dad who was, ordinarily, a pussy cat to get along with. You have to consider that 1944 was WWII and RATIONING! When Vicky came to Dad's, she found a very full pantry because he was then living alone and ration coupons were more than enough for a single person and besides, he ate out a lot. Sugar, in particular was in great supply in Dad's pantry. Whenever he was asked why he even bothered to "stock up" on things, his regular reply was, "Because you never know when somebody will stop in." Two of his four sons and their familes might be who he had in mind. After a few months, Vicky told Dad that they needed to get some sugar. He was stunned. "Sugar? How can we need sugar?" He went to the pantry and saw that all rationed goods were extremely low. "We used it," she said." "Why didn't you replace it?" he asked. "Never thought of it, I guess." Within a couple of weeks or maybe less, my Dad grew very tired of commuting. Several years later, our whole family had occasion to be "entertained" by Vicky. Several of us actually laughed so hard we cried!

Know a "fuss budget?" ever know an Aunt Vick-, or Aunt Ruth-like relative? Why not share her with us, by writing a memoir?

"Old Judge" and Jack

In the following memoir, we find two more dogs! Adie Petzoldt's memoir is the conclusion to a partial posting....hmmmm....sounds like a post office term...that was on this blog some time back. I got an e-mail one day from Adie's grand nephew. Said he simply "googled" his grand uncle's name and got my blog! Amazing! So, I searched for the entire memoir, found it, and sent it to him and now it's here, on record.

The rest of Adie's story by Adie S. Petzoldt

On January 6, 1912, my sister Frieda was born when I was just over two and one half years old. There were now six children and our two parents living in a two-room log cabin with an attic without outer wall or ceiling. All of us thought life was great.
The winter my sister was born we had the largest snow I can remember. It drifted up to the windows of the house, and my father and brothers shoveled paths from the house through the yard, the barn lot to the barn, to the feeding troughs and food bins for the farm animals.
One winter my father had hogs which had to be driven to market. It was at least a mile to the county road and then two more miles. I can see them digging a path for the hogs and driving them up the field from the house, one behind the other.
Such a feat would have been more difficult without the good stock dogs, “Old Judge,” and “Jack.” The hogs and all our stock had great respect for their presence and their barking. As I grew older, I learned to direct these and other dogs who were raised and trained to get the cattle and other stock from the pasture fields.
The milk cows were milked each day by hand at certain times. The dogs as well as the cows knew those times as well as if they could read a clock. If they did not appear on time, the dogs knew, and sometimes without being told, they went out and quietly rounded up the cows. All of us learned to milk, but since the men folks tended the land and the fields, the milking fell to Mother, my two sisters, and me. Summer was nice, but in winter our fingers got painfully cold.
During those years, farmers could not sell whole milk in the market and there was no means of distribution. The milk had to be separated, with the cream spun off the milk in the separator. We took the cream to market, where it was graded for butter-fat content, which determined the price. The milk was fed to hogs, chickens, cats, and dogs. A certain amount was kept in the earth cellar or hung in the cistern for family use ---drinking, cooking, and cheese.
In my early childhood my father developed the finest Holstein dairy herd, hoping that gradually farmers would be able to sell whole milk at the market. Unfortunately, Dad was too far ahead of his time, and he found the herd to be unprofitable. One by one he sold the Holsteins and bought Jerseys, a higher cream-producing breed. Several years later, the market for whole milk opened, which put him in the wrong enterprise, since these sales were now more profitable than those of cream. He gave up on milk cattle, altogether.

Another "Pete" by "Mrs."

My husband also had a dog named Pete, a huge weimaraner. They came home from church one Easter Sunday to find that Pete had opened the fridge and helped himself to their Easter ham! He was lying on the floor with a ham-sized bulge in his belly, moaning. Our faithful dog, Blaze, was adopted from the Orphan Pet Oasis when my son was around 5 and my daughter a toddler. When our third child was born, Himself had to fly out to Florida (we were in CA) for a business trip. Blaze parked herself under the baby's crib and refused to budge at night until Himself returned home. She was the best dog we ever had - we just lost her two years ago at age 13.

Another reminder/prodder by GJ

I'd be willing to bet (a used paper clip) that most people have a "dog story" from sometime in the past. I have a couple, myself. When I was small, in the 1930's, we had a dog named "Pete." He was a mutt, of course. (Never knew a single soul who had the wherewithal to own a pedigree.) Mutts were "in," pedigrees were only in magazines and movies, etc. Pete was pretty good-sized, grayish, medium-length fur. And fairly old, I think. Anyway, it seems that a rotten neighbor had put out an animal trap to teach stray dogs a lesson. Pete got a front paw caught in the trap, and he limped home with that paw dangling by a thread. Dad consulted my brothers and they thought it might work to amputate the lower leg. I wasn't allowed to witness it, but Dad got a good, sharp saw, and did the job. After the leg healed sufficiently, Dad strapped a wooden peg onto the stump and Pete learned to get around on it quite well, and he became our "peg-legged Pete." (I must look up the origin of that title some day soon.) We had another dog at some point, a mutt with a lot of collie in him. All I know about him is that he was scared to death of thunder, and got caught outside one day, panicked, and dove through a closed basement window. He cut himself rather badly and took quite a while to heal. He didn't seem to want to go out much after that, either. I had a third dog while in high school. A mutt (of course) only medium-sized, short hair, tan and white, named "Skipper." Skipper had a hbit of lying down on the sidewalk in front of our house, facing south. He did this every afternoon just about the time I would be coming home from school. There was a slight elevation to the long sidewalk, and the first part of me he spotted was my head as I appeared over his horizon. He would run to greet me, wagging his tail in glee as we strolled home. But, there was a catch. It turns out that he was part watchdog, a steely protector of the castle, and a born barker. Trouble is, he only barked at those people who came to the house every day...the mailman, milkman, paperboy, etc. Guess what? Dad worked nights and needed his daytimes to sleep. "Gotta go," Dad said, meaning Skipper, of course. So, we took him out to brother Chick's farm. Turns out he was a natural "cow dog," and he was soon assigned to getting the cows twice a day for the milking by rounding them up and herding them to the gate, saving Chick a lot of steps. I missed Skipper, but it did make it a tad easier to go off to the Navy. (Also made it easier to think of our captain as "the skipper.") Got your own dog story? (They count as memoirs, too!) Share one---or two---or more.

Feeling My Age by GJ

I've been thinking (meditating? musing? pondering?) about the link between snail mail, e-mail, and blogging. I'm not at all captivated by the latter two, I'm afraid. They just don't have the true, personal touch of your name-on-the-envelope-recognizable-handwriting, postmarked date and place of snail mail. (The first step down my slippery slope was the typewritten envelope, I guess.) Those of us who lived through WWII considered mail as almost sacred, in a way. The mail between home and military ultimately used something called "V-Mail," which used a much thinner, lighter paper and was, if I'm correct, both stationery and envelope-in-one. In 1945, it took almost three weeks (and often more) both ways, South Pacific to Chicago. Dad and I wrote at least once a week and my brother and I exchanged some from SP to Europe and I have no idea how long that took, but maybe not much more? Because my mother was deceased, there were no cookies or cakes, and it really never occurred to me to feel sorry for myself, because the packages I saw others receive were often stale, reduced to crumbs, or in pretty bad shape. And, in the navy, our chow tended to be better because we always had our kitchen with us. (I recall that hardly anyone on my ship cared for ripe olives. When the cook discovered that I was almost the only one eating them, he told me I that all I had to do was ask and he'd give me a whole can, which had to have hundreds in it. I've often wondered if, in some shallow bay in the Pacific there might be a whole olive grove sticking up out of the water where I threw those thousands of pits.)Is there anyone out there in bloggerland who had to endure the days and weeks without a hot meal, like in Europe, WWII? Anyway, mail meant the world to us in the mid-1940's. It took 40 or 50 years, but cheap phone rates and modern technology AND rising postage costs, AND a poor record for teaching handwriting eventually eroded the practice of nice long, chatty letters. (One other victim of this (to me a tragedy) was "keeping in touch.") Many people had a firm list of those he or she wrote to on a regular basis. Those who managed a letter a week received a letter a week in reply. Mailboxes sometimes conained at least one letter per day. (My Dad's generation was inclined to write about the weather, mostly. That may seem funny, but whomever he wrote to knew that he was OK, and that was important.) Oh...almost forgot...prior to WWII, the postcard was in extremely wide use as a means to "keep in touch." Hmmmm. I wonder if I should take that up again for my relatively small list of "keeping-in-touchers?"

Charlie's Memoir #2

When Garland Riegel died, they had a memorial service, not a funeral. Garland was the father of Anne Riegel, a girl who played Anne Frank in the play that Grandpa Jim directed when he was "Mr. Van Delinder," one of my high school's English teachers. He also got to teach the speech classes and directed the school plays. Dr. Riegel—he was a waspologist, or whatever you call a person who studies wasps—grew into the position of chairman of the Zoology Department at Eastern Illinois University during his many years of teaching there. He came from a large family and they got together on a regular basis. Grandpa Jim was mentioning the family dinners; the Riegels had family dinners. The children sat at the card tables while the adults sat at the regular sized family dining tables. After Dr. Riegel's memorial service, the family members moved to a private dining area in a restaurant across the street from the church. I went to the service because I graduated with Anne in Mr. Van Delinder's third and final year at our high school, 1961. I asked Anne if I could "crash" the family dinnertime too. She said, "Of course."Since I come from a large family (I was number 10!) and have attended lots of family dinners where the kids sat at card tables, I found it wonderfully refreshing when one of the nephews of Dr. Riegel entered the restaurant's private area, looked around at the full tables, and then in a loud voice, asked: "Where are the card tables?" He got a good laugh. I got a good memory!

Update #2 by Grandpa Jim

A new month brings fascinating e-mail. I received a message from a man who is the grand-nephew of one of my "Memoirs" contributors of 25 years ago, Adie S. Petzoldt, of Quincy, IL. Part of Adie's only memoir to me was posted on this blog on July 3rd. I owe grand-nephew Ken an apology because I referred to Adie as "she," when "he" was correct. ( I wondered why I assumed Adie was feminine, and then recalled that I had a cousin named "Addie," who was a woman.) I have asked Ken to share how he happened upon my blog.

For those of you who "tuned in late," I want to summarize my blog's purpose. I sincerely hope to get people to share a memory with me (and the other readers.) I do most of the sharing, it seems, and that's OK, but it isn't my intention to rule the roost. ( I read somewhere that if too many unposted dates show up, people will not be as interested. ) My trusty little "bean-counter" of a PC tells me that 1066 people have "hit" the blog and a little less than 4% view my "view." ( I think I'll add a little to it today. )

I refer to the sharing of a memory as a "memoir." I once published (1983-84) a newsletter, of sorts, and had a hundred subscribers, about 1/4th of whom sent in their memoirs. Some of them recall events as far back as 1900+/-, such as Adie's. I wouldn't expect today's "commentators" to go back that far, but certainly the 1930's and 40's are within reason. (My generation, for example, remembers a group called the "Glenn Miller Orchestra," which was the "rage" during those WWII days. ) Glenn died in a plane crash while crossing the English Channel to play for the troops in Europe in 1944. I can't begin to do justice to how we all felt when that occurred. We had lost a very close friend. (I was in training as part of USNavy's Amphibious Forces when the news came.) Miller was a major in the Army Air Corps, in charge of its "official band," and made up of many of his own, former musicians. The rest of the orchestra was already in Europe, having flown on ahead of their leader. (The US Air Force did not become a separate service until after the war.)


I'd like it if you'd share something with us, too. For your family, for instance. Children and grandchildren really appreciate family "stories." History buffs really appreciate hearing "how it was" way back when. Peers appreciate reading about things that "bring back" people or events long forgotten. Stories remind people of similar stories! Join us, won't you?