The Importance of Coca Cola to this kid growing up in Atlantic, Iowa, during the 1930's period was beyond IMPORTANT!
(And since COCA COLA DAYS will, once again, be celebrated this coming September in the COCA COLA CAPITAL of the State of Iowa...and that would be my beloved hometown, of course!... you are expecting an explanation of that opening statement, right?) Mary, our oldest daughter, and I will have been-to-and-gone-from Atlantic by then and will have missed all the untamed and unbridled excitement of watching true Coca Cola memorabilia collectors push and shove other memorabilia collectors for bargains and rarities among the wares that will be displayed by the entrepreneurs/sellers of memorabilia from around the world...no kidding, this is a "blinking" big deal!
There was no such thing as "Diet Coke" or any other formula except for the original one for this drink that came only in its hour-glass-shaped bottle (regular and the promotional miniature-size) (and if I am wrong about this, I know there is a reader my age or older who will set me straight!). The Coke, which cost all of a hard-to-come-by nickel, was not all that common in the modest Cranston household as a nice pot roast from Dahlberg's Meat Market set Mom and Dad back a good 50 cents and would feed a family up to 10 people the way Mom stretched it out in a hundred different ways. I confess...on one trip to the meat market, I asked Oscar Dahlberg, the owner, for a 45-cent pot roast and pocketed the other five cents for a "blinking" Coca Cola; that dirty deed still creeps up at unexpected times; and I shudder at my duplicity but will have to say in my defense, that action has been the reason my three kids have been, from an early age, taught that "Conscience" is a mighty weapon in thwarting all kinds of childish and adultish misdeeds! And the fact that Pearl Dahlberg, Oscar's wife and my Kindergarten Teacher at Grant School, was standing at his elbow and could possibly have read my criminal mindset, thoughts and desires has plagued me for years...which would be nigh onto 75 calendar discards. (Listen folks, this IS a "blinking" big deal! ...but, I can see the humor in this lesson well learned! and I can hear a few chortlings (snorting, joyful chuckles) amongst you three readers...yeah!)
Harry Tyler and his family were the owners of the Atlantic franchise for the bottling of Coca Cola in those yesteryears. The plant was located on (me thinks) Chestnut Street and in my mind's eye, I can see it between Third and Second streets, wherever located easily within walking distance of 210 Birch. Harry was/is my hero, and his product was/is my addiction today, and it all started because of his masterpiece of a promotion. Simple enough: For each "A" on the Report Card, and this pertained to every school kid during the years it was offered, the overachiever received a free bottle of Coca Cola from Harry and his family. Lining up at the back of the plant the day after the issuance of said Report Cards, kids were handed one bottle, two bottles, three bottles and it was, indeed, a happy sight to behold. The kids (brothers and sisters/nieces and nephews) who were still living with Mom and Dad while I was in school loved it when I took my little red wagon to Tylers Bottling Works to pick up my "loot!" The Report Cards? I still have them among my "treasures" and a Diet Coke with Splenda is beside me as I write this.
And in telling you this little story about my contribution to the Cranston household during the Depression Years, 75 or so years too late, I am also saying "Thank you, Harry Tyler!" for a truly unselfish and generous spirit ... any "self-esteem" I may have as an adultish-type person in 2010 began its journey when my brothers Bennie, Dutch, Perle and Kenny took a swig of "my contribution" and declared, "Good job, Little One!" (So, I'll be thanking you for that one too!)
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
"Penny George"....Teacher
It's an early morning in July, 2011 and my thoughts have turned to: What has God done in my life lately? Some of you may read into that, that I am being... selfish (perhaps) contemplative (definitely) appreciative (most assuredly), self-pitying (not allowed) but mostly, number one on my "top ten" list: Why?
Jeremiah "The Weeping Prophet" and reputed to be the author of "The Book of Lamentations" spoke loud and clear to me upon my retirement as a church and preschool secretary fifteen years ago this month. Before then, not too many of the church sermons I rough-typed or heard from the hearts of four Quaker pastors were based on "Lamentations" except in a quick off-the-cuff reference.
I will never understand (except that it is 'mysterious') the reason God's Words were given to me through Jeremiah to repeat in my "So Long, It's Been An Adventure!" remarks at the end of the Retirement/Recognition Day the members of the Arcadia Friends Community Church so beautifully planned for my family and me.
"I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:10-11. Well, you could have knocked me over with a peacock feather!
Now, generally speaking, we Golden Seniors are supposed to "lament" in our twilight years, from what I have always been led to believe. Words left unsaid, trips not taken, that random act of kindness left for someone else to fulfill, or "tomorrow", not bidding one more dollar on a Norman Rockwell collector's plate at the Thursday night auction...good stuff like that. Myself, I "lament" not carrying a notebook and a No. 2 pencil around when I was on my way to where I find myself now, at my desk blogging away! (Little did I know there would be an arcadia.patch website one day and that any (hopeful) future rested in My Editor's hands!)
I should be out in my patio area weeding around the newly-planted succulents and tangerine tree (a birthday gift) but here I sit...with a heart leaning towards telling you about a "lowly" citizen of my hometown, one from whom I have learned a lesson or two in my search for what God would have for my life. If I had had a closer relationship with Jeremiah in my "salad days" I might not be lamenting today that I do not know more about a man who has become another life-changing force in my life as I grow a tad wiser with the advancing years. Here is what I do know....
During the days of my early youth in Atlantic, there lived a person (and there is hardly a man or woman now alive in Atlantic who will recall this man of whom I write) just up the street on Birch from my family. George Whitcomb was born into a well-respected family as much as I can remember from hearing Mom and Dad speak of this "lowly" citizen, but George was not quite "right in the head."
George's misshapened body could be seen at any time of the night or day roaming the neighborhood, and to any kid seeing him for the first time, his appearance had to be frightful, as it was to me. His long straggly hair and clothes that appeared slept in and never changed only added to the strong desire to cross the street when he approached. His "gibberish" mutterings never ceased as he went from place to place in his loping gait. He became a sometimes target of less-than-understanding kids and adults as the years went by and grew older at the same pace we did; but, alas, as George grew older, his manner and actions only intensified and the good-natured teasing continued long after I left 210 Birch. About this my lovely friend, Colleen, told me that "I like to think that he thought people were being truly wonderful to him and that it brought him joy!"
I hasten to add that there was sympathy and never malice towards this man who bore the countenance of a truly most unhandsome man...jutting chin, no teeth nor dentures, eyebrows that needed a good plucking and the perpetual scowl that happens when the face has been "scrunched" like a dried apple. (Here starts one of those lessons I learned from and about God in a most unlikely way...there is beauty in all God's creatures!)
His fellow citizens threw copper pennies at his feet waiting to see his absolute delight in picking them up and socking them away in his torn overall pants' pockets. "Penny George" was his name long before I was born, and that is how we all referred to him in conversations in the most natural of ways. Some will not know his last name until they read it here. (And I learned about how God knows how many hairs there are on our head and He knows our name!)
Noah Webster would have us call "Penny George" an "imbecile" to whom nothing much can be taught and from whom nothing much can be learned.
Probably my way of thinking, too, then when I was young and foolish, of course, but now that I have reached the great age of 86, I am of the persuasion that perhaps I have learned God's greatest lessons in living in this small town of Atlantic, Iowa, where "Penny George" was sometimes the object of misguided scorn and pity, to be avoided and certainly not to touched in a loving embrace other than by his Mom and Dad.
I have come to know that God loves His creatures, one and all, that "Penny George's I.Q. testing" is as honored as Einstein's, certainly mine; and I know this most frightful-appearing of human beings is as "handsome as any movie star I have ever "mooned" over!" today where his once-restless soul sits quietly in the very presence of God.
On a note of whimsy and if I could speak for "Penny George" to his sometimes "playful taunters" and to the people who truly sympathized with his private torture (and I am only now guessing as to what they said), I would have him say in his own gibberish way..."and the same to you, too!"
(With Agape Love, of course!)
Jeremiah "The Weeping Prophet" and reputed to be the author of "The Book of Lamentations" spoke loud and clear to me upon my retirement as a church and preschool secretary fifteen years ago this month. Before then, not too many of the church sermons I rough-typed or heard from the hearts of four Quaker pastors were based on "Lamentations" except in a quick off-the-cuff reference.
I will never understand (except that it is 'mysterious') the reason God's Words were given to me through Jeremiah to repeat in my "So Long, It's Been An Adventure!" remarks at the end of the Retirement/Recognition Day the members of the Arcadia Friends Community Church so beautifully planned for my family and me.
"I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:10-11. Well, you could have knocked me over with a peacock feather!
Now, generally speaking, we Golden Seniors are supposed to "lament" in our twilight years, from what I have always been led to believe. Words left unsaid, trips not taken, that random act of kindness left for someone else to fulfill, or "tomorrow", not bidding one more dollar on a Norman Rockwell collector's plate at the Thursday night auction...good stuff like that. Myself, I "lament" not carrying a notebook and a No. 2 pencil around when I was on my way to where I find myself now, at my desk blogging away! (Little did I know there would be an arcadia.patch website one day and that any (hopeful) future rested in My Editor's hands!)
I should be out in my patio area weeding around the newly-planted succulents and tangerine tree (a birthday gift) but here I sit...with a heart leaning towards telling you about a "lowly" citizen of my hometown, one from whom I have learned a lesson or two in my search for what God would have for my life. If I had had a closer relationship with Jeremiah in my "salad days" I might not be lamenting today that I do not know more about a man who has become another life-changing force in my life as I grow a tad wiser with the advancing years. Here is what I do know....
During the days of my early youth in Atlantic, there lived a person (and there is hardly a man or woman now alive in Atlantic who will recall this man of whom I write) just up the street on Birch from my family. George Whitcomb was born into a well-respected family as much as I can remember from hearing Mom and Dad speak of this "lowly" citizen, but George was not quite "right in the head."
George's misshapened body could be seen at any time of the night or day roaming the neighborhood, and to any kid seeing him for the first time, his appearance had to be frightful, as it was to me. His long straggly hair and clothes that appeared slept in and never changed only added to the strong desire to cross the street when he approached. His "gibberish" mutterings never ceased as he went from place to place in his loping gait. He became a sometimes target of less-than-understanding kids and adults as the years went by and grew older at the same pace we did; but, alas, as George grew older, his manner and actions only intensified and the good-natured teasing continued long after I left 210 Birch. About this my lovely friend, Colleen, told me that "I like to think that he thought people were being truly wonderful to him and that it brought him joy!"
I hasten to add that there was sympathy and never malice towards this man who bore the countenance of a truly most unhandsome man...jutting chin, no teeth nor dentures, eyebrows that needed a good plucking and the perpetual scowl that happens when the face has been "scrunched" like a dried apple. (Here starts one of those lessons I learned from and about God in a most unlikely way...there is beauty in all God's creatures!)
His fellow citizens threw copper pennies at his feet waiting to see his absolute delight in picking them up and socking them away in his torn overall pants' pockets. "Penny George" was his name long before I was born, and that is how we all referred to him in conversations in the most natural of ways. Some will not know his last name until they read it here. (And I learned about how God knows how many hairs there are on our head and He knows our name!)
Noah Webster would have us call "Penny George" an "imbecile" to whom nothing much can be taught and from whom nothing much can be learned.
Probably my way of thinking, too, then when I was young and foolish, of course, but now that I have reached the great age of 86, I am of the persuasion that perhaps I have learned God's greatest lessons in living in this small town of Atlantic, Iowa, where "Penny George" was sometimes the object of misguided scorn and pity, to be avoided and certainly not to touched in a loving embrace other than by his Mom and Dad.
I have come to know that God loves His creatures, one and all, that "Penny George's I.Q. testing" is as honored as Einstein's, certainly mine; and I know this most frightful-appearing of human beings is as "handsome as any movie star I have ever "mooned" over!" today where his once-restless soul sits quietly in the very presence of God.
On a note of whimsy and if I could speak for "Penny George" to his sometimes "playful taunters" and to the people who truly sympathized with his private torture (and I am only now guessing as to what they said), I would have him say in his own gibberish way..."and the same to you, too!"
(With Agape Love, of course!)
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Working title: "Life has a way of happening...!"
Let's set the Scene I, Act I in Des Moines, Iowa, in the year 1934, well after the "War to End All Wars" and before "The Greatest Generation War" was begun...
Principal players are four young men-about-town... in their twenties, athletic, handsome, charismatic, sartorially well-dressed, all established in their fields of business endeavor and on their "way up" to use a Midwestern slang term of the time.
Story Plot: Meet the "right girl"...marry...join the Hyperion Country Club...meet at Babe's (a famous to near-infamous nightclub in Des Moines in those days owned by Babe Bisignano, where only the best food and drink were served according to newspaper clippings) on Friday nights after a hard day at the office. The good life!
Characters names: Rich Barnes...Louie Eubank...Harry Frohwein...and, let's name the fourth one..."Dutch" Reagan, just for the heck of it.
In any good story line, there is always the protagonist, and here is where it gets to be more difficult, for me, in telling their story. Where is Tyler Perry when I need him! One thing for sure: there are no "bit players" in this telling!
(Well, shoot...there goes my Monday Schedule! Three of you posted "comments" for this page, and you know by now that it takes only a "wink, wink" about anything I write to get me back at this old computer once more. The truth be known, I want to finish this story, too, so that I will know how it ends....hang on tight, here we go!)
The four comrades were inseparable for those few years in Des Moines, earning good money for the times and enjoying a lifestyle made famous by the likes of Cary Grant, Randolph Scott, John Wayne, John Payne and other like-minded swains on the silver screen. This particular "band of brothers" were parted by the days and years of World War II, all serving admirably and coming home to have another Sunday dinner at 210 Birch Street in Atlantic, Iowa. Well, one did not and that would be the other "Dutch" in my life...he ended up in Hollywood! in the company of Jane Wyman, the sassy little blond chick from the state to the south of Iowa, Missouri.
I think I have found the "protagonist" for this story!
For a while I was going to go with Harry because he ended up being my brother-in-law by virtue of his marriage to my sister, Trudy in 1939. It will take a book to completely cover the "Story of Harry," the only non-Cranston-by-birth person who captured the heart of my Mom and could do no wrong in her eyes. He had only to enter the back door of our home (having traveled with Trudy from Des Moines with Rich and Louie) and shout "May-meeeeeee!" ... we kids could actually see her "melt!" (It is from her, no doubt, that I inherited the gene-reaction-response formula for selected members of the male gender at the bowling alley!)
Then I considered Rich, the catalyst for the story I am about to reveal about "Dutch" (the protagonist).
Louie would have been a fine choice 'cause he earned a piece of my heart and adoration when I was all of 14 as he sat across the dining room table from me eating with his fingers pieces of chicken, using a fork like a gentleman does, for the mashed potatoes and gravy, asparagus, wilted lettuce salad, and two slices of Mom's dark chocolate cake. He fit right into the Cranston mold! I now realize that I had the makings of a "stalker" at 14 but sought no professional help as all my girlfriends told me this was one more stage of growing up and so I have continued with this practice and will, until the end of "my story!"
But, back to Rich...he was cuter than the "protagonist" of this telling, in my mind's eye, and a bit shyer than the other three. He was the closest to "Dutch" during their single-stage years and, therefore, he was the one who decided to go to Hollywood to seek employment with the Bank of America, as he had been in Des Moines. Now, remember, this is all prior to World War II and before the four entered the service.
The "Dutch" Reagan (you may have guessed this by now) yes, the WHO sports broadcaster who went to Hollywood in 1937 to broadcast a Cubs baseball game but caught the eye of a savvy film mogul who, in turn, signed him for a seven-year contract with Warner Brothers. His velvet voice won my heart and admiration during the hot and humid summer months as he skillfully called the Cubs games over WHO. There were no more fanatical baseball fans than my family, and we could be found sitting on the floor in front of a couple of fans semi-circling a big pan of ice to cool down the room any time there was a game to be heard.
Harry and Trudy shared this story with me as we left the Veteran's Hospital in Des Moines, the last time I would see Rich, on my first visit to Iowa after I had moved to California with Del in late January of 1948.
Having been invited to stay with "Dutch" and Jane until he found his own living quarters, Rich arrived in the land of movie stars, palm trees,The Brown Derby, the Paladium, Catalina Island, Earl Carroll's Vanities, and all that enchanted the common man in the land of "make believe."
Rich had always known "Dutch" as kind and gentle, not subject to using profanity in the company of the opposite sex. Not a bad recommendation, huh?
Now as for Jane.... It took me a long time to forgive this cute blond chick from Missouri for her transgression where "Dutch" was concerned. That came about in 1950, and I will end this story with how that all came about, but this is what actually happened during Rich's first visit to their home. Rich had told the story to Harry and Trudy in earlier years, and Trudy told me this story back in August of 1948.
Rich, with a straight face in telling this to Harry and Trudy, said that the Reagan home was spic and span, dinner was delicious and the evening was spent in hashing over the "good old days in Des Moines." Jane, along with her ability to enchant her public by her antics on the silver-screen, was a great housekeeper, the bar by which most women were judged in that era and, a penchant for profanity, we will come to learn. Almost perfect, except she had a moment of forgetfulness which has never been shared with her adoring fans until now...I get to spill the beans, once more!
Rich, in using the nicely-appointed bathroom that evening, discovered a note pinned to one of the lace-edged towels: "Do not touch these towels, you S.O.B." and that could only mean one person, my "Dutch!" See why I harbored a long-term resentment all those past years? Jane forgot the one and most important tenant of housekeeping duties before guests arrived: "Remove all damning (even if instructional) evidence!" and how could she call that darling man an "S.O.B."? And, why was I laughing as heartily as Harry and Trudy? (The truth: that was their purpose, to cheer my soul.)
For sure, in his own words, Rich, too, did not touch the towels and they were left in the pristine condition they were in prior to his arrival. Intimidation by association, if there is such a condition!
And it came to pass that I forgave Jane Wyman eventually. It came about in this way.
Del and I had recently moved into our home at 5529, a new tract of homes that became a target for every vacuum, carpet, insurance, forced air system, fencing material and grass seed salesman alive. And, visiting church preachers!
The day I finally forgave Jane was the day I did the "delicates" by hand-washing and it was before I had a Kenmore-Sears dryer. It being an overcast kind of day, I elected to hang these "delicates" in the doorway nearest to the floor furnace. And did...just as the doorbell rang for the umpteenth time, another salesman.
I scooted to the door and opened it to find the nice looking, salt-and-pepper haired Visiting Pastor of the local Presbyterian Church and his companion, the Youth Minister, more my age. Ever being hospitable, after a few words spoken through the screen door, I invited them in and sat them down on our new Chinese-modern sofa and listened intently to their enthusiastic words of why my hubby and I would feel at home in their church. While listening to them, I noticed their eyes straying to the doorway and I wondered to myself..."what's with the attraction to the doorway?" It was then that I forgave Jane Wyman for her transgression of which we have written. I, also, was guilty big-time of "failing to remove the damning(even if pretty-in- pink) evidence!"
And therein, my three dear readers, lies the moral of this story...judge not because, delightfully and purposefully, "Life has a way of happening.."
* * * * * *
Post Script: You will remember Bus of "Four Little Indians" storyline. Harry became the beloved stepfather of Bus and Peggy Ann (of the misplaced baby storyline) when he married my sister, Trudy. Bus became the stepfather of Babe Bisignano's three very young nephews when he married Nancy Neal Rizzuti. The three Rizzuti boys went on to become well known in the advertising, teaching and film-producing fields. Babe lived to a great age as a revered and honored citizen of Des Moines, active in community work, always a "character" and a friend to all.
The picture heading up this story is an exact replica of the WHO-DES MOINES table at which "Dutch" Reagan broadcast the Cubs games and is located at the President Ronald W. Reagan Museum in Simi Valley. There is also a large statue of my "Dutch" standing guard at the entryway of the door leading into the Museum (or was about six years ago when I visited)...I reached up and slipped my hand into his.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
How I Saved the Careers of Martin and Lewis...!
Blogging, according to my world, is new, exciting, revealing, subject to limitations, and factual. Every word I type and every word you read relate to "happenings" Life has sent my way in all of my 85 years. (Setting "vanity" aside, I find as I declare my age more and more often, it becomes less of a challenge to face whatever is before me, and thee, a matter of Thanksgiving as opposed to pride, and a small sense of urgency to share stuff about the wonderful people who have populated my life.)
The printed word is more durable than a lightly-tossed-off remark over a Chinese Chicken Salad at lunch...so, if it is ok with you, if you have the time and forbearance, please come back often, tell your friends, and please, leave a comment or two when you have finished a chapter!
A HINT FOR THE NEW BLOGGER-READER: Sometimes, most of the time, the post you will read first (about Phebe, for instance) will contain references to people in the previous segment. Therefore, click back on the very first Blog..."In the Beginning" posted in November, and proceed from there. It's like playing "Dominoes", start with the first domino and add, one story at a time...going in several directions at the same time. Just stay with me, it will be fun!
Those Early Days in Southern California...ca 1948-1949
Looking back to then, one of those Early Days had all the ingredients of being a Magical Kind of Day...if you call "magical" nearly being trampled by those crazy legs of one young comedian, Jerry Lewis, newly arrived in Hollywood with his darkishly-handsome singing straight man, Dean Martin!
This comedy team, yet to make it big via Radio or the Movies although they were fast gaining favor with comedy club audiences in the Midwest territory, were called to Los Angeles to test the market, so to speak. Lucille Ball was already a well-known actress and comedienne and was hired to be their "foil" for their first appearance at a theater smack dab in the middle of "Tinseltown."
Tickets appeared, out of nowhere (in reality, I don't recall) so Del and I put gas in the 1938 Chevrolet coupe and off to Hollywood we went. There was only one Freeway then...the infamous Pasadena Freeway that included a bridge from which a number of people have jumped...and arrived in plenty of time to do a little sight-seeing and gawk at a few famous celebrities who were there for the same purpose of deciding the future of Martin and Lewis!
Not so much Del, but I pretty much separated myself early on from the true sophisticates arriving by waving at a couple of A-picture actors, gushing inane words when acknowledged by a young blond starlet on her way to a career we would eventually read about in a movie magazine. Once again, I was really out of my league! If Del were here right now, he could tell you their names...oh yes, Eleanor Powell and her then husband, Glenn Ford (the A people!).
Eleanor and Glenn were properly seated in the A-people section, down in front. Not knowing then that in order to get premium seats in the Hollywood-seating-arrangement one tipped the usher a whopping five dollars if you were a non-celeb, we were seated about five rows from the back, but I had an aisle seat which is prime territory to my way of thinking and great for seeing the studio-sized orchestra on stage, the Martin and Lewis comedy duo and my gal, Lucille Ball, a real MOVIE STAR!
The entire routine was scripted, which means they were reading from pages of paper, throwing to the floor each page as the lines were spoken. The three were supposed to stand in front of the three available microphones, which they did until the ad-libbing began. Absolute bedlam! Jerry was really beyond being "outlandish" that fate-deciding performance, roaming the stage, straightening the music sheets of the musicians. spewing gibberish that in later years paid him and his sidekick millions of dollars. Dean stood there with his mouth open in apparent aghast, hand to mouth a la Jack Benny, until his turn to perform, the beginning of my infatuation with his voice to this very day. Lucille Ball of the bright orange hair approximately the shade of Tangee, lost it completely at the unscripted antics of Jerry and Dean's song. So did we, the mesmerized audience....I was more like "stunned!" and in complete awe of what was unfolding before my slightly-myopic eyes.
Encore after encore finally satisfied the audience...these young daring-to-be-different kids just might have a chance in Hollywood. Time would tell.
Oh, yes, the trampling part of this story. Remember, my seat was on the aisle, center of the theater, and it was in this direction that Jerry Lewis, with vast energy still unspent, came lumbering up this aisle, long legs and long arms flailing in two-to-four different directions, drawing ever nearer to my seat where I was sitting, becoming with certainty the 95-pound prime target of an out-of-control-wanna-be-movie star.
The last time I was this all-shook-up was at the Atlantic Theater watching a Boris Karloff-Frankenstein movie as a nine-year-old with subsequent nightmares ensuing.
Jerry must have noticed my near-cringing but convulsing-with-laughter body as he came nearer to my seat for he smiled, patted my shoulder and, never missing a flail, continued on his way out the door, hearing in his ears what must have sounded better than anything his good pal, Dean, could have warbled...the laughter and applause of an audience that helped seal their future for many years to come.
For a movie-star-struck country gal from Atlantic, Iowa, my future was sealed also. I declared myself a Californian at that instant and decided that I would do my best to become more sophisticated if ever I should find myself in the company of celebrities and such again...yes, I am still working on it!
The printed word is more durable than a lightly-tossed-off remark over a Chinese Chicken Salad at lunch...so, if it is ok with you, if you have the time and forbearance, please come back often, tell your friends, and please, leave a comment or two when you have finished a chapter!
A HINT FOR THE NEW BLOGGER-READER: Sometimes, most of the time, the post you will read first (about Phebe, for instance) will contain references to people in the previous segment. Therefore, click back on the very first Blog..."In the Beginning" posted in November, and proceed from there. It's like playing "Dominoes", start with the first domino and add, one story at a time...going in several directions at the same time. Just stay with me, it will be fun!
Those Early Days in Southern California...ca 1948-1949
Looking back to then, one of those Early Days had all the ingredients of being a Magical Kind of Day...if you call "magical" nearly being trampled by those crazy legs of one young comedian, Jerry Lewis, newly arrived in Hollywood with his darkishly-handsome singing straight man, Dean Martin!
This comedy team, yet to make it big via Radio or the Movies although they were fast gaining favor with comedy club audiences in the Midwest territory, were called to Los Angeles to test the market, so to speak. Lucille Ball was already a well-known actress and comedienne and was hired to be their "foil" for their first appearance at a theater smack dab in the middle of "Tinseltown."
Tickets appeared, out of nowhere (in reality, I don't recall) so Del and I put gas in the 1938 Chevrolet coupe and off to Hollywood we went. There was only one Freeway then...the infamous Pasadena Freeway that included a bridge from which a number of people have jumped...and arrived in plenty of time to do a little sight-seeing and gawk at a few famous celebrities who were there for the same purpose of deciding the future of Martin and Lewis!
Not so much Del, but I pretty much separated myself early on from the true sophisticates arriving by waving at a couple of A-picture actors, gushing inane words when acknowledged by a young blond starlet on her way to a career we would eventually read about in a movie magazine. Once again, I was really out of my league! If Del were here right now, he could tell you their names...oh yes, Eleanor Powell and her then husband, Glenn Ford (the A people!).
Eleanor and Glenn were properly seated in the A-people section, down in front. Not knowing then that in order to get premium seats in the Hollywood-seating-arrangement one tipped the usher a whopping five dollars if you were a non-celeb, we were seated about five rows from the back, but I had an aisle seat which is prime territory to my way of thinking and great for seeing the studio-sized orchestra on stage, the Martin and Lewis comedy duo and my gal, Lucille Ball, a real MOVIE STAR!
The entire routine was scripted, which means they were reading from pages of paper, throwing to the floor each page as the lines were spoken. The three were supposed to stand in front of the three available microphones, which they did until the ad-libbing began. Absolute bedlam! Jerry was really beyond being "outlandish" that fate-deciding performance, roaming the stage, straightening the music sheets of the musicians. spewing gibberish that in later years paid him and his sidekick millions of dollars. Dean stood there with his mouth open in apparent aghast, hand to mouth a la Jack Benny, until his turn to perform, the beginning of my infatuation with his voice to this very day. Lucille Ball of the bright orange hair approximately the shade of Tangee, lost it completely at the unscripted antics of Jerry and Dean's song. So did we, the mesmerized audience....I was more like "stunned!" and in complete awe of what was unfolding before my slightly-myopic eyes.
Encore after encore finally satisfied the audience...these young daring-to-be-different kids just might have a chance in Hollywood. Time would tell.
Oh, yes, the trampling part of this story. Remember, my seat was on the aisle, center of the theater, and it was in this direction that Jerry Lewis, with vast energy still unspent, came lumbering up this aisle, long legs and long arms flailing in two-to-four different directions, drawing ever nearer to my seat where I was sitting, becoming with certainty the 95-pound prime target of an out-of-control-wanna-be-movie star.
The last time I was this all-shook-up was at the Atlantic Theater watching a Boris Karloff-Frankenstein movie as a nine-year-old with subsequent nightmares ensuing.
Jerry must have noticed my near-cringing but convulsing-with-laughter body as he came nearer to my seat for he smiled, patted my shoulder and, never missing a flail, continued on his way out the door, hearing in his ears what must have sounded better than anything his good pal, Dean, could have warbled...the laughter and applause of an audience that helped seal their future for many years to come.
For a movie-star-struck country gal from Atlantic, Iowa, my future was sealed also. I declared myself a Californian at that instant and decided that I would do my best to become more sophisticated if ever I should find myself in the company of celebrities and such again...yes, I am still working on it!
Friday, March 19, 2010
PHEBE....Country Gal, the First!
Riddle...What would you get if you (not literally you!) mixed the genes of a deeply-committed young man, an English Quaker activist with a prison record who later became an esteemed politician in New Jersey with the genes of an Irish country, rock-solid potato-growing farmer of a non-Catholic background, playfully not adverse to employing a bit of self-deprecating humor and a streak of "feyness" a mile wide with maybe (for purposes of adding color to this story only) a fondness for a "friendly pint" now and again, himself the progeny of a Scottish Clan hell-bent on surviving the life and times of the William the Conqueror era, along the Scotland-England border, with the mind-set of "kill or be killed!" (Personally, I think we have a candidate for Congress amongst us!)
(Purely for your historical information, this particular Clan was "small potatoes" compared to others of the ravaging, plundering and pillaging camps of Clansmen who were called "The Reivers" when they rode the countryside in full armor astride their handsome mounts dressed in likewise protective armor. Whether they wanted to escape the certainty of a beheading or a pre-arranged marriage (it is not the same, people!)it matters not, but wiser heads prevailed in the calm of daylight. This Clan, with not a Menses candidate amongst them, only basic survivor instincts, eventually smartened up and clambered aboard the first boat leaving for Ireland, settling in Ulster, County of Monaghan, in Northern Ireland, if only to lay to rest the irksome long-rumored fables of Scottish thriftiness (nobody is saying "cheap") resigned to "spend their first dime on a pint of the ale." Or corned beef and cabbage! Personally, my bet is on a fine Irish Linen frock or a dainty shoe sized 5.)
Stirring into this mix, add a dash of the German-woman's (or manly) sense of duty, honor, stubbornness, fair-play, familial pride and anything left over from the Depression Years.
The answer to "The Riddle"... someone who wanted to know more about ancestral roots, the "who and the why" of a personality that is definitely a mix of all of the above, except "Reiving Days" never were and never will be an issue with the Police Chief of the nearby lock-up facilities, no matter how handsome the uniform renders his official newspaper picture. (Also, a nice Virgin Margarita has been known to serve its purpose at family get-togethers and will be welcomed in the form of an 85th birthday liquid toast in April, in another attempt to shed a non-terminal case of "shyness.")
All of the above is to introduce to you a woman who has since 1997 been an obsession within my soul and a touchstone to thousands of cousins who share my maiden name or are like-wise descendants of John and Anne Kinton Borton: Phebe Marsh Cranston.
THE SEARCH FOR PHEBE...Country Gal I
"Finding Phebe Marsh Cranston" was going to be THE search of my lifetime, and that search would culminate where? I did not have a clue, and it was the cry of my heart to find her. (And to think it was with the aid of my computer, a "behemoth" I wanted no part of not that long ago, a machine that I was certain would only make my work as the secretary/treasurer of the Arcadia Friends Church Pre-School more complicated and even kept a second set of financial records just in case...yup, that's exactly what I did.) Hey, there are times I don't trust my washing machine and dryer even with the Sears Protection Plan!
Phebe, we knew from information scribbled on a thin scrap of paper that had materialized out of nowhere, was the wife of Great-granddad William Cranston, but that was it! No birth date or birth place, no parents' names, no siblings' name. Phebe was the victim of reverse paper trail...inaccurate records, records lost, even the spelling of her name was up for grabs. In fact, her name and those of two other sisters, were omitted (inadvertently) from two very definitive books on our family history, "The Borton's 300 Years in North America - 1679-1979" published independently by Betty Mann of Lansing, Michigan, a dedicated researcher/cousin. This two-volume history of the Borton Family and its descendants is now out of print and rests in a place of honor on my bookshelf: With a little bit of imagination, one can almost breathe life into the people whose names populate those tomes.
But, in finding Phebe, my Great-grandmother...I was alone on this one. Well, there was my tried-and-true trusty Best Buy protected Gateway computer at my beck and call from Day One, and I am beholden!
Knowing that the Cranston Family had roots in Grant County, Indiana and Guernsey County, Ohio, I placed a query on both of those sites through the USGenWeb research website. A year passed before a reply to my query was posted, and it contained a bonanza of information from Sheila Watson who just happened to have finished a headcount of all the souls resting in the cemeteries in Grant County. Sheila's post to me read: "I have found Phebe!" So she had, along with my Great-granddad. I cried. You will appreciate this little add-on: When I e-mailed Sheila that I wanted to send her some kind of appreciation gift for her hard work, and that her devotion to her hard work in finding Phebe brought me joy and tears, she said, "My dear, that is enough reward for me, your joy and your tears."
So, we know that Phebe, William, their 23-year old son, along with other members of the Borton/Marsh/Cranston families, are at rest in the Fletcher Chapel Cemetery near the entry way to the Fletcher Chapel Church near Hanfield-Marion, Indiana, on burial grounds donated by her brother, Benjamin Marsh.
In finding Phebe, William and their second-born son, we have, with the help of newly-discovered cousins traveling the same genealogical path, enlarged our family circle by thousands through roots traced back to the same John "The Immigrant" Borton and Anne Kinton Borton, his wife and traveling companion when they came to the United States in 1679. This set of Great-grandparents came from England as part of the earliest Quaker contingent seeking religious freedom in the company of William Penn, a significant figure in the settling of New Jersey and later, Pennsylvania.
And I need to clear the record. Yes, John was found guilty, sentenced and served time in the well-known Towers, having been tossed in along with the founder of the Quaker Movement, George Fox, when he was a young man of 26 years of age. The year would be 1660, the same year his and Anne's first child, Anne, was born. The sitting King of England and all the King's men weren't about to put up with these religious upstarts so small Meetings were held in homes in secret to avoid incarceration and death, always a possibililty.
John smartened up, too, sensing danger and headed for the shores of New Jersey in 1679 aboard the boat, The Griffin, along with the kids and all their worldly possessions, other Quaker families and William Penn following heavy negotiations between England and the new land across the Atlantic Ocean. Right off the boat, John and family established a home on land sold to them by the Indian Chief Himmitkon with the Deed being witnessed by six other Chiefs, including his son, Osoxowkond, each having his own "scratches" for signature. Going price for John's land in (West)Jersey at that time was 20 pounds and seven shillings. John helped form and served in the First Assembly of Legislature for the new state of New Jersey. For his service, as a gift from the still-prevailing English government, henceforth all female descendants of John "The Immigrant" Borton would be entitled to carry the designation "Dame." All descending males were entitled to a similar lifetime designation. To which my reiving Cranston cousins will probably respond - "Whatever!" And, those self-deprecating Irish cousins will say, "I'll drink to that!" To this bounty, add the German Polka-dancing kinfolk who will add their own pithy remarks: "Mein Gott im Himmel, what were those dumkoffs thinking!" (Subject to further conjecture and, I repeat... "Broadly speaking, there is nothing like a dame!" ....and welcome to our midst, Liz Taylor!)
I think it positively exciting to know that I share the Borton Grandparent lineage with one of the most influential Quakers of all time...John Woolman, The Traveling Quaker Minister. John and Anne were parents to eight boys and girls, all born in Aynho, Northhamptonshire, England. Elizabeth Borton (Woolman) and John Borton, Jr. are the two siblings from whom we descend.
Phebe's mother was Rachel Borton, wife of Jesse Marsh, once a strong Quaker member but lately turned Methodist. As a matter of record, Rachel was banned from the Quaker Church and actually shunned by her family when she married Jesse, and I can only pray that once grandchildren began to arrive at the Marsh household, old hurts healed and man-made church doctrines mellowed. The Borton Book doesn't tell me that. I do know that grandchildren carry a healing potion all their own.
In searching for Phebe, I have discovered within myself a deep appreciation for all those early settlers who braved the elements of time and weather to move to a new land, cultivate the raw fields, clear acreage on which to build sod and log cabin homes, to give life to and nourish those of whom I am a part and to whom my children and their children belong. We find that Phebe became a widow at the age of 39, left with four very young sons when her William died in 1852, the first to be buried in Fletcher Chapel ground. They had just arrived from Guernsey County, Ohio, and the future had to have looked bleak.
In those days, it mattered not if one be a Quaker or a Methodist or a lost soul making a spiritual connection with God, astride "Old Paint" moseying down a winding country road in Indiana, it was when chips were down that family members and friends reached out to one another in order to survive the pitfalls of worrisome daily living. As is Biblical, widows were nurtured and cared for; happily for Phebe, at the age of 50, she found contentment in marriage to David Hill who passed away after ten years of marriage. Henry Shanehulser came along to help Phebe pick up the pieces of another shattered dream, and it was his name she carried at the time of her death. It was said in the newspaper clipping of her funeral service: "None knew her but to love her." and that she died in great peace at the age of 67 years, 7 months and 24 days, August 18, 1880, a member of the Methodist Episcopal Church.
This is not a sad story...it is one of admiration. Of this woman whom we knew so little about so few years ago, we now know that she, like most of the pioneer women...sometimes "with child" who rode wagon trains, on horseback or bravely trudged on foot the vast expanse of the undeveloped, uncivilized territory... was a "survivor" in some of life's harshest moments. Phebe, who was once only a name on a flimsy piece of paper, is infinitely more than just Phebe. She's the force behind whom I am becoming, a part of the gene-network that will make sure I am a "survivor" when the chips are down and "smarten up a bit" when the need arises!
You are my kind of woman, Great-grandma Phebe. Sight unseen, I could not love you more!
(Purely for your historical information, this particular Clan was "small potatoes" compared to others of the ravaging, plundering and pillaging camps of Clansmen who were called "The Reivers" when they rode the countryside in full armor astride their handsome mounts dressed in likewise protective armor. Whether they wanted to escape the certainty of a beheading or a pre-arranged marriage (it is not the same, people!)it matters not, but wiser heads prevailed in the calm of daylight. This Clan, with not a Menses candidate amongst them, only basic survivor instincts, eventually smartened up and clambered aboard the first boat leaving for Ireland, settling in Ulster, County of Monaghan, in Northern Ireland, if only to lay to rest the irksome long-rumored fables of Scottish thriftiness (nobody is saying "cheap") resigned to "spend their first dime on a pint of the ale." Or corned beef and cabbage! Personally, my bet is on a fine Irish Linen frock or a dainty shoe sized 5.)
Stirring into this mix, add a dash of the German-woman's (or manly) sense of duty, honor, stubbornness, fair-play, familial pride and anything left over from the Depression Years.
The answer to "The Riddle"... someone who wanted to know more about ancestral roots, the "who and the why" of a personality that is definitely a mix of all of the above, except "Reiving Days" never were and never will be an issue with the Police Chief of the nearby lock-up facilities, no matter how handsome the uniform renders his official newspaper picture. (Also, a nice Virgin Margarita has been known to serve its purpose at family get-togethers and will be welcomed in the form of an 85th birthday liquid toast in April, in another attempt to shed a non-terminal case of "shyness.")
All of the above is to introduce to you a woman who has since 1997 been an obsession within my soul and a touchstone to thousands of cousins who share my maiden name or are like-wise descendants of John and Anne Kinton Borton: Phebe Marsh Cranston.
THE SEARCH FOR PHEBE...Country Gal I
"Finding Phebe Marsh Cranston" was going to be THE search of my lifetime, and that search would culminate where? I did not have a clue, and it was the cry of my heart to find her. (And to think it was with the aid of my computer, a "behemoth" I wanted no part of not that long ago, a machine that I was certain would only make my work as the secretary/treasurer of the Arcadia Friends Church Pre-School more complicated and even kept a second set of financial records just in case...yup, that's exactly what I did.) Hey, there are times I don't trust my washing machine and dryer even with the Sears Protection Plan!
Phebe, we knew from information scribbled on a thin scrap of paper that had materialized out of nowhere, was the wife of Great-granddad William Cranston, but that was it! No birth date or birth place, no parents' names, no siblings' name. Phebe was the victim of reverse paper trail...inaccurate records, records lost, even the spelling of her name was up for grabs. In fact, her name and those of two other sisters, were omitted (inadvertently) from two very definitive books on our family history, "The Borton's 300 Years in North America - 1679-1979" published independently by Betty Mann of Lansing, Michigan, a dedicated researcher/cousin. This two-volume history of the Borton Family and its descendants is now out of print and rests in a place of honor on my bookshelf: With a little bit of imagination, one can almost breathe life into the people whose names populate those tomes.
But, in finding Phebe, my Great-grandmother...I was alone on this one. Well, there was my tried-and-true trusty Best Buy protected Gateway computer at my beck and call from Day One, and I am beholden!
Knowing that the Cranston Family had roots in Grant County, Indiana and Guernsey County, Ohio, I placed a query on both of those sites through the USGenWeb research website. A year passed before a reply to my query was posted, and it contained a bonanza of information from Sheila Watson who just happened to have finished a headcount of all the souls resting in the cemeteries in Grant County. Sheila's post to me read: "I have found Phebe!" So she had, along with my Great-granddad. I cried. You will appreciate this little add-on: When I e-mailed Sheila that I wanted to send her some kind of appreciation gift for her hard work, and that her devotion to her hard work in finding Phebe brought me joy and tears, she said, "My dear, that is enough reward for me, your joy and your tears."
So, we know that Phebe, William, their 23-year old son, along with other members of the Borton/Marsh/Cranston families, are at rest in the Fletcher Chapel Cemetery near the entry way to the Fletcher Chapel Church near Hanfield-Marion, Indiana, on burial grounds donated by her brother, Benjamin Marsh.
In finding Phebe, William and their second-born son, we have, with the help of newly-discovered cousins traveling the same genealogical path, enlarged our family circle by thousands through roots traced back to the same John "The Immigrant" Borton and Anne Kinton Borton, his wife and traveling companion when they came to the United States in 1679. This set of Great-grandparents came from England as part of the earliest Quaker contingent seeking religious freedom in the company of William Penn, a significant figure in the settling of New Jersey and later, Pennsylvania.
And I need to clear the record. Yes, John was found guilty, sentenced and served time in the well-known Towers, having been tossed in along with the founder of the Quaker Movement, George Fox, when he was a young man of 26 years of age. The year would be 1660, the same year his and Anne's first child, Anne, was born. The sitting King of England and all the King's men weren't about to put up with these religious upstarts so small Meetings were held in homes in secret to avoid incarceration and death, always a possibililty.
John smartened up, too, sensing danger and headed for the shores of New Jersey in 1679 aboard the boat, The Griffin, along with the kids and all their worldly possessions, other Quaker families and William Penn following heavy negotiations between England and the new land across the Atlantic Ocean. Right off the boat, John and family established a home on land sold to them by the Indian Chief Himmitkon with the Deed being witnessed by six other Chiefs, including his son, Osoxowkond, each having his own "scratches" for signature. Going price for John's land in (West)Jersey at that time was 20 pounds and seven shillings. John helped form and served in the First Assembly of Legislature for the new state of New Jersey. For his service, as a gift from the still-prevailing English government, henceforth all female descendants of John "The Immigrant" Borton would be entitled to carry the designation "Dame." All descending males were entitled to a similar lifetime designation. To which my reiving Cranston cousins will probably respond - "Whatever!" And, those self-deprecating Irish cousins will say, "I'll drink to that!" To this bounty, add the German Polka-dancing kinfolk who will add their own pithy remarks: "Mein Gott im Himmel, what were those dumkoffs thinking!" (Subject to further conjecture and, I repeat... "Broadly speaking, there is nothing like a dame!" ....and welcome to our midst, Liz Taylor!)
I think it positively exciting to know that I share the Borton Grandparent lineage with one of the most influential Quakers of all time...John Woolman, The Traveling Quaker Minister. John and Anne were parents to eight boys and girls, all born in Aynho, Northhamptonshire, England. Elizabeth Borton (Woolman) and John Borton, Jr. are the two siblings from whom we descend.
Phebe's mother was Rachel Borton, wife of Jesse Marsh, once a strong Quaker member but lately turned Methodist. As a matter of record, Rachel was banned from the Quaker Church and actually shunned by her family when she married Jesse, and I can only pray that once grandchildren began to arrive at the Marsh household, old hurts healed and man-made church doctrines mellowed. The Borton Book doesn't tell me that. I do know that grandchildren carry a healing potion all their own.
In searching for Phebe, I have discovered within myself a deep appreciation for all those early settlers who braved the elements of time and weather to move to a new land, cultivate the raw fields, clear acreage on which to build sod and log cabin homes, to give life to and nourish those of whom I am a part and to whom my children and their children belong. We find that Phebe became a widow at the age of 39, left with four very young sons when her William died in 1852, the first to be buried in Fletcher Chapel ground. They had just arrived from Guernsey County, Ohio, and the future had to have looked bleak.
In those days, it mattered not if one be a Quaker or a Methodist or a lost soul making a spiritual connection with God, astride "Old Paint" moseying down a winding country road in Indiana, it was when chips were down that family members and friends reached out to one another in order to survive the pitfalls of worrisome daily living. As is Biblical, widows were nurtured and cared for; happily for Phebe, at the age of 50, she found contentment in marriage to David Hill who passed away after ten years of marriage. Henry Shanehulser came along to help Phebe pick up the pieces of another shattered dream, and it was his name she carried at the time of her death. It was said in the newspaper clipping of her funeral service: "None knew her but to love her." and that she died in great peace at the age of 67 years, 7 months and 24 days, August 18, 1880, a member of the Methodist Episcopal Church.
This is not a sad story...it is one of admiration. Of this woman whom we knew so little about so few years ago, we now know that she, like most of the pioneer women...sometimes "with child" who rode wagon trains, on horseback or bravely trudged on foot the vast expanse of the undeveloped, uncivilized territory... was a "survivor" in some of life's harshest moments. Phebe, who was once only a name on a flimsy piece of paper, is infinitely more than just Phebe. She's the force behind whom I am becoming, a part of the gene-network that will make sure I am a "survivor" when the chips are down and "smarten up a bit" when the need arises!
You are my kind of woman, Great-grandma Phebe. Sight unseen, I could not love you more!
Thursday, March 18, 2010
GLEANINGS... PART II
When John and Anne Kinton Borton set foot on American soil in the mid 1600's, along with their Quaker friend, William Penn, and settled the state of New Jersey, I wonder if Anne and the kids thought to themselves: "Well, John, are you happy now?"
Dollars to donuts, I am thinking my Grandmother Anne, 331 years ago, might have felt the same way I did in 1948 when I boarded the train in Omaha and "rode the rails" to Union Station in Los Angeles...a little bewildered, ready to face head-on a new life among, in her case...Native Americans, and in mine....Lonnie McAllister, Jane Powell, Shirley Temple, Doris Day, John Wayne (from Winterset, Iowa) and if I was lucky, employment at 20th Century Fox or Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer and a chance to schedule the daily comings-and-goings of these bedazzling movie stars instead of how I had earned my keep at Metropolitan Life Insurance Company in Atlantic...recording ownership of bales of hay, bushels of corn, nursing pigs and their mommies and daddies and other stuff that makes farming an important part of life in Cass County, sending such reports to the main office in New York City, learning to square dance one balmy evening at a farm/homestead, one of thousands owned by Met Life following the Great Depression. (Sorry....take a breath!) Under the expert tutelage of Jesse Iftner, the affable field representative for whom I personally worked, the entire office staff, in fine fettle, worked off the effects of a hearty barbecue dinner consumed a bit earlier. I was happy I had learned a little bit of country bootscooting from one Bob Pigsley, probably the best dancer in Cass County if not the state of Iowa! Just ask any girl who was lucky enough to be twirled around the dance floor in the America Legion Building throughout the four seasons during the late 1930's, in the arms of Bob Pigsley, 15 years of age or so, who is the "point" of this story.
(I promise...you are going to read more of John and Anne and their kin in another Blog episode. Along with the story of my search for Great Grandmother Phebe Marsh Cranston, which is how I found John and Anne.)
Now, about Bob...he and his sister, Loretta, had always been a part of my family's life since my brother, Kenny, was early on "taken" with Loretta, a beautiful blond, effervescent 24/7. Most notably, my bonding with Loretta was based on her showing me how to apply Tangee, the most popular lipstick sold at the make-up counter at the local 5 & 10 Woolworth's store. (I was awashed in my brothers' girl friends who wanted to make sure I knew how to apply Tangee!) I think Tangee came in just one color...Horrible Orange...but I will have to get back to you on the correctness of that statement. At the tender age of 10 or so, that was a really big deal, and I could hardly wait for the day when Mom would buy a size 30 bra from the Sears Catalogue for this baby of the family!
Dances, in those days, were held as often as the American Legion building was available for renting and how urgent the need for money to pay the mortgage and janitorial services. The father of one of my best friends (actually Jessie was a better friend of Tootie and Tiny's but when Jessie visited, I quickly crossed the street to the Maher house, not wanting to miss whatever shenanigans those three, plus Frances Desmond, would conspire to at any given time) was a very popular and talented Orchestra Leader, Lee Berry by name, and his musical group would play every style of music from a Polka to an impromptu Square Dance set, from a Waltz to the Charleston and the Fox Trot until midnight when "Good Night, Sweetheart" signaled it was time to pack up the instruments. 17-year-old Jessie played the Legion's battered upright piano, a pro at such an early age.
In those days, refreshments were served during these dances (seasonally-decorated cookies and lemonade) and spectators would sit, not at tables, but in straight chairs circling the dance floor to watch their "crazy kids," exchange tasty recipes and equally-tasty gossip, occasionally clapping for the dancers...in particular, Bob! I, for the most part, sat with Mom and Dad, Harry and Edna Pigsley, Harry and Grace Steck, Irene and John Anderson, and Mary and Shanty Maher and waited, barely breathing and/or heavily breathing, for my turn around the ballroom-size, polished floor with Bob. The seasonally-decorated cookies and lemonade kept me occupied while I awaited my turn, every 10th dance or so (no dance card, no number system), but, you just have to agree, wasn't it romantic? :) I have the distinct feeling that every single one of those toothsome girls more of Bob's age wondered what was he thinking dancing with that little squirt? Of course, I was thinking why don't you dance with someone your own age or from your own part of town or something evil like that! You are in Buck Town Territory tonight!
My friend with the amazing dancing feet went on to have a good life, spending his remaining days in Omaha, getting plenty of newspaper acclaim as the most natural honest-to-goodness-look-alike Santa Claus in all of Omaha's history. I want to believe, as he handed out seasonally-decorated cookies, he "tripped the light fantastic with a fancy Irish Jig" for all the good little girls and boys to shout about before he took final leave and, "shuffled off to Buffalo" in his own inimitable way.
Just like in the movies!
Dollars to donuts, I am thinking my Grandmother Anne, 331 years ago, might have felt the same way I did in 1948 when I boarded the train in Omaha and "rode the rails" to Union Station in Los Angeles...a little bewildered, ready to face head-on a new life among, in her case...Native Americans, and in mine....Lonnie McAllister, Jane Powell, Shirley Temple, Doris Day, John Wayne (from Winterset, Iowa) and if I was lucky, employment at 20th Century Fox or Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer and a chance to schedule the daily comings-and-goings of these bedazzling movie stars instead of how I had earned my keep at Metropolitan Life Insurance Company in Atlantic...recording ownership of bales of hay, bushels of corn, nursing pigs and their mommies and daddies and other stuff that makes farming an important part of life in Cass County, sending such reports to the main office in New York City, learning to square dance one balmy evening at a farm/homestead, one of thousands owned by Met Life following the Great Depression. (Sorry....take a breath!) Under the expert tutelage of Jesse Iftner, the affable field representative for whom I personally worked, the entire office staff, in fine fettle, worked off the effects of a hearty barbecue dinner consumed a bit earlier. I was happy I had learned a little bit of country bootscooting from one Bob Pigsley, probably the best dancer in Cass County if not the state of Iowa! Just ask any girl who was lucky enough to be twirled around the dance floor in the America Legion Building throughout the four seasons during the late 1930's, in the arms of Bob Pigsley, 15 years of age or so, who is the "point" of this story.
(I promise...you are going to read more of John and Anne and their kin in another Blog episode. Along with the story of my search for Great Grandmother Phebe Marsh Cranston, which is how I found John and Anne.)
Now, about Bob...he and his sister, Loretta, had always been a part of my family's life since my brother, Kenny, was early on "taken" with Loretta, a beautiful blond, effervescent 24/7. Most notably, my bonding with Loretta was based on her showing me how to apply Tangee, the most popular lipstick sold at the make-up counter at the local 5 & 10 Woolworth's store. (I was awashed in my brothers' girl friends who wanted to make sure I knew how to apply Tangee!) I think Tangee came in just one color...Horrible Orange...but I will have to get back to you on the correctness of that statement. At the tender age of 10 or so, that was a really big deal, and I could hardly wait for the day when Mom would buy a size 30 bra from the Sears Catalogue for this baby of the family!
Dances, in those days, were held as often as the American Legion building was available for renting and how urgent the need for money to pay the mortgage and janitorial services. The father of one of my best friends (actually Jessie was a better friend of Tootie and Tiny's but when Jessie visited, I quickly crossed the street to the Maher house, not wanting to miss whatever shenanigans those three, plus Frances Desmond, would conspire to at any given time) was a very popular and talented Orchestra Leader, Lee Berry by name, and his musical group would play every style of music from a Polka to an impromptu Square Dance set, from a Waltz to the Charleston and the Fox Trot until midnight when "Good Night, Sweetheart" signaled it was time to pack up the instruments. 17-year-old Jessie played the Legion's battered upright piano, a pro at such an early age.
In those days, refreshments were served during these dances (seasonally-decorated cookies and lemonade) and spectators would sit, not at tables, but in straight chairs circling the dance floor to watch their "crazy kids," exchange tasty recipes and equally-tasty gossip, occasionally clapping for the dancers...in particular, Bob! I, for the most part, sat with Mom and Dad, Harry and Edna Pigsley, Harry and Grace Steck, Irene and John Anderson, and Mary and Shanty Maher and waited, barely breathing and/or heavily breathing, for my turn around the ballroom-size, polished floor with Bob. The seasonally-decorated cookies and lemonade kept me occupied while I awaited my turn, every 10th dance or so (no dance card, no number system), but, you just have to agree, wasn't it romantic? :) I have the distinct feeling that every single one of those toothsome girls more of Bob's age wondered what was he thinking dancing with that little squirt? Of course, I was thinking why don't you dance with someone your own age or from your own part of town or something evil like that! You are in Buck Town Territory tonight!
My friend with the amazing dancing feet went on to have a good life, spending his remaining days in Omaha, getting plenty of newspaper acclaim as the most natural honest-to-goodness-look-alike Santa Claus in all of Omaha's history. I want to believe, as he handed out seasonally-decorated cookies, he "tripped the light fantastic with a fancy Irish Jig" for all the good little girls and boys to shout about before he took final leave and, "shuffled off to Buffalo" in his own inimitable way.
Just like in the movies!
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
GLEANINGS.....!
Before I got "sidetracked" in January and February because of an upcoming State of California DMV "Driver's Written Test" that I had to pass with less than four wrong answers in order to get a five-years' license, I promised you a little-known bit of information about Eddie Rickenbacker (1890-1973) that can't be found in any "official biography" of this World War II hero...this "ploy" is called a "teaser" in the newspaper world and among us female gender type of people.
But, before I do that, let me tell you about my morning at the Pasadena's DMV office on a Wednesday the first week of March. Skipping details of what it takes to get a Golden Senior "dame" presentable for public consumption, let's move ahead to where you find me standing in line at 7:00 a.m., with about 25 people in line ahead of me, and it's kinda cold for sunny California, to boot.
Every nationality and language was represented by those semi-defrosted bodies, some with coffee (I guess) in hand and one fella was chomping away on the most delicious smelling burrito I have ever been in the vicinity of! The Nora Roberts romance book I had brought along seemed so out-of-place (even I was embarrassed at the cover) that I quickly stuffed it back into my laden-down shoulder bag and tried to feign interest in the road construction work that was taking place on Rosemead Boulevard, like I was an off-duty Cal-Trans supervisor or something important like that. (Since my jacket did not have pockets, trying to find an attractive way to showcase my hands, while in a standing position, without looking like a nervous bank robber or test-taker, is simply too exhausting at my age so I, in the most demure way possible, took care of a couple of cuticles to make the wait worthwhile. It's called "nibble and spit".) And, guess what, I caught the eye of one of the nicest young men in the line...ever! (he was in my line of spit but, lucky for him, I glanced up for a brief instant.) About 26, of Vietnam ancestry, and he wanted to know the time of day...like it was then 8 a.m. (If that wasn't a pick-up line, I don't know what else would work as well with me....kids, I'm joshing here!)
Exchanging pleasantries took about five minutes, and I felt I knew him well enough to kind of "joke around a bit" and said..."What we really need now is some "Pre-Test Entertainment," you know, like they do just before the Rose Parade starts down Colorado Boulevard on New Year's Day." We continued our conversation...he went to the same school my three kids did, knew some of the same teachers and we were rolling right along "killing time" so to speak. Just about that time, two "in-liners" ran up to us and said..."Someone call 9-1-1, man down!"
Everyone swung into action, the fire truck came, the rescue truck came, the ambulance came, people got out of line,(literally) the male was transported to the hospital...David and I simply looked at each other and didn't say another word; thank goodness, the line started to move. But, we knew what each other was thinking. Some one's misfortune is not a laughing matter. The "man down" is doing just fine we later learned. One thing for sure, that incident took my mind off taking the Eye Examination and the Written Test which I did pass with 100%, and I am good for another five years! As they said when gold was discovered in this state of California..."Eureka!" I was out of the DMV office within an hour but no one will believe me on that one, either!
Now, about Eddie...Eddie wasn't born rich or famous and certainly not a hero when he first saw the light of day in 1890 in Columbus, Ohio. He did live a fascinating life, however, which, at one time, led him to Atlantic where he sold a Ford car or two. He loved car-racing from an early age, and more about those days can be found by typing his name under Search...great reading! Like the "five little Indians" at 210 Birch, he learned to roll his own cigarettes at the age of five and headed up a group of mischievous youngsters known at "The Horsehead Gang" of Columbus. We five rolled cigarettes for my Dad mostly, except for the time we tried to smoke cornsilk and Mom just happened to catch us. That woman could see whatever mischief we were just in the process of conjuring. Now, today, I can do the same, even from my house to theirs, and serves to keep my three kids on their tippy toes, you bet! (It's a "fey" thing...)
Anyway, Aunt Molly (Mom's sister) and Uncle Russ owned a family cafe where good food and good conversation were expected and served. Eddie would not be considered a "drifter" in those days, just a young man seeking a destiny... whatever it was he wanted to be when he grew up. It is on extremely reliable information, of course, that I know Aunt Molly and Uncle Russ decided they would "go the extra mile in making sure young Eddie had plenty of food, a good bed, and surrogate "parents" while he was in Atlantic." Whether or not Eddie kept in touch after Molly and Russ moved to Bellflower, California, and opened up another family-style restaurant, I know not, but I do know that even "heroes-in-progress" need a touch of tender, loving care just like you and I do. I am also convinced that Eddie thought more than once about his life and those people who were so important to him in reaching his destiny while waiting for his rescue (after three weeks floating around)from the vast Pacific Ocean so many years ago.
The highs-and-lows of Eddie's complete history is awesome...take a minute to check it out.
But, before I do that, let me tell you about my morning at the Pasadena's DMV office on a Wednesday the first week of March. Skipping details of what it takes to get a Golden Senior "dame" presentable for public consumption, let's move ahead to where you find me standing in line at 7:00 a.m., with about 25 people in line ahead of me, and it's kinda cold for sunny California, to boot.
Every nationality and language was represented by those semi-defrosted bodies, some with coffee (I guess) in hand and one fella was chomping away on the most delicious smelling burrito I have ever been in the vicinity of! The Nora Roberts romance book I had brought along seemed so out-of-place (even I was embarrassed at the cover) that I quickly stuffed it back into my laden-down shoulder bag and tried to feign interest in the road construction work that was taking place on Rosemead Boulevard, like I was an off-duty Cal-Trans supervisor or something important like that. (Since my jacket did not have pockets, trying to find an attractive way to showcase my hands, while in a standing position, without looking like a nervous bank robber or test-taker, is simply too exhausting at my age so I, in the most demure way possible, took care of a couple of cuticles to make the wait worthwhile. It's called "nibble and spit".) And, guess what, I caught the eye of one of the nicest young men in the line...ever! (he was in my line of spit but, lucky for him, I glanced up for a brief instant.) About 26, of Vietnam ancestry, and he wanted to know the time of day...like it was then 8 a.m. (If that wasn't a pick-up line, I don't know what else would work as well with me....kids, I'm joshing here!)
Exchanging pleasantries took about five minutes, and I felt I knew him well enough to kind of "joke around a bit" and said..."What we really need now is some "Pre-Test Entertainment," you know, like they do just before the Rose Parade starts down Colorado Boulevard on New Year's Day." We continued our conversation...he went to the same school my three kids did, knew some of the same teachers and we were rolling right along "killing time" so to speak. Just about that time, two "in-liners" ran up to us and said..."Someone call 9-1-1, man down!"
Everyone swung into action, the fire truck came, the rescue truck came, the ambulance came, people got out of line,(literally) the male was transported to the hospital...David and I simply looked at each other and didn't say another word; thank goodness, the line started to move. But, we knew what each other was thinking. Some one's misfortune is not a laughing matter. The "man down" is doing just fine we later learned. One thing for sure, that incident took my mind off taking the Eye Examination and the Written Test which I did pass with 100%, and I am good for another five years! As they said when gold was discovered in this state of California..."Eureka!" I was out of the DMV office within an hour but no one will believe me on that one, either!
Now, about Eddie...Eddie wasn't born rich or famous and certainly not a hero when he first saw the light of day in 1890 in Columbus, Ohio. He did live a fascinating life, however, which, at one time, led him to Atlantic where he sold a Ford car or two. He loved car-racing from an early age, and more about those days can be found by typing his name under Search...great reading! Like the "five little Indians" at 210 Birch, he learned to roll his own cigarettes at the age of five and headed up a group of mischievous youngsters known at "The Horsehead Gang" of Columbus. We five rolled cigarettes for my Dad mostly, except for the time we tried to smoke cornsilk and Mom just happened to catch us. That woman could see whatever mischief we were just in the process of conjuring. Now, today, I can do the same, even from my house to theirs, and serves to keep my three kids on their tippy toes, you bet! (It's a "fey" thing...)
Anyway, Aunt Molly (Mom's sister) and Uncle Russ owned a family cafe where good food and good conversation were expected and served. Eddie would not be considered a "drifter" in those days, just a young man seeking a destiny... whatever it was he wanted to be when he grew up. It is on extremely reliable information, of course, that I know Aunt Molly and Uncle Russ decided they would "go the extra mile in making sure young Eddie had plenty of food, a good bed, and surrogate "parents" while he was in Atlantic." Whether or not Eddie kept in touch after Molly and Russ moved to Bellflower, California, and opened up another family-style restaurant, I know not, but I do know that even "heroes-in-progress" need a touch of tender, loving care just like you and I do. I am also convinced that Eddie thought more than once about his life and those people who were so important to him in reaching his destiny while waiting for his rescue (after three weeks floating around)from the vast Pacific Ocean so many years ago.
The highs-and-lows of Eddie's complete history is awesome...take a minute to check it out.
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