By Blue Turtle
One of the perks of living out in the country is that you are able to view the stars in the sky with greater detail. Not that I am into astronomy or anything like that, it’s just an observation.
Back in 1992 a friend and I were sitting on my front porch having a cigarette, when she brought to my attention one particular star that was shining very brightly and changing colors, and she asked me if it was the North star. I replied that it wasn’t and pointed out the North star to her, which was further to the right about twice the distance from the big dipper. But once our attention was drawn to this particular star, we continued to watch its awesome display. In fact I wheeled my wife out so that she could view it. A little later as we watched, the star burst into a great brilliance, and then disappeared completely. We had witnessed the death of a star.
Now my wife was very superstitious and said right away that it was a bad omen, but I, being more analytical as any graduate Engineer should be, could only think upon the incident as a unique opportunity to witness an event from the past. Just think about how many light years that star had to be from Earth, perhaps thousands, and what we had just witnessed happened all that long ago.
Oh I know, stars are born and stars die every day, just like people. If I hadn’t been looking at it at that moment, it would have just been a flash in the sky that I would have dismissed as a shooting star or something. But I did see it and being in my sixties at the time, it has remained with me.
Now as I approach the ridge of that final mountain in this life, I am reminded of that star by the reoccurring flashbacks that I have of my youth and the wonderful adventures that have filled this lifetime. And I can’t help but to believe that perhaps our wonderful Creator is saving the greatest surprise in this life until the very last, and perhaps, just perhaps these wonderful memories are being replayed so that I might take them with me. For like that star, they did exist and in a way they too have died. So I would like to take this opportunity to write out some of those memories, perhaps they will awaken those forgotten days of the past in some of the older readers.
The Good humor man
Sitting outside on the porch this summer I often heard that monotonous tune of the good humor man, as he drove up and down the street peddling his ice cream products to the children. And my mind goes back to those early days in childhood and our good humor man.
Oh this man didn’t sell ice cream from a truck and all that, but we children would listen for those bells on his horse as the ice man came driving his white covered wagon up the lane. He was Tony the ice man, sounds a little like a gangster character, but that was his name.
Now Tony was come character alright, he was big and the first man that I had ever seen with a thick matte of hair growing from his shoulders. I remember this well because I asked my Mother if he was part animal at the time, which she of course assured me that he wasn’t and went on to explain that some people were different in that way.
Anyway Tony wore a leather apron with huge leather pad on one shoulder and he would stop off at the houses and deliver ice. We children would watch in awe as he would take his ice tongs and in one mighty heave shoulder that big block of ice on that shoulder and take it to the house to fill the icebox. In the meantime we children would stand about the wagon waiting for him to come out again, each of wearing a hopeful smile, for we were always told to never ask for a gift. But I guess those smiles worked, for inevitably Tony would come out and present each of us a large piece of ice. Gosh how I envied the girls their dresses at that time, for they would hold their piece of ice in the hem of it while they licked it, while we boys tried to brave it out, switching the ice from one frozen hand to the other and even holding the ice in our teeth sometimes just to rub some warmth back into our hands. But that was our good humor man back then, no ice cream, but then all it cost was a smile. But like that star, those days have died. A smile buys you nothing these days except maybe a suspicious look.
The old Mill
Back as a child my family lived on Phalanx Road about eight or ten miles from Phalanx mill. And one of the great joys of autumn was to accompany my Dad as he delivered corn to that mill to be ground. I think the bartering price at that time was one bushel in six, anyway I would help Dad load six bushels of shelled corn into the wagon and we’d deliver it to the mill. Now six bushels of shelled corn doesn’t sound like much these days, but those six bushels back then represented many hour for many sore hands, for husking and shelling corn was usually turned into a social affair for the neighborhood. We children always looked forward to it despite how hard it was on our fingers, for there was always story telling by our Aunts, Uncles and Grandparents. Now when I refer to them as Aunt, Uncles and Grandparents it doesn’t necessarily mean they were really related, it’s just that back then older people were called Aunt and Uncle and all Grey heads Grandparents.
But then back to the mill. After we had delivered the corn I would stay outside while it was being ground, I wasn’t allowed in, but then I preferred to lay on my belly in the lush grass and watch that big waterwheel spin. When they engaged the mill it gave a deep THU-THUMP that shook the ground and by closing my eyes I could feel it vibrate through me like our Mother’s heartbeat. It was so soothing that most of the times I would fall asleep listening to it.
But soon our corn was ground and for those six bushels and by the way the bushel baskets my Dad had made, we received two linen sacks of corn meal and a couple of extra linen sacks to boot. Now this doesn’t sound like much now, but back then that corn was our food staple, along with other products from the garden and hunts. But more than that, it was our bartering tool as well as our gifts. Those linen sacks were sewn by my Mom into shirts and dresses as well as curtains and tablecloths. I can still hear that old treadle singer sewing machine in my thoughts to this day.
As to bartering, I remember many times taking small bags of meal to different neighbors in exchange for eggs or side meat and such, it was also used for gifting those older ones who could not garden.
In these days when we can see huge tractors pulling harvesters that process hundreds of bushels of corn at a single pass, those mere six bushels sound pretty insignificant but back then it was a crop.
Now when most people buy all they need from stores, such a life as I talk about may seem too arduous but it had its perks, families were closer then and each member contributed to the whole. It was a thing that good memories are made from, and just think back; do you have memories about going to a store?
But then those days too have, like that star, died, only to be lived again in memory.
The Car Ride
Today almost everybody speeds along paved roads, thinking nothing about driving fifteen to twenty miles to a store. This is a far cry from my early memories of that wonderful adventure called a car ride. So bear with me as I tell it.
Think of an early Saturday morning rushing about so as to beat the rising sun. Dad was standing next to the old model T ford fussing as Mom loaded it down with enough food and gewgaws to last a month. I think that something must have been said to upset Mom that morning, for she usually sat in the car and fiddled with throttle and such while Dad cranked up the car. But on this morning she decided to do the cranking. The crank must have kicked back or something because the next thing we knew there was Mom sitting in a mud puddle in her long light colored dress, her hands on her hips, pouting. I can still see it as plain as if it were only yesterday, how Dad struggled to keep from laughing and then Mom and all of us laughing so hard that our bellies hurt.
Ah what a beautiful thing to see again, my Mother as a young woman with her long black hair hanging loose in that long dress. Especially now that I have grandchildren about the age she must have been then. It is a far better picture of her than those photos of her in later life with permanents and such. How lucky I was to have such meaningful events in life as to evoke such memories.
I remember Dad waiting impatiently for her to change clothes so we could get on our way, as I have said, he was a drummer and I guess he had what they call good rhythm, for he was beating a tune on that old car with his hands, hitting different parts to make different sounds and finally ending up hitting the top of the head of my sister and I while making sounds with his mouth. Finally Mom came out and bundled my sister and I in an old quilt in the old rumble seat of the car. It was in the fall and it had rained the night before and although it wasn’t all that cold, she was never one to take chances.
Now as I have said we lived at that time on Phalanx road, calling it a road at that time is probably stretching the point for it was only graveled in spots and in some places what they call corduroyed, where you have wood slabs laid down to drive on, this was especially true as we approached the old covered bridge that went across the Mahoning river. These roads would actually rattle your teeth, even as slow as we were driving at the time. Now I wouldn’t say that the driving was slow, but my sister and I would have a contest reaching out and plucking leaves from the overhanging trees seeing who could collect the most different colored ones, my Sister, by the way, usually won for she was two years older and a little bigger than me. In my mind I see Dad working on a flat tire struggling to remove the tube and patch it and with the tire pump huffing and puffing to inflate it again. I think I remember this because my sister and I learned a few of those forbidden words at that time, not that Dad cussed a lot around us kids, but he sure cussed out that tire that day, after all we hadn’t even come to the main road of 534 yet.
Now 534 was called a main road at that time because it was mostly paved or heavily graveled in that section and we made good time until we neared West Farmington nearly ten or fifteen miles away, then it turned into a plain graveled road with all the mud holes in the world. I remember the old car getting stuck in one of them and Dad going off to cut a long pole to pry it up and he and Mom sitting there on that pole while us kids were sent scurrying about trying to find rocks to fill that bottomless pit. I remember Mom behind the wheel driving while Dad and us kids pushed, well Dad did the pushing us kids were just moral support at the time. I remember this because we were covered in mud afterwards and Dad laughed and said we would have to stop at the nearest creek and take a bath. This is exactly what we did, for by this time it was approaching noon and Mom used it as an excuse to have a picnic. Well after that we got on route 88 and made good time until we got to the lane leading up to my Grandparents place, then it was slipping and sliding for about three miles, but finally we arrived.
You know I have heard people talk about Indian telegraph in my life, and you know what I really believe in it, for there was Grandpa and Grandma waiting for us as we arrived with supper on the stove and all. And all this without telephone or anything and I am sure that no prior arrangements were made because even Dad didn’t know when he would be off for a weekend at that time. But you know just like magic there would arrive one of my Aunt and Uncles and their kids and a little later another and soon most of the family was gathered.
Ah what a memory the big meal, playing with cousins and finally bedding down in the hay loft at the end of the day and then repeating the same adventure of a ride the next day on the way home.
Yes my friends, this are just a few reflective memories of days gone by that I wished to share with you. This is what I think is the most beautiful thing about those days gone by, if nothing else they left indelible memories. Just writing about them has unlocked others that I would like to share with all later. But then perhaps you don’t really want to hear about them. If you do let me know and I’ll keep writing. Perhaps then those memories will continue on and not be like that star that died.
May Peace, love and harmony ever be yours.
Blue Turtle
