Over The Hill Twice

Christmas Memories to Treasure

It's going to be Christmas in a few days. The anticipation was great even when I was a small child. I remember.....

Dad took an hour to go to Grandfather Altenburg's farm, cut down a tree and bring it home. He dragged it into the parlor...where he put wooden crossboards on the base to set it up. Then it was back to work for him.

After dinner, Dad put some oil and popcorn kernels in a large, heavy frying pan, which he pushed back and forth across the hot burners of the kitchen cookstove. In a few minutes, the heat started the kernels popping and Dad would holler, “Somebody get me a lid.”

Mom quickly handed him one and he proceeded to agitate the kernels of corn...back and forth...until the popping stopped. After two or three pans of corn were popped, we would thread our needles with long strings and proceed to create the strings of popcorn to adorn our tree.

While we were busy creating popcorn strings, Dad would put the lights on the tree. When he finished, he took the threaded strings of popcorn and draped them around the tree. Then we found sturdy branches that would hold the ornaments. Finally, we carefully placed icicles...one by one...on each twig to complete an awesome Christmas Tree.

On Christmas Eve, Mom would put up a string behind the stove in the living room. My brother and I hung two of Mom's stockings there thinking that “large stockings” would yield many gifts.”

Leaving a plate of cookies by the stove, we went to bed believing wondrous things would occur during the night.

On Christmas morning, our first stop would be the stockings hung behind the heating stove...nothing stuck out of the tops, but they had a bulge in the toe. It yeilded a tangerine or an orange...most rare in a Pennsylvania winter...a handful of English walnuts, and maybe a dime or a nickel. Wonderful.

After breakfast, we gathered around the Christmas tree in the parlor to see what Santa had brought...yes, we believed. We opened a package or two with new clothes and one with a toy. One year I remember finding my rag doll, Punkin, wrapped in a blanket.

Eighty years plus later.....

Christmases have come and gone in many places...Townville...Guys Mills ...Meadville...Pittsburgh...in Pennsylvania...Bad Kissingen, Germany ...Kansas ...Texas...California...the moving stopped here.

Bountiful holidays have been enjoyed by our family...Dad, Mom, and two boys. We have enjoyed great military dinners in several mess halls and dinners with friends and at home...but Mom never roasted a whole turkey.

I baked dozens of cookies to give away. We enjoyed holiday festivities with friends and family...for many years.

Now.....

The holiday has gone full circle. One son and I have everything we “need.” We enjoy the community festivities. For the first time, I experienced “The Messiah” in total ...when I was in college I sang an excerpt in a holiday presentation. What a nice memory. The number of friends available has diminished, but those here are treasured.

Gifts for family members are sent via food orders and checks. We appreciate and enjoy the largesse that comes our way. Thank you to one and all who remember I am still here.

Sometimes a “Merry Christmas” is the best gift I can give...so to one and all ...MERRY CHRISTMAS and A HAPPY NEW YEAR.

 

Giving thanks -- again

If you look back to my Thanksgiving story of November 17, 2007, you will share all the nostalgia of my childhood holiday. It was another lifetime. There have been many hills and valleys traversed since then.

Today this longtime retired teacher muses on thankfulness.....and it seems somewhat bleak.

Like hundreds of other lucky Fairfieldites, I am thankful for the basics of life.....a place to lay my head at night, clothes to cover by body, and food on the table...or on a plate that I can balance on my lap. I am no longer in charge of the kitchen.

I know how fortunate I am that my son is here to lend a hand: though verbal battles oft ensue over the most minor issues. It seems to be the generation gap between his youth and my aged interpretations of how things should be. I am thankful that we can disagree...then find a level place to land.

I remember the grand Thanksgiving family celebrations at Grandfather's house down in the country; I wish he could know how it was. Telling about the hunting, the laden dinner table, the kid adventures, and the ambiance never truly infuses the holiday spirit in him. Now it is “Where can we drive for a memorable holiday dinner...like we used to do”...to the coast when his dad was with us...or just some place miles away. I really don't want to face the traffic.

When we discovered there was not to be a community Thanksgiving Dinner this year.....oh, how we had enjoyed the holiday dinners at the Senior Center for several years...we went shopping to prepare our dinner at home. There will be a veggie salad (he makes very tasty ones), turkey with stuffing, sweet potatoes, squash, and pumpkin pie with whipped cream topping. It will be a great dinner...a lot for which to be thankful.

We will miss the camaraderie we experienced at the Senior Center...and the variety of pies for dessert. Sometimes there would be a turkey sandwich in a bag to take home. The feeling of friendship in that room made the day and the dinner very special.

At this house...this year...we are giving thanks for home, health (such as it is), and the joy we receive from our two beloved kittens...Baby and Buddy. We have much to be thankful for...but for me it was so much easier when I wasn't in the drivers seat..... which is being pulled out from under me an inch at a time.

 

Delivering the mail down memorial lane

Thank you, Mayrene, for jogging many memories.

My dad, Arch Hanna, owned the Central Garage just across Mill Road from the post office in our small town. Once in a while, Mr. Kingsley, the postmaster, needed a substitute rural route deliveryman. Dad was on call. Uncle Harold could run the garage for a few hours.

Occasionally, Dad would allow me to ride along. What an adventure. As he delivered letters, newspapers, and packages, I enjoyed seeing pastures with horses and cows, children playing in yards and farmers working in the fields, and hearing birds chirping in the trees of the forested areas. All that and we talked, just me and my dad.

About halfway through his route, we were coming to the Johnson farm. Dad would tell me to scoot down in the seat so I wasnt visible through the window. He said they would try to get me because they were black folks. I would stay down fearing for my life. At the same time, they didnt seem scary to me.

There were always little children playing near the house, so some came running down the driveway to collect the mail from the box beside the road. They seemed to be so happy, having such a lot of fun.

Mr. Johnson shared harvesting the fields with my grandfather, Ernest Altenburg. They were good friends. I remember going with grandfather to collect the birthday cake Mrs. Johnson baked for my grandmother. He took me and my little brother, Ernie, with him to their farm. Mrs. Johnson was so happy to see us she picked Ernie up to cuddle him. He took one look at her smiling black face and started to yell at the top of his voice. Kicking and crying, she handed him back to grandfather.

Mostly, I remember the cake. It was so large it just fit inside a bushel basket. It was just beautiful, white frosting with pink flowers around the top. Mrs. Johnson was an artist. Some of the children peeked out at us from adjoining rooms, but they didnt come into the kitchen. After Ernie stopped howling, Grandpa picked up the big basket and got us back into his car to go home.

Next day, Sunday, the Altenburg family gathered at the farm to celebrate Grandmas birthday. The cake was the main attraction. After dinner, Grandma cut the cake into pieces for everyone, and all raved about how good it was. Mrs. Johnson would have been pleased to hear their compliments.

I went on some other mail delivery adventures with my Dad. After the birthday party, after the cake, I never felt any difference between us. We were all human beings trying to do our best. The Johnsons were the only black folks in our area, and for many years there would be one in each class at Townville High School.

Wesley was in my class. He was always just one of the kids, until we graduated. As seniors, after our graduation ceremonies we had a class trip. We rode a Lake Liner from Cleveland, Ohio, to Detroit. When we debarked in Detroit, we went by bus to the Village, where we had reservations for lunch. The bus driver took Wesley to a different place to eat. No blacks were allowed where we ate. It spoiled the meal for all of us. The same thing happened when it was time for dinner. We were a bunch of small town kids being initiated into the real world.

When we got home from the trip, we learned that Wesleys brother, Robert, had been drafted into the Army. He was petrified. He didnt know how to act black. It wasnt long before Wesley was drafted, too. He was assigned to a southern post and he was sure he would be killed because he didnt know how to walk in the ditch and only patronize black places. He wasnt. He survived World War II and came home to become the most successful member of our class, our millionaire, building bridges.

The last time I went back to Townville for our 60th class reunion, I went to visit Wesley and his wife at their farm. He took me on a tour of his place, mostly proud of his fish ponds. While I was there, my niece, Ashlee, came to Ernies house looking for me. When she asked, he told her, Beas visiting her (black) friends. Some people just never grow up.

Ernie ran a business for many years. He served black customers as well as others, although there were only a handful in that area. For some reason, he never got out of the dark ages.

I am glad I did right from the gitgo.

Here comes the heat

I am seven. It has been gently raining for a few hours. “Mom, can I put my bathing suit on and go out to wade in the ditch?”

I pulled my green cotton suit out of a drawer in the kitchen. No stripes or decorations. Just a plain cotton coverup, easy to get into. Mom said, “You can go out just in front of our house. Watch for cars.”

Suited and barefoot I streaked out of the house. The ditch by the road in front of our house and on down the street was filled with maybe six inched of water. How great to run through it splashing every way. In a few minutes Julie Anne, who lived next door, came running out to join me.

We splashed each other.....playing.....it was a lot of fun. We were good friends, so there was no meanness between us. We shared toys, puzzles, coloring books, about everything we had....except my skates and her tricycle. Those were our bargaining chips.

We lived next door to each other for several years. Her father was the minister at the Methodist Church..... our family church, too. Every Sunday when Grandmother Hanna was living with us, she took me to Sunday School and Church. That was a given.

Flip the calendar a few years ahead...9, 10, 11. Now to swim, splash, “bombs away” from a rope on the limb of a big maple tree, basking in the sun until we were chased away by the “big” boys. We weren't supposed to know they were skinny-dipping, but we stole a peek once in a while. Wouldn't you?

The swimming hole was in Torrey's Pasture. Later on, it was the site of Wiener Roasts with games like Spin the Bottle.. If the bottle pointed to you, you went behind a tree and were supposed to kiss the boy who was there waiting. The whole circle ooohed and aaawed, hooted and hollered. No one knew what happened behind the tree. A mystery!

Everyone shared the hot dogs, buns, and marshmallows to roast. There always seemed to be enough to go around. We built a small fire surrounded by rocks to do the roasting and toasting. It was a lot of fun for us “town kids.”

Moving right along.....families often went to Canadotha Lake for picnics. I remember jumping off a raft and scrambling to come up for air. I wasn't a good diver, but I could swim.

Then to Edinboro College where I passed all of the Red Cross Swimming Classes.....to Life Saving. For some reason, I never felt that I could save anyone's life. However, one night my friends and I were swimming in the Lake. Jeanne got tangled in the reeds. We pulled her out and then high-tailed it out of there. Yipes!

My last summer in college I worked at Lee's Restaurant down by the lake. We rented boats and bikes the use of which was part of our salary. I loved taking a rowboat out to the inlet to watch the sun come up and the water lillies open their blooms to the warmth. I worked in the kitchen prepping orders. I did not enjoy waiting on tables. During the week, friends of the boss would catch frogs. On Friday nights, the cook would prepare the legs for the staff and a few special diners. They really did taste like chicken.

That was my best summer. The restaurant was owned by my Master Teacher, who had seen me through my Student Teaching. Midway through that ordeal, I managed to fall down the stairs at Perry House where I lived. My forehead was split and I was in the College Infirmary for two or three days. When I got back on my feet, I finished my student teaching with a bandage on my head that I tried to cover with bangs. In my whole life, I have never done anything the “easy” way.

90+ DEGREES. How did I get from there to here?.....and this is only half the story.

April,09

I've lived too long -- the taxes will kill me

It's TAX TIME. First, bring out the “Brown Box.” The box arrived in 1956 containing seat covers for the Renault we drove then. Ever since, it has been “The Tax Box.”

Every Tax Document I have received in the mail since January has been sequestered therein. Now it is time to decide. I have a new roof on my Mobile Home...seems like the tax on that should be enough when added to the other deductibles. I add everything in that category......and I hope. All of the statements of income for 2008 have been stashed in the box as they arrived.

Today is my appointment with the “Tax Lady.” Because I am now walking with two canes, I put the Brown Box in a plastic bag with handles so I can carry it. When I arrive at the address, there is always a “handicapped” parking space right at the end of the walkway. I carefully make my way along the twisted path to her office.

I barely get inside the door when she invites me into her office. After I sit down, I open the Brown Box and begin handing her all the papers. Then I introduce the paper itemizing all my deductions. I held my breath as she scanned them, added the ones that could count, then told me,

“I am sorry but there just isn't enough to do any good.” Under my breath or just in my head I exclaimed, “Oh, damn!” Well, at least I had tried.

She click...click...clicked away on her computer keyboard, and I waited for the hammer to fall. I usually receive a small ($50 or so) refund from our state, although I didn't expect anything this year. California is broke. I expected to pay a few hundred dollars to the IRS. Finally, she began to explain what I had in store for 2008.

I would have to pay “Arnold” over a hundred for his foibles. I know from the media that he has gotten California into one he-- of a mess. Then the hammer fell. I have lived too long.

When I retired from teaching, I was only supposed to live twenty more years.....I have. Now she tells me my retirement funds have run out and I must pay all the tax on the money I am mooching from Uncle Sam. This year over 3x previous years. That glove landed square in my solar plexus.

I left her office depressed and downtrodden. The errands I intended to do on this trip were washed right out of my head. I got back out on N. Texas Street and made my way home. My son would have to take the car for gas and to pick up the Meatball Pizza we were having for dinner.

I will pick up the Tax papers when they are ready. I will make out the necessary checks to pay for living here. I will take the envelopes to the Post Office myself to be sure they are on their way. I will do all that because I am a citizen of the USA..,,a too-old citizen of the USA. Then I will go home...to do whatever until I “walk into the light”.....”swim with the fishes”.....or step through the veil into..... What?

 

Memories of the Great Depression

1929 ….. people remember it as "THE GREAT DEPRESSION"..... the time when bankers on Wall Street solved their problems by leaping out the windows of 13-story buildings, their losses too great to face.

My shattered memory recalls a blustery, snow-banked middle-of-the night interruption of sleep at our house. Men came pounding on the front door calling, "Arch.....Arch.....Mr. Hanna.....come..... your store is burning!"

Dad had been in bed for a day or two suffering from painful shingles. Mom scrambled to get up, had jumped into her clothes, and helped Dad. They donned heavy coats, hats, boots, scarves, and gloves. Mom draped a woolen shawl around Dad's shoulders as, together, they went out the front door.

Five-year old me was sleeping with Grandma Hanna. We were jerked awake, put blankets around our shoulders, and went to the window in Mom and Dad's room so we could see the road in front of our house. A raft of black tires were rolling down the hill into the piles of snow. People were shouting and there was a great flare in the sky from the conflagration in the middle of our small town.

We watched for a long time......there was nothing else we could do. We worried about my folks and waited for word about the devastation. Finally, Mom and Dad came home......hugely bowed by their loss. The fire had swallowed our two-story Keystone gas station, the Chevrolet auto sales and repair shop, and what had been our first home.....the upstairs apartment. The building was gutted..... everything except for a few odds and ends people had rescued was burned, exploded, or otherwise destroyed. Now what?

My three-year younger brother, Ernie, and I were shielded from Dad's feelings of desperation. I don't remember seeing his suffering.....but now I know he must have been in agony. He would pick up the pieces and go on.....but how?

When I graduated from eighth grade, Dad and Mom allowed me to order an outfit from the Spiegel catalog......a blue crepe dress with an accordion-pleated skirt, blue shoes, and a three-quarter length sky-blue soft nylon coat. It was my very first store-bought outfit and I loved it. I felt special all dressed up..... I didn't think about how Dad pinched funds to pay for it.....it wasn't mentioned.

Every spare moment I had I helped Dad at the garage he built on one-half of the original foundation. His mechanic, my Uncle Harold, repaired vehicles, but Dad no longer sold Chevrolet cars. Now he sold farm supplies mostly stored in the basement that had been dug out underneath one-half of the new garage building. We sold tires and auto parts.....and there was a candy and tobacco section..... my domain. Dad allowed a lot of people to run charge accounts.....it was my job to enter all the slips in his ledgers. I cleaned shelves and floors.....I loved just being involved in the business "with my Dad."

In 1942, I graduated from Townville High School as the Valedictorian of my class. I won an American Legion Scholarship, but it was to Universities I had never considered and did not intend to investigate. Even with the award, I knew we couldn't afford any of them.....and..... I had always planned to attend Edinboro State College.....my Mon's college.....to prepare to be a teacher. When Dad received notice of the scholarship, he brought the telegram down to the house. In the kitchen, he read the announcement to me and Mom.....it was the only time I remember him hugging me as tears ran down his cheeks.

In September, I enrolled in College. The Townville banker's daughter, Margaret, was the only student there that I knew..... and she had nothing to do with a garage-girl. When my name was put up for the Sorority, she black-balled me. After she graduated, I was invited to become a member; I did.....but I was more identified by membership in the music group.....We performed a Gilbert and Sullivan Operetta in which I was "poor little Buttercup".....my only dramatic experience at ESTC.

By Christmas my freshman year at Edinboro, all but two young men rated 4-F had been called up for the services in World War II. The College went on a fast track to get teachers out in the field in three years. When I graduated in June, 1945, Dad had a mortgage-burning event at our house.....finally the loan he obtained from his brother-in-law, Ernest Prather, to rebuild after the 1932 fire was PAID. It was then that I realized the magnitude of his loss and how he had struggled to re-establish his business and pay for me to go to college. I knew I had to repay him by being successful in my chosen profession. I owed him.

I wonder how many parents could accomplish the same for their children now.....in this time of pinching their budgets? There aren't many people as determined as my Dad.....not many who would work eighteen hours a day – seven days a week - for their family.....not many. Today, too many expect the government to take care of them. If we are on the verge of another "GREAT DEPRESSION" can we survive?

Be happy giving thanks

THANKS - GIVING

T his year, 2008, is disappearing too fast, I'm...

H earing Christmas carols afore the turkey feast...

A ll the merchants are cutting costs on gifts...

N o one can afford in this money pinch, so...

K eep the money you have in a safe place...

S o you can pay the rent, buy gas for your car.

GIVE THANKS

G rasping the pleasure of days gone by...

I wonder, could Santa remember me as he is...

V isiting around the world...the children come first...

I expect octogenarians are last on the list but I...

N ever forget Mom's words..."It is better to ...

G ive than receive", so I give joyfully what I can.

"BE HAPPY GIVING THANKS"

and SMILE, GOD IS WATCHING.

Tales of My Father

My Father was the pivotal center of my life...as a child I wanted to walk in his shoes...as a student in grades one through twelve I did my best to earn the merits to please him...then he struggled financially to send me to college to become a teacher...after which I would be walking in my mother's footprints.

I bearded college during World War II...Edinboro was nearly a "girl's school"... by the end of our Freshman year all but four of the men had been drafted. Classes were held summer and winter so that we matriculated in three years. I received a B.S. Degree in Education and moved into the teaching morass.

When I graduated from college, my father finished paying the loan he had obtained from his brother-in-law to rebuild his business after the 1929 fire. I received my diploma from Edinboro...he burned his loan papers...a celebration all the way around.

In my first teaching position, I had to travel to Warren County...so Dad loaned me his Chrysler to drive there on Sunday evening...but I had to come home on Friday afternoon so he could do garage errands on the weekend. He even allowed me to keep on when I had a snit and refused to buy gas at his station. How juvenile!

Then I took a teaching position in Guys Mills, the little town six miles from my hometown. I bought a second hand Chevrolet, acquired a husband, and rented a reclaimed chicken coop as a home. I ended that school year by inviting my Senior Class to my home for a picnic on the hillside. That night, my Dad was called to take me to the hospital for an emergency apendectomy. It ended our summer plans to bike across Pennsylvania...Art had even built a three-wheel trailer to carry our camping gear. Oh, well.

By Fall we moved to a first floor apartment in a large old home across town. Another teacher lived in the second floor apartment. Art decided to use his G.I. Education grant to learn Diesel Repair at school in Pittsburgh, PA. He came home on weekends when he could. To celebrate, I would make an angelfood cake. The aroma would rise to the second floor; an hour or so after it was baked there would be a knock on the door. Of course, I shared the cake.

In Pennsylvania, you had to teach three years to receive a permanent teaching certificate. Once that was accomplished, we moved to an upstairs apartment in Greenfield, a part of Pittsburgh. Arthur went to school and worked part time at the G.C.Murphy store in Hazelwood. We joined the Bowling Club...the small tenpins with a ball you held in your hand...no finger holes. We developed a great circle of friends.

I worked for the telephone company chasing delivery of their books. In one instance, the delivery person had dumped his stash of books in a ravine and there were a whole lot of people upset because they had not received books.

After that job, I was hired at Dunn & Bradstreet's office to write credit reports on businesses in western Pennsylvania. They hired me because I had been an English teacher...they wanted somone who typed fast. Every day they counted the lines each typist produced...the next day you received a page with the results...a red line across the middle. If your name was consistently below the red line, you knew you were potentially jobless. I stayed above the red line.

When Art finished school, we moved back to Townville and applied for jobs in Alaska. He was turned down as a Diesel mechanic; I was offered a job in Nome. No way. Art went to work in the lumber mill...I got a job as a weiner skinner at Carpenter's Meat Packing business. That was a stopgap stuation.

Finally, I was hired at Talon, Inc. in the shipping department. It was the first time I had to belong to a union...when there was a slowdown in a department you would find yourself working in another department...finally, I found myself on the night shift recycling sliders...often order a meatball sandwich delivered about 3 a.m...and sometmes midshift jolting awake with my head resting on the machine. Thank God they finally realized I had applied for an office job...I was placed in the Stenographic Pool.

I learned to type reports from reels sent in by salesmen...to work the switchboard ...and to type the monthly report required from a zipper inventor who enjoyed visiting with me. I moved up to Assistant to the Business Office Manager before I decided to fly off to Germany to marry my Army Sgt. "Bill".

My Dad observed all my shenanigans...never saying a "yes" or a "no"...and when we came home after two years overseas, he had a new Chevrolet BelAire waiting for us. He believed it was best to help his children when they needed him, but to let them survive on their own otherwise. For me...he paid my way through college...got me out of a disastrous first marriage...had our transportation ready when we had to drive to Kansas for our first post in the USA...and let me know he was always there if I needed him.

For my brother, he saved the money Ernie sent home and matched it so he could buy a home when he came home from the Seabees after WW II...he took him in as a partner when he bought the Hanna Hardware Store...and worked with him until he retired.

For my sister, he paid her way through secretarial school...paid the hospital bill when her twins were born saying "they belong to me". While Sis and Jack were getting started, Mom packed boxes and baskets of food for them to take home when they visited. Dad was proud of their accomplishments as they rose in the J.C.Penney Co.

Our Father was the helm of our ship. He lived life his way and left us way too early. He is, to this day, My HERO.

Honor Thy Father - Part Two

Time passed.....as I grew older my duties at the Central Garage broadened. Just watching my Dad, I learned to pump gas, check oil, and wash windows for our customers. If I remember correctly, one dollar bought four gallons of gasoline. If there was a tire flat, I could remove it and help patch it, then put it back on the car. Jeepers!!

I wonder if I could even put on a spare now!

I could wait on most of the customers who came into the garage to buy cigars, cigarettes (or the makings), snuff, candy bars, or spark plugs. Whatever was on the shelves for sale. I kept the display cases neat by putting in colored sheets of crepe paper to line them...just to make the displays pretty.

Behind the display cases were shelves where the cans of tobacco, cartons of cigarettes, and many other items that were displayed were stocked. Kids who were fooling around would call our telephone number and ask, "Do you have Prince Albert in the can?"

I would answer, "Yes."

They would giggle back, "You'd better let him out!"......as they caved in hilarity.

I only fell for that a couple times. They had other foolish requests that bacame old.

At times, a group of poorly dressed folks would pull in in some decrepant vehicle. They were known as gypsies and children were told to avoid them as they would kidnap kids. If I happened to be at the garage when they came, I hid in the back room where rows of batteries were on shelves charging. Dad always let me know when they left.

Now I know they may have been just sod-scrabble poor folks trying to get somewhere.

Because most of the buildings in Townville had burned the winter of 1929, our garage was built on half of the original foundation. Dad had farm supplies stored in the basement.....binder twine, fencing wire, all kinds of things farmers needed. I did not go down there at all. Dad dealt with those customers.

Dad allowed many of the customers run up a Charge Account. It became my job to enter the supply slips in his Account Book. Dad was a very trusting person because he lived by his word. Unfortunately, not everyone was so honest. We sent very few bills in the mail. I remember sitting at his desk in his chair with my calico kitten on my shoulder copying the accounts.

Dad kept in the candy case a few boxes of Schraft's Chocolates for fellows who had forgotten their Anniversary or someone's birthday. I don't remember ever receiving or giving any, but I always wondered how they tasted.

The many years of walking in my Dad's footprints culminated in a weekend of trust. When deer hunting season arrived...nearly every grownup man was a hunter....all the fellows would buy a hunting license and be ready to go out on the first day. Dad had an interest in a hunting lodge in the Allegheny Mountains, but he rarely went there except for a weekend holiday in the summer.

One year, he decided to go with the rest of the men...there were others who owned part of "The Jolly Six." He decided I could run the Garage for the weekend. Two of my friends, Ralph (I had my eye on him.), and Willie, were given the job of running the garage down the street on the corner. We decided we would call each other once an hour all night...just for security. In the wee hours of the morning, it was a welcome call.

We kept both service stations open all night to serve the hunters who drove through Townville on their way to the hunting woods. None of us had any trouble throughout the night and were very happy to see the sun come up. Dick, the mechanic in our garage, was not a hunter, so he came in to relieve me at seven a.m. I would sleep a while and return when I could. After all, I was in charge...I was in charge!!!

My Dad trusted me and I did just fine.

As a reward, when I graduated from Eighth Grade, I was allowed to order my first Spiegel's outfit...a light blue crepe dress with an accordian skirt, a soft blue short coat, and a pair of pretty shoes...for the graduation services. I felt supurbly attired...I even created a matching pillbox hat. This was my "going out/church outfit" for quite a long time and.....I felt so good even though I was a large size.

I had lived through a winter of rheumatic fever when two others in our area were also stricken...one died...one was confined to a wheelchair for his short life...and then there was me. My Dad carried me from my bed to a couch in the living room when Mom needed me moved. Students collected coins until they could buy skeins of wool for me to knit into a sweater...a very thoughtful gift. The sweater was turquoise blue trimmed with wine colored strands. It was a beautiful gift and gave me hours of enjoyment in the making.

I missed half a year of school. When I was able to go back, I had to wear long underwear to keep my body warm. That was Dr. Quay's restriction. I remember one day I was sitting in front of a girl named Edythe. It was the fashion to wear button-up sweaters backwards...and she unbottuned my sweater to show the other students my underwear. They hooted. I got mad. I was going to sock her, but Miss Kingsley interfered. She said, "Take it to the gym."

We did. They put the gloves on us and told us to go at it. I punched her good and she dissolved in tears and screams. I dared her to hit me or say anything more about me. She backed down. I think she mostly just wanted Willie's arms around her.

The next Fall, Dr. Quay came to our school to check the students who wanted to play basketball. The Eighth Grade Boys wanted to have a team, but they needed another player. I wanted to play, so I got in line for the examination. When I got to Dr. Quay, he just automatically said, "Beatrice, you can't play."

I replied, " Tell me that after you give me the same exam, please."

He listened to my heart and breathing...and whatever else he had to do. He had to backtrack and say, "I guess I have to pass you, but remember how sick you were last year." I knew he would tell my Dad.

How could I forget, but I wanted to play. That was the beginning...and I played basketball all through high school and college.....along with many other sports.

Dad never said, "No." I think he was a bit proud of me...but he never said.

Father's Day 2008 -- A Tribute to my Dad

My Dad was the keystone of my life.

Arch Hanna (Grandma called him "Archie") was a farmboy. His Mom was married at a young age to an established man who owned his farm and had two small children. Arch was the youngest of the five children born to Grandma Emma. As a teenager, his father died and his mother continued to live on the farm until Arch's brother, Walter, and family took it over. At that timd, Grandmother obtained live-in work caring for various elderly folks.

Arch carried on at the farm showing his prize-winning team of horses at nearby Community Fairs. It was a natural followup to the dog-team that had pulled his wagon as a young boy...to the team of oxen he took to the Fairs as a teenager. Arch also trained horses to pull the buggies of professional men who had business in the surrounding towns.....before cars.....can you wrap your head around that?

Arch became enamoured with Oma, but the coupling was not meant to be. She became ill and passed away. Time had a way of mellowing the blow and he began courting Gladys. On July 16, 1923, they were married in a double wedding ceremony with her brother Harold and his fiancee, Hazel. One year, one month, and one day later, I arrived to change their status...mother and father. (My cousin, Betty, arrived eight days later.)

We lived in an apartment upstairs over Dad's Central Garage and Auto Sales business. The Main Street going through our small town was being modernized by building a cement road over the existing one of dirt. Mom cooked dinners for several of the men who worked on the road. One was a cousin of Dad's who sometimes sat in the rocking chair in the kitchen with me on his lap so I wouldn't cry.

Down the hill from the Garage there was a lot where a house had burned. Dad bought a house out in the country and had it moved into town and placed on the original rock foundation. It became our home containing a front bedroom, parlor, family room, dining room, kitchen, and back shed. On the second floor were two bedrooms and a big closet at the head of the stairs. One bedroom was Mom and Dad's...the other was Grandma Hanna's when she was not on a job. I slept with Grandma.

There were no electric lights...kerosene lamps provided illumination. A wood stove was in the kitchen for cooking, and there was a coal stove to heat the family room. There was no heat upstairs, so you took a hot water bottle or a heated wraped brick to warm your bed at night. Baths were taken in a tub in the kitchen...otherwise you raced to the "outhouse" out by the barn. The half-moon carved in the wooden door gave enough light to scan the Sears Roebuck catalog.....your wishbook and wipes. Dad always sewed morning glory seeds and strung cord for them to climb to partially cover the "little house."

Dad spent most of every day at the Garage. He came home for meals while Uncle Harold ran the business. He would lie down for a nap after lunch...just a half hour. Then he would be off to work.

When I was old enough to wield a broom, I became his shadow. I could sweep the floor and clean the restrooms...not my favorite job. The ladies was hardly used, but to get to the side door I walked by the fish pond. I loved the goldfish that swam in there. Eventually, I learned to re-stock the candy counter and tobacco shelf, clean and re-arrange display shelves, and do other little chores for Dad.

There were chores at home that I had to do for Mom, but just as soon as I could finish, I would be off to the Garage. I suppose I should have been a boy...a son to follow in my Dad's footsteps...but there was just ME...doing everything I could to spend time with MY DAD.....the BIG MAN in a little girl's world.