Over The Hill Twice

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.

A Life Punctuated by Pets

Benny, born in the U.S. Army hospital in Wurzburg, Germany, came to America in 1955 on the General Maurice Rose troop ship. We were part of the huge exchange between the Big Red One that had been stationed abroad for thirteen years and the Tenth Division from Fort Riley, Kansas.

Settled in an apartment in Manhattan, Kansas, eventually the Easter season came along. We bought a fluffy, little yellow chicken for Ben. The baby chick grew and grew. One day Ben, jumping up and down excitedly in his playpen, took aim with his bottle and knocked the chicken for a loop. Ben, stunned, wept as if his heart was broken.

Soon, we decided the chicken was getting too big to fly around our second floor apartment, so Dad convinced a farmer outside of town to add "chicken" to his flock. We bid a fond "goodbye" to Ben's first "pet."

The Army assigned Bill to Travis AFB, California. We pulled our 30-foot Trailer behind the BelAire Chevy from Fort Bliss, Texas, to the West Coast. After a year in a park on North Texas Street, we moved into the Trailer Court on Base. Within a year or two, we traded up to a 45-ft. Mobile Home.

Once a week, Ben and I traveled into Fairfield, where I was giving piano lessons for a young girl. Their mother cat had four kittens. When they were several weeks old, Mrs. Olson gave one little black and white kitten to Ben. He was ecstatic.

At suppertime, Dad came home from B Battery with a surprise...in his pocket was a little bundle of black and white fur that purred. Oh, my! Not one but two new pets. They were given the names of Boots, because it had four white feet, and Beans, more spotted. They grew as twins. When they caught a mouse, they would put it into a cardboard box and tease it until the fun was over. What a spectacle!

When they were grown, they would roam the field between the Trailer Park and the Elementary School. Several times when we would go to the gate for Ben to join his friend Tina on their walk to school, there would be a dead baby jackrabbit outside. Our cats had caught it and brought it to the gate to show us their accomplishment. Enough!

For some reason, I cannot remember what became of them.

Next in line was Betty, a black and brown weiner dog. One day Ben and I took her with us when we went to the bank on base. Not being allowed into the bank, we tied her to a telephone pole outside. When we came out, Betty was gone. In spite of all attempts to find her...we never saw her again.

Then Dad retired from the U.S. Army and we moved into Fairfield. We made a trip to Pennsylvania before we settled on Pacific Avenue. By that time, we learned that Ben was a victim of Muscular Dystrophy. We became very involved in MDAA and a concerned lady gave Ben a registered Cocker Spaniel. He was beautiful...black with silver feathers. He was a lovely companion but when we had to leave him at home for any length of time, he cried...he howled...he annoyed the neighbors. Eventually, we gave him to a Vallejo Fireman who had room for him to roam and children who would love him.

Then as a retirement gift, little brother Bryan arrived. When he was about four, Dad brought home a small dog we named Blinky...he had a brown spot above each eye and always seemed to be blinking.

A year or so later, Bryan and a little friend went exploring in the big ditch behind our park. They found all kinds of things,mostlyrefuse, but one day they discovered a half-soaked bag that was crying. They rescued it and brought it home.

They came to our house and asked if I would look at the soaking wet piece of squirming kitten. I said, "Bryan, take it away. We have a dog. We are only allowed one animal. Give it to someone else."

Those two little boys found a box, put an old wash rag in for a bed, dried the kitten the best they could, and his little friend got a saucer of milk for it. The next day, fluffy and pretty, they brought it to my door again. Pleading with a tear in his eye, Bryan asked again, "Mom, can I keep her?" This time I couldn't say, "No."

Named "BEBE" she gradually won Blinky over, too. (Note: Everyone in our house had a name that began with a "B") At first their food dishes were at opposite ends of the kitchen. Gradually they were moved closer until they were on the same mat. They grew to play together and formed a team taking care of Ben and Bryan and the house.

During ensuing years, Bryan rescued birds, snakes, rats, hamsters...who knew what would be next? He has always loved animals and has lived through disappointmnt, sadness, and joy with them.

Blinky used to sit by Ben's wheelchair by the dinette table hoping he would drop a tidbit during dinner...or deliberately hand him something under the table. Of course he did and I knew. When he was older and we had to leave Ben at home alone, Blinky lay on the floor by the wheelchair while Bebe perched on the corner of the table where she could see out the window. Ben called her his "Watch-cat"...and she was. Those two animals were Ben and Bryan's companions for years.

Blinky developed a serious illness. I took him to a Veteranarian who convinced me he could not survive. By that time, Ben had gone on to his next life, so I sent Blinky to him.

Bebe lived nineteen plus years. In the end, she was my companion. When she thought I should be getting up in the morning, she would creep up on my pillow and take the curlers out of my hair. She was a lovely little friend who made two trips across the USA with us...was lost and found three times...tolerated our gypsy ways and still loved us. It was a sad day when I had to send her to join Ben and Blinky.

At that time, I decided "No more pets until my adventuring is over. No more pets until I can stay at home and take care of it".

I am not sure when that day will come.

Not today.

Pets: There's always a horse

My Dad was a "HORSE" person. He raised horses. He trained horses. He traded horses. Sometimes I think he was more at home with the horses than with people...but this is my story. It was natural to have horses in the barn...but...while a small child I was cautioned to stay away from their stalls and "Do not feed them your apple if an adult is not around.."

One day Dad said, "Come with me to the pasture. I want to show you something."

Well, when Dad invited, I trotted right along. Of course, my little brother had to come, too. At the pasture, there were Dad's three horses and a PONY. A Shetland pony. Oh, my! We had never had a pony. It came over to the fence and nuzzled my hand. It didn't try to bite. It was just a soft kiss.

"Dad, can we ride him?" I asked jumping up and down.

He said,"Only when I am around right now." He opened the gate and put the halter he had brought from the barn on the pony's head. He had a lead clipped onto the halter. He boosted me onto the pony's back and led him around part of the pasture. Then Ernie had to have a turn. We were elated.

Time went by until I was allowed to go to the pasture, bridle the pony...by this time he was called "Chuck"...(don't ask my why)...and hop on his back. Sometimes Ernie would climb on behind me. We could take him out on the street and up the dirt road.

One day we decided to take a ride to Grandpa Altenburg's house. He lived on a dirt road about two miles out of town. Everything was fine until we got there. Chuck took us right up to the porch, reared up and down and slid us off in a heap. Then he turned and ran. Down the driveway, on the dirt road, clear to the pasture near home. That pony had only one thought in his head...going back to his pasture.

Dad happened to go to the pasture, found Chuck there, and let him in. He knew what had happened. He decided..."I'll just let those kids walk home."

Once we were dusted off, Grandma gave us some lemonade to make us feel better. What an ending to what was supposed to be a nice summer afternoon outing. It was a very long walk for a couple little kids. After that, we knew to watch out for Chuck's tricks.

Later on, when I was about twelve years old, I delivered the Pittsburgh Press newspapers to ten or so neighbors from one end of town to the other. In the winter time, the pinto pony was no more excited about going out into the snow drifts than I was...but I was a faithful carrier. I think I had that job two years.

When I was a teenager, I was allowed to take one of Dad's big horses out for rides when I didn't need to work with him in the Central Garage. One day I was riding out in the country when one of our customers came along in his truck. He stopped me and said, "Beatie, your Dad just sold me your saddle and I need to take it right now."

That was my Dad. I slid off the horse, unbuckled the saddle and gave it to the customer. I climbed back on the horse...with the saddle blanket under me...and rode on home. I put the horse in the pasture, took the equipment to the barn, and went up to the garage. Dad said, "I guess you got home all right." That was obvious.

He was a salesman. He always said, "I will sell anything I have if someone offers me the right price." He did.

Best Friend Gives Up Its Life For A Meal

When I see the pictures of pets awaiting adoption, I want to go right to the agency and get one. Then I remember.....

No dogs. The cats stay in the barn. My dad's pets were the horses in the pasture. My pet when I was a little child was a chicken. She had a nest in the feed box of an empty stall in the barn. I fed her and gathered her eggs. She was my friend.....my only friend.

All was well with her for many months...maybe a couple years...I'm not sure. Then one Sunday I went out to feed her and her nest was empty. My Mom had selected her for our Sundaydinner. That was one meal I could not eat...not one bite. How could I eat a piece of my best friend? But......I could picture what had happened.

I had seen my Mom take a hen from her chicken coop, lay its head on the chopping block, and with one swing of the axe lop off its head. The chicken would flop around for a while.....then die. She would hang it up on a hook by the barn to drain out the blood. Then a tub of hot water was prepared to douse the carcass so the feathers could be plucked easily.

I had pulled the feathers out of lots of chickens...but I wasn't around this time. Once all the feathers were plucked and the pin feathers were dug out, she washed the bird. Next she operated on "the bird" to remove its entrails. She kept the heart, liver, and gizzard to cook and put in the stuffing.

The bird went into the fridge while Mom got busy with the stuffing. A loaf or so of days-old bread was pulled into small pieces. Seasonings were sprinkled on. The heart, liver, and gizzard were minced and added. Some of the broth was added to mix it into a mass. When the stuffing was ready, it tasted good enough to eat raw...but hands were slapped if they came near the pan.

The bird was stuffed, tied up with string, and settled into the roasting pan, ensconced in the oven and baked for a few hours until it was "done"....at dinner time.

In the meantime, potatoes were cooked and mashed; squash had been cooked, sliced tomatoes had been put on a bed of lettuce leaves along with sliced cucumbers. There would be rolls with butter and homemade jam,..... and finally, Mom's great blackberry pie for dessert.

That was Sunday Dinner.....except for "the one time" How could she? That chicken was "my pet chicken."

A rainbow of caring folks

First, you have to realize that I grew up in a small (s-m-a-l-l) town in northwestern Pennsylvania. The census taker reported 290 citizens way back then and it hasn't grown much since. No black folks lived in our town.

My father occasionally served as the substitute mail carrier for our post office which served a long rural route. Sometimes he would let me ride along in the little, green, one-seated coupe he drove. It had a rumble seat, but he didn't let me ride back there.

One of the families who lived on his route was the Johnsons. When he would get near their farm, he would tell me "Get down. If they see you, they will steal you!" Of course, I would peak. When they noticed that Dad had put something in their mailbox, some children on the porch who would run down the lane to get the mail.

Dad hustled right on down the road. I didn't know why he would tell me such a story, but I believed him. He was my Dad.

Movin' on.....

My grandparents lived on a farm about two and a half miles out of town. The Johnson family lived on a farm in the same township. When it became haying time, my Grandpa and Mr. Johnson helped each other. They probably shared other farm jobs, too.

I remember one time when Grandpa asked Mrs. Johnson to make a birthday cake for Grandma. When he went to pick it up, he took me and my little brother with him in his old Willys Knight. As we walked into her kitchen, Mrs. Johnson picked Ernie up exclaiming, "What a nice little fellow!" Grandpa smiled and Ernie started screaming. It scared the beJesus out of him as he had never seen a black lady.

I know Grandpa would never take us anyplace where there would be harm, but I am sure I stayed out of the way. I was very curious. The big kitchen was lived-in comfortable. Several children peeked around doorways...just observing. Grandpa asked if she had the cake ready and Mrs. Johnson pointed to a bushel basket on the kitchen table. Grandpa lifted me up so I could see...Oh! A magnificently decorated cake barely fit down inside. Grandma would be so surprised. I figured Mrs. Johnson must be a supreme baker; I think Grandpa thought so, too.

Movin' on again.......

When I attended Townville High School, there was a Johnson child in every grade. They rode on the school bus that brought farm children into town to go to school. Buses came from several directions to bring the students who had graduated at the small, one-room schools in the Townships.

It was no big thing to have Wesley in my classes. He was accepted and treated as "just another student." It wasn't until we graduated from the senior class and went on our class trip to Detroit via a lake liner from Cleveland that we faced segregation. It was a shock to everyone when the bus driver took Wesley to eat somewhere else. The "class" was to have dinner at a big restaurant in "The Village." I don't think any of us enjoyed that meal.

The same thing happened the second evening. No explanation could assuage our consternation. I can only imagine how he felt.

By then it was 1942.....The BIG WAR was on and young men were being drafted or volunteered for the armed services. The Johnson boys went along with all the rest. When Wesley received his orders, he was to report to Camp Shelby, Mississippi. He was scared half to death...he didn't know how to behave like a "southern nigger." He was sure he would get killed just going there...but he didn't. Somehow he coped, served his time, and came back to civilian life ready to make something of himself. He built bridges in many places in our country. He is the only member of our class that I know of who ended up a wealthy person.

When I was back home for my 60th class reunion, I went to visit Wesley and his wife, Bessie, on their farm. They are enjoying their retirement. He raises fish in a large pond, cares for lovely green acreage around his home and outbuildings, and travels. Once a year, he flies to an adventure of his choice...Bessie is handicapped and afraid to fly, so she stays at home. They maintain "the good life," and their children are involved in worthwhile pursuits.

1942-1945.....

Going to college, I met one black girl whose goal was to become a teacher. I don't remember being in class with her, and since I lived in an off-campus house, I didn't see her often. I never got acquainted with her except she did sing in the our choir...all girls, as there were only two fellows (4F's) on campus. When we graduated teachers were in high demand. I hope she achieved her goal.

Movin' on.....

For three years, I taught school in small towns where no black folks lived. I also was married and moved to Pittsburgh, PA. There, I worked for Dunn & Bradstreet which was an all white company. My husband graduated from Diesel Mechanics School and we applied for jobs in Alaska. I was offered a position in Nome; he was turned down.

We moved back to my hometown where he worked at the lumber mill; I worked at the slaughterhouse outside of town, then at the zipper factory in Meadville. There were some black workers but none nearby my station or in the office where I became a stenographer. I also managed to get a divorce. Then I flew to Germany to marry my Army sergeant, a relationship fostered during the War.....and things changed.

One evening soon after my arrival in Bad Kissingen, we joined several other Army fellows and their girlfriends at a night club. I will never forget hearing the ompah band start playing and couples getting up to dance. A few black soldiers were there with German girls...white German girls. When I saw their black hands spread across the white blouses of their partners, I faced cultural shock. My curiosity arose and I asked my friend Betty, a Dutch girl who was going with our Mexican Battery CO, "How come?"

She replied, "The black soldiers will give those girls whatever they want. They are very generous."

Two years later when we were on our way home aboard the General Maurice Rose, we had a mixture of all races and colors. I met a red-headed lady from Austria who had married a black soldier, the son of a minister in a town near my home. She told me she intended to divorce him as soon as she was in the U.S. He was her ticket out of Europe. I cannot imagine what that soldier's family would think of the whole situation.

I don't think she was the only one.

While we were on the ship, we had several life-jacket drills. One red-headed soldier had a black wife and adorable child. They kept everyone in stitches with their humor. For five days, we rode through Hurricane Hazel and a lot of passengers never left their cabin. We thoroughly enjoyed a laugh.

Movin' on again.....

In the Army family, you meet folks of every color and ethnicity and you treat them with respect and consideration. Here at Batteries B and C, I played the organ for the Sunday services conducted by our black Chaplain. Chaplain Calbert became a close family friend. Since he grew up in the Baptist Church and I grew up in the Methodist, sometimes he would announce the hymns by saying, "Today we are going to sing a Methodist (or Baptist) hymn" with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye. Then there was a Chinese chaplain whose family owned a restaurant in San Francisco. When my son, Bryan was born, he sent us a pot of shark fin soup that was delicious.

Chaplain Calbert retired in Washington, D.C. We visited him and his wife on two cross-country trips. His mother was instrumental in getting Allentown, CA, "a town founded by black folks," named a National Treasure." I have visited the site and camped in the campground there.

The next stage of my life was in the midst of a human rainbow. The schools of Fairfield were once designated as the most racially balanced in our country. I spent twenty years as a teacher in this district. Many students made an everlasting impression on me through the years.....the Asian girl who literally wore a dictionary tied to her wrist and went on to become a leader in ROTC.....the students who were so far behind in their reading skills...Asian, black, white, Latino...who tried so hard to catch up and did..... the young black student who blew the competition away in the Middle School Spelling Bees.....the boys who wanted to have a basketball team to represent Sullivan Middle School but needed a teacher to sit with them in the gym...I did, and they ended up champions.....the black girl who won a writing contest was thrilling.....the black boy who had a mother who was a scourge on the office, and who was bent on disrupting my classroom. After some serious discussion, he agreed to trade "sitting on top of his desk quietly" and good, non disruptive behavior for my peace of mind and a calm classroom. It worked. There were students of every race and color who went on to make worthwhile contributions to society. I wonder where they are...what they are doing...today.

As a teacher, a black lady became a good friend as well as "the teacher across the hall." Her son sat with my sons when I needed someone. We shared teaching projects. We were friends in and out of school. Unfortunately, she has passed on to her reward.

On a personal level, when I became solely responsible for my home and my sons, I needed help. A black man came looking for work. I was not in a very good mood, so I outlined everything I needed someone to do. He quietly answered, "I can do that." And he did. He became and has been my best friend for twenty-some years. We have a mutually caring relationship. He has added a wife and adorable daughter to the mix and it is wonderful.

He also rescued me when I started out on my last "big" adventure...to pick up The Lewis & Clark Trail in southwestern South Dakota and follow it out to the Pacific Ocean. I got to the Nevada – Utah border, fell, and broke my arm. He is legally blind, but he sent his brother by air to Salt Lake City, by bus to my location, to drive me and my RV back to Fairfield. He is my "black angel."

A black neighbor who has the soul of an artist, helps out when he can. I appreciate that he cares. He gives a soothing pedicure for a reasonable fee. We visit and share jokes. He is trying to understand my son's "Raw Food" diet...quite a stretch as he is a very good cook in his own style. I appreciate his friendshiip.

For some reason, wonderful people have come into my life. I know angels have been looking after me my whole life...the one God assigned at birth and many others. Presently, my white son and friends and black friends are doing what they can to take care of me. I am blessed.

LET'S GO ON A PICNIC

The sun is shining. The temperature about 68. Pull out the sports car. What a day to drive out to the coast for a picnic!

First stop...the Shell station to check tires, purchase a couple Rock Stars and a bottle of water...I noticed the gas price had gone up to $3.47 per gallon. (Last night on my way home from the Senior Center in Suisun, I noticed the prices ranged from $3.29 to a darkened sign on N. Texas...$4.00. The last time I knew of a price like that was in Germany in 1955 where many people drove tiny, three-wheeled cars.) Drove out of Shell through the car wash...I never thought of taking a soft-top through there.

Our route followed I-80 to 37 to Atherton Road where Bryan put the top down...toward Point Reyes...past the Nicasio Reservoir and Black Mountain Ranch to Point Reyes Station. I was thrilled by the scenery...Herds of black and white Holsteins...fields of yellow mustard flowers...Irish green hills (the season before they turn California gold)...a snaky road skirting promontory rocks...flying in the breeze a lone, large American flag planted atop one rock formation ...single weirdly-branched trees that would make a soulful portrait...a $500 fine for littering sign (do we do that?)...road workers trimming trees that were losing their tenuous hold on the Earth (another rain storm could bring them down)...finally we arrive at Point Reyes Station on Route 1.

First Stop...an adventure...The Tomales Bay Food Company...a new place to discover. The Cowgirl Creamery allows visitors to observe the "girls" at work ...today they were packing cheese into small round molds...on to the counter where an abundance of cheeses and accompaniments are offered for sale (at gourmet prices...out of my range) but the sample was delightful. Other offerings include fresh vegetables and fruit, a deli, a large collection of clothing...lots of things to whet your appetite and lighten your wallet.

Our destination was the Bovine Bakery where we bought a loaf of many-grain bread and a couple chocolate cookies for dessert. (The book store next door tries to grab me, but there was no time.) Across the street to the Grocery Store for "President's Brie," a jar of green olives stuffed with garlic, and two bottles of Healdsburg Black Bear Stout...then we are off.

Along the twisting edge of Tomales Bay, we finally arrive at our planned destination...The Tomales Bay Oyster Company...where we park the car and take our supplies down the grade to a bayside table. Their picnic ground is arranged in four levels. At the upper level with shade and poison ivy there are eight tables with grills. The next level down has about ten tables with grills...no shade. The bayside level has 6-8 tables with grills, then there is a lower level by the store with four tables...no shade. You take your pick depending on the crowd and sometimes share a table. Going mid-week, we were at one of three or four occupied places.

This time, I walked down to the sales area as I wanted to see how they handled the oysters and clams. There are four large tubs filled with water and bags of goodies. If your order is not bagged, the fisherman puts a plastic net over the edges of a white plastic tub, pulls your oysters out of the water and puts them in the bag, ties it up and it is yours.

The Oyster Company advertises "the freshest and most delicious Oysters possible." I agree. The oysters range in size from Extra Small at $10 a dozen, Small at $12, Medium at $14, Large at $15, and Jumbo at $16. The customer ahead of us took all the Small and the last of the Medium. We bought a bag of Large and one of clams ($5) for a total of $20. Can you imagine what that would have cost in a restaurant?

They also have the accoutrements if you didn't bring your own... charcoal, gloves, Oyster Knife, Sauce, and Limes. We had everything we needed.

Once you get your grill and fire ready, the oysters and clams will open up as they heat. Grilling just a few at a time...putting thin slices of cheese on slices of bread to toast...olives and limes to spice everything up...all you need is patience.

A beautiful grey winter-coated cat deigned to check us out...decided we were friendly, and stayed with us. It seemed to like small bits of cheese, lots of petting, and settled down on the neighbor table to bask in the sun. Later, the owner told us the cat had lived there for eighteen years...the "resident" cat. It reminded me so much of our "Bebe"...a blue Russian that lived with us for nearly twenty years...that I yearned to bring it home. No. No. NO!

We literally gorged ourselves with food...stayed until we had finished the entire picnic. Since a nice man who had enjoyed his oysters earlier had given us his left-over lime...we extended the favor to the three men who had just claimed a table with their picnic accoutrements. They, too, had purchased a bag of large oysters and were set to celebrate the visit of a former neighbor who now lives in Idaho. They would have a great picnic.

Now to gather our stuff, pack it in the Spyder, and get on the road home. Along Tomales Bay through Marshall, pop. 50, past Hog Island where you need reservations, Nick's Cove to Tomales, CA. Across the green hills past herds of dairy cows and sheep, alongside neat ranches with white fences and red barns...and music blaring in my ears until my eyeballs hurt.

As we neared Petaluma, there were eight wild turkeys alongside the Bodega Highway. Bryan didn't mention them until we were past, so he turned around so I could see them. As he approached Anderson's Organic Vegies, there they were. My goodness! They flew every which direction to get out of the way. They looked like they would roast just fine, but maybe they are the pets of the neighborhood.

Petaluma needs to scrape up some money to repair their streets...very rough traveling. Stopped to get gas there...$3.62 per gallon. I wonder how high it will go. There won't be a lot of trips to the ocean, but it pulls me so I will have to budget in a few. The Tomales Bay Oyster Company will beckon as well as Bodega Bay and points north. If you have never been there, and if you enjoy oysters, clams, and mussels...you must GO.

Dolly Has New Shoes

Finally, Dolly has six brand new tires to put on the road...but we are not ready. In spite of all the in-house repairs and mechanical tuneups, there are still things to do before we hit the road......mainly emotional differences...my son does not want to go.

O-kay! Looking at the whole picture, I decided the trip was OFF. Nothing had been arranged that couldn't be refuted. I will miss the Daily Republic one day...my puzzles will have a glitch, but that is fine. I can start new. The trip cash can be put back in the savings account...at least the part we haven't spent.

Dolly is in the best condition she has experienced for a few years. You see, I used to take a long trip every summer until my physical condition presented snags. I also realize that after I finished my BIG challenge, I had to think of some new grand places to go for some blazing reasons and I couldn't... until I planned to copy the western half of the Lewis & Clark Trail and I had to be brought home from Wendover, Nevada, with a broken arm..

The BIG challenge? It all started in 1986 with a trip to El Paso, Texas...the initiation to driving a Recreation Vehicle. After that, every trip was planned to visit other states on our mainland. One by one, I kept filling in states on the Map Dolly's Propane Door.

One summer, I decided to return from Pennsylvania via Canadian Route 1...Niagara Falls to the West Coast. Of course that meant buying a Canadian Map and filling in Provinces. More really great trips...The most dramatic? Venturing hrough the Yukon to Fairbanks and Homer, Alaska; the rugged "covered with mud" trip to Yellow Knife above the Arctic Circle, and the drive to the end of the road in Labrador where the Norsemen established a whale-rendering site long before Columbus discovered the NEW World.

Returning from that trip, I filled in the last blank on the two maps...Vermont. Folks in the campground that day celebrated with me. I will never forget their friendly, someone handed me a beer, congratulations.

Unfortunately, when I had completed my nine year challenge (1987-1996), I was at a loss as to where I would go. There were trips to visit my home town, Townville, Pennsylvania. My brother and his family live there...his sons own practically the whole town and surrounding farmland...their homes, the Grocery Store, a big Hardware complex, and apartment house, and sections of land they rent to farmers. The town was originally named after John Town, an early settler. Now you could almost call it "Hannaville."

I guess that is too much...but the boys have done very well being small-town fellas. Don is the "hunter" and fixes things for the customers. Bob is more the "front man." The wives are "helpers." Dine works in the office; Linda is a presence in the "store." They have trusted employees who run the grocery store and help in the hardware.

My brother and sister-in-law retired a few years ago. They spend half of the year at their home in Townville and half at their winter abode in Florida where my sister and her husband bought their retirement home. I have visited several times using the services of Southwest Airlines. Just didn't want to do that this year.

I remember when my Dad sold the Central Garage and purchased the Hardware Store...something he had wanted for a long time...but I never knew that. I helped inventory the contents of the store when he moved in...counted screws and weighed nails...dusted plates and cups and saucers as they were added to the list...just helped with the whole job...the summer before I went to college. That was in 1942.

How did my story get way back there? How does this connect with "Dolly's new Shoes.?" I guess because I've been on an adventure of some kind or another all my life and now I am ready to plan another. We'll go...just not today.