Over The Hill Twice

Meet my dad, Arch Hanna

  

     From the time I could sweep floors and wash windows, I spent every spare moment with my Dad at his Central Garage in Townville, PA.  To know him, you must picture a young man who trained driving horses for the doctors and businessmen in town.  On the farm, he had a prize team of oxen and another of show horses.  When he was younger, he had a brace of dogs trained to pull a wagon.
     As a young man, he moved into town where he became a businessman selling Chevrolet cars and offering a repair site.  When he married Mary Gladys Altenburg, they lived in an apartment on the second floor of the business.  That was my first home, too, and I am told a cousin who was working on building the cement road through our town often rocked me while my Mom prepared dinner.
     Soon, Dad bought a house that was on a foundation out in the country and had it moved onto a basement on Main Street in town.  That was our family home all my growing up years and beyond.  
    As a small child, I idolized my Dad...the big man who came home for meals and worked very long hours to support his family.  In the winter of 1929, a huge fire wiped out the main buildings in the middle of our town...including Dad's garage.  With help from his brother-in-law, Ernest Prather, he rebuilt the garage over half of the old basement.  He dropped the Chevrolet sales business and concentrated on repairing cars.  Uncle Harold Altenburg joined in as chief mechanic.  Dad proclaimed that he was not a fixer-upper...but he always seemed to be able to diagnose an auto's problems.
     I started spending every spare minute I could find with him at the garage as soon as I could push a broom.  I just wanted to be his right hand man, so to speak.  As years went by, I assumed entering the charges in his account books, waiting on customers who came to buy parts, candy, and tobacco products.  My Dad depended on me and trusted me.  
     The winter I was fourteen, he left me to run the Garage by myself overnight at the beginning of deer season.  He went off to a cabin in the mountains to hunt with relatives who owned The Jolly Six.  He trusted me to take care of the business...and I did.  It helped that two of my friends were keeping another garage open just down the street and we kept in touch by phone all night.  Dad came home two days later with a deer tied to his truck.  He applauded me for being able to keep things going... along with Dick, the auto repairman who came in during the daytime.  I remember the good feelings I had because Dad praised me.
     Dad was involved in politics somewhat and served as a Justice of the Peace for a while.  He would not marry couples...they had to go to the other JP who lived up the street.  I know he could disappear if someone was involved in a great controversy.  Just washed his hands of the whole thing.
     The only time I ever saw my Dad cry flowing tears was the day he brought a telegram down to the house and read that I had received a scholarship to attend one of three impressive Pennsylvania universities.  As it turned out, all of them were way too expensive for my family and I had always intended to go to Edinboro State College just as my Mom had done.  For three years, Dad scraped money together for my tuition and board and room...I worked to help.  I graduated in 1942, when teachers were needed everywhere.  Summer and winter I had stayed at school so that I would graduate in three years.  
     Dad let me borrow his car to drive to Lottsville every week...my first teaching position was High School History and Science.  On Friday afternoon, I drove back to Townville so Dad could run errands for the garage on the weekend.  He trusted me to take care of the car, and I did.  We were in the middle of World War II, so everyone did what they could with what they had.
     The next year, I married Arthur Nicklas and assumed a position teaching English at Guys Mills High School, just six miles from Townville.  At the end of my second year there, I had an appendicitis attack and Dad came to take me to City Hospital in Meadville.  If we needed him, Dad was always there.  All my life, I knew he would support me when I asked.  When Arthur beat me, Dad came and took care of the situation.  He steered me through a divorce and allowed me to live my life afterword.
     Dad's philosophy with all three of his children was "be there if and when needed, but do not interfere with their decisions... let them deal with life on their own terms, but know he believed they would choose wisely."
     So Dad planted his gardens of vegies and beautiful flowers, sold the garage, and bought the hardware store across the street while I went many ways with my life.  My brother spent World War II in the Seebees then came home to work with Dad. My sister married right out of high school to a man with the same last name and the potential of becoming the Manager of ever-increasingly large J.C.Penny Stores.  Each of us, near or far, cared deeply for our Dad.
     I am the maverick...with much of my Dad in me... and I wouldn't have it any other way.  In his last years, Dad created walking canes out of tree branches he found on his walks in the woods.  I carry one every step I take...I believe he puts his hand over mine just keeping me safe.  Thanks, DAD.     

Everybody's Irish on St. Patrick's Day

 

Everybody's Irish on St. Patrick's Day.

The laddie born to the old sod,

The lassie, Erin's beauty caught.

 

They gather across the whole wide world,

Green shamrocks and pipes to uphold,

Parading in top hats, suits of white,

Playing Irish ditties day and night.

 

It's "Erin Go Braugh", "Good Luck", and

"Have ye a wee drop with me now?"

"It's hail and fare-thee-well,

Top O' the mornin' to all."

 

Then who appeares?  King James,

An Englishman coveting Erin's green hills.

"A home for the Protestant nuisance," he said.

"Out of England to Ulster County they'll go."

 

Warring clans created a full Revolution.

Catholics joined the English king.

Protestants supported William of Orange.

 

The Orangemen won the Battle of Boyne

and England gave up one million acres

the Irish could call their own.

 

The struggle crushed their great

Woolen mills; the markets in England

were closed to their ships.

 

The best of the Irish emigrated to

Some other place...and in 1795

My great, great grandfather

joined the race.....to America.

 

Wherever the Irish settled, that generous lot

Could laugh with you over corned beef and cabbage,

But they've never forgotten the millions who starved

During the potato famine.

 

In memory they'll heist  a GREEN Beer with ye.....

But some will wear ORANGE!.....

      In memory of Prince William,

      In memory of their roots

            in Protestantism,

     to remind the world that

 

EVERYBODY'S IRISH ON ST. PATRICK'S DAY!

 

So..."Erin go braugh", me hearties!

 

 

School should be more than classes

It's a sad day in Black Hawk when all the “good stuff” is eliminated for a child who goes to school.

I remember when I started first grade...me...and Paul. First through fourth grades we were together in Miss Barton's room. Every day we were exposed to all their lessons and behaviors...we soaked it up like sponges. It wasn't long until we were helping the little kids who came after us. At the same time, I was developing from a thin stick of a child to being well-padded. I wonder now what the reason could have been as it continued into adulthood.

I remember as I was going into Fifth Grade Miss Barton said to my Dad, “I think Beatrice is ready to move on to Sixth Grade next year.”

Dad, pondering the idea, replied, “No, I don't think so. There must be something in Fifth Grade that she needs to learn.” He was thinking, “You are not pushing my kid ahead...she needs to learn whatever is in Fifth Grade.”

Paul and I moved from being little kids playing in his Mom's kitchen, where the floor was so scrubbed we could have eaten off it, to hustling our way through all the classes offered in Townville's schools. We matriculated through classrooms in a four room two-story house to a brand new High School from which we graduated in 1942. I was off to Edinboro State College to become a teacher like my Mom; Paul joined the U.S.Navy to fight through World War II. Unfortunately, on his way home Paul was involved in an automobile accident near Washington, D.C, and did not survive. How ironic.

Through the years, we played on school softball and basketball teams, and joined in skating events on our own time. Evenings all the kids who had road skates... remember the ones you had to have a key to fasten them on your shoes...a key that hung on a string around your neck... joined together to skate the few miles out to the corners where the cement road ended and back home to a get-together for a weiner roast. I guess you have figured out there was very little traffic in those days, so we weren't taking a big risk.

Those miles of cement road were built in 1924 when I was a baby. One of our relatives who worked on the road often relaxed in our kitchen. He would rock me while Mom did housework and prepared lunches for the men in the work crew. At that time, we lived in the upstairs apartment over Dad's Garage/Auto Sales business.

As aoon as he could, Dad bought a house that was out in the country and moved it onto the existing basement of a house that had burned in the middle of town. I cannot imagine what that job was like, but I bet everyone in town was watching. The house had two bedrooms upstairs and one bedroom, a parlor, living room, dining room, kitchen, woodshed, and a front porch on the ground floor.

The bedrooms were equipped with “thunder mugs” under the beds in case of an emergency at night. Otherwise, we made our way out back to the “little house by the barn” to take care of elimination. Going to the bathroom was a “major project” in those days. It was a two-holer, but you were in real trouble if someone was inside with the door locked. Imagine dancing around outside hoping whoever was inside would come out before you filled your shoes.

In 1929, the large, wooden grocery store in the middle of town burned to the ground. The fire swept around the small Post Office, burned everything in the space back to the Mill and leveled Dad's Chevrolet Sales and Auto Repair business. There was talk that the grocery owner set the fire in order to solve his financial problems. As far as I know, there was never a solution, but the grocery was never rebuilt.

With his business burned to the ground, Dad rose from desolation, borrowed money from his brother-in-law, Ernest Prather, and rebuilt the Central Garage on half of the old basement. He started the long road to paying off all the bills he had at the time of the fire. He wrote to everyone he owed and set out to maintain his good reputation...

one day at a time. He finished paying Uncle Ernie the year I graduated from college...I remember the “loan-burning” event. My Dad, Arch Hanna, was an honorable man.

When I was in Seventh Grade, our district hired its first Music Teacher...Mr. Earl Johnson. He was a polio survivor who had one leg in a metal brace which enabled him to walk. The knee had to be triggered for him to sit down...and it prevented him from having a “marching” band.

Mr. Johnson oganized an orchestra...starting from scratch. What a challenge that had to be. I was playing the piano for the Methodist Sunday School services, but when it came to being the accompanist for the band, I wasn't as accomplished as Virginia Barnes. My cousin, Betty, and I really wanted to be part of the music, so we chose to play violins.

Betty's mother, Hazel, had an instrument that had been kept in the family after she passed away. I was able to borrow a violin from a Sara Fitz...who allowed me to keep it all through high school and college...I never owned one of my own.

We took lessons... practicing through months of screeching sounds that seriously aggravated our Cocker Spaniel Bobby's ears. He would bury himself under the piano bench and crowl...a mixture of crying and howling...so miserable. Eventually, we were accomplished enough that we were assigned chairs in Mr. Johnson's Orchestra.

All the students who were accepted into the orchestra and choruses he formed were delighted to compete with other schools in Spring contests. I sang in the chorus, the ensemble (eight students), and the trio. I was chosen to perform the Alto Solo presentation....that was when my voice changed from a Soprano to Alto range. We sewed white dresses that matched to make a trademark Townville High School unit.

All of these things were there for us in that small northwestern Pennsylvania community of 350 residents. If those folks could afford these amenities for the students, what has happened?

I know. Everything costs MORE. Communities have grown by leaps and bounds. People are so BUSY that they can't set aside time and money to educate their young folks. Moms and Dads are exhausted just trying to keep a roof over the heads of their families. They have nothing left to be involved in the education of the kids. They have done enough to just send them off to school.

We also realize many parents nowadays are not proficient in the English language, so they cannot help. They know they have to send the kids to school, so they just hope for the best. The kids put in the required hours and end up floating around the Mall, on the streets, doing whatever.

Not in Fairfield/Suisun. Not in our back yard. Until now. We are on the brink. Several schools have been closed. The students have been assigned to schools that are farther away from their homes. More children are on the sidewalks in the morning when it is time to get to school. More children are on the sidewalks in the afternoon when school is dismissed. Cars are lined up all over the neighborhood to pick up the children whose parents have transportation. Crossing guards facilitate children and cars movement through the same intersections. Very hazardous way to go. Today's situation may not be solved this year or within this decade.

Back to the question...just how much can our children do without? What amenities can be eliminated without creating a generation of children who know reading...writing...and 'rithmetic...but have no appreciation of the finer arts...music, art, and game sportsmanship.

Let's keep the “good stuff” in the daily lives of our children at school. Let's just do that.

 

The Fourth Chapter of Life

Jan. 20, 2010

Mayrene Bates is such an inspiration. She opened up my cache of memories past the “Third Chapter” of life. Most of the time, I just go on with everyday living never thinking of the number of years I have bridged...One day at a time is enough for me.

However, her article has awakened thoughts of “fourth chapter” events.

My late seventies were “sit back and enjoy the days.” I basked in the joy of adventure-filled trips with Dolly. (You do remember the motorhome, don't you?). From 1987 through 1996, all of the road trips were focused on filling in state and province maps of Canada and the USA. Each state/province was pasted on as explored.

I will never forget the celebration in an overnight park in Vermont when I plugged in the very last bit of plastic...Vermont. I hadn't intended a party...but as soon as the other campers realized what I was celebrating, they had to join in. One camper donated a bottle of wine which was passed around to chug-a-lug. Oh, to be young.

Sorry...I digress...but it is a major memory...a mega-memory.

Dolly hit the road for many trips to favorite places in the ensuing years.

A major celebration came along in 2002...the sixtieth reunion of my graduation from Townville High School...that's Pennsylvania, in case you've forgotten. On commencement night, twenty-seven students received the diplomas confirming their accomplishments.

For the dinner, I took decorations from California,..bars of soap from a local company and baskets of candied almonds for each celebrant. There were eight members of my class along with their friends and relatives at the tables. I knew it was the last time I would see them...and I believe most of them were at a similar place in their thoughts.

We gathered together at the one restaurant in Townville...remember only about 350 people live in that small town and environs. Just being there evoked pools of memories. Most of my classmates had never strayed far from home. The men had served in the military forces during World War II and returned to farms and factory jobs. Wesley carved out a business building bridges hither and yon and became the class millionaire. Ellen became a teacher in a high school in central Pennsylvania. Then there was me...the maverick...but that is another story.

I knew it was the last time I would drive Dolly across this magnificent country...the last time to visit many favorite places. I knew it was probably my last drop-in at the Amana Colonies and relatives in Iowa.  In the future, folks would come to California to visit me.

It seemed like my activities gradually narrowed. The Ballroom Dance at the Fairfield Senior Center ran out of money and had to be abandoned. The volunteers who had served so faithfully were bid adieu. Now my closet houses fancy clothes and sparkly shoes that have no place to go.

I have maintained my membership in the TOPS Club...since 1986...where I currently maintain my goal weight. They allow my son to sit in because he brings me. I can and do drive my KIA but Bryan prefers to go with me...especially at night. He knows we will have dinner at a restaurant...Dynasty, Red Lobster, LaCabana, Johnny Carino's, ...perhaps we'll cash in a Christmas gift certificate at Mimi's which we must use soon.... or drive by Wendy's to pick up baked potatoes garnished with sour cream and onions, cartons of chili, and salads to eat at home. Tuesday nights are splurge times.

Ever since my son moved in, my life has narrowed. He has plans. I can live with his taking over the kitchen. He is very knowledgeable when it comes to cooking.

I am aware that there are many things requiring strong limbs which are out of the question for me at this time. Somehow I think I can still do everything...until I try to get a heavy box off a high shelf and I cannot reach it or lift it down.

I walk with two canes...one my father's which keeps him walking beside me. There were so many years when were a team...then more years far apart...countries and oceans apart...but there was always a connection...one that continues across the veil of the River Styx. I was always “Arch Hanna's daughter” and when I am through here, I will be with him again.

In the meantime, I am living my “Fourth Chapter” a day at a time...highlighted by trips to the Pet Store...[we enjoy the antics of Buddy and Baby... kittens that were rescued from under our house nearly two years ago], Costco, TOPS, and the Solano College Theatre.

It's not over...yet.

 

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?