August of 1944 was a month of great anticipation for me. On the 27th, I would be eight years old which was big stuff in itself. A week later, the day after Labor Day, I would enter the third grade and be in Intermediate school, leaving Elementary school behind. The most exciting thing coming up was that my parents would buy me a pair of lace-up boots. This was real “big guy” stuff, and the added bonus was that on the side of one of the boots, a knife sheath would be sewn. If a guy had a pocket knife, he carried the knife at all times. Then on the way home from school, he could whittle or play mumblety-peg or do whatever may require such a tool. The rule was that you never removed your knife from the sheath while on the school grounds. If you did, you might lose the privilege of carrying it.
Now it’s hard to be a kid, what with fenced school grounds, metal detectors, and security guards. If a kid should show up on the school grounds with a pocket knife nowadays, he would probably end up in handcuffs.
I don’t want to live in the past. This age of technical accomplishments is wonderful. The computer, the internet, television, cell phones, GPS, the MRI, the Keurig coffee machine, and many other fantastic things are available to us today. This part of life just gets better and better.
It sounds great, but we are skating on the edge of a cliff. We are suffering from a state of erosion regarding our humanity. What has become of tolerance and our respect for others? Have we forgotten the basics of compassion and empathy and the rights of others? We thought we were making headway against the ugliness of racism, but all of a sudden, haters and the bigots are coming out from under the rocks and spreading their poison everywhere. Think about it. Say something nice and do something good for someone whenever you get the opportunity. Better yet, create the opportunity.
July 23, 2020
This story took place when the kids were small, probably between 1965 and 1970. We lived in El Cajon, California, a suburb of San Diego. We were heading back to Kansas to visit family and friends. Our party consisted of my wife, Pat, my mother, Margaret, our twin boys, Russ and Doug, our daughter, Terri, and myself.
Our strategy on these trips was to leave the evening before and drive through the night while the kids slept. That reduced the number of times we had to listen to the age-old question “Are we there yet?”
The sun came up and we had been making good time. We were driving through a small town in New Mexico when we spotted a small park. The kids were waking up and were hungry, so we decided to stop. We had a big cooler in the trunk filled with breakfast and lunch stuff so we could stop and eat and get back on the road without wasting any time. Mom was keeping an eye on the kids as they ran around like little wild people. Pat and I were getting the food out of the trunk and setting the table. Pat, who was the one that always noticed birds and animals, was watching a hawk as it circled the area. The hawk was just cruising around, probably looking for breakfast. Its circle carried it right over where we were standing, and all of a sudden, it was “bombs away!” Pat was standing there, and, as a woman of her time, was fixed up with “big hair.” The hawk, with perfect accuracy, dropped the biggest, stinkiest load of crap right on to Pat’s hair-do. She was screaming and swiping at her head with a paper towel while the kids shrieked and pointed at her. My mom was laughing so hard I thought she would have a stroke. Pat finally got the evil smelling mess out of her hair and got herself quieted down. We eventually finished out breakfast and got back on the road. Needless to say, we were all wide awake.
May 21, 2020
I love mornings and I enjoy breakfasts. I know that some people don’t eat breakfast, and I feel that they are missing the boat. I want my car to have adequate amounts of gas, oil, and water to ensure peak performance. By the same token, I want my body to start the day with what it needs to operate properly.
I’ll have to admit that 99% of the time, my breakfasts are not too exciting. For the last 8 or 9 years, I’ve had Cheerios for breakfast. They are quick and easy and though bland, I don’t get tired of them. The “flake” cereals taste like cardboard and are pretty disgusting. I ate oatmeal for 3 or 4 years, but got tired of it. When I fix them, it’s just Cheerios (1/2 cup) and milk. No sugar or sweetener. Part of the reason for my regimen is that I have been a Type 1 diabetic for 55 years, and I got tired of figuring out how much insulin I would need to cover the different breakfasts if I ate a varied diet. I’ll have to admit that when Pat fixes my Cheerios, she adds blueberries and bananas, and it’s mighty good.
When we go out for breakfast, I go for the whole shot. I order 2 eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast, and coffee. The exception to the aforementioned comes when we are going to a Mexican restaurant. Then, it’s “Huevos Rancheros!” For those of you who haven’t been fortunate enough to have them, the term means “ranch eggs” and is the name for the breakfast. Here’s the way the meal is fixed: A tortilla is warmed or steamed and placed on the plate. Two fried eggs are added (I like mine over medium) and placed on the tortilla. Next, the whole thing is covered with fresh salsa. The salsa should be “mild” or “medium.” If the salsa is too hot, you can’t taste the eggs. Next, add refried beans and rice on the side. There you have it. You can use flour or corn tortillas. The only way you can improve this fantastic meal is to use organic corn tortillas.
Since we are discussing Huevos Rancheros, I must confess that I have them for lunch once a week during normal (no Covid19 virus) times. My wife, Pat, and her friend, Judy, like to drive up the coast and have breakfast. They look at the ocean and the surfers and the people on the beach and relax and enjoy themselves. On those days, our daughter, Terri, comes over and takes care of me. My vision is impaired and though I can walk around the house without bumping into anything, that’s about it. Terri drives over and picks me up and takes me to one of our favorite Mexican restaurants. When we get there, she goes in and orders Huevos Rancheros “to go.” Then we return home for the feast. That way, I’ve got something I like to eat, and I’ve had an outing, too.
I’ve never been a brunch guy. That’s mainly because I’m too cheap. They charge you 4 or 5 times what a regular breakfast would cost and it doesn’t seem worth it. I’ve only attended one brunch that I really enjoyed and thought was spectacular. Terri and our son-in-law, Steve, and the grandkids, Christie and David, had invited Pat and I to go to Maui with them. I think we were staying at the Westin. When we came downstairs in the morning, we were greeted by the most amazing tropical spread you can imagine. Besides the normal scrambled eggs and bacon and sausage, there was a complete array of fruits and juices and anything else you can imagine. We sat on the patio and happily gorged ourselves as we enjoyed the Pacific Ocean and the tradewinds.
Pat and I were on the way to Paris and London, and we were accompanied by our grandson, Jeff, who had just graduated from high school. Jeff was good company, and we soon learned that he had another attribute that made him an invaluable traveling companion. His young eyes had the vision of an eagle, and he could read flight schedules on the walls clear across the airport terminal. We arrived in Paris, checked into the hotel, had dinner, and walked around the city for a while.
The next morning, I was up first. I got cleaned up and dressed and went downstairs in search of a cup of coffee. The hotel served a continental breakfast, but they weren’t open yet. I went out front and discovered that the hotel was next to a deli. A man was putting up a couple of tables and chairs on the sidewalk, so I asked him if I could get a cup of coffee. He pointed to one of the chairs and indicated that I should sit down. He went inside and soon returned with a cup of boiling hot water sitting on a saucer. Next to the cup was a red thing that looked like a capsule. I paid the man and thanked him, all while staring at the capsule thing. I didn’t know if I should toss this thing into the cup or if I should try to open it. What a dilemma! I had been a coffee drinker for 50 years and had never been faced with a situation like this. After staring at the thing for a while, I decided it probably wasn’t soluble. I picked at the capsule thing for a while and was finally able to pour it’s contents into the hot water. I stirred the cup and began to inhale the delicious aroma of a fine cup of coffee. I took a sip and was rewarded with a taste of the richest and strongest cup of coffee I had ever had. These French people know what they are doing. You folks of a more cosmopolitan nature may be used to this kind of stuff, but it was overwhelming to a small-town boy like me.
After school let out at Augusta High School following our junior and senior years, John Luding and I worked for two or three weeks for Paul Slagle, a contract baler. When the alfalfa matured in May, Paul would go around to local farmers and bale the hay after it had been cut and raked. Paul would pick John and I up at our homes a little before 6:00am, and take us to whatever farm we were working that day. When we got out of the pick-up, and our feet hit the ground, it was like the fragrance of that fresh cut alfalfa enveloped us and everything in the vicinity. The scent was so overwhelming. Since that time, whenever we are driving through the Imperial Valley or any other alfalfa producing area, the smell takes me back to that time years ago. I love it.
Uncle Dave’s Basement
My great uncle, Dave Peebler, and his wife, Rachel, built their house at 124 High Street in 1923. It was a nice place with three bedrooms and a bath upstairs, and a full basement downstairs that had 2 bedrooms and a bath as well as a bunch of free space. In the basement, was a gas range for cooking in one area, and a Maytag washer in another. The furnace, a part of the central heating system, was there as well. Part of the free space contained a workshop area and part of one wall was covered by floor to ceiling shelves for storage.
Over the years, I had many connections to the basement as well as the rest of the house. This story probably should start with my Mom. Mom’s mother died when Mom was only eight years old. Mom’s dad couldn’t care for her, so she was passed around to different family members until she was taken in by her Grandmother Minnie. Later, when she was in high school, she was taken in by Uncle Dave and Aunt Rachel. I think that after her high school graduation, she stayed with them for a couple more years. After Mom married Dad, they lived in an apartment above a store downtown. This was during the depression, and Dad was doing what he could to find work and keep some money coming in. He wasn’t able to bring in enough to keep us going, so when I was about three years old, Mom, Dad, my sister, Sylvia, and I moved into Uncle Dave’s basement.
I only remember two things from this time period. The first was that I had violated two rules of the house and ended up getting hurt. The first rule was, “Don’t run with a pencil in your hand,” and the second was “Don’t try to hurry down the stairs.” I had gone upstairs to get a pencil and then ran through the house to the stairway. I fell down the stairs and jabbed myself in the middle of the forehead with the pencil. The worst part was that for the next few years when Mom or Aunt Rachel needed an example, they would point to my scar and say, “Here’s what happens when you don’t follow the rules.” The other thing I remember from the time we lived in the basement was that one day I realized that my Dad wasn’t around. I asked Mom and she said he couldn’t find work and so he had gone to Western Kansas. He was working in a store out there. Fifty years later, when I became interested in genealogy and family history, I found one of Dad’s uncles had a general store in Atwood in Rawlins County, Kansas.
Things got better in the summer of 1941 when Dad was hired by the local refinery. We moved out of the basement and into the house at 19 Cliff Drive. In a short time, two brothers, Ray and Russ Larsen, moved into the basement. In a few months, the war started, and the brothers were drafted. The last time I saw Ray while he was in a Class A uniform, he was wearing the stripes of a master sergeant. While the guys were in the Army, their clothes and their personal items were stored in one of the bedrooms. After the war, Ray lived in the basement for a year or two. I don’t know where Russ was, but a few years later he came back to town. He and his wife, Sarah, opened Larsen’s shoe store on the west side of State Street, across from the bank. In their store, they had one of those magic x-ray machines that you stick your foot in and see the bones of your toes and the outline of your shoe.
During World War II, almost everyone had a Victory Garden. The war had caused quite a shortage of food. The able-bodied men who would normally be raising crops on the farms had been drafted. Then, what crops were produced had to be processed and sent overseas to feed the thousands of men were sending over there.
Aunt Rachel and Uncle Dave had an acre or so out on Custer Lane, at the edge of town. They put in a large victory garden there and let my folks have a garden there also. When the green beans came in, Mom and Aunt Rachel decided to work together and can a lot of them. They set up the basement as their efficient green bean canning factory. I don’t know how the process works, but I know Mason jars, pressure cookers, and a stove are used. We heard Mom and Aunt Rachel talking about pressure cooker explosions being reported, and that they must be careful. Well, sure as heck, one of the jars exploded and green beans and glass went flying across the room. Sylvia had some bad luck as a piece of glass hit her in the forehead, and she was cut badly enough that she probably still has the scar. The rest of us and the basement were pretty well covered with green beans.
Another time, Mom and Aunt Rachel decided to make soap which was in short supply during the war. They acquired lye from someplace, and used it to make their own. After that, we had plenty of soap on hand.
After a fantastic cucumber harvest, they decided to make pickles. They had crocks all over the basement. They made dill pickles, sweet pickles, bread and butter pickles, and relish. It was stored for the family. We were in pickle heaven.
We didn’t have a washing machine or a car after we moved to the house on Cliff Drive. On laundry day, Aunt Rachel would haul us up to her house. Sylvia and I were young, so we had to tag along. One day, I was so bored I asked Mom if I could help with the washing. She was wringing out a load and said I could help. After receiving instructions and warnings to be careful, I started feeding clothes into the wringer of the old Maytag machine, and it wasn’t long before the thing grabbed my fingers and pulled my hand clear into the wringer. I let out a yell, and Mom stopped the machine. She opened up the top and got my hand out. No broken bones- just another case of humiliation.
My next memory of the basement involved Uncle Dave’s guns. In one room, two guns were hanging. One was a double-barreled 10 gauge, and the other was an over-and-under with a .410 on top and a .22 on the bottom. I don’t know where Uncle Dave got them. He wasn’t a hunter.
I had traded for a .22 when I was 12 years old so I could start rabbit hunting. I also wanted to hunt ducks, so Uncle Dave let me borrow the 10 gauge whenever I wanted. I shot at some tin cans with the 10 gauge, and I’m telling you, the recoil was pretty nasty. I don’t think I ever shot a duck with it. That was probably a good thing for I hate the taste of duck meat.
Pat and I got married in 1957, soon after I joined the Navy. One of the perks of graduating in the top five of my class at Aviation Electronics school was that I got to pick my next duty station. So, California, here we come! We got to San Diego in 1958, and that has been home ever since. We soon had Russ, Doug, and Terri, and as they grew up in the 1960’s and 1970’s, we tried to go back to Kansas every year or two.
Uncle Dave had always enjoyed estate sales and farm auctions. When he retired, he went to a lot more of them. If he found a good buy, it usually ended up in the basement. So, the basement was full of all kinds of odds and ends, and ready for the kids. Uncle Dave had always encouraged them to go downstairs and explore.
One of the main attractions was the black walnuts. There was a black walnut tree in the back yard, so Uncle Dave always had a keg or a bucket full of them. There was a work bench in the basement with a vise mounted on it. Using a nearby hammer, you could crack the nuts against the vise. There were always a couple of nut picks handy so you could dig out the meat.
Another favorite was the hand drill. We used to call it a “hurdy-gurdy.” There was an old wind-up Victrola phonograph with a stack of records that ranged from Perry Como to Turkey in the Straw. There were several whet stones. Uncle Dave prided himself on being able to put a keen edge on any kind of blade. Russ tested the blade of an axe, and cut his finger when barely touching it. There were several items that Uncle Dave built himself. There was a table saw that doubled as a work bench, a battery charger for his truck battery, a bit for a horse, and a hunting knife. There were old monkey wrenches and a 36 inch Stilson pipe wrench. There were drill bits for wood and metal, and taps for cutting threads. There was a stack of National Geographics in one corner. Who can throw away those beautiful pictures? There was a pair of World War I puttees. Who knows why? The basement was full of new things to learn and new nomenclature to use. For instance, in addition to the table saw, there was a bucksaw, a crosscut saw, a rip saw, a keyhole saw, and a coping saw. The kids learned a lot from Uncle Dave and his tools and junk. He often let the kids pick something from the basement to keep. Terri really liked an old saxophone she found, so she took it home and still has it. Doug remembers Uncle Dave calling them to come up from the basement for lunch which included what Uncle Dave called “Smearcase,” a name for cottage cheese derived from an old German term. The kids thought that was pretty funny.
Uncle Dave passed away first. A few years later, Aunt Rachel passed. Their daughter, Maxine (Peebler) Fisher came down from Denver and settled the estate. She sold the house and all of it’s contents to our friend, Keith Scholfield, a realtor in Augusta. Keith said it took several days and a lot of truckloads to clear out that basement.
Our granddaughter, Michelle, is a very bright young lady and a college graduate. Despite these attributes, she has her lapses just like the rest of us.
A few years ago, Pat and I were living in Keller, Texas, a small community on the northern edge of Fort Worth. Michelle had come from her home in San Diego to visit us in the period between school terms. We had been showing her around and decided to go to San Antonio so she could see the Alamo and River Walk.
Michelle volunteered to drive, and we were happy for the chance to relax. One morning, we headed south and in about an hour and a half, we were approaching a town. Michelle glanced at a sign from the corner of her eye and snorted. “What kind of people would name their town ‘WACKO?’” Pat and I both laughed and said, “Read the sign again, Shell!” She took another look, and said, “Oh. It’s WACO!” She laughed with us as Pat and I watched her face turn red.
November 21, 2019
If you didn’t see the Ken Burns documentary “Country Music” on PBS in September, you really missed a winner. We really enjoyed hearing the singers and the songs we have enjoyed over the years. Check the PBS programming and catch this show the next time it comes around.
As much as I enjoyed the show, I’ll have to admit that I was disappointed that they didn’t include two of my favorite songs. These two prize winners are: “If You See Me Getting Smaller, I’m Leavin’,” and “When I Get Done Leavin’, I’ll Be Gone.”
October 3, 2019
The city of Augusta, Kansas had a parcel of land that became a site for horseshoe pitching and an archery range. On West 7th Street, go about half a block west from Walnut Street, and on the north side, you will find a small, red brick building that is a pump house for the city’s water system. The parcel that the pump house sits on is a city block long. It runs from 7th Street to where the old high school tennis courts were located. It’s a green space, but I have never heard it named a park. One day, we noticed that a group of men had gathered just north of the pump house. Naturally, we had to check this out, and we soon learned that these men had formed a horseshoe pitching league, and were going to dig the pits. At the time, I knew most of the men, but, for the life of me, I can no longer recall all of their names. The one I do remember is Newt Dennett. Newt was the spark plug of the outfit, and he was heavily involved in the construction of the pits as well as organizing the tournaments after. Newt must have been self-employed. I think he sold insurance or real estate. He seemed to have plenty of time to help with the construction project and later spent a lot of time practicing the pitching of horseshoes. That was a lucky thing for us neighborhood kids as he taught us the rules and how to properly pitch horseshoes.
Like most kids, I apparently didn’t pay attention to the important stuff. I remember that there were four or five perfectly aligned pits with matching pits about 15 or 20 feet away. (I don’t know what the spec for the distance was.) The pits were exactly the same size. The target pegs were exactly vertical and in the same spot in every pit. Thinking about it now, I realize that there must have been a welded metal structure for each pit that was jig built to the exact dimension.
One weekend, a couple of the men drove a truck to another town and came back with a load of fine, gray clay. The clay was smooth and pure. They filled the pits with the clay, and it proved to be the perfect material for the job. Having been taught the proper way to pitch horseshoes, I wanted to get serious about the sport. I didn’t have money to buy a set of horseshoes, but I had a good collection of rusty old shoes I had found at farms around the area. They didn’t work. Real horseshoes aren’t much good for pitching.
The horseshoe fad lasted for a few years, and then fizzled out. There were quite a few tournaments, and the local guys had some good times.
Meanwhile, up toward the north end of the property, an archery group was busy with their hobby. They had a nice professionally- made target. It was made of straw placed into about a 4 foot diameter circle, and it was about 12 inches thick. It had a cover made of oil cloth with the bull’s-eye and circles stenciled on it. The target was hung on a big easel. IT was kept in a shed or locked box about 4 feet by 3 feet in size. The archers were good folks, and didn’t mind answering questions for a bunch of kids.
One day, the storage shed disappeared and we had no idea were the archery group had gone. A few weeks later, I was with my great uncle, Dave Peebler, who was visiting his rental property that was located at the northern most part of Custer Lane; it butted up against the golf course. I looked over and saw the archery club guys and their target. I went over, and the leader of the group recognized me and started telling me about their new location. He was a wiry little guy, friendly, and always ready to talk about archery with any kid that showed up. It turned out that they had moved to their new location under the cottonwoods at the extreme west end of the golf course because most of their members lived up in the north end of town. I was glad that they were happy in their new home.