Tuesday, December 15, 2009 | By Larry Vandeventer
Bad Timing, Chuck
I have walked into a room on several occasions and suddenly the people in the room burst into raucous laughter. I always wonder if they are laughing at me? What did I do? Is there toilet paper on my shoe? Are my pants properly zipped and buttoned? Am I the butt of a joke? I feel as conspicuous as a huge black Scarab Beetle on a dazzling white beach towel. My immediate response is to absquatulate – beat a hasty retreat with all toes pulling.
Timing is everything. One pope died and another was selected. The first verse of the real estate enterprise hymn states that the three most important factors in selling a piece of property is “location, location, location.” The lesser known second verse is, “timing is everything.” Timing is critical for success. Trying to lead a group of people toward a goal that they don’t aspire to is like herding a passel of cats. If people are not interested or do not see a need for action, they will not respond. The cause will die of neglect. The libertarian party of Indiana has experienced this failure. Much of their energy and good intentions have leaked away like air from a tired balloon. Voters are not interested or don’t trust them. The Tea Party is making sense though bit I’m leaning toward voting for the Bull Moose Party candidate this fall.
If you really like to walk along the back alleys of under-achievement in the dark night of defeat then ignore timing. Timing is everything. Ask Irving Berlin who wrote the immensely popular Christmas song White Christmas in 1941. It almost went unnoticed until Bing Crosby sang it in the movie Holiday Inn in 1942 and it became a blockbuster hit and a Christmas tradition. The troops of W.W. II adopted it as their anthem of longing for home. And the rest is history. It is among the greatest selling single records of all time.
I have experienced a great letdown upon arriving too late for an event. Recently I scurried about my day of activities – both of them - thinking that I was to attend an anniversary reception that evening. Later I washed my face and combed my hair – both of them – put on my Sunday go to meeting clothes and risked death in the metro area traffic and journeyed to the appointed place. As I walked in the hotel ballroom I noticed that the lights were down and a crew was working with chairs and tables. I said, “I must be the first one here.” A worker asked, “The first one here for what?” I confidently replied, “The reception.” “That was last night,” he said moving a stack of chairs into storage. Disappointment spread through my mind like cranberry juice spilled on the white tablecloth at Thanksgiving. Not only had I missed the reception I had wasted a gettin’ ready.
Timing is everything. Johnny Russell was a well-known songwriter and performer in Nashville. He frequently hosted a segment of the Grand Old Opry. He was famous but not a stellar star in the pantheon of country music that is Nashville. He and Chester Burton “Chet” Atkins, a Nashville Star of unprecedented magnitude, died the same week. Little was said about Johnny as Atkins received multitudinous helpings of praise and notoriety.
Mother Teresa was considered by many to be a living saint. She spent her life and her health serving the sick and afflicted. She gave herself, her time and her meager financial resources to help others. She was the epitome of selflessness the apex of service to mankind the antipode - opposite - of selfishness. Her timing was bad. She died the same week that Princess Diana was killed in a car wreck. Diana, almost the opposite of Mother Teresa in every way, was praised and mourned around the world. Songs were written about her. Hours and hours of television and radio time were given to recount her life and to memorialize her death. Tons of ink and paper were consumed in newspapers and journals recounting her beautiful, excessive, narcissistic life. That describes most everyone when compared to Teresa so please don’t start boiling the tar and plucking the geese for me. Mother Teresa’s death was noted, recorded and her life was almost summarily forgotten. Diana still appears in the news and on magazine covers.
Prince Charles of the same England and Camilla his lover, girlfriend, paramour, courtesan, bit of fluff and mistress had finally planned to be married on a Friday. Unfortunately the timing was bad. Without asking Charlie and Camilla, Pope John Paul II died and his funeral was on that same day. The events swirling around Rome diminished the wedding to a footnote on the back page of the book. There were approximately 35,000 media stories and 18,000 visitors per hour to view the Pope. Bad timing, Chuck. Discretion being the better part of valor, Charlie changed the wedding to the next day.
A Nice Place to Visit but would you want to live there?
A year or so ago those in charge of such things chose “Indiana: Restart Your Engines” as our new state motto to entice people to vacation here and to move here. You and I are contributing millions of dollars to expand and maintain the convention center downtown Indy yet we can’t use it when we want to. Pondering the new slogan caused me to think about living in other states. So being abstemious and punctilious I made a list of the pros and cons to help you make the decision also.
We have vacationed in Arizona and I would like to live there except that it is so hot. They have four seasons: tolerable hot, hotter, really hot and the radiator blew up on my thermometer hot. People drape their steering wheels with towels so they won’t burn their hands when driving. They drive around and around looking for shade to park. “But it is a dry heat,” the locals say. I don’t care. To me it feels like opening the oven door on Thanksgiving to check the turkey. I’ll pass.
We have vacationed in California and it looks enticing except that if you earn over a quarter of a million dollars you still can’t afford to buy a house in some places. You really make good time on your commute while backing out of your own driveway. But then it slows down. People drive their rented luxury cars to their own block party. You have to know how to eat an artichoke to live there. And then there are those “shaky times.” I’ll pass.
We have vacationed in New York and maybe I would consider living there. You have to know that the term “city” means Manhattan. You must like to argue and yell because people argue for hours on what is the best way to get from lower Manhattan to the Upper East Side. People really consider Central park as part of nature like our parks. You have to be bilingual and able to swear in at least four languages. Drivers honk their horns more than a disoriented flock of Canadian Honkers circling Indy thinking it is Orlando. If you look people in the eye prepare for a fight because that is too aggressive. I’ll pass.
We have vacationed in Maine and it is mountainous, sylvan, rugged seacoast and mild summers. Don’t forget about the winter though. On Halloween kids have to wear their costumes over snowsuits and parkas. I checked the L.L. Bean Catalog and their lingerie comes in three colors: Red flannel, Green flannel and Blue flannel and they all have feet in them. In contrast to Arizona their four seasons are: almost winter, winter, still winter and the Fourth of July. The cuisine there is simple because they only use four spices: salt, pepper, ketchup and more ketchup. I’ll pass.
We lived in the Deep South for several years. You can rent a movie, gas your car, buy groceries, get a hunting license and bait and eat lunch all in the same store. During a trial a witness was heard to say, “He needed killin’” and that was accepted as bona fide testimony. Nearly everyone has two first names: Jimmy Bob, Billy Bob, Joe Bob, Billie Jo, Bobby Jo and Betty Jo or Bubba. I developed the habit of saying “Y’all” for one person and “all y’all” for a group. I’ll pass.
We’ve been to Colorado, one of my high school classmates lives in Eaton, and it looks enticing. However, the altitude would bother me and in the winter time my prodigious nose would manufacture tons of hardened mucous [boogers is not very delicate.] You have to be aware that a pass does not involve football or dating. If the top of your head is bald it is considered ultra-sophisticated to wear a ponytail. I can do that. I’ll pass.
We have vacationed in Florida many times and we have many snowbird friends who go there. You have to be able to eat dinner at 3:15 and you have to like early birds because that is all they serve. Every purchase involves a coupon. You have to listen to endless dermatology and proctology stories. You must grow accustomed to seeing cars driven by headless people with the turn light on all the time. They also have four seasons: tolerable, hot and sticky, really hot and sticky and hurricane. I’ll pass.
Then there is Indiana. The nearest celebrity you ever met was Dick Wolfsie at the garden show in the cattle barn. Farm implements cause traffic jams in small towns. It is not unusual to use the heat, air conditioning and practice tornado drills all on the same day. BW and I are natives and we’ll probably just stay here in Hoosier Land if I can just get my engine restarted.
Hello Ramblers past and present and wannabes. This is the latest test to assess your memory of Rambler Town.
1. Wallace and Shirley Short are the only people in Worthington who lived in a former: a. Restaurant b. Church building c. Service Station d. School building.
2. Which of the following people was a former school principal? a. Hobert Hedden b. Puss Stough c. Warren Hert d. Bud Jewell.
3. The Nazarene Church building was located near which local landmark? a. the bank b. The Triangle c. The train depot d. The water tower
4. Before it became the Lion's Den, it was a: a. Church building b. School building c. Service Station d. Grain elevator
5. In the good old days, obituaries were written and posted in the window of: a. Myers funeral home b. Worthington Times c. Flower shop d. Post office
The correct answers are: B,C, D, B, B
All correct answers will be tossed into a hat and the winner will be drawn out by Elden East. The winner will receive a year's supply of poultry products from the Poultry House.
Chili Soup
When cold weather descends upon the state Hoosiers say, “This would be a good night for chili soup.” Hoosiers eat chili soup, a hearty one-dish meal that hits spots they didn’t even know they had. People from other states also eat chili soup but it looks different although it may taste somewhat the same. Then there are those from other states who eat chili, no soup involved. They are different. They are not from around here.
There are many variations on Hoosier chili soup but these ingredients are fairly typical: a pound or two of hamburger, onions, tomato juice, canned tomatoes, chili beans, spaghetti and chili powder. To prepare this sumptuous, mouth watering, tongue tingling repast, brown the hamburger and onions, drain excess grease, add tomatoes, juice, beans, cooked spaghetti and chili powder. Simmer until flavor permeates the soup. This chili soup is eaten with soda crackers with the beverage of choice - milk. Chili powder is provided as a side to be added to meet the taste of the consumer. Some Hoosier gourmands (like me) add peach slices to the soup as a piece de resistance.
Years ago, Winterlein, an Indiana company sold a chili block. It was about the size of a short brick. The lower three fourths of the block was dark brown or black and included all of the spices, seasonings and who knows what else. The upper fourth was a tan or caramel color and it was nothing but grease. Many cooks put about half of a block into a pot of chili soup for flavoring. It was tasty but most unhealthy.
In 2009 some Hoosiers, who make concessions to age and health use chicken or turkey instead of hamburger and call it white meat chili. Ugh! Chili soup lovers across the state shudder at that thought like a 1958 Dodge pickup transmission shifting from first to second. Some use macaroni instead of spaghetti. Ughier! Or white beans. Ughiest!
People from other states also eat chili soup but do not include all of the right ingredients. Some omit the spaghetti which is alright but it should not be called chili soup. Others omit the beans and spaghetti. Hoosiers have several issues with that concoction that outlanders call chili soup. It might sort of look like soup it may smell like it and it may have a similar taste but it can not, should not, could not be called chili soup. The constitution protects our right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness on a cold night by eating properly prepared chili soup.
And then there are those who eat chili – no soup is involved. They are usually from other countries like Texas. They use beef and pork; no hamburger for them. And they do not add beans or spaghetti because they think that is not chili. Perhaps they are right because they do not call it chili soup. A favorite sport in Texas and other countries is to have chili cooking contests [cook-offs] involving mountainous amounts of hot peppers, cayenne pepper, habanera peppers and jalapenos. They have several levels of chili to indicate how hot it is. At the lowest level is the Shirley Temple Chili for the timid and uninitiated eaters like Hoosiers. The recipe calls for about half meat and half chili peppers. At each succeeding level the ratio of meat to peppers decreases so that at the highest level the chili is almost all peppers. Camp Fire Chili is for those who like their chili hot but not so hot that it burns tissue. Round up chili is so hot it is used to brand longhorn bulls and treat sunburn. Payday Chili is so hot that grown men sweat so prodigiously that their hats slide down over their ears and they can’t see to drive. Saturday Night Special Chili is so hot that wooden spoons used to stir it burst into flames. Those who eat more than one bite will be unable to taste anything for at least a week because all of their taste buds explode and two layers of skin from their tongues burn away like sagebrush in a forest fire. Then there is the coup de grace, Caldera Chili that is so hot it resembles lava shooting up from Kilauea in Hawaii. When exposed to the skin it brings blisters in seconds. Belt buckles covering caldera laden stomachs have been known to melt. Texans who have eaten caldera for a number of years do not need to be embalmed. A cowboy dropped his spoon on his thigh while eating caldera and he lost all feeling in that leg for two weeks. He had to go to rehab to regain the use of his leg. The pans used to prepare that chili and the dishes used to serve it are made of that material on the outside of the space shuttle to protect it from the heat of reentry to our atmosphere. That is not chili soup. It is magma from the bowels of mother earth.
Hello Ramblers Past, Present and Wannabes. This is a test to assess your memory of yesterday in Rambler town.
1. What was the name of the editor of the Worthington Times in 1960? a. Irvin Pryor, b. Chet Weems, c. Anna Rochelle, d. Clara Ann McBride.
2. _________ was the proprietor and operator of the Marathon Inn in 1957. a. Lucien Monday, b. Robert Terrell, c. Lovell Miller, d. Pat Ingalls.
3. The Sloan Seed House was built in: a. 1920, b. 1935, c. 1953, d. 1975.
4. All of these were restaurants operating in Worthington at the same time except: a. Highway 67 Cafe, b. Marathon Inn, c. Triangle, d. Ollies's If we don't fry it you can't buy it Grill.
5. The movie theater in Worthington was named the: a. Citadel, b. Bijou, c. State, d. Cine
The correct answers are: C,B,C,D,C All names with the correct answers will tossed into a hat and one will be drawn out as the winner. The winner will receive a free guided tour to the site of the former artesian well in the southern sector of town.
Geezer Geriatric Olympics
I tuned in the 24-hour advertisement channel recently and occasionally the programmers would break in and show snippets of the events at the Olympic Games. Really I have been watching the Winter Olympic Games from Vancouver. I agree with many critics who moan that the coverage has been less than spectacular. NBC stated that they will probably lose $200 million dollars on the games. I don’t see how. Just as life is one long story problem, the Olympics is one continuous advertisement. The ads are never ending. NBC is broadcasting 835 hours of the games of which at least 720 are advertisements. It did prime my creative pump and cause this treatise on Geezer Olympic Games. You have not experienced life to its fullest unless you have witnessed the Geezer Geriatric Games.
The first event is Snowboarding (surfing) the television channels. Seated in their favorite comfortable lounger, athletes hold the remote deftly in one hand while balancing a bowl of popcorn and a glass of Kokoller in the other while changing channels This event requires a strong thumb, diligence, concentration and three brain cells. Males don’t want to know what is on TV they just want to know what else is on. An Olympic trained surfer is easily identified by his unusually large thumb that can snap quicker than alligator jaws on a chicken carcass thrown by Steve Irwin.
Then the ever popular Searcher. This is very popular in all Geezer Training Villages. Spouses form two member teams and take turns hiding and finding car keys, glasses and the television remote in a typical house. The one with shortest time is the winner.
Reclining Rafter Races is begun by pulling on the arm that causes the reclination of the chair. This is an exciting event in which athletes see who can sit in the recliner the longest without moving. They are allowed to shift from one bun to the other and raise and lower the foot rest but at no time are they allowed to touch the floor with any part of the anatomy.
Amarillo Curling Geezer Style means eating as many pounds of corn curls as possible in five minutes without imbibing any libation. The winner is the one with the yellowest hands and mouth. Qualifying rounds require the athletes to eat pork rinds.
Totally Tubular Toe Touching is a popular event. Competitors are required to sit in a recliner or on the couch in a figure four posture where the left ankle is crossed on the right leg at the knee - the usual male sitting position. The right forefinger and the left great (the piggy that went to market) toe are rigged with sensors that record toe touches. When the finger touches the toe the circuit is broken recording the touch. The winner in the 2006 games recorded 135 touches in one minute. Unfortunately many long time participants are afflicted with Carpet Tubular Toe Syndrome somewhat similar to the problem texting teens have. The Supreme Court and IRS have ruled that athletes can collect Workman’s Compensation and Social Security Disability benefits if they can prove the disability occurred during the games and not in mucous mining from the adit in a nasal passage – Booger picking.
One of the most popular events is the Snore-A-Thon. Athletes are required to sit upright with eyeglasses in place while holding a newspaper or watching an Oprah special on how to get your man to open up emotionally and to express his deepest feelings on why shopping is important and that your butt does not look big in that dress. The one with the deepest resonating and most prolongated snore is declared the winner. The sound detection technology that is used on nuclear submarines to determine if an enemy sub is within 20,000 leagues is used to ascertain the winner.
The Hold Your Wee Event most commonly known as the Ft. Necessity Dash, is used to determine how long a Geezer can go between dashes to Ft. Necessity to void fluid build-up. Athletes register and time begins. To the uninitiated readers, Geezers have a gland that enlarges over the years and inhibits the regular and efficient flow of wee wee down the old eerie canal. It takes years of training and sometimes medication to extend the time between events. The winner receives a year’s supply of Snow Melt Mountain Stream Subsidence Stringent.
The lack of space prohibits discussion of many other popular events that include obituary speed reading, hallway jogging to the refrigerator, the Magic Marker connect the age spots, the Denture Derby, the Charlie Horse Leap, Early Bird Dining and the Senior Citizens Discount Dash at Kohl’s, Penney’s and Outer Mallgolia. This event is held in every retirement village in June each leap year. Watch for announcements in your local media.
Spring Has Sprung
It happened today. Spring commenced to start to begin just a week after we changed our clocks. March is going out like a lamb and truthfully I don’t remember how it came in. The old adage is “If March comes in like a lion it will go out like a lamb and vice versa. I don’t keep records on such matters but the vernal/spring equinox made me think about the word spring and how we use it in our communications.
Spring is of course a season. I wonder why this time of the year is called spring. Fall is fall because the leaves fall, as does the temperature. Spring? Is it because plants suddenly emerge and seem to spring up? It seems that we only have two seasons in Indiana; three months of heat and humidity and nine months of winter. We seem to jump straight from winter to summer and then rocket out of summer back into winter. Spring only lasts two days because it is reproached by winter on one end and encroached by the halcyon days of summer on the other end. Spring also has two other names: Either Chuck Hole or Pot Hole. I am always amazed at how much people gripe about pot holes as if the believe workers make them then ignore them. They appear every year. Deal with them.
Spring is also a source of water. The farm where I grew up was established in its location and a house was built there because there was a stream of water running out of the hillside. That small stream ran continually every day of my life and still does. We had a spring house where mom kept milk, butter and other items in short term storage. As I take a mental journey around the area, all of the farms had a spring as their water source.
When we see people who are feeling great and in an ebullient mood we say, "They have a spring in their step." They walk briskly, smile freely and exhibit a pleasant attitude. More people seem to have a spring in their step in the spring. Coincidence? I think not.
BW and I turn our mattress at the beginning of every quarter to extend its useful life. In fact we turned it this week. Many mattresses and most of the box springs that hold them have a device inside them that we call springs. Springs are made of wire that is fashioned in a coil that when stood on their ends provide support for weary sleepers. Most of us replaced the ropes that held mattresses long ago. The expression sleep tight meant for the sleeper to tighten the ropes in his bed to prevent sagging and falling.
Many of the first clocks were powered by a spring. The spring was tightened, wound, with a key and then it began to unwind slowly and that action drove the mechanism that moved the hands that chronicled the time. Springs of many kinds are used in equipment and machinery and even to close screen doors.
There is another use of the word spring and its past tense sprung. Many times as my dad and I tried to repair a piece of equipment or assemble something and it just didn’t quite fit he would say, “Spring that a little bit and make it work.” Spring meant bend it or twist it or angle it. Or if the part would not fit he would say, “That thing is sprung so bad it will never work.” Then he might say, “Take this hammer and hit it a time or two and make it go in there.”
The Indy Zoo is developing a cheetah run in the plains biome. Cheetahs are large cats that are very quick and fast. It is said they can go from standing to 60 mph in three seconds. Few cars can do that. They spring at prey so they can feed themselves and if you were to venture into their area they will spring upon you and have you for lunch.
Life is often depicted as four seasons. Winter is old age. Babies and the very young are said to be in the spring of life; new, emerging, just beginning.
One last use of the word. This may be passé or not used as frequently as in the past but I have heard it many times and used it. Often when people go out for a meal or to get a DQ a generous benefactor says, “Let’s go out to eat, I’ll spring for it.”
Spring has sprung. BW did spring for lunch yesterday. We had a bet on when a very large pile of snow would melt and my prediction was closer. Some of our 15 clocks are still an hour off though.
Hello Ramblers past, present and wannabes. This is a quiz about Worthington of yesterday to test you memory of Rambler town.
1. What year was the first class graduated from Worthington-Jefferson High School?
2. What year was the old school building built that stood on the corner of Dayton and Main? a. 1950, b. 1875, c. 1900, d. 1920, e. 1644
3. Starting with the earlies, put these years of graduation in sequence.
a. 1951, 1931, 1941, 1921
b. 1951, 1941, 1931, 1921
c. 1921, 1931, 1941, 1951
d. 1931, 1951, 1941, 1921
4. What year was the last graduation cermony conducted in the WJHS gymnasium? a. 1960, b. 1975, c. 1980, d. 1990
5. How many high school buildings have existed in Worthiongton? a. one, b. two, c. three, d. four
The correct answers are: 1880, 1875, C, D, B
The names of those who answered all questions correctly will be put in a hat and the winner will be drawn out by Hobert Hedden. The winning person will receive a $100 addition to his or her savings account in the Worthington State Bank courtesy of Dimple and Hobert.
Winter Time Is Here
“It’s Over” is a song with a line, “If time were not a moving thing and I could make it last….” But it is and I cannot. Make it last that is. I have noted through my life that time has a way of moving quickly and catching me unaware of the passing years. It seems as though it was only yesterday that I was young, just married and embarking on my new life with my mate. And yet in a way, it seems like eons ago, and I wonder where all the years have gone. I know that I lived them and life has been good.
When I travel to yesterday via photograph albums I see a young man with expectation in his eyes. I see him at his wedding with the look that says I have the world by the tail on a down hill pull. I see him in his U.S. Navy uniform looking patriotic, proud and determined. Later he is holding two lovely small children in his arms with a look of pride and contentment and joy. Pictures follow of birthday parties, children growing up, graduations and marriage, grandchildren. Where did it go?
I have glimpses of how it was back then and of all my hopes and dreams…but, here it is, the winter of my life and it catches me by surprise. How did I get here so fast? Where did the years go and where did my babies go? And where did my youth go? Someone stole into my life when I wasn’t looking and took large slices of it and I can’t find it. I wonder who has them. They are not in my bank account or promised to me at a later date. I must come to grips with the fact that I have many more years behind me than in front of me on this earth.
I remember my parents, grandparents and aunts and uncles. I remember older members of the community I grew up in, and thinking that those older people were years away from me and that winter was so far off that I could not fathom it or imagine fully what it would be like. They were the buffer between me and old age but they are all gone now.
And here it is. BW and I are retired and really getting gray. Well I am she colors her hair. I see great change. We are not the same as when we married; young and vibrant. Age like old underwear crept up on us and it is beginning to show. We are now those older folks that we used to see and never thought we’d be.
A daily nap is part of my routine as well as going to the fitness center to exercise. If I don’t plan a nap it sneaks up on me any way. There are few activities as satisfying as a rainy day nap in the summer. An hour nap is more beneficial than eight hours in bed for some reason. Thankfully BW and I have eluded the chronic aches and pains that so many people our age must endure daily. We recently went on a weight reducing regime and feel much better.
In January and February winter becomes so long and heavy. It is almost more than I can carry about in my daily ministrations. Coats weigh 300 pounds with nothing in my pockets. I groan for the first tree buds and crocus blooms. Thus far spring has always come and summer follows. But this winter of aging does not hold forth that promise. I’m not sure how long it will last, and this I know, that when it’s over, it’s over.
Frank Sinatra sang, “Regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again too few to mention.” I have some also: things I wish I hadn’t done; things I should have done. However, they are in the past and unlike the delete button on my computer I can’t remove them so I soldier on. In the obverse, there are many things I’m happy to have done. It’s all in a lifetime.
It case you haven’t noticed, life is a gift. You did not earn it. Two people, your parents, made the decision for you to enter life and they gave you your DNA that determined everything about you. Now life speeds by like a freight train passing a tramp. Don’t put off till tomorrow things that you can and should do today. Plan your life and work your plan. You may or may not be in the winter of your life but be assured it will come. Many people are born into this world and do not see all four seasons of life. Make every day count. Live well.
The Times They Are A’Changin’
Folk music and protest songs were quite popular in the turbulent 60s. Bob Dylan sang a song titled ‘The Times They Are A’Changin’. Indeed times change. It has been said that “There is nothing as constant as change.” Does anyone but me remember service stations? A place to buy gas and oil and an attendant pumped the gas. He also checked the radiator, oil, aired the tires and washed the windshield and back glass. A mechanic was on duty to repair cars. They gave service. I have not seen a service station for many years. They have changed into convenience stores where you pump your own gas and pay the attendant who just got off the plane from India.
Some of us are old enough to remember when Rock ‘n Roll was new. I remember King Elvis when he started. He ascended like a Redstone rocket from Cape Canaveral and would have been 75 this month. I remember discussing him as we waited for Doc Franklin to begin Government class. He was dubbed “Elvis the Pelvis” because of the way he gyrated as he sang. Ed Sullivan invited him to be on his television variety show with the stipulation that he would only be filmed from the waist up to avoid the salacious pelvic gyrations and to maintain decency.
. This week I watched a Colts Game, a Pacer game and several college bowl games and concluded that Ed Sullivan must be spinning like a lathe in his grave. The female cheerleaders and dance groups wore scanty costumes that reveal as much as possible and it won’t be long before they reveal possible. They bump and grind like old time burlesque dancers. They thrust their hips forward and backward in simulated sexual moves shaking their shoulders to jiggle their enhancements in overtly libidinous moves. They smile seductively as they shake their booty and toss their swirling hair. High school and middle school girls emulate the movements at athletic events and the crowd cheers lustily. And Elvis was banned.
Professional basketball games more closely resemble wrestling and football than round ball. The Pacers and others do not play by the rules of secondary and college teams. Dr. Naismith would not recognize the game that he invented. Truth be told he wouldn’t recognize the game even before the professional leagues formed. Mega stars are allowed to travel. Centers and forwards punch each other, ram into each other, push and shove and thump on each other like male elks establishing dominance over the herd. The only thing missing is a weapon and many have those in their lockers.
The quality and dependability of cars have changed tremendously and for the better. Huldy was my first car – a 1938 four-door Ford sedan. I paid $23.50 for it when I was in high school. Howard Reel’s grandfather bought it new. It had a gasoline heater that did not work. The tube tires required patching or booting frequently. The brakes were mechanical and gave me the sensation of speeding up when I pressed the brake pedal. A choke was required to start it in cold weather. It seemed that I had to replace the muffler and tail pipe every year. The plugs had to be cleaned with a sandblasting device regularly and the points had to be replaced. The shocks were inadequate. The radiator and hoses leaked and I had to constantly check the water and anti-freeze level. The windshield wipers had one speed and the blades didn’t last long. The sealbeam headlights were dim and as large as a basketball. If one lasted a year it was a miracle. It leaked oil like a sieve.
I bought my Buick new six years ago and I have had zero repair costs or other problems except buying gasoline. In the past two decades BW and I have owned several cars and we have spent very little money on maintenance and repair. I still wish I had Huldy though.
When did drug stores become department stores? I remember the Rexall Drug Store operated by Haney Gantz used to sell drugs and medical needs mostly. Oh they sold some magazines and notions but not much. Some drug stores had a soda fountain. Soda Jerk was a popular job in most communities. Madge Gantz was a beautician and dI have forgotten how they were related if at all. Back to the story. When did drug stores become part Piggly Wiggly, part dime store, part hardware? Drug stores around here sell everything from soup to nuts. They spend thousands on circulars and electronic signs advertising their sale items. But never a sale on drugs.
A colossal change is exemplified by the story of a lesbian legislator in a Western state who has been artificially impregnated with the sperm of one of a homosexual male couple, and will become a surrogate mother. She already has a teenage daughter of her own.
Another immense and disconcerting change over the past two decades is exemplified by the news from our local hospital just this week. The last baby born in 2009 was pictured with his smiling young mother with no mention of husband or father. The first baby born in 2010 was pictured with a smiling couple with different names and not married.
Tragedy At The Old School Site
Michelle McDonald, current resident of Rambler Town, inquired about the old school grounds and possible death of a student there. I did not attain her permission to use her name and trust she will not be offended socially, mentally, spiritually or legally. She asked if I knew about the old elementary school that she was told used to stand where her house is and further if a child died on the playground many years ago.
It hurt me to realize that people refer to the place where I went to school as the old elementary school site. That makes me feel old. Well, I am. Michelle lives in the 200 block of West Main which puts her smack dab on the block starting with Dayton where the old school building sat and where I began my educational experience in Rambler Town after coming from Calvertville.
There have been three school buildings in Worthington in my life time. I only remember two in use; since one was used by the Lions Club by the time I arrived in 1950. That was the little elementary building that housed grades one and two located about two or three blocks south of Main and Dayton and east a block or so. If anyone can help with the exact location I would appreciate it. It was closed and the students were transferred to the larger building on Main and Dayton sometime probably in the 1940s. BW remembers attending it and then going to the “big” building.
The “big” building was constructed and opened in 1875 on Main Street. It was two floors with the elementary on the ground floor and the junior high school and the high school on the second floor. Metal stairs were provided on the east and west side of the building for fire escapes. The front door was on Main Street in the middle of the block almost lined up perfectly with Mrs. Davis’ Store across the street. A small wooden music building was added behind the school along Dayton Street. Band and choir met there as did elementary music classes. It remains. That building served through the 1955 school year and was razed soon thereafter.
I was in the first graduating class from the new building that is now 54 years old. Where does the time go? Time flies whether you are having fun or not. Everyone moved to the new building for the 1955-56 school year. That move propelled education in Worthington from the 18th to the 19th Century. The gymnasium was opened in 1941 and still serves for physical education, industrial arts and home economics and basketball. I really don’t know if shop and home economics are still taught there. It is also where the alumni banquet is held each June.
The following information was supplied by Anna Rochelle owner and editor of the Worthington Times and repository of all knowledge concerning Rambler Town. She also consulted with her mother, Virginia Kruger, a Rambler town resident.
There was a tragic death on the school grounds located on the south half of the block beginning at Dayton and Main. The child would have been in the class of 1940 with Betty Skeel and Doris Franklin residents of Rambler Town. The Utterback family lived on Lafayette Street in the second house north of the Methodist Church. Memory serves that Mr. Utterback drove a delivery truck for a milk company perhaps Johnson Creamery out of Bloomington. When the Utterback child was in the third or fourth grade in 1931 or 1932, her life ended on the school ground.
A sidewalk connected the back door on the Dayton Street side of the school building to the music room. The schoolboard decided to build a monkey bar or elevated horizontal ladder for children to play on along the sidewalk. The job was not finished or cleaned up but children were allowed to use it or perhaps they used it without permission. That I do not know nor does anyone. There was detritus - broken rock, chunks of concrete, bricks and other materials - around the site. The Utterback girl was playing on the equipment and fell to her death hitting either the debris under it or the edge of the sidewalk. She would be 87 or 88 years old had she lived. Such a tragedy.
Larry Vandeventer
Its Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas
It is snowing today as I write this column and that is altogether appropriate as I write about things that people have said they remember about Christmas’ past. I have a little red tractor, a two-bottom plow and a baler sitting on my desk. They have been through three generations and the paint is worn away, the wheels wobble but they are precious memories of my childhood. I also have some toy blocks we played with and a baseball glove that looks like Mordecai ‘Three Fingers’ Brown used. I won many a world series wearing that glove.
Today, “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, everywhere we go.” That is for many Americans who have a Christmas tradition built on the Clement Moore poem “A Visit From St. Nicholas” or as it is more commonly known “‘Twas The Night Before Christmas.” Moore’s father was the president of what is now Columbia University and an Episcopal Bishop. He participated in George Washington’s first inaugural and rendered last rites to Alexander Hamilton after his duel with Aaron Burr. Clement Moore was an author, noted Hebrew scholar, real estate developer in New York City and spoke five languages. It is reported that he had a plump Dutchman drive him to Greenwich Village in December 1823 to purchase a holiday turkey for his family. On the way he wrote his seminal piece of poetry. His image of Santa Clause, a.k.a. the Dutch driver, is still with us as well as the New England setting with snow. I often wonder how confusing this is for Americans in Hawaii.
Francis remembers reading the Christmas story to her younger sister as they sat beside the tree anxiously waiting for sleep and the nocturnal visit.
Ross Edelstein, 13 years old, said, “Every year on the day after Thanksgiving, my family puts up our Christmas tree. The process of putting up our tree starts with hauling the tree and ornaments from the basement. We then retrieve the tree and place it in our stand. We got a new tree this year. After that, we assemble the three sections of the tree and secure and plug them in.
We now put on the ornaments. The beautiful ornaments are made out of scrap pieces of quilt. My mom and grandma wrap quilt garland around the tree. The first thing we put up are the balls, which everyone contributes. Our other ornaments are mittens, small Santa stars, stockings, triangle Santas, bears, snowmen, bells, eight pointed stars and birdhouses. We have a system in our house that keeps us from fighting about who puts the star on. If I did it one year, for example, then my brother Cole would do it the next year and my other brother Drew puts in on the year after that. This year was my year so I got to put the six-pointed star with a Santa picture on the tree. It is such a fun time and each year the tree looks beautiful.”
Dianne remembers 1960 when they went to spend Christmas with their Grandparents. When they returned home there was a bicycle for her and her brother in their apartment. Robert remembers going downtown in Indianapolis to look at the beautiful window displays in Blocks, Ayres, Wassons and the stores around the circle. Then when the Christmas tree on the monument was added it was breathtaking. Karen remembers standing on the street in front of the largest store in her hometown looking at a display of dolls. They were so beautiful with colorful, lovely costumes and cases. “My mother had to pull me away. They were like a magnet. On Christmas morning the one I liked the best was a gift from Santa.”
In 1957, our first Christmas, Susie said, Doug surprised me by preparing a most tasty dinner. His hobby was gourmet cooking and he out did himself He also decorated our little tree wearing his apron. I remember that meal and Christmas as the most enjoyable of our long married life.
Bernice said, “I’ve made doll clothes most of my life and for the last 35 years have given them away and sold some. The Salvation Army wanted clothes for dolls they had collected and came over to pick some out. They wanted to pay me, but I gladly donated them. I feel good knowing that children enjoy them.”
TW and TM say, “We always thought we had the best Barbie doll clothes in the entire world because mom made them.” As I write Grandma is sewing Barbie clothes and American Girl clothes for Audrey and Tess. I’ll wager that many years from now they will remember those wonderful gifts and they will have some of them stored away in a special place.
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Tis The Season Again
We are fully engaged in the Christmas Season now. Stores feature big sales. Evergreen trees have popped up everywhere – loaded down with subtle to lovely to garrulous ornaments. Some of us are even reflecting on the original Christmas Story. Each year movies tell it anew in cinematic form but mostly about Santa Claus, however.
There are two animals alive in the land today: One is the spiritual one who focuses on the birth of the Savior. The other is the secular one who focuses on Santa Claus and the glut and frenzy of shopping and endless parties. The question is, “Where will you and your family choose to focus during this season?” “Which animal will you feed?”
The season is best described as the season of controversy. So it makes good press and good pulpit to decry the “secularization of Christmas.” “Nativity scenes are banned from public property in some places and featured in others. Some stores are having ‘holiday” sales and playing “winter” music, while others are having “Christmas” sales and playing “religious” music. One religious group is urging a boycott of a store for using a song in an advertisement that talks about other holidays as well as Christmas. Some schools are displaying traditional “Christmas” symbols with trees and gifts, others have banned any symbol that represents the old Christmas beliefs and no trees are in sight. Christmas parties are now winter parties, Christmas break is now winter break and Christmas cards are now holiday cards if any at all. Christmas concerts both instrumental and vocal are different. Carols are out and “Grandma got run over by a reindeer” and “Grampa got run over by a John Deere coming home from the Moose Lodge Christmas Eve” are in. “All I want for Christmas is my Two Front Teeth” is an annual hit. Passions erupt. Left versus right. Sacred versus secular. As Christianity appropriated a pagan holiday and placed Christmas on the date, other forces are trying to do the same to Christmas now. It seems they are having great success. Another chapter in the so-called culture wars is written.
For others, ‘tis the season of spending. Some companies do the majority of their annual business during this one season, hence Black Friday. Some families ruin their annual budgets during the same period. And many individuals sweat the issue of buying for this person but not for that one. Not a few now purchase and stock generic gifts in order to have a quick-response package for the person who unexpectedly puts something in his or her hands – in order not to offend.
For still others, ‘tis the season of religion. Many devout believers will spend much time in worship services, meditating on the reason for the season. They will provide food, clothing and shelter for those in need. Gifts will be provided for the needy. And then people who otherwise never darken the door of a church building will attend a Christmas service. Great. Most will prefer that it be decidedly musical over speaking, entertaining over instructive, inspiring over reflective. They will take videos of the skits and performers and applaud as if it were a concert or play in September. And they will have paid their dues for the season. Perhaps for the year. I am bemused at Soap Opera denizens and the casts of regular television shows who live in debauchery, dishonesty, lust, adultery, revenge-filled lives and then piously attend a Christmas Service one program a year in all of their hypocritical finery.
But what if the point of Christmas is not to “fight back against the secular folk” out there? People who don’t believe in Jesus see us too quick to want to fight with them anyway. Sure, it’s as silly to have Christ-mass with the Christ-references removed as to celebrate Lincoln’s birthday without talking about our country’s sixteenth president. And what if we buy gifts – but not with money we don’t have? Adjusting spending to budget? Mostly, however, maybe we could do something for our church or favorite charity. It’s a good thing to let someone on really hard times know that someone cares
And the religious parts – music, film, reading, sermons and the like – can be part of the ongoing rhythm of life. It doesn’t have to be seasonal. Don’t’ shut it down on December 26. Let it be natural and easy. It will both connect you with those who share your faith and testify gently to those who don’t.
‘Tis the season, all right. Let’s use it in positive, appropriate ways. Yoda said, “Either do it or not. There is no try.” Let’s do it this year. Merry Christmas.
I Call It The Jewel of The Jowl
It is official. That grand old dame, Madame State Fair, will soon make her annual appearance in Indy. BW and I will make our yearly pilgrimage to 38th street and genuflect at the feet of that grand old lady who is 150 years old. With all due respect to Iowa and Texas, “Our state fair is the best state fair, the best state fair in our state.” It was an article in the Indy Star this morning that heralded the winner of the annual State Fair food contest that made me drool like Pavlov’s dogs. I knew one thing about the winner before I read the article. The winning entry must utilize copious quantities of melted animal fat, “lard”, or vegetable oil. Does the phrase “deep fat fried” mean anything to you? I love the smell of deep fat fried food in the morning.
There are two main reasons we go to the fair: to see the exhibits and to eat. Much of the food ingested at the fair is not recommended by Duncan Hines or Rachel Ray and that may be the reason I like it. And that is the only time we eat most of it. We mosey across the grounds grazing as we go and then slowly turn and with great resolve, gobble our way back groaning like a 1955 Chevy pickup truck hauling ten Clydesdale draft horses through the Rocky Mountains. We chow down on foot long hotdogs, pork chop sandwiches, turkey legs, sweet corn from the Nora Lions Club by the coliseum, lemon shake ups, Polish sausages, and frozen yogurt. And then in the afternoon we stop by the dairy bar for a milkshake, then curly-Q potatoes, chocolates from the South Bend Chocolate Factory, funnel cakes, salt water taffy, breaded tenderloins, corn dogs, ice cream bars, pineapple whips and elephant ears. It is not coincidence that there are EMT teams throughout the grounds standing by with stomach pumps.
On a delightful summer evening when the stars looked like they were just a little above the trees, I strolled through the reveling crowd on North Washington Street in Worthington. It was the Lions Club Fish Fry. A rustic from the country, I was enjoying the sights, sounds and smells of the evening. Dad asked, “Want a fish sandwich?” “I sure would,” said I enthusiastically. It was at that moment that I walked over and shook hands with deep fat frying. A square of fish was dropped into a large cauldron of bubbling lard, yes lard. The fish sank into the seething grease, writhing and squirming then slowly rose to the surface. It was slapped into a bun and I took my first bite only to burn my tongue, lips, gums, teeth and navel. When I spewed the lava-like fish out some of it landed on my navel. After a suitable period of cooling, the rest of the fish galloped down my gullet. Glory.
Following that introduction, deep fat frying products and I have spent a great deal of quality time together. My visits to the culinary caldrons of cholesterol-laden concoctions have been frequent and prolonged. Members of that family whom I have received as guests include the world famous French Fry. The Colonel introduced me to – Fried Chicken. Ole Olson introduced me to Fried Cheese Chunks and some ingenious entrepreneur ruined vegetables but created a craving in many palates for Fried Veggies. I can’t forget elephant ears. It is easy to ruin an ear but when properly prepared it can send one to Nirvana.
Over the past few years the culinary mavens at the state fair have launched many gondolas paddled by gondoliers shipping their cholesterol and fat laden cargo through our arteries and veins with a mission to clog them at every opportunity. Deep fried banana flavored cheese cake on a stick, Snicker bars roiling in oil and stuck on a stick, Oreo cookies, Reese cups and moon pies have also been served. Then a perversion of monstrous magnitude was foisted upon an unsuspecting public - Fried Twinkies. What a tremendous waste of a wonderful ambrosia like golden yellow sponge cake with a scintillating filling worthy of the gods on Mt. Olympus that causes my tongue to make moves that Fred Astaire only dreamed about. This year the winner is a deep fried pizza. Pizza! Actually, as Audrey says, the dough is fried and then the toppings are added and served.
I am already dreaming about my entry to the contest next year: deep fat fried hand battered chunks of lard with a side of sliced pork jowl slathered in a delightful sauce of bacon drippings and meat loaf juice wrapped in a deep fat fried slice of cheap bologna. I’ll call it the Jewel of the Jowl. Yum.
I Stood
I stood shoulder to shoulder in my dress blue Navy uniform with my comrades in arms of all service branches in the middle of the last century in a line that now stretches from Afghanistan and Iraq back through time to Lexington and Concord Bridge. That line has stood in the breach repelling all who would destroy our way of life, defile our soil and harm our citizens and I would stand again.
I stood at Plymouth Rock, Old North Church and on the decks of Old Ironsides in Boston Harbor. I stood at Ft. Sackville in Vincennes, Ft. Quiatenon and Ft. Wayne. I stood at Jamestown, at Yorktown where Cornwallis surrendered to Washington, at the House of Burgesses, at Versailles in France where the treaty was signed to end the Revolutionary War.
I stood in Jackson Square in New Orleans where Jackson fought the British in 1814 and with Admiral Farragut in Mobile Bay and at the White House that was burned. I stood on the shores of Lake Erie where Commodore Perry sailed to victory for America.
I stood at Fort Sumter where the Civil War began in 1861. I stood at Versailles, Indiana, high water mark of Morgan’s Raid, at Gettysburg, Little Round Top, The Devil’s Den, where Pickett charged, the cemetery where Lincoln spoke, Vicksburg, Shiloh, Lookout Mountain, Atlanta, Savannah and Charleston where Sherman marched. I stood in the stillness of Appomattox where it all ended and was humbled at the bravery and sacrifice given by men of the Blue and the Gray. I stood at Lincoln’s homes in Springfield, in Indiana and Harrodsburg his birthplace. I stood at the railroad station where he departed to become president and to which he returned and at his tomb.
I stood in the palace of Versailles where WW I ended.
I stood on the observation deck of the USS Arizona in Pearl Harbor and in the punchbowl where Ernie Pyle and thousands of America’s defenders lie at rest. I stood at the White Cliffs of Dover in England, at Omaha Beach and the Eagle’s Nest Hitler’s mountain hideaway at Berchtesgaden in Bavaria. I spat on the ground and inside the building to display my utter contempt and disgust for that despicable maniacal despot. I stood at Anzio Military Cemetery in Italy. I stood in Berlin, Frankfort and Munich and traveled the Rhine River where so many American GIs died.
I stood at hallowed Arlington among headstones of valiant warriors who gave the last full measure of devotion. I stood in utter quiet and reverence at the Tomb of The Unknown Soldier and watched the changing of the guard and was thankful for his sacrifice. I stood on the deck of the Big “E” Enterprise aircraft carrier and the submarine USS Clamagore from WW II and on the deck of the battleship USS Alabama in Mobile Bay.
I stood and gazed at the Magna Charta in the British Museum that is the foundation for freedoms that we cherish. I stood and gazed at the U.S. Constitution in Washington, D.C. and marveled at its simplicity and power.
I stood and watched Tillman’s brothers carry him down the lane, across the creek and up the hill to the house because he lost his legs in Korea and thought about his brother who died in W.W.II. Later I pondered the loss of two more brothers and a cousin in Vietnam.
I stood at the Vietnam War Memorial with tears in my eyes as family and friends engulfed in sorrow wept in deep anguish as they touched a name on the wall. I stood and looked at the three statues of soldiers in the tree line and felt I was there with them.
I stood at the Soldiers and Sailors Monument, the Indiana War Memorial, the Medal of Honor Memorial and USS Indianapolis Memorial and some day I want to stand at the WW II memorial in D.C. and when I do I will think about Kenny Short who went in at Normandy Beach, slugged through the Battle of the Bulge and fought on to Berlin. Much later he became my friend. I will also think of millions of others like him. Because of them I am free today.
Freedom is not free. The price of freedom is eternal vigilance.
Trick or Treat Smell My Feet
I never went trick or treating. Another evidence of deprivation in my kidhood. It wasn’t done in the country where we lived. I never heard of trick or treating until much later in life. In 2009, as it has been for many years, little and not so little kids dress up and come around expecting an entitlement – candy - just as many adults expect entitlements from government. When little kids say, “Trick or treat” I am tempted to say, “Ok, so trick me.” They would turn to each other and ask, “What do we do now?” And then they would go crying to their mothers and fathers moaning, “That mean old man wouldn’t give us any candy.”
In my adolescence we did go “halloweening.” We played tricks or aggravated people with our promiscuous acts to make up for our candy-deprived childhood. We only did it to try to outdo our dads and other miscreants of the community who laughed and boasted about the dastardly deeds they had done. They sat around the Calvertville Store and bragged of how they had turned over so many outhouses and ran because some owners would shoot at them with scatter guns. They bragged about taking the wheels off of buggies or wagons and disassembling them and then reassembling them on the top of the barn roof.
They bragged about filling paper bags with green cow manure, setting them on the front porch of houses and setting them ablaze. They banged on the door and ran. The owner would see the flame and try to stomp it out and well you know the rest of the story. They also bragged about placing the banker’s car on his porch so he couldn’t open the front door. They talked about opening the gate and driving a small herd of cattle down the road to another pasture. Tacking was a popular vexatious act. They would attach a horseshoe to the side of the house by shoving a nail under the siding and affixing a string to it to which a horseshoe was suspended. Another string was tied to the shoe and strung out across the yard. Then from a distance the pranksters would yank on the string and bang the shoe against the clapboard siding. At 2:00 a.m. that was not appreciated by the erstwhile sleeper. Those stories threw down the gauntlet for us.
I remember one time when the moon was hiding behind the clouds and coyly winking at us periodically and leaves were rustling like a cowboy wearing corduroy pants, we were on the prowl looking for mischief. We sneaked over to Worthington High School and stealthily removed all of the windows and replaced them with wax paper. We laughed for days. No one else seemed to enjoy our jocosity.
On another night we sneaked into the gymnasium and quickly closed in the ends with cofferdams and flooded the floor with about two feet of water. We went skinny dipping for a time and then turned loose about two dozen piranha fish, several mud turtles and three sharks in the pool. Imagine the surprise when the custodian opened the building the next morning. Those folks had no sense of humor because they failed to see the jocundity of the event.
Another time we replicated the burning of Atlanta in perhaps our most ambitious prank. At that time there was a steel bridge spanning White River East of Worthington on road 157. Half of the one-lane floor was concrete and half was creosoted wooden bridge planks. We borrowed several semi trucks and hauled straw bales to the site. While we were at work we placed decoy policemen at the start of the Dixon Lane on the east and at the Green Farm on top of the hill on the west to stop and divert traffic. We quickly piled the bridge almost half full of straw bales and set them on fire. The fire roared to life and the conflagration sounded like a Concorde Jet plane taking off. Rapidly the bridge became a blazing inferno that would have made Dante proud. Flames billowed out over the top of the bridge structure like lava from Mt. Etna. The steel framework became so hot it softened and the bridge sagged. The wooden part of the bridge burned. The road was closed for nearly two years while a new bridge was built. Now those were the days. The Pinkerton Agency was called in to find the culprits but none of the gang was ever caught or charged. We were good.
Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat. If you believe any of this send me all of your gold jewelry and I will give you fair market value for it.