The Worthington Times

Mrs. Davis' Store

As seventh grade students, Brother and I made the transition from a small country school where there were two to five in each grade level to a huge city school in Worthington, Indiana. In that school there were 20 to 25 students in each grade. It was a monstrous school compared to the Calvertville School we attended. The entire school, grades one through twelve, was housed in one building located at Main and Dayton Streets. The building was a three-story brick structure, if you counted the basement, and looked like almost every school building constructed in the last 25 years of the 19^th century. It was the type of building that Hollywood still uses to depict a school. I remember the metal stairs protruding from each side of the building that served as fire escapes from the second floor. Guys loved to have fire drills. Girls did not because back then they wore dresses and skirts. I don't remember using them very often because they were deemed to be unsafe.

My memory reminds me that there was an open campus at noon. That meant that students could go home for lunch and older students could walk around the streets and do some serious courting as I often did. So many girls, so little time. The femme fatales would line up just to spend the lunch hour with me. Once they dipped their toe in Lake Van Deventer, other lakes just did not seem the same. Many times I had to put names in the hat and draw out the lucky winner for the day. It was stressful for the losers but a time of joy for the winner. My memory is a little unclear on these matters, but that is my story and I am sticking with it.

Directly across Main Street from the school building, was a small, white, house that remains to this day. An enterprising lady lived in that house. Many people that lived near the school looked out of their windows and saw a noisy bunch of kids who came to the building each day. Those kids would walk on their grass and sometimes stomped on their nasturtiums. She looked out of her front window, however, and saw an opportunity. She saw those 350 students who came to the building every day and saw dollar signs. Whereas parents and teachers saw students to be educated, she saw signs of economic opportunity. She saw potential customers with - what U.S. Navy Personnel called - walking around money in their pockets.

That person was Mrs. Davis. She lived in the back of the house and would enter the store through a cloth room divider. I remember her as being a tall, friendly woman who wore her hair in a bun. She also wore glasses. The house and school entrances were in the middle of the block. Mrs. Davis' front door had a small bell over it that jingled merrily as the door was opened and the customer entered. Students were instructed to go to the corner to cross the street, obviously for safety reasons. However, many a school kid ran straight out of the building and into the store.

I enjoyed going into Mrs. Davis' store. I never had very much discretionary income, but when I did, some of it would go into her cash register. Visiting her store was always an exercise in decision-making. Higher level thinking skills were developed there as shoppers had to decide how to allocate their limited funds. One criterion of mine was how long the product would last. Taffy and gum was always rather high on the list.

She sold candy, chewing gum, soft drinks and ice cream. My first experience with several confectionery products happened in that store. Vanilla, chocolate and strawberry B-B Bats were some of my favorites. She also sold small packets of paraffin bottles of sugar water. One would bite off the top and get a tiny swig of sweet colored fluid that was intended to remind one of a carbonated beverage. It never did. Then you got to chew the paraffin and pretend it was chewing gum. The entire effect would last about three tenths of a second but the tasteless paraffin would last indefinitely. She also sold taffy, black cows and caramels.

I remember buying chewing gum and several types of bubble gum. One type of bubble gum came in a small, pink, disk that reminded me of a hockey puck or a piece of granite with white powder on it. It would take a couple of hours saliva soaking, chewing and smooshing it around in my mouth to transform it into chewable, bubble-making consistency. Once there, however, I could blow bubbles for days. It was easy to detect a bubble blower because you could see flecks of pink gum on his or her face, eyebrows, chin and nose.

Mrs. Davis also sold a modicum of school supplies. Ramblers could go in there and purchase pencils, the yellow Ticonderoga No. 2 was the most popular, and erasers. Erasers were pink pearl, the reddish-pink type that fit on the top of your pencil and my personal favorite the art gum eraser that came in a rectangle shape. I would buy one of those just to smell it. In fact, I still have one that is probably a hundred years old. Periodically I take it out of my desk drawer and rub it on some paper just to smell it. Well, some people sniff glue and other drugs and I sniff erasers. So sue me.

How I wish I could enter a time machine and go back to the 1950's for a little while. I would walk across the street, open the front door, listen to that cheerful jingling bell and be greeted by Mrs. Davis. I would buy some of that granite bubble gum, a brown cow and a bottle of Coca-Cola. Then I would cross the street and sit on the front steps of the old school and spend some time reminiscing. That would make my day. However, as Sir Thomas Moore said, "You can't go home again." I would like to try.

I Have Room for One More

Memorial Day weekend 2008 BW and I were eating a late lunch at the Cracker Barrel in Effingham, Illinois. We had flown to Las Vegas to drive a friend’s car home. They winter there and because of health problems had to fly home so we volunteered to go get their car.

Quite frankly that day we had driven from Kansas City, Missouri and I was rather tired. We ordered and began the wait. We always play the game with golf tees and the triangle to see who has the fewest left because the one that has the most has to pay. No matter who pays it comes from the same account but we like the challenge.

As BW was trying to beat me my vision wandered around the restaurant and I noted a family of six sitting near us – father and mother in their 30’s and four children, three little girls and one boy. They seemed to be travelers as we were and they looked like they had been ridden hard and put away wet or shot through an orchard and hit every tree.

Dad looked like he worked construction or some other rough and tumble kind of job. He had an outside face, large muscular hands and shoulders and he was wearing a NASCAR cap with flames on it and a race car. It wasn’t turned backward but he still was wearing it inside which gives an insight to his thinking. I perceived that he might be distant and aloof and full of testosterone; all man. I wondered how he behaved with those little girls and wondered if he had any time or inclination for “girly” behaviors.

The little boy was leaning against his mother. She had one arm around him and was listening to him. With her other hand she was patting him serenely as they continued their private conversation. I could not and did not want to hear those most intimate words. The youngest daughter strolled over and crawled up on dad’s leg like riding a horse and cuddled to his chest. Her arms weren’t even close to being able to reach around him. He put his massive arms around her and hugged her warmly and gently. Then he smoothed her blonde hair with his massive paw and kissed her gently on the cheek and quietly said something to her. That was followed by a giggle and further conversation. Then the next oldest little girl, perhaps feeling tired and left out sidled over and crawled up on his other leg. She received the same welcome, a large arm extended outward encircled her giving a gentle hug, smoothing of hair and a kiss on the cheek. Then there were two little girls giggling and hugging their dad. Not to be outdone the third and oldest girl joined in the gathering. He said, “I guess I have room for one more” and she sat on the leg with the smallest sister and was hugged and kissed in the same manner his massive arms full of three little girls equally loved. They left soon and left me with misty eyes and a warm heart. .

When the day of days comes for me I pray that the Lord will look at me and say, “I guess I have room for one more.”

The Marathon Inn Was A Magical Place

When I lived in the country, back in the 40s and 50s, a town was a special place. We were isolated from the mainstream of life, but it was an idyllic life and I loved it. However, on the farm we spent much of our time with the same people day after day and the farm duties are consuming. All of that enterprise consumed our lives and didn't leave much time to go to town or to just hang out. My family seldom left the county and never went on a vacation.

Towns held a special interest to country folks. There are various kinds of activity in towns. A town means action. A town means people. A town means business activity. A town means opportunity to see and be seen. People are engaged in many enterprises. It all seems more exciting and interesting than living in the country.

In Worthington the Marathon Inn was a magical place. This was long before the Interstate System. The Terrells owned and operated the business that was a combination filling station and restaurant. During the day that building was a bustling oasis where people stopped to refuel their cars and themselves. It seemed to me that most of the locals ate at the Busy Bee Restaurant or the Triangle Restaurant. Customers at the Marathon were different.

It seems so surreal now but when I was growing up, we never ate in a restaurant. Restaurants were like nirvana to me. It wasn't until I was in high school that I would buy burgers and fries and milk shakes in restaurants. The first time I saw my Dad eating French fries and a burger at Rawley's Sandwich Shop, it seemed very strange indeed to me.

A high percentage of the clientele at the Marathon were from out of town. In the summer it was a place of respite from the heat of traveling in the car or truck with no air conditioning. It was a place to get a cool drink and stretch. In the winter it was a warm place to escape the icy breath of Old Man Winter. During the night, it was a haven of light that all of the darkness in the world could not snuff out.

The Marathon, as we called it, was located on the north side of town where highway 67 curved northward toward Indianapolis. Cars from Michigan, Kentucky, Tennessee, Ohio, Illinois and other states could be seen parked around the station. The gas pumps were situated on an angle just off the highway somewhat like pit road at the Indy 500. Cars would turn in off the highway, refuel at the pumps and then move off into traffic. Huge trucks slid into the station like mammoth black whales and snuggled up to a diesel pumping umbilical cord for sustenance. There was a grease rack or lift outside the building where cars were serviced. It doesn't seem that it was used much and I speculate that the owners made most of their money on the sale of gasoline, diesel fuel and oil. It appeared to be an exciting place to work.

Men and some older teenagers worked there. It looked like a great job. They would hustle out of the station with a smile and a spiffy shirt with their name on it and always greet customers and ask, "fill'er up?" If you said yes or no just two dollars worth, they would ask, "Ethyl or regular?" The attendant would then turn a crank on the side of the pump to reset it and then flip up the lever where the nozzle was housed and pump the gas. Those old pumps had nozzles with a handgrip lever to release the gas. There was no special attachment or device to hold it "on." Just as today, the gas would stop flowing unless that lever was held down. There were tricks to the trade though.

The enterprising workers used the gas cap to hold the handle while they tended the car. While the fuel was being pumped, they would always check the oil, check the air pressure in your tires, wash the windshield, check the water level in the radiator and battery and inspect the belts and hoses under the hood. Then they would take the money and send you on the way with a thank you, a smile and a pleasant "come back." That is why it was called a service station. The traveler would truly receive service.

Summer nights around the station held a certain loneliness that gave rise to strange imaginings. I would imagine where the people were going. My mind would envision that they were going to exotic places that I had never seen or even heard of. I would imagine what they did for a living which undoubtedly was more interesting and exciting than farming. I would imagine that they were traveling to engage in dynamic activities or enterprise that did not exist in Calvertville. I could visualize the places where they lived and in the pages of my mind those places were much more exotic, lively and fascinating than Calvertville or Worthington. Their lives seemed to be so much more interesting than mine.

Cars and trucks would come in out of the darkness like a dog looking for a hot meal. They would fill up at the pumps and be on their way. They would leave town traveling north over the iron bridge that spanned Eel River, through the hills toward Indianapolis. Or they would travel south through the prairie land toward Vincennes and Evansville. The darkness would swallow them and they would never be seen again. How I wished to go with them and travel to different places, to see more of the world than Greene County, Indiana.

I remember that the Marathon was also the bus stop for the Indianapolis to Vincennes line. I thought driving a bus must be a really neat job. The driver wore a spiffy uniform with shiny shoes and a tie and a military looking hat. He would meet and see many different people everyday. More than that, he got to see the country, at least more of the country than I did.

When BW and I were in our first year of marriage we lived in Indianapolis. One time we were returning to Indy on a Sunday evening and out of necessity stopped at the Marathon for gas. A lady was there who needed a ride. She was selling velvet pictures long before there was a velvet Elvis. We took her all the way to the city for which she thanked us profusely. I'm not sure that I would do that today.

When BW was going to college in Indy, sometimes on Sunday evenings I would take her to the Marathon where she caught a ride with Jack Brannon who was attending Butler University.

Working at the Marathon did look very exciting to a teenage kid. The truth is that later on I worked in a couple of gas stations and it was interesting, noble and honorable, but far from exciting. I also learned that those people passing through were mostly people just like everyone else. Their lives and work were hardly more exciting or interesting than mine. It just looked like it to a pilgrim who was tied to a certain place. But I received an education while I worked there.

I learned five things while working in a service station. First, it is hard work and you get tired. Second, you get your hands greasy and your clothing dirty. Third, people always need gas when it is raining really hard. Fourth, you freeze your biscuit off in the winter and sweat it off in the summer. And, fifth, I learned that there was only one thing I wanted to get out of working in a service station -- me.

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Summer Symphony of Sounds

I grew up out in the country in Highland Township during the transition period between horse power and tractor power. It was a time when farmers in our area were changing over from muscle power to internal combustion power; from hay burners to gasoline burners; from protein power to internal combustion power. Most farmers had purchased at least one small tractor but they still used horses to assist in the many tasks of farming. As time moved on, the horses were phased out except for the die-hards who kept them to plow the garden or to help in putting up hay. I have fond memories of that time.

BW and I recently attended the Rushville Steam Engine and Antique Tractor Show. I truly walked down nostalgia road and was swept away on the winds of reverie as I walked through the fields where the tractors were on display. I found every tractor that was used by every farmer in our community when I was a child. They were so small compared to the behemoths used on the huge farms of today. BW asked, "How do you remember what kind of tractor everyone had when you were a boy?" I do because it was important to me at the time. And just as people recognized the horses that others rode or farmed with in previous generations, tractors identified who you were. Dad, Bert Davis, Kerry Stantz, Uncle Frank and the Osborns drove Farmalls. The Binghams and Pickards drove John Deere tractors and equipment. Irvin Brown and Rex Wilson drove Allis Chalmers, the Thompsons drove Massey Harris and John and Don Calvert had Fords. And now, back to the story.

It was a more peaceful time before electricity and television. Families were closer. People worked hard everyday to extract a living from the earth. In the evening after supper families would gather on the front porch to escape the heat. There they talked about the day and about life. Neighbors would often visit and the conversations would revolve around the heat, rain, how the crops looked this year, politics and people.

Many an evening of my youth was spent sitting on the front porch or out in the yard listening to adults talk and listening to the symphony of sounds that permeated a soft summer evening. The moon would bathe the landscape in a soft buttermilk glow that showed the softer side of the universe in well-defined contrast to the sharpness that the sunshine revealed during the day. My brother and sister and I would often chase lightning bugs trying to figure out what made them light.

Sitting on the porch or out in the yard I could hear the horses chuckling and nickering to each other under their breath after they had eaten and drunk their fill and rested after a long hard day of work. One evening ritual was to close the chicken house door to keep foxes and other predators out. The chickens roosted and quietly clucked and sang lullabies. Out in the woods the whippoorwills called to their mates.

About a mile away, beyond the White River that lay across the landscape like a glistening ribbon in the moon glow, I could hear the muffled sound of a steam locomotive clicking and clacking over the steel rails on the Big Four Line. The engine would chuffa chuffa chuffa, its plaintive whistle warned of its approach as it shoved its way through the darkness on the way to Indianapolis.

Down in the pond and along the creek the frog band would tune up their instruments and begin to play. They would thump, harump and garump through their musical score in perfect synchronization. The inevitable squadron of mosquitoes whined and droned in my ear as they sought to draw my blood into their insatiable stomachs. Crickets chirped their end of the day messages to all who cared to listen. The seven-year locusts or cicadas contributed their singsong sounds to the symphony.

Down in the river bottom, on the Osborn farm, Loyal and Kenneth worked late trying to get the corn planted before the rain. Their tractor lights shone weakly as they battled against the darkness that shrouded them. The steady drone of the engines rode to our ears on the soft summer breeze.

Pigs grunted as they lay in their mud wallow or in their houses. Some would still be nuzzling through a late supper or snack so the thumping and banging of the metal lids on the hog feeder added the sound of percussion to the symphony. In the early evening up on the hill behind the house a squirrel barked and chattered over his delightful repast of mulberries before going to bed. Quails called to other members in the troop as they bedded down for the evening. Hoot owls hooted their messages in the quiet evening. Out behind the barn in the old dead tree by the creek, a woodpecker sounded like he was playing a snare drum as he chiseled grubs and insects out of the rotting trunk. Tree frogs croaked in the peach tree. A calf bawled for his mother in the overnight pasture. Momma cow mooed reassuringly and they found each other.

Down across the river bottom and over the distant hills, heat lightning flashed softly as if someone were taking flash pictures too far away for us to see. The low, rumble of thunder flowed through the hills and "hollars" announcing a coming rain. A sudden burst of wind carried on its breath the sweet scent of the land being washed by the approaching rain. The rain began with a few huge drops splattering on the roofs and road. At first it was the dripping sound of a faucet in the bathtub as large drops fell around us. They were the vanguard that announced the imminent arrival of the storm. Then it became a light shower, gently falling through the leaves and dampening the grass.

Another burst of wind made the curtains billow out in the house and a door slammed making us jump. We all ran to gather some remaining wash off the line as it flapped and flailed against the fearful wind. Lightening cracked and flashed much closer now and the thunder boomed defiantly through the river bottom. The rain intensified making a frying, sizzling sound as it fell through the leaves of the maples, tulip poplars and walnut trees in the yard and around the barn. A few hailstones clattered and banged on the aluminum barn roof. We hurried inside to keep from getting wet as the much-needed rain made the countryside cool to the touch which helped us sleep through the night.

Such was the evening symphony of soothing, summer sounds in the country of my youth.