tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13216175809733512342024-03-05T04:42:53.498-08:00A Satchel of Ordinary TreasureReminiscences of life in Upstate New York in the first half of the 20th Century.
The primary voice in these entries is that of my father, Lynn Harrington (1915 - 1999), but others will chime in from time to time. The emphasis here will be one of daily life's activities, and, by inference, how radically different things we take for granted now are from what they were less than a century ago. Corrections or other comments are welcome.Sherwood Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575868746160608731noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321617580973351234.post-36443882852394257802009-11-21T16:23:00.000-08:002009-11-21T21:59:43.086-08:00Tales Told by AGH, Installment #4: Money and Miscellaneous<span style="font-style: italic;">More of my grandfather Art Harrington's stories from Syracuse NY in the first two decades of the 20th century, as transcribed by his eldest daughter, Mary, when he was an old man.</span><br /><br />1) Once when I was working for Dan Kelly we finished a job and he got paid for it -- five hundred dollars. He took it home and gave it to his wife. Of course, she wasn't going to keep it around, -- she was going to put it in the bank that afternoon. She stopped at Lacey's store -- it was like -- do you remember? -- Stone's? -- dry goods and women's stuff.<br /><br />She laid her pocketbook on the counter while she was being waited on and looked over some stuff to pick out what she wanted. She was fussy.<br /><br />When she went to pay for what she got, she opened her pocketbook, and the five hundred dollars was gone. Well, she near died right there!<br /><br />They locked the door, and kept everybody in, and phoned the police. I don't suppose there were very many people in there. An inspector came over with two or three policewomen. I guess they didn't search everybody, but they questioned everybody, and searched some. They didn't find a thing.<br /><br />When she got home, was she disgusted with herself! There was the roll of bills on the stand beside the telephone.<br /><br />Sure. She called the store and told them about it.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">------------------------------------------<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">2) I remember another time Dan got paid about noon. (Dan was a contractor and building mover.) It was a rainy day. That afternoon as we were riding along in the wagon, I looked down and saw something stuck on -- sort of clinging to one of the tires. It was one of those gold twenty dollar bills. I said "Oh! Oh!", and pointed to it. "My God!" said Dan, "I had three of those!" He felt in his pocket, and they weren't there. We went back where we'd been, and looked all the way but never found the other two.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqpvQvD_qq369f-yQVWu-tQFKlZp-uIIGuwm0bkNhE5f7zIYly7lTcAiwsJncV4k0IzDgkTSRMgy40rXliOXBP7lBN3zUO4TJGlK0MtIM9M-0mtAIWa12fPA1B6JYmavp7gNAhixiWigd5/s1600/20GoldA.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 343px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqpvQvD_qq369f-yQVWu-tQFKlZp-uIIGuwm0bkNhE5f7zIYly7lTcAiwsJncV4k0IzDgkTSRMgy40rXliOXBP7lBN3zUO4TJGlK0MtIM9M-0mtAIWa12fPA1B6JYmavp7gNAhixiWigd5/s400/20GoldA.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406735220923111922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">A "gold twenty dollar bill," 1922. Paper money of this sort -- redeemable for an equivalent value of gold or silver coinage -- was common in early 20th-Century America. (In 1933 they were discontinued in favor of the current Federal Reserve notes, and from then until 1964 they were actually illegal to possess!</span></span>)<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">---------------------------------------------<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">3) Once working in the R.R. yard out in East Syracuse, I found a pocketbook that had nearly nine dollars in it. I thought I knew whose it was, -- it belonged to a big Irishman named Steve. I didn't say anything about it until quitting time that night. Then I asked "Did anybody lose anything?"<br /><br />Steve said "I lost a pocketbook."<br /><br />"Anything in it?"<br /><br />"Oh, eight, nine dollars."<br /><br />"Is this it?"<br /><br />He nodded and took it and put it in his pocket, and said "You damn fool. Why didn't you keep it and buy beer?"<br /><br />Another time he wanted me to have a beer with him. He'd already had a few, and I thought that would be a good way to get rid of him. So I went into ____________'s with him, and had a couple. When he reached in his pocket, he dropped a twenty dollar bill. I didn't know how much it was, but I put my foot on it until I got a chance to pick it up.<br /><br />I didn't say anything about it, but a few days later he came and asked if I'd lend him a quarter.<br /><br />"Is that all you want?" I said.<br /><br />He said, "It's gotta be. I'm broke."<br /><br />I fished out the twenty dollar bill and handed it to him.<br /><br />"No. I don't want to borrow that much."<br /><br />"GO on -- take it. It's yours."<br /><br />Well, he wanted to know how that was, so I told him. Even then, he wanted me to take half.<br /><br />(No, I didn't.)<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">---------------------------------<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">4) A brakeman I know told me about an experience he had.<br /><br />There was an old man out west somewhere who sold out his ranch, or whatever his business was, for $30,000, and started back for somewhere in New England. He had the money in thirty one-thousand dollar bills in a wallet -- like a book -- tucked in <span style="font-style: italic;">here</span> [vest].<br /><br />The train had something like a twenty-minute stop in Syracuse, and he got out to walk up and down the platform. While he was walking, he felt for his wallet and it was gone. He went back into the car, and searched from one end to the other. When he got to the other end, the brakeman saw him and said, "Did you lose something?"<br /><br />"Did I! I've lost every cent I have in the world!" -- and he told the brakeman more about it.<br /><br />"Is this it?" the brakeman asked, drawing out the wallet. It was. The old man opened it up, counted out the money, and pulled out one of the thousand dollar bills to give the brakeman. He didn't want to take it at first, but the old man said, "Take it! I'm not giving it to you to reward you for your honesty. I'm giving it to you to punish myself for my carelessness!"<br /><br />Well, when he put it that way, I don't blame the brakeman for taking it.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">------------------------------------<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">5) Once when I was working for George Steele, we were using a wagon and one of the springs got broke. I told him about it several times, and he'd keep saying "All right, I'll get a new one." But he'd forget.<br /><br />One day we finished a job on Tallman Street about noon, and our next job was over on the North Side.<br /><br />We had a board standing on end to hold up that end of the seat, even [height] with the end that still had a spring. I turned the seat around so he'd be sitting on the end held up by the board. The rest of the gang just had a board laid across the box to sit on. We came down Onondaga St. to Clinton. I was driving. At that time, Clinton St. was paved with cobblestones.<br /><br />I turned down Clinton. (Ordinarily I'd have gone on to Salina -- <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> was paved with asphalt the same as Onondaga.) I got the horses into a good trot.<br /><br />When we got near Clancy's Hardware, George told me to pull up and stop. One of the men in the back got out and stretched his legs. He says, "I'd rather go to hell on foot than go to heaven with <span style="font-style: italic;">you</span> driving!"<br /><br />When George came out of Clancy's, he had two new springs.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">---------------------------<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">6) When I was working down at Smith Typewriter, there was an old Dutchman working in the same room. One day when he didn't know it, one of the boys took all of his files into the plating room, and held them against the magnet in the generator. When he went to use them, they were magnetized, and all the filings clung onto them. He didn't know what to make of it. When he found out what happened, he shook his head and said, "I don't fool around like dat. I'm a married man."<br /><br />One day some of the boys got fooling around with a ball of [metal filing] waste. It was about <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> big, and wadded pretty tight. They'd throw it and then turn right back to their work as if they didn't know anything about it.<br /><br />When one of them threw it, it hit one of the sprinkler heads and knocked it off. The air coming out made quite a hiss. Dutchy looked around and said, "Vot's dat?" He was standing right under it. I said, "You'd better get out of there!", and he did, just before it let loose.<br /><br />The repair room was right under us and they did some hurrying getting the stuff out of there. The water poured right down through. They never found out what set off that sprinkler.<br /><br />(Another time, Harry Hammond got drenched by the sprinklers over a fire in the dust of a blower, while he was climbing up a ladder with a pail of water to throw on it.)<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">--------------------------<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">7) Working at Brown-Lipe-Chapin, when they installed two searchlights on top of the plant, they had to put up a permanent ladder to each one, for replacement work, etc. On a Saturday aforenoon, I was working with an air-drill, on a rope, drilling holes for bolts to put the ladder up the face of the new office building. It must have made an awful racket inside. You'd see a head stick out of one window and then another. Finally, H.W. Chapin stuck his head out and said, "How long are you going to be at that?"<br /><br />"I haven't any idea. Probably a couple of hours if I don't strike any steel -- and if I <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span>, there's no telling how long."<br /><br />"It's an awful racket. You'll have to stop pretty soon, or I'll have to go home."<br /><br />I laughed and said, "You might as well go home. You ain't doin' nothin' anyhow!"<br /><br />Chapin grinned and said no more.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiahoHF9N_Nc0uoXJrCmQgWEClxqa9PoQX79OaZqhzc_EtxOSnvK2sZWRlRWPDWVAypdkrrrALDcdO5qjyFs_1YnKnCKeifZC641lUlBaOYS-TGbGIWkP5smXR2GnGeII7EEwj4fzx-FL3K/s1600/Chapin.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 280px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiahoHF9N_Nc0uoXJrCmQgWEClxqa9PoQX79OaZqhzc_EtxOSnvK2sZWRlRWPDWVAypdkrrrALDcdO5qjyFs_1YnKnCKeifZC641lUlBaOYS-TGbGIWkP5smXR2GnGeII7EEwj4fzx-FL3K/s400/Chapin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406735215022098114" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Henry Winfield Chapin -- the "Chapin" in Brown-Lipe-Chapin -- was a captain of industry in Syracuse during the early 20th Century. His companies manufactured gears and differentials for the young automobile industry. This cartoon is from <a href="http://www.archive.org/stream/cu31924028832628#page/n0/mode/2up">Club Men in Caricature</a>, a 1915 collection of ink portraits of 189 of Syracuse's most powerful men. (Cornell University Library.)</span><br /></span></div><br /><a href="http://www.archive.org/stream/cu31924028832628#page/n0/mode/2up"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></a><a href="http://www.w3schools.com/"></a><div style="text-align: center;">---------------------------<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">8) <span style="font-style: italic;">MEH: Once Dad, using a drill, cut through an electric conduit embedded in the concrete wall at Brown-Lipe-Chapin.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Chapin asked, "Didn't you </span>know<span style="font-style: italic;"> it was there?"<br /><br />Dad:-- "Sure. I could see right through the concrete."<br /><br />Chapin:-- "Well there are blueprints."<br /><br />Dad:-- "Where?"<br /><br />Chapin:-- "In the office."<br /><br />Dad:-- "That's a good place for them!"<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">They got out the blueprints, before any more work was done on the job.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc_e2QDPINFt_nHUYkqSOJVpIBjtXbhnFPWUxxFB1kShA7iDjyki1b3pOF-XHjCdY2Gs7BWEjltCOuNTPqqQ36LYA1xpND_JCHGMYu6oGjkG0oO_B-EnQ2N0u7fFv1utbOfB89MQaSu7YB/s1600/ChapinMonument.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc_e2QDPINFt_nHUYkqSOJVpIBjtXbhnFPWUxxFB1kShA7iDjyki1b3pOF-XHjCdY2Gs7BWEjltCOuNTPqqQ36LYA1xpND_JCHGMYu6oGjkG0oO_B-EnQ2N0u7fFv1utbOfB89MQaSu7YB/s400/ChapinMonument.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406735212760731858" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">One of the most elegant structures in Syracuse's Oakwood Cemetery is this monument to Chapin and his wife, Marie, whose graves are incorporated in it. Art Harrington's monument is still being built, in a way. (Photograph copyright by Larry Hoyt from his blog </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://newfolkfotos.blogspot.com/">NewFolkFotos</a><span style="font-style: italic;">.)</span><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">---------------------------------<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">9) Once, at B.-L.-C. there was a quarter-ton chain-falls missing. There was quite a stink raised about that, until one day Lihou came into the room where the men were taking off their overalls, and washing up to go home. He asked if there wasn't anyone of them who knew where that chain-fall went.<br /><br />Ran Waughter spoke up, "I don't know where it is now -- the last time I saw it, it was hanging in your garage."<br /><br />Lihou turned and left, and he never mentioned the matter again. I don't think Ran had ever been near Lihou's garage, but he made a good guess.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Next: More short tales from AGH's memories.</span></span><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Sherwood Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575868746160608731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321617580973351234.post-41067162251273494542009-09-07T18:30:00.000-07:002009-09-07T19:59:47.449-07:00Remembrances... Installment #10: Home Cobbling, Downtown, and First Bike from Hell<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />REMEMBRANCES OF A CHILDHOOD</span><br />by Lynn Harrington<br />Part I: 1918 - 1927, concluded<br /></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">19. Sewing, Shop Belts, and Shoe Leather</span><br /><br />Keeping us children decently clothed was a continuing problem for our parents. Our poor Mother never lacked for work to keep her busy in the evening, after the supper dishes were done and arrangements for the next morning's breakfast made. That was when she would sit down with a lapful of clothes in need of mending. When I think back on those nights in the Cannon Street house, the picture that most often comes to mind is of her sitting there in the living room enveloped in the glow of the lamplight, darning socks or mending the worn-through knees or elbows of pants or shirts, or taking up the hem of a dress to help it along in its passage down the normal progression from an older girl to the next younger.<br /><br />Dad's part in extending our clothing resources was concentrated mainly on keeping us boys shod. New shoes were expensive, and we somehow managed to wear a hole through a sole in a very short time. Dad's work as a millwright at the big Brown-Lipe-Chapin Gear factory often involved making repairs to the leather belts which were at that time the most common means of driving machines in factories. A good deal of heavy scrap leather accumulated in that work, and the management was quite willing to let the men take such scraps home if they wished.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcpcdwupPs59x9EGGlci1AM1B_Vfud1Pd_HHnPOo8OfCsDQuFKU5v7V-ud9INh05zlPkTizpdU3XpSnzZVql3SpvV34_fgms98krnNcZUAGIgxAdDq05BxtzGvhfpwN-nb88xzF1_ULp6C/s1600-h/last.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcpcdwupPs59x9EGGlci1AM1B_Vfud1Pd_HHnPOo8OfCsDQuFKU5v7V-ud9INh05zlPkTizpdU3XpSnzZVql3SpvV34_fgms98krnNcZUAGIgxAdDq05BxtzGvhfpwN-nb88xzF1_ULp6C/s320/last.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378924478978023458" border="0" /></a>Dad had, early on, acquired a few of the essential tools of the cobbler's trade. Among these was a set of metal lasts, pieces of iron one surface of which was flat and smooth, and so shaped as to fit snugly into a shoe of a given size. The opposite surface of the last was contoured in such a way that it would engage firmly on the top of a pedestal-like stand. Dad would select the last of the right size for the shoe that had need of a replacement sole. He would then trace the outline of the sole on a piece of the scrap leather. Seated by the pedestal-mounted shoe and last, he would use shoenails and his tackhammer to attach to the shoe the piece of scrap leather he had cut to the outline he had drawn. With his very sharp knife he would then trim the edge of the new sole until it was smooth and even.<br /><br />The belting material came in various thicknesses, and he always used the same thickness on both of the shoes of a pair. If the leather was quite thick one resoling would usually last as long as the uppers. We boys were always hoping the belt leather would be thin, for then the shoes would be more nearly flexible. Thin leather, however, meant more work for Dad, for when the manufacturer' s original sole wore through in the middle, the shop-leather sole could be applied right over it. When that one wore through, it had to be removed before the second replacement could be put on. That involved a good deal of careful and difficult tack-pulling.<br /><br />We were always glad to have our worn-through shoes repaired. We were apprehensive, however, about what our experience was going to be when we wore them to school. Most often no one noticed. But we were not always so lucky. All too frequently the shop sole, when bent to the degree required by the flexing of the newly-shod foot in walking, gave off a loud squeak. This was embarrassing in school, especially if we were called upon to go to the blackboard. A squeak which occurred while walking in a crowded hallway or along the sidewalk did not draw attention to us individually; the same noise as we walked alone in a quiet room brought titters from the class, and a blush to our cheeks.<br /><br />The embarrassment was compounded when the two soles came from different leathers, one of which squeaked and the other didn't. For some reason, that skip-abeat squeaking seemed to be more conspicuous, and more amusing to the class, than was the regular squeak with every step. But with wear the noise diminished, and in time our young classmates lost interest in the peculiar performance of our shoes.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">20. Downtown Syracuse</span><br /><br />During the first half of the 1920s the downtown section of the city was an exciting place to go. It was not a part of the city Jimmy or I would venture into alone. Sometimes one of the girls would take one or both of us there on a Saturday, just for the fun of showing us what a busy place it was. I can remember rare occasions when Dad took me downtown with him when he had some shopping to do or an errand to run. Those were great occasions, for he knew all about the city, and would talk about the sights we saw and the traffic that thronged the streets. I was especially fascinated by the street cars and trains. Dad had worked for a time as a streetcar motorman. The car lines all radiated out of downtown to the outlying neighborhoods. By reading the destination signs on the cars Dad could tell me just where each car went, the streets it followed, and the neighborhood it served.<br /><br />For some reason, anything that rolled on iron wheels over steel rails intrigued me. This was especially true of the New York Central passenger trains, with their great chuffing steam engines and their long strings of cars. At that time the train station was situated downtown, and the tracks had not yet been elevated. The long trains rolled east and west in their slow passage right down the street in the center of the city. Traffic delays on the busy north-south streets were frequent and frustrating to pedestrians and all forms of traffic that had to wait for them. I enjoyed occasional visits to the station and its train shed where I could watch passengers boarding and leaving the cars, and baggage and express being put on and taken off the cars designed for that service. Watching the engineer using a longspouted oil can to lubricate the side-rod driving mechanism of his locomotive as it stood panting at the head of the train was a special treat to me.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdzPsH-i-YJ2lVcaUnPQqjBXUSSOvmBL15tGcGZTMylvaucJmhwN7hdkJ-13ezj7N0tRVTFMwyMOTwpPf_Tc31uK-kChborFN9moTmrgm5T4x90RkBBylfJk1wmcTMl7HflJRTy4oayUf8/s1600-h/ExpressTrain.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 254px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdzPsH-i-YJ2lVcaUnPQqjBXUSSOvmBL15tGcGZTMylvaucJmhwN7hdkJ-13ezj7N0tRVTFMwyMOTwpPf_Tc31uK-kChborFN9moTmrgm5T4x90RkBBylfJk1wmcTMl7HflJRTy4oayUf8/s400/ExpressTrain.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378924115634530578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The New York Central's "Empire State Express" rolling through downtown Syracuse in the 1920's. (Postcard image from the <a href="http://www.rootsweb.ancestry.com/%7Enyononda/PHOTOS/MStone/SyracusePostcards.html">collection of Michelle Stone</a> on Genweb.)</span><br /></span></div><br />Setting one of those long, heavy trains in motion required the skilled touch of a master engineer. One tug too far or too quick on the throttle would send the driving wheels spinning in a frenzy without moving the train. Sparks would fly and there would be a great roar form the exhaust stack of the engine. Then the throttle would have to be pushed back and a new, more gradual start attempted, with a further application of sand fed from a storage dome atop the boiler down the tubes to the rails, directly ahead of the driving wheels. Less experienced engineers would sometimes have to repeat this process two or three times, especially in getting a long string of heavy steel Pullman cars under way. The veteran engineers, especially those assigned to the crack trains such as the 20th Century Limited, the Commodore Vanderbilt or the Empire State Express, rarely spun out more than once in getting their great trains into motion.<br /><br />When I first visited downtown, traffic at each major intersection was directed by a policeman. He stood in the center of the crossing, looking very natty in his blue uniform and white gloves, directing the traffic flow by hand signals accented by shrill blasts from his whistle. And then one Saturday, in which year I can't recall, Dad took us boys downtown to see the newly-installed automatic, electrically operated traffic signals. They were mounted on posts at curbside at each major intersection, showing in sequence and in uniformly controlled intervals the three standard light colors, red, yellow, and green. Only in later years came the more sophisticated signalling, such as selective delays for turns or for pedestrians only, or the showing of both yellow and green simultaneously as the green phase of the cycle neared its end, while the red shows continuously in the other direction. But the earliest important improvement in the system as first installed came quite soon. All of the signal posts operated simultaneously. For several seconds with the changing of the lights there rang at each signal pole a clamorous warning bell. This was not a gong, but a rapidly burring bell, like a greatly amplified doorbell. The clamor of all those bells ringing at the same time from every signal post in the downtown area was bad enough for the passing motorist; for those who worked downtown it was simply intolerable, and was soon discontinued.<br /><br />Policemen patrolled afoot night and day in the downtown section. They had no radios for communication, but Dad told us of the method they had developed for summoning assistance from fellow officers on nearby beats. Each officer had a nightstick, a shiny black cylinder of very hard wood about two inches in diameter, formed to a smaller diameter near one end to serve as the grip-handle. A hole drilled through at the point where the diameter diminished allowed for the attachment of a leather thong which the officer could loop over his wrist. It was a treat to see how the policemen could stroll along, glancing watchfully about, and casually twirling the nightstick on its thong, so fast that it looked not like a stick but like a whirl of reflecting blackness. It was with his nightstick that the officer would signal for help in the quiet of the late night hours. They had all mastered the technique of beating a rapid drumming of the stick against the cement sidewalk, producing a loud, rapidfire, and pervasive sound that would carry for a long distance in all directions. Fellow officers would hear the signal, and move off on the run in the direction from which the sound came.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">21. My First Bicycle</span><br /><br />During the summer of the last full year of our residence on Cannon Street, in 1925, I reached the age of 10. A few of the boys my age in the neighborhood had bicycles, and I longed very deeply to have one of my own. But my parents had two very good reasons why I could not: First, because they didn't think I was old enough, and, second, because they couldn't afford it. I understood about the money, but felt sure I could ride a bicycle safely. I had already learned to ride well enough to keep a bike balanced, courtesy of a few boys who let me practice for short intervals on their bicycles. As the summer wore on I came to realize that they were tired of my pleading, and I gave up all hope. And then in late summer came my birthday, and with it, to my astonishment, a bicycle. Neither Mom nor Dad said anything about where it came from, or what it cost, but it clearly must have lain in storage somewhere for a very long time, since it was quite different from any of the bicycles I had ever seen.<br /><br />The bike merits detailed description, partly because it was so important to me, and partly because an understanding of its construction and operation is necessary to visualization of the various experiences I encountered in operating it. The bicycles with which I was familiar were basically pretty much alike, with mudguards and handlebar grips and coaster brakes. My birthday bike had none of those things. It consisted of tires, wheels, frame, handlebar, chain, and a sort of improvised seat. The pedal arrangement was standard, with its cogged wheel which turned with the pedals and. by its chain connection with the rear wheel hub, propelled the bicycle. But the rear hub was not at all conventional. It housed no brake nor coaster mechanism at all. The result of this unorthodox setup was that the rear wheel, the chain, and the pedals all moved continuously whenever the bike was in motion.<br /><br />The most important effect of this novel arrangement was that there was only one way of achieving any braking effect. This was to put all my weight on the foot that rested on the pedal moving through the upward half of its circular motion. When I wanted to stop I had to switch my weight back and forth repeatedly from one foot to the other with every half-turn of the pedals. The rate of this weight-shifting and the consequent bobbing up and down was determined by the speed at which the bike was moving. At anything higher than a moderate rate this was very uncomfortable. Given my light weight, the retarding effect of bearing down on a rising pedal was minimal at best.<br /><br />I loved the bicycle, and was thrilled when I rode it. Whenever a quick stop became necessary it was thrilling in quite a different way. I usually had two alternatives if evasive movement was out of the question: First choice was to steer into a bush or any shrubbery that was near enough at hand. I might get scratched up, but the bush would stop me less abruptly than a tree or a wall. The second choice was even less pleasant. That was to fling myself off the bike. That was painful, and didn't do the bike much good, either.<br /><br />I learned several things early in my ownership of that machine. One was, don't go fast on purpose. Second, don't go fast unintentionally, which meant stay away from hills. Third, at anything more than a low speed, never take both feet off the pedals; getting them back on would be a problem. Probably most important, never give Jimmy or any other little kid a ride on the bar. Such rides were virtually certain to end in a spill, and a little boy who was pitched off my bicycle would scream like crazy, and I would have the wrath of his mother upon my head.<br /><br />There came a day that fall when a big boy, one of our older cousins, was visiting with his parents at our house. He was much interested in the bicycle. When I told him about my braking problems he told me I just wasn't doing it right. What I should do, he said, was to push the sole of my right shoe against the tire of the front wheel, up near the fork. Then he hopped on and rode a little way up the sidewalk. Coming back he had it going at pretty good speed by the time he reached us boys, standing in front of the house. Then, following the instructions he had given me, he put the toe of his right shoe against the fork, then pressed the sole of the shoe down against the tire (no mudguards, remember) and stopped the bike quite smoothly. I was overjoyed, and immediately set out to try his technique. I was going along at a great rate when I reached the watching group, and then I removed my right foot from the pedal and pressed the toe of my sneaker hard against the front tire. I had no time immediately after for analysis of the results, but as he reminded me later (and as he obviously assumed even a dumb kid would have figured out) he had put the toe of his shoe against the base of the fork, just above the tire, before bearing down on the tire. Besides that, his shoe had a leather sole, which would not grab on the tire as my sneaker did. As a result of my ignorance of these little details, when I shoved the toe of my sneaker farther down than he had, I induced a quite spectacular result. Before I knew what was happening the tire drew the toe of my sneaker up and jammed it tightly into the space between the tire and the fork, stopping the wheel dead still. The immediate stoppage of the wheel didn't induce much of a skid. What with the speed of the bike and my light and forward-leaning weight, the direction of motion was simply transformed from linear to rotary. The bicycle and I swung a swift arc, pivoting around the axle of the front wheel and dumping me head first on the sidewalk. I saw a lot of stars, and discovered that I could scream even louder than the little kids could.<br /><br />I had lost some skin from my nose and forehead, and had quite a bump on my head. But the consensus of the adults who had been drawn out of the house by the excitement on the sidewalk was that, with a bit of rest and cleaning up, I would be all right. So Mama washed me up and put me to bed, keeping a cool, damp cloth on my forehead until I fell asleep.<br /><br />By the next day I was only slightly the worse for wear. After a while I went out back of the house to see if my bike was all right. It wasn't there. Bob said Mom and Dad had a conversation about it the night before, and he had seen Dad pushing it along the sidewalk toward Colvin Street before I was up that morning.Sherwood Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575868746160608731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321617580973351234.post-45962768987699405012009-08-31T19:18:00.000-07:002009-08-31T21:04:17.657-07:00Remembrances... Installment #9: Salesmanship, Workmanship, and the Fruits of Thievery<div style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">REMEMBRANCES OF A CHILDHOOD</span><br />By Lynn Harrington<br />Part I: 1918 – 1927, continued<br /></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">15. Liveries</span><br /><br />One of the more prosperous families living near us on Cannon Street was the Nastasis. Of the family in general, I remember hardly anything. The one member I recall quite clearly is the father, Mr. Nicholas Nastasi. He was without question the most elegant gentleman in our neighborhood. We used to see him leaving for work in the morning and returning in the evening. He walked past our house on his way to and from the street car stop at Salina and Colvin. In the wintertime his black bowler hat would have been a prime target for a wayward boy with a snowball, but the dignity of his bearing and the impressiveness of his dress -- a splendid dark gray overcoat with its black velvet collar, his fine light gloves, and the black walking stick he carried --- were intimidating enough to prevent any such misconduct.<br /><br />I remember wondering aloud one day, along about 1925 when automobiles were becoming increasingly common, why a man so rich as Mr. Nastasi didn't have one. "Oh, he could have one if he wanted to," my Dad said, "but he thinks automobiles are the work of the devil." He went on to explain that Mr. Nastasi owned a livery stable down near the Lackawanna train station. He had made a fortune renting horses and rigs to traveling salesmen ("drummers", they were called then) and others who had need of temporary private transportation. The rapidly growing availability of automobiles was relentlessly forcing liverymen out of business. Dad thought that Nick should have acquired a new car agency, but the man's pride and his anger at automobiles in general were too bitter to let him stoop to that, so his business was going to smash.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7v6HXk_Q_4npZJ9RWN2ZxatoUqyrHfrgUbwy83wUnezdjHVi3FwT6kd6br-xoxjqtk8TX170EcEvlCpHJfnqQKYP7RxteooC9YvTadAVJB0tF3ElWBUMtUHY-oTLPDi5_CNgZebTBjAto/s1600-h/VanderbiltHotel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7v6HXk_Q_4npZJ9RWN2ZxatoUqyrHfrgUbwy83wUnezdjHVi3FwT6kd6br-xoxjqtk8TX170EcEvlCpHJfnqQKYP7RxteooC9YvTadAVJB0tF3ElWBUMtUHY-oTLPDi5_CNgZebTBjAto/s400/VanderbiltHotel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376331715631745778" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Vanderbilt Hotel, Syracuse, early 1920's. Notice the mix of internal-combustion and horse-drawn vehicles on the streets.</span><br /></span></div><br />Between our house and the University, on Raynor Avenue, was another livery stable and wagon rental business. The proprietor of that one, when we boys found it, had given up and sold his horses. In one of our rambles through the outlying neighborhood we came upon that abandoned enterprise, with its barn silent and empty of horses. We found a way in, and reveled in the excitement of exploring and playing about in the dim interior of that old barn, among the horse stalls and in the parts where wagons, draped with cobwebs and thick with dust, remained in storage. The more common gigs, single-seat buggies, and work wagons were parked in a large, fenced lot out back. But in the barn were the splendid coaches and carriages, some of the finest with glass-windowed passenger compartments and high outside bench seats front and rear, for the driver and his helper, and second-class passengers. These coaches yet retained the elegance of their upholstery and were fitted with fine lanterns and lamps; when we brushed off the accumulated dust we could see the gleam of the brass and nickel trim of those fixtures. Those beautiful upper-class coaches also had leaf springs, while their less imposing partners in the trade had either leather-strap suspensions or no springs at all. Passengers in the coaches had the luxury of riding on wheels bearing hard rubber tires, too, rather than the common iron bands that were the tires for the wheels of lesser vehicles.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">16. Cloverine Salve and the BB Gun</span><br /><br />It must have been during the winter of 1923, when I was eight, that I saw the advertisement. It was most likely in a copy of Boys' Life, a magazine I liked to read at the Beauchamp Branch Library, which stood then at the northeast corner of Colvin and Salina Streets. The ad was run by the company that marketed Cloverine Salve, an ointment that was guaranteed to end the discomfort of everything from burns to poison ivy. The promotion was aimed not so much at<br />users as at boys who were urged to sell the tins of Cloverine, to earn not cash but prizes, the value of which was determined by the number of tins sold. All a boy had to do was to have his parents send in an order for the number of tins the boy must sell to gain the prize of his choice. Of course the parents had to agree to send back any unsold tins along with payment for the portion of the order actually sold, whether or not the boy had achieved his goal.<br /><br />The prize that caught my eye was one that I very much wanted, but knew in my heart that I would never have enough money to buy. It was a genuine 200-shot Daisy air rifle. I copied out the details and took the information home, hoping against hope that Mom and Dad would let me try. It took a lot of pleading, but at last they consented, upon my solemn promise that I would keep careful track of all my sales, and turn over to them promptly upon receipt the full payment for every tin I sold.<br /><br />I was beside myself with delight. I was going to have a BB gun of my very own, and all I had to do to get it was sell two dozen tins of Cloverine Salve. Surely, that wouldn't be hard.<br /><br />The wait for the arrival of the tins seemed endless, but at last the package arrived. And then it wasn't long before I found that the neighbors all seemed to have plenty of salve. In my enthusiasm, I told each prospect all about the dandy air rifle I was going to get. In the blackness of my disappointment I told Mama that nobody would buy my Cloverine. She said that maybe I wasn't trying in quite the right way, and suggested that I make believe I had come to her door, and say just what I had been saying to the customers. I did that, and she very quickly saw the problem.<br /><br />In my eagerness to get the prize I was saying very little about the Cloverine, and a great deal about the gun I was going to get. Then she explained the point I had not thought of: Very few of the mothers or fathers were going to be enthusiastic about helping a little neighbor kid get an air rifle which could very well accidentally hurt their own children.<br /><br />That lesson learned, I made up a spiel about how good the Cloverine was, and what a good buy at the price. Then I started to get an occasional sale, and my hopes rose again. Still, it was a slow, hard job, and by the time I sold the 24th tin I was sure I didn't want to be a salesman when I grew up.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikmba9pfltdxQLE3IsfVvldO-OvUuYzDbNdO-kZ3eNhA5xrEXomxpvLPxF1HNmAE256Gsfdieck64hYuNHIQIjzVHxUq0qOuxR-TCu-c4BEG-V6ZImmoJCcIQdqD87d1S3g3Q4UHvuRMzW/s1600-h/1920sDaisy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 164px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikmba9pfltdxQLE3IsfVvldO-OvUuYzDbNdO-kZ3eNhA5xrEXomxpvLPxF1HNmAE256Gsfdieck64hYuNHIQIjzVHxUq0qOuxR-TCu-c4BEG-V6ZImmoJCcIQdqD87d1S3g3Q4UHvuRMzW/s400/1920sDaisy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376331703670351474" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">1920's-vintage Daisy BB gun. Image from http://www.nicholscapguns.com .</span></span><br /></div><br />At last came the great day of the arrival of my Daisy air rifle. It was beautiful. Unfortunately no ammunition was included. When Dad got home he gave me five cents, so that on the next day I could go to the hardware store and get a tube of 100 BBs. I could hardly wait to try out my new gun. It was too cold and snowy outside, so the only place I could try it was in the cellar. That was a dark, dirt-floored place, but it would have to do. There were nails in the beams, where Dad hung lanterns when he had anything to do down there. One of the girls fixed up a target for me, by drawing circles on a cardboard box. We put that under a lantern at one end of the cellar, and at the other end, under another lantern, I sat down on a box to load the gun. I decided to pour in the full 100 BBs, as that was less than the capacity of the gun. The mechanism of the air rifle was such that the forward end of the barrel consisted of a metal disc, threaded around its outer edge, and with a tube, through which the BBs were propelled, leading back into the invisible interior of the works. By cocking the gun, air would be compressed into the chamber behind the BB which, with the cocking motion, was dropped into place in the tube. The inner surface of the front end of the barrel was threaded to receive the threaded tube-and-disc arrangement.<br /><br />I put the pieces all together, screwing the insert into place, and cocked the gun. I was surprised at the force required to cock it. It was a very strong spring, but I managed to get it cocked. Then, seated on the box in the dim light, I took careful aim at the center of the target, and squeezed the trigger.<br /><br />The gun went off with a surprisingly loud BANG, and a lot of things happened to the gun all at once.<br /><br />Concurrent with the bang there was a rattling noise, and I could see the whole inner works flying out of the barrel and landing on the dirt floor about half the distance to the target. Along with the other components went the entire 100 BBs. The loss of the ammunition on the dirt floor made no particular difference --the threads at the end of the barrel had been stripped, and there was no way the gun could be put together again.<br /><br />I never did find out why my gun was faulty. Just defective workmanship, I suppose. I was very much saddened, and probably should have learned some important lesson from the experience. But all I could think of was a conclusion I had reached some time before:<br /><br />Kids shouldn't expect to win all the time.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">17. Winter</span><br /><br />The winters I remember from our Cannon Street days were much the same asnorthern winters are today, but coping with them then was in some ways harder. For one thing, the sophisticated snow-removal equipment available now was not even dreamed of then. There were no snow blowers, no plows mounted on high-powered trucks. The snow which was not shoveled off by hand or melted off by intermittent thaws simply accumulated and was packed down by traffic. Streetcar tracks were kept pretty well cleared by the weight of the iron wheels on steel rails. But in a season of heavy snowfall, this caused problems.<br /><br />As the layer of snow in the streets became packed down and hardened under the traffic, the street level became effectively raised, leaving the trolley car tracks as deep, hard-walled channels. It was not unusual to see a team of horses pulling a sleigh wagon diagonally along the street, with the team and the front set of runners on the packed snow surface, straddling one rail, while the rear set of runners, firmly trapped in the rail's trench, could not change its course.<br />Following slowly behind would be a streetcar, or in rush hours a string of streetcars, their frustrated motormen all clanging away at their bells to the annoyance of the equally frustrated teamster. Sometimes a break in the icy wall would free up the runners, and the cars could get by. And sometimes the whole procession had to stop while workmen broke down the barrier for a long enough distance to free the trapped runners. Under such road conditions it was an imprudent teamster who tried to cross the tracks at an acute angle.<br /><br />Playing in the snow could be great fun, especially when we could build snow forts and engage in snowball fights. That was more dangerous at the time of the first early, wet snow. Under those conditions it was easy for a malicious boy to pack a stone into a snowball, and a hit by such a loaded snowball could be a serious thing. That didn't happen in my experience, but we heard of incidents of that kind in tougher neighborhoods. Later in winter, when the snow lay deep all over the land, stones were well buried, and did not become ammunition.<br /><br />There were ice skating rinks in the parks, and many people enjoyed that recreation. People who skated rarely had shoe skates; at any rate, I have no memory of seeing such skates. I do remember Mildred and Florence taking their skates and going to the rink at Kirk Park. The skates were of the platform type, with a flat metal upper surface with clamps by which the skate could be gripped firmly to the sole of the skater's shoe. We boys somehow didn't get into skating much, but we did enjoy just sliding on the ice. Onondaga Park, with its long, sweeping hillside surfaces, made a great place for sledding and tobogganing. We had no toboggan, but we were always able to join a group of several boys on a toboggan one of them had brought to the slopes. We had sleds, which were great for riding on packed surfaces. That was in contrast to the toboggans, which rode best down trails they cut into deeper soft snow.<br /><br />As we grew a little older Dad helped us to make exciting devices called skip-jacks. Old wooden barrels and scrap lumber were easy to come by, and a single stave from the side of a large old barrel became the sliding surface. A short section of two-by-four attached to the center of the concave surface of the stave and surmounted with a small flat piece of wood formed the seat. Given a steep slope of well-packed snow, a boy could sit on the seat, push the device along by a shove with both feet, and be off on a wild ride down the slope. Some became quite expert at maintaining balance, and could ride all the way to the bottom of the slope. Most of us were lucky to get half way down the hill before the skip-jack flew off in one direction, and the rider in another.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI0Ons9oLH_PAmV1_FZ9Njna2KKSMjZWU9feX5wteR5X0g6UmlV2bZAKIPY_F-B6u6WInieeQohaohcwSeMgexJzXB6f2y2engSagRvupWrJH8jm2c_NpiY-VkjJjXu791Wc5CThC0FqOt/s1600-h/DadSurfing.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI0Ons9oLH_PAmV1_FZ9Njna2KKSMjZWU9feX5wteR5X0g6UmlV2bZAKIPY_F-B6u6WInieeQohaohcwSeMgexJzXB6f2y2engSagRvupWrJH8jm2c_NpiY-VkjJjXu791Wc5CThC0FqOt/s400/DadSurfing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376331702250187490" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Four decades later, Lynn Harrington still loved doing the skip-jack thing, even without a seat and on a real toboggan. (1960 photo by Catherine M. Harrington.)</span><br /><br />Skiing was popular then, too, but not by any means so popular an activity as it is today. In later years we boys would have skis of our own, but while we lived on Cannon Street the only family member who had skis, to the best of my recollection, was one of the older girls, probably Myrtle. She was the best sport of all, and would try anything. That continued into her adult life, when she played golf, rode horseback, and even successfully completed the qualifying lessons for an airplane pilot's license.<br /><br />Those winters on Cannon Street had a quite different, special charm of still another kind. The family was closer at that season than at any other. On cold winter nights we would all be within warming distance of the stoves, mainly the one in the kitchen. We played games and listened to stories, enjoyed the fragrance of hot cocoa steaming on the range, and one of the girls would occasionally make a pan of fudge. We would never again live in a house just like that, and the winter evenings would never again be quite the same.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">18. Summer</span><br /><br />Summertime was the best season for outdoor play. During the days we would wander about the neighborhood, an ever-expanding area as each succeeding summer found us grown a little bigger, a little stronger, and a little bolder than its predecessor had left us. We went to the deep gravel pit and found excitement in daring each other to jump from the rim far down to the big pile of sand heaped up below. And, the dare accepted, we had to make that breath-taking leap ourselves.<br /><br />We challenged each other to climb to the top of the big apple-tree in our back yard, and one day Bob's friend Bobby Ammerman went first, and climbed very nearly to the top before falling. He didn't fall far, though, because one foot caught right at the start in a tight crotch. He hung upside down there, screaming bloody murder. We ran to a neighbor's house for help, and the man came with an extension ladder and got Bobby down, and then gave us all a thorough scolding for being such nuisances.<br /><br />After supper, the long twilight of those summer evenings was the best time for playing outdoor games. Hide-and-seek and tag and various games with balls were the favorites, followed closely by kick-the-can. This was a group game, played in the street. It was a distant relative of soccer, of which we had never heard. Any old tin can would do; imaginary goal lines (or sometimes black lines made by a boy with a piece of the black carbon rod material used at that time in the city street lights and discarded when too far consumed) were drawn across the street, perhaps 20 yards apart. A half dozen kids would kick away at the can (and each other) trying to kick it across the opposing team's goal line.<br /><br />Most of those games, while we didn't recognize it at the time, were based on an inborn desire to challenge and compete, and conquer if we could. They were, for better or for worse, training exercises for the game of life. Sometimes they led us into small troubles.<br /><br />Such was the case one nice evening when six or seven of us pondered what to do next. Bob, being one of the older boys, was a natural leader in such circumstances. He put forth an irresistible temptation when he said, "Let's raid McNulty's grapes!"<br /><br />Mr. McNulty had a house on a rather large lot around the corner on Colvin Street. He was a big, vigorous man who took special pride in the small vineyard he maintained in his back yard. Entrance there could be made only by the greatest stealth, for Mr. McNulty knew what a temptation his grapes were to the kids of the neighborhood. But since Bob was going to lead us, we had to go or lose face.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUo4ByGoTdl0Z1rnamcpSkk8kTgw5lkVrUuMlWBJssgCaQyPAsAnEOwB73c4uVG9KHjZBEjlhKNxfJuG_Fjyy5ny42Zn3lRbRID5fkgoe7zRs0FrYR011WzCrT_fBh5qAkhHc9P0OZl3Sl/s1600-h/StolenGrapes.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 245px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUo4ByGoTdl0Z1rnamcpSkk8kTgw5lkVrUuMlWBJssgCaQyPAsAnEOwB73c4uVG9KHjZBEjlhKNxfJuG_Fjyy5ny42Zn3lRbRID5fkgoe7zRs0FrYR011WzCrT_fBh5qAkhHc9P0OZl3Sl/s400/StolenGrapes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376331692890228258" border="0" /></a><br />Noiseless as a band of Indians, we made our way around behind the house next door, and found ourselves very soon in among McNulty's vines. We thought our movement utterly silent, and were enjoying the luscious grapes far more than we would have if they had been served to us at home. And then, with no warning at all, the light on the nearby back porch turned on and there was Mr. McNulty, shouting "Who's There? Stop or I'll shoot!"<br /><br />We didn't even pause to wonder if he had a gun. Scared witless, we took off at top speed in all directions, like a flushed covey of partridges. It just happened to be my bad luck that I alone chose to dash pell-mell not for the street, but across another neighbor's yard. I hadn't fled more than a dozen strides when I met a sudden comeuppance. That neighbor had clotheslines hanging slack between standards in his yard, and one line hung just low enough to catch me by the neck, just under my chin. At the speed at which I was running, I took the slack out of that line in no time at all. My feet flung up ahead of me, and I came down on my back with a thump. My neck was on fire and I hurt all over and I was going to get shot and I was scared.<br /><br />Mr. McNulty was over me with his flashlight in a moment, and the neighbor whose clothesline had leveled me had heard the commotion and he was there, too. I could just make out the two of them bending over me. "What happened?" the neighbor asked. I heard Mr. McNulty's deep voice answer, "It's just a boy who was enjoying my grapes, but I don't believe he wants any more, so I think he'll get up now and go home." And that is what I did, and I don't think that when I got home Mama knew what I had been crying about, and I didn't explain.<br /><br />The next morning when she saw me in the daylight she saw the red, rashy line on my neck, and put some Cloverine on it, and told me I must be more careful.Sherwood Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575868746160608731noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321617580973351234.post-5067868617287540922009-08-15T11:29:00.000-07:002009-08-15T12:53:57.371-07:00Tales Told by AGH, Installment #3: Rat Tales and Dan Kelly<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHncVldMC9A6N42BgOyAcAFUjdnwpum7UB04o7w2RSitLGSJngiohBnXZEucisMA8bRZSaZRHJbIsG7vrY-zIDjbTsKdODH6YGgcwFYUI8Q6byc-8ItIT022qvut8-fPXXINaMfQCNfHi8/s1600-h/DanKelly.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 181px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHncVldMC9A6N42BgOyAcAFUjdnwpum7UB04o7w2RSitLGSJngiohBnXZEucisMA8bRZSaZRHJbIsG7vrY-zIDjbTsKdODH6YGgcwFYUI8Q6byc-8ItIT022qvut8-fPXXINaMfQCNfHi8/s400/DanKelly.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370278501013562274" border="0" /></a><br /><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Editor's note:<br />These reminiscences by my grandfather, Arthur George Harrington, were transcribed by his daughter Mary when he was an old man. See the sidebar pictures for birth and death years of each.</span><br /><br />Prelude by Mary:<br /><br />We got started on rat stories because there had been an article in the </span>Saturday Evening Post</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" > about a new system of rat control. Dad told about an encounter he had with a rat in Uncle Henry's house in Troy.<br /><br />He had brought home some meat for Aunt ________, and as he came into the kitchen with it, he saw a rat scurry into the dining room. He put down the meat, picked up a stove poker, and followed the rat. It was not in sight in the dining room, from which a bedroom, living room, and pantry opened. He tried the bedroom first. He couldn't see any rat, even when he got down and looked under the bed. Then he lifted a corner of the mattress, and there on the bedsprings was Mr. Rat.<br /><br />The rat dashed back to the dining room. Dad quickly slammed bedroom, living room, and pantry doors shut, and the rat got to the kitchen. Dad followed, closing the dining room door behind him. He said the rat circled, then headed for the outside door -- also closed. Dad started after him. He must have been at least 6 or 8 feet away, when the rat whirled and leaped at him. Dad said he was really scared. "The rat was about here" (holding his hand level, palm down, about even with his breastbone) when he slapped it down, kicking at it, at the same time.<br /><br />The rat landed, a gory mess, at the top of the door frame. End of tale.<br /><br /></span></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">He told of a story he read in the </span>S.E.P. <span style="font-style: italic;">during the War, about some men in London who had been trained to do something about bombs that had landed but had not yet gone off. One day a bomb landed in a big shell hole made by a previous bomb. One of these men volunteered to go down in and see if he could render it harmless before it went off. They let him down with a rope -- but he had hardly reached the bomb when he signalled frantically to be hauled up. They worked in desperate haste, and when they got him to the top, asked him if the bomb was about to go off.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">"I don't know," he said, "but there's a bloody rat down there!"</span><br /><br /></span></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:130%;">(Now Let <span style="font-style: italic;">Dad</span> Tell 'em.)</span><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></span> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------</span></div><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></div></div><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:78%;" ><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:78%;" ><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span>When I was a kid, Old Dan Kelly had a brickyard out on Rowland Street. Dan had a horse. In those days, they used to give them a mixed feed. They'd cut hay all up fine. One kind of chopper had blades something like a lawn mower. Another kind had a straight blade you'd work up and down. They'd put feed with it and mix it with water. Dan had a box about <span style="font-style: italic;">this </span>big, filled with the feed, near the horse stall. One day as he stepped in, he could just make out that there were 5 or 6 rats in that feed box, eating away. He went quiet and got a shovel, and was just ready to bring it down on the rats, when his horse lifted his hind leg, caught him about <span style="font-style: italic;">here</span>, and tossed him into the box with the rats.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------</span></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Dan was a terrible man. [<span style="font-style: italic;">Note:- "Terrible", in this case, doesn't mean "bad." -MEH</span>] He was death on booze. His father and mother and two brothers were drunkards, and he said he'd seen enough of it. I can remember more than once seeing his mother going down the street with a suit of clothes. In a few minutes one of the girls would take after her. She had stolen clothes from the boys while they slept, and was trying to sell them to get liquor.<br /><br />One icy day in November, I was down on Shonnard St. with Dan and the team. A milk man came along. He was having a bad time. His horse's shoes were smooth and the horse was slipping and sliding. Dan yelled, "Spend less for beer and whiskey and use your money to shoe your horse, and he'll not be slippin' all over the road!"<br /><br />Another time I was with him, when a man I knew but Dan didn't came along with his arm in a sling and bandages. I asked him what was the matter, and he said it was blood poisoning. Dan yells "Keep the beer and whiskey out of your belly and you'll not get blood poisoning!"<br /><br />Not long after that, we were raising a house. [Note:- <span style="font-style: italic;">The spelling is correct. Some houses, they raised, and others, they razed. -MEH</span>] A lot of trash had been dumped out behind it and we had to clear that away to get at it. There were rusty tin cans, etc. Dan cut his hands a few times, and the cuts got infected. One day he came to work complaining about how his hand hurt and I told him he ought to go to a doctor. He did, that night. The next day he came with his arm in a sling. I asked him "What's the matter?"<br /><br />"The doctor says it's blood poisoning," he said.<br /><br />"Keep the beer and whiskey out of your belly, and you'll not get blood poisoning," I mocked.<br /><br />"I didn't think a man could get it," he said, "if he never took a drink!"<br /><br />Once a couple kids came to the house and said Dan sent them to ask me to come up to the barn where he was. I went. He said he was pretty sick and asked me if I'd go to Doc Forman's with him. We got started. I asked him if he wanted to take a street car. He said no, he'd walk.<br /><br />While the doc was working on him, he looked bad. Doc asked him if he felt faint. He said he felt funny, but didn't know what it was. Doc went out of the room and came back with a glass with a little something in it, and said "Here, drink that."<br /><br />Dan says "What is it, whiskey?"<br /><br />Doc says "No, it's brandy."<br /><br />"Give it to Art," says Dan, "I'd rather die than drink the damn stuff!"<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Once the whole gang was near the corner of Geddes and Gifford, across from Carney's saloon. Carney himself came along and started in, but turned as he reached the door, and called "Hello, Dan!" Dan said hello, and Carney went in.<br /><br />Then Dan said to the gang, "Did you see that? Did you see that? I'm the only one who never spent a nickel in his place, and I'm the only one he spoke to!"<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Dan worked and got some money. In fact, for all their drinking, his father and mother left quite a piece of property. It was some land they couldn't sell easy. Dan and his brothers -- and sisters, too, I suppose -- got together and marked it off into building lots and divided it. Dennis and John drank up their shares, and Dan lost his in the brickyard. He didn't do very well with that brickyard on Rowland Street, and he went out to Camillus and started one there. That time he lost it all.<br /><br />He came back to Syracuse. Somehow he got the idea he could build cellars. Fifty or sixty years ago [<span style="font-style: italic;">circa 1900 -SH</span>] most of the houses up in the Second Ward were set on posts, with no cellar or regular foundation, and there was quite a spell a few years later when builders were busy raising the houses and putting in cellars.<br /><br />Dan wanted a hundred dollars for mason's supplies, etc., to start business. But nobody'd lend it to him. They didn't have any confidence in him.<br /><br />Finally he went to Frank Dolan, the real estate man, and explained to him what he wanted to do. Frank listened, then counted out a hundred dollars and handed it to him.<br /><br />Dan says, "All right -- make out your note and I'll sign it."<br /><br />Frank says "No need of any note. If you make good, you'll pay me. And if you don't, a note wouldn't be any good anyway."<br /><br />Dan made good, all right, and paid.<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /><br /></div></div></div></div></div> </div>Crouse Klock asked Dan if he'd take down the old Crouse place, on Genesee St. between University and Crouse Avenuse, about across from the old orphan asylum. [Note:- <span style="font-style: italic;">Next to University Ave. church, where the armory is now. -MEH</span>] There were two buildings on the place, the house and barn (carriage house). He wanted Dan to do it for the material in the buildings. Dan said he would. Then he asked me if I'd go up and look at it with him. When we looked it over, I told him I thought he ought to get a hundred dollars besides the material. So he went back and told Crouse Klock, who agreed.<br /><br />There was some beautiful hand-carved woodwork around a couple doors. A woman walked in one day while we were working, and asked what we'd take for it. I told her I wasn't boss, but I'd ask Mr. Kelly. I told Dan about it, but it must have slipped his mind or something. For the next thing I knew, a couple Irish laborere he had hired were ripping the stuff out with crowbars. He could easily have got another hundred for it.<br /><br />The old lath they ripped off the walls and piled out in back. The pile was as big as a haystack. Dan touched a match to it to be rid of it. Maybe that didn't make some blaze! The sparks were flying all over the neighborhood. Some of the neighbors got excited and called the fire department. I didn't blame them.<br /><br />Number Seven came, from Fayette St. just below University. The chief asked who was in charge of the job. I told him Kelly was. He said, "Tell him we want to see him."<br /><br />But Dan stayed in the house. He knew better than to come out -- he knew they'd turn the hose on him. But the chief gave him a good talking to later.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Working for McNeill, on a job on Cortland Ave., Dan came along with the wagon one day, and asked me if I'd go with him up near the university to get something. I asked what street.<br /><br />He said, "I can't think of the name, but we'll find it." We went along till we got up on S. Crouse Ave., where Marshall comes in, and coming down the hill was a well-dressed couple. The man looked as if he was a professional man of some sort. Dan suddenly recalled, and let out a yell, "Say! Where in hell is Useless Avenue?" [Note:- <span style="font-style: italic;">He was looking for <span style="font-weight: bold;">Euclid</span>. -MEH</span>]<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">The brick Dan got from razing the old Crouse place, he used for the inside course of bricks, to build a couple of houses near the corner of Elliott and Geddes Streets. A fellow who lived near there asked me one day, "Doesn't Dan Kelly ever sleep?" He said he woke up at two that morning and heard some pounding. He looked out, and there was old Dan with a lantern, busy cleaning bricks.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Dan said once that if he thought there was a man anywhere in the world that he'd done any harm to, he couldn't rest until he'd found him and squared it with him.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">When we were raising a house for an Irishman one time, an old woman came out. She said to Dan, "I'll bet I came from Ireland before you did."<br /><br />"I'll bet you did, too," said Dan. "I never was there."<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">Dan was an awful man to holler. Once on a job, Young Dan did something he didn't like, and how he yelled! He bawled him out for fair, and called him down fifty ways.<br /><br />When he got through, Young Dan says, "Was you talkin' to me?"<br /><br />Old Dan says, "Yes! I was!"<br /><br />Then Young Dan says "Oh-- well, what did you say?"<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /><br />Finale (by AGH)<br /><br />THERE WAS OLD DAN KELLY<br />AND YOUNG DAN KELLY -<br />HE WAS OLD DAN KELLY'S SON.<br /><br />NOW YOUNG DAN KELLY<br />IS OLD DAN KELLY<br />'CAUSE OLD DAN KELLY'S GONE.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></div>Sherwood Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575868746160608731noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321617580973351234.post-7274948063499000272009-07-26T17:08:00.000-07:002009-07-26T17:55:02.340-07:00Remembrances... Installment #8: Trains, Real and Toy<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">REMEMBRANCES OF A CHILDHOOD</span></div><div face="times new roman" style="text-align: center; font-family: times new roman;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">By Lynn Harrington</span></p><div style="text-align: center; font-family: times new roman;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center; font-family: times new roman;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Part I: 1918 – 1927, continued</span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwFBXoe8Pl36CuWn4wfkwXZW-fSLLRkymdkemJsBZobrJ2qMQQ9DnZAgumznJD5ISNsl6U-t9uTLpINrXC1Qtw2JdyuNdGD4mBJ_ZwJ1Advjfx2oWwImeHpVgF-HGpZkVO5X1PgmHIOd5d/s1600-h/1940sSteam.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 281px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwFBXoe8Pl36CuWn4wfkwXZW-fSLLRkymdkemJsBZobrJ2qMQQ9DnZAgumznJD5ISNsl6U-t9uTLpINrXC1Qtw2JdyuNdGD4mBJ_ZwJ1Advjfx2oWwImeHpVgF-HGpZkVO5X1PgmHIOd5d/s400/1940sSteam.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362935507197692450" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Lynn Harrington's fascination with trains would last beyond his childhood and throughout his life. He took this photo of a New York Central locomotive near Syracuse more than 20 years after what he recounts below took place. -SH</span></span><br /><br /><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">14. 1923 or 1924: Trains, Real and Toy</span></span><br /><br />In my <a href="http://ordinarytreasure.blogspot.com/2009/06/remembrances-of-childhood-installment-3.html">description of the Cannon Street house</a> I did not mean to be depicting a typical house in the neighborhood. Ours was almost surely one of very few which were without either electric or gas service. Some of the homes nearby were very fine upper middle-class residences. One such was the home of Mark Conan, a boy my age and one of my kindergarten through sixth grade classmates. Mark's father was a lawyer, active in civic affairs. My especial remembrance of Mark relates to two or three occasions, when I was probably five or six, when he invited me to come to his house so I could see some of his toys. Those were great occasions for me.<br /><br />Of houses, there could be no other like his in the world. The rooms were large and beautifully furnished. Not only did it have electricity, with reading lamps and table and ceiling fixtures, but it also had something I had never seen before. When Mark's mother called us to the kitchen for cookies and milk. there was a stove that burned gas. All Mrs. Conan had to do to start it was turn a lever and then strike a spark close to the burner. The thing that made the spark was a pincher-like wire frame bearing a flat surface like a small section of nail file, and when the device was squeezed a piece of flint was scraped across that. A spark flew off and the gas was lit. The burner was a circular ring of iron pipe with many small holes around its upper surface. There were four such burners on the stove. When the gas issuing from the little holes burned it formed a ring of beautiful little dancing lights, which Mrs. Conan could make burn higher or lower just by turning the small control lever.<br /><br />Best of all at that house was Mark's electric train. He laid out the tracks on the floor in a figure-eight arrangement, plugged the lead wire into an opening in the wall, put the engine and cars on the track, hooked them together, and the train was ready to run. He could make the train go slow or fast by turning a lever on a box he said was the transformer. I didn't know what a transformer was, and probably Mark didn't either, but it worked just wonderfully, and he let me run it too. I was a little puzzled to see three rails in the tracks instead of the two that street cars and real trains ran on. I asked Mark about that, and he said it was because his train was a Lionel, and Lionel trains used three rails. I didn't understand, but it was Mark's train, so the explanation suited me just fine.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTmQS3E_y3dLfyVg8zgmoizMAEjHzLznAecoDmp30EcNrAknOWcNgCaE43nI-cA7yadCpXWPPZ4tW_l6YQXhis41gCVwcJWKW7m21oLfbWigyCjIRz4_Uu12mjViFlVhrZEo2hFRc9FvhP/s1600-h/LionelTrains.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTmQS3E_y3dLfyVg8zgmoizMAEjHzLznAecoDmp30EcNrAknOWcNgCaE43nI-cA7yadCpXWPPZ4tW_l6YQXhis41gCVwcJWKW7m21oLfbWigyCjIRz4_Uu12mjViFlVhrZEo2hFRc9FvhP/s400/LionelTrains.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362933517390691090" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">1920's-vintage Lionel electric train equipment. (Photo by and copyright Frank Tellez. Please view this image large </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sunfrog1/3204004903/">on his Flickr photostream</a><span style="font-style: italic;">.)</span><br /></span></div><br />Even at that early age I was fascinated by trains. I loved to walk up east Colvin hill to the D.L.&W. Railroad crossing occasionally, and wait in the hope a train would come by. It was wonderful to see a steam engine, its exhaust barking rapidly as it pulled a string of five or six passenger cars at an already fast and still accelerating speed up the long grade out of the city. Better yet would be the times when an even bigger locomotive crept more laboriously up that grade, the very ground trembling as the roaring exhaust sent black smoke billowing high out of its stack, and cinders showering down on me as the engine worked past me. Trailing along behind would be a long string of freight cars of all kinds, swaying and rocking in their heavy passage. As often as not such a freight train would be helped up the grade by another big locomotive shoving hard against the caboose which marked the end of the train of cars. And a trainman would always return the wave of a boy who thrilled to stand at trackside to catch the sights and sounds of such an impressive passage.<br /><br />I never felt envious of Mark for his electric train, nor did I ever expect to have even a windup train of my own. We were poor and knew it, but I don't remember ever feeling bitter about it. It was just the way things were. By the time I was seven or eight I had decided to have a train of my own, and this is the way it came about:<br /><br />First of all, Dad had had a tool box and a work bench in a closed-in end of the back porch. Any time he was working there I just loved to watch. He encouraged me to do little pieces of work with scrap wood he brought home from the shop. He also encouraged me to use his tools, but there were rules I must obey. First, I was never to use any tool until he had taught me how. Second, if anything happened to any tool I used, such as if I broke one of the delicate coping saw blades, I was to tell him at once, and he would go over the incident with me, and show me what I had done wrong. And, last but not least, when I finished what I was working on I must put whatever tools I had used right back where I found them, and clean everything up where I had worked. I might add, in this, connection, that by the time we moved from Cannon Street, he had built and equipped for me a very nice small toolbox of my own.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdtr9ntZ7gqx4AI21kh4s_aORHv2ZGiz2_vH16IkBsnjvRaFPt3ZkQix0FRYCxl9gUW6WwqYJFjo6j3aJYrW-UEsWwx1avPdrOmnew4jZ0LNotYPGtp_CIhXbUNwH5vKWeyt1xgg8HI3z8/s1600-h/1920s+Windup+Trains.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdtr9ntZ7gqx4AI21kh4s_aORHv2ZGiz2_vH16IkBsnjvRaFPt3ZkQix0FRYCxl9gUW6WwqYJFjo6j3aJYrW-UEsWwx1avPdrOmnew4jZ0LNotYPGtp_CIhXbUNwH5vKWeyt1xgg8HI3z8/s400/1920s+Windup+Trains.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362929704932554754" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Windup toy trains from the 1920s (photo from the Milford, NH, Antique Show website.)</span> </span></div><br />In our back yard that summer of 1923 or 1924 there was a pile of dirt that we boys liked to play on. I resolved to build a railroad on that mountain. I had for some time been collecting sections of the kind of track that came with wind-up trains. It was simple material, with tinplate ties to which little hollow rails attached. Sections, either straight or curved and eight or 10 inches in length, could be securely connected by metal inserts that fit tightly into the ends of the hollow rails. On trash day, people placed their ash cans and boxes of discarded materials out by the curb for pick-up by city sanitation men. I had learned by observation that at the time of traditional spring house-cleaning all kinds of interesting discards appeared in the disposal boxes at curbside. Wind-up trains were common Christmas presents for young boys. Those train sets were not especially durable. The engine spring would break, car wheels would get lost, cars would get stepped on, and kids in general had lost interest in their toy trains. Cars without wheels appeared in the trash, but they were no good to me. Sections of track held up better, and they were what I rescued whenever I found them.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTHHS-NIlZyVfy3q6n4WstHkkTay4ZyLdpLYcINTknf1Vt6NFhns-YGWN7VGCnT95BpPTX-40KrM7BhoMVg3USAbqT5rx0FFTCH1noRyPhx6ZrZ6tdy-kyf0QoYgLoZG5napf54LLvP03A/s1600-h/Tracks.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTHHS-NIlZyVfy3q6n4WstHkkTay4ZyLdpLYcINTknf1Vt6NFhns-YGWN7VGCnT95BpPTX-40KrM7BhoMVg3USAbqT5rx0FFTCH1noRyPhx6ZrZ6tdy-kyf0QoYgLoZG5napf54LLvP03A/s400/Tracks.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362931802871112546" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Windup train tracks from a modern </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://cgi.ebay.com.my/Marx-Wind-Up-Train-Tracks-Lot-7-Curved-pieces_W0QQcmdZViewItemQQitemZ350196472036">EBay antiques offering</a><span style="font-style: italic;">.</span> </span></div><br />With the track I could lay down a very nice, curving railroad around Dirt Mountain. What I needed was cars, and I found a way to get them. We had always known that tobacco shops accumulated empty cigar boxes in quantity. In those days cigar boxes were nicely made of fine-grained, smooth wood about one eighth inch thick. All a boy had to do to get some free boxes was to go to the tobacco shop and ask the man politely if he had any empty cigar obxes. I don't remember coming away from such an expedition empty handed. The boxes had many uses --all members of the family had one or two or more, for storage of letters or trinkets or private little treasures. They had no tobacco odor, either. As I learned many years later, the wood was sycamore, the same kind as used in much larger pieces for butcher blocks and butter tubs. It possess the unique characteristic of neither taking on odor from nor imparting odor to materials with which it comes into contact.<br /><br />My purpose for the cigar boxes was as wood I could work with. The work was quite precise and demanded considerable care in measuring and cutting and assembling. What I did was to cut out a substantial number of rectangular pieces, alL a half::~inch or so wider than the space between the rails. For each bottom piece I cut two side pieces about a half-inch shorter than the bottom. Then I cut two end pieces, as long as the bottom was wide, and the same width as the side pieces. Then, using Dad's tack-hammer and vice, I would nail together (using little brads Dad had given me) an open-top box, the bottom of which extended out a little way on each end. Placing the open-top boxes on the bench, I drove a brad into the top of the platform at each end. Turning the affair upside down on the bench, I drove into the bottom of the platform four brads deep enough that their heads extended down about a quarter of an inch from the bottom. Those four brads, two an inch or so in from each end, had to be opposite each other and spaced just far enough apart so that when the rig was placed right side up on the track, they would allow the wooden box to be slid along the rails, with the downward protruding brads holding it in position from side to side. If the box slipped left or right, as it would tend to do on a curve, the brads between the rails served the same purpose as the flange of a real train wheel.<br /><br />All that remained was to make a set of small loops of string, one of which could be dropped over the upright brads standing on the platform ends of every two adjacent cars. And so the cars were coupled together to form a train. I put the joined cars on the track and, by inserting a finger into the first car I made of it the engine. Then I could crawl along beside the layout, and my train of cars slid right along the rails, moving up grade and down, and negotiating curves flawlessly. Of course, the train had to be drawn gently, and not too fast. But it held the rails, and I could produce my own sound effects as I moved the train along, and I was pleased as punch with my very own homemade train. I doubt very much that Mark Conan enjoyed his Lionel electric train any more than I enjoyed the train I had made for myself.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">============================================<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Next week: Rat tales and more from Arthur G. Harrington</span></span><br />============================================<br /></div>Sherwood Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575868746160608731noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321617580973351234.post-83428257600393732912009-07-19T12:54:00.000-07:002009-07-19T16:33:13.261-07:00Remembrances... Installment #7: A Frightening Ride<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">REMEMBRANCES OF A CHILDHOOD</span></div><div face="times new roman" style="text-align: center; font-family: times new roman;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">By Lynn Harrington</span></p><div style="text-align: center; font-family: times new roman;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center; font-family: times new roman;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Part I: 1918 – 1927, continued</span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;">13. 1920 or 1921: Colvin Street Hill, Syracuse</span><br /></span></div><br />As overworked and as generally hard-pressed as our Mother was, she made every effort to see that each of us understood that no matter how busy she was nor how many of us there were, we all shared equally and generously in her love. However infrequent the occasions were, she took advantage of every opportunity to to do something we boys would enjoy and that she could share with us. On one fine summer day, for instance, she found the time to prepare a picnic lunch and take the three of us boys for a walk to Onondaga Park. Bob, Jim, and I were probably seven, three, and five, respectively, at the time. Reaching the park meant walking the long block to Colvin Street, turning west there and walking about six blocks to South Avenue, a street busy with trolley cars and other vehicles and pedestrian shoppers. Small shops lined both sides of South Avenue at that corner. That avenue marked the western boundary of the flat bottom of the Onondaga Creek valley in that area. From there West Colvin Street climbed very steeply up the west slope of the valley for a very long block to a broad natural terrace, west of which the upward slope resumed. Onondaga Park lay on that terrace, and was a very popular picnic, playground, and swimming pool facility.<br /><br />We possessed a rather old cart, consisting of a shallow rectangular box body mounted on four wheels. The axle on which the front wheels were mounted swiveled to allow for turning. The handle extended up from the front axle, and pivoted forward and back. When the cart was being drawn, the handle was extended forward; if a child were riding in the cart, whether propelling it by kneeling one leg in the box and pushing along the pavement with the other foot, or by being pushed along by someone else, or coasting down a slope, the handle was swung back into the box so that the rider could steer the vehicle.<br /><br />With picnic supplies to carry and little Jimmy much too small to make the long walk and too heavy to carry very far, it seemed advisable to take the cart along. All went well, and Bob and I shared the pulling of the cart, with Jimmy and the picnic lunch riding along behind us as we made the long ascent up Colvin Street hill.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Then for a time we all lay down in the shade on the thick green grass, watching birds and squirrels come and go...</span><br /></div><br />The picnic was a most enjoyable one. We couldn't swim, but we had fun in the wading pool. The park was beautifully landscaped, and great old trees shaded the picnic tables, sand boxes, swings, and sliding boards; and a circular platform bearing small wooden horses would rotate when pushed, and made a safe and delightful merry-go-round. We played until we were hungry, and then enjoyed the nice lunch Mama had put up for us. Then for a time we all lay down in the shade on the thick green grass, watching birds and squirrels come and go in the trees overhead, and saw the dappling sunlight slipping through the canopy of the trees as a light breeze stirred the leaves.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">... I had what I thought was a good idea ...<br /></div><br />All too soon it was time to go home. What little remained to be taken home we put into the cart, and a tired Jimmy, too, climbed in for the ride. Bob and I ran as we pulled the cart, just to hear Jimmy squeal in delight. When we emerged from the park onto the sidewalk at the top of Colvin hill, Mama was some distance behind, calling to us to wait for her. As we stood there looking down the long, steep slope of the sidewalk, I had what I thought was a good idea --why not coast just a little way down, for the fun of it and to give Jimmy another fast ride? Now, carts of that kind had no brakes at all. When coasting, the rider would control the speed by putting his legs over the side and dragging his feet on the pavement. Bob was doubtful, and thought we should wait for Mama. But I could see no reason not to coast along past a few of the houses, to stop and wait for her there. And so I pushed off and hopped in, with Jimmy behind me, holding on to the sides of the cart.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">... like free fall ... I was in pure panic ...</span></span><br /></div><br />In a very short time I had the shock of my young life. I would never have imagined that a cart could get rolling so fast so quickly. It was almost like free fall, but in those days I didn't know what that expression meant. My first and only thought was to stop the cart. I swung my legs out and pressed my bare feet on the cement sidewalk. This had no other effect than to burn the soles of my feet as if I were sliding them over a hot stove. By that time I was in pure panic, trying to steer the cart over onto a lawn. But by then we were speeding so fast that the front axle began whipping back and forth, from side to side, so fast that the handle was simply snatched from my hands, and I could do nothing but cling for dear life to the sides of the cart. Like a runaway horse the cart continued to plummet, at ever increasing speed, down the sidewalk in a frantic left-to-right and back again zig-zag motion. I was frightened out of my wits, as were Bob and Mama as they tried to race after us afoot down the hill. They never had a chance. I remember Jimmy screaming behind me, and suddenly hearing him no more.<br /><br />The ride seemed to go on forever, but it had probably extended past no more than a dozen houses when it came to a sudden, crashing halt. One of the zigs or zags had sent the cart (and me) headlong into a utility pole that stood between sidewalk and curb. And then, abruptly, all was still and dark and far away. I opened my eyes to see a lady kneeling beside me. Several people were gathered around, with Mama standing with Bob close beside me. Jimmy was in Mama's arms, his eyes wide in his tear-stained face, staring at me.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">... barely missing a trolley car and an automobile, then bouncing over the curb and into the front wall of a store, an iron wheel ...<br /><br /></span></div>It turned out to be a miraculous ending to a terrifying ride. Jimmy was unhurt. It had been our great good fortune that he had been thrown clear of the cart during one of the switches form a zig to a zag, at just the right point so that his trajectory sent him rolling and tumbling over a nice wide lawn. He could just as well have been pitched out onto the Colvin Street pavement, but he wasn't. The cart was demolished, the wood split loose from the frame, the front axle bent, and the handle broken off. One of the iron wheels was missing. In the group of spectators were two men who lived in houses we had passed, and who had seen the finish of the ride. When I became aware of what was going on, they were busy patching up the cart so that Mama and Bob could pull me home as I lay on it. I had not progressed nearly half way down the hill, but the missing wheel had. A man standing on the sidewalk on the east side of South Avenue had been startled to see, rolling very fast across the street right toward him, barely missing a trolley car and an automobile, then bouncing over the curb and into the front wall of a store, an iron wheel. As he puzzled over it, he noticed a group of people gathering on the sidewalk and a lawn well up the hill. So he picked up the wheel and carried it up to the site, just as the men working on the cart began to look for the wheel.<br /><br />I suppose that if such an event were to occur today, someone would call the police or the paramedics and, at the very least, first aid and transportation would have been provided. But minor accidents then were matters more of curiosity than of alarm. The kind men succeeded in rigging a platform supported by the wheels and axles, provided a rope by which the rig could be pulled (or held in check), and I was hauled off homeward. Near the corner of South Avenue and Colvin was a doctor's office, and Mama took me in there. The doctor was rather amused by the account of what had happened. But he checked me over and said that my nose was probably broken, but that it would heal; that I was going to have a headache and two beautiful black eyes, but they would clear up, and that some ointment he would put on the soles of my feet would make them feel better. He proved correct on all counts.<br />And so another memorable childhood experience ended.<br /><br />I did not think of it at the time, but I wonder now how poor Mama slept that night.<br /><p></p><div style="text-align: center;">==================================================<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Next week: Trains, Toy and Real<br />==================================================<br /></div>Sherwood Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575868746160608731noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321617580973351234.post-35992718001380582552009-07-12T12:49:00.000-07:002009-07-12T13:55:52.163-07:00Tales Told by AGH, Installment #2: Motorman's Memories<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Street Car Stories<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUrGmLj_oYqqSGcvk5WTQ-Ltg3kVTh-jGJ_tFmHheLHrl9HHnKFCZeBQ65VlSjiewIO1kj61PV-SP8XgyqbjRouaKAlBtAusiRL5lnPzMdYa7BVpqCqcGAKtaPPXvxOd5bn398BlD7EKEi/s1600-h/streetcars.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 247px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUrGmLj_oYqqSGcvk5WTQ-Ltg3kVTh-jGJ_tFmHheLHrl9HHnKFCZeBQ65VlSjiewIO1kj61PV-SP8XgyqbjRouaKAlBtAusiRL5lnPzMdYa7BVpqCqcGAKtaPPXvxOd5bn398BlD7EKEi/s400/streetcars.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357677367347152146" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Electric trolleys on North Salina Street, circa 1915 - 1917, when Arthur G. Harrington was a motorman. (From the collection of Michelle Stone.</span>)<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Editor's notes:<br />These reminiscences by my grandfather, Arthur George Harrington, were transcribed by his daughter Mary when he was an old man. See the sidebar pictures for birth and death years of each.<br />The three illustrations in this post are from a wonderful collection of old Syracuse postcards from the collection of Michelle Stone, presented on <a href="http://www.rootsweb.ancestry.com/%7Enyononda/PHOTOS/MStone/SyracusePostcards.html">this Onondaga County Genweb page</a>. Please visit that page for more images and captions. - SH<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />Note [by MEH]: Before Dad worked for the Syracuse Rapid Transit, there had been a number of horse car lines. For example --<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The People's Line</span> - with a carbarn on Colvin St. [Syracuse, NY] near cCannon - ran from Elmwood to Onondaga Lake.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The Geddes Line</span> - up Fayette St. to the Onondaga Pottery -- 5 cents all the way, or 3 cents just to Geddes St. The barn, just beyond the Pottery, burned one 4th of July, killing 13 horses.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The 5th Ward Belt Line<br />The E. Genesee Line<br />The W. Genesee Line </span>- first to be electrified.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Salina Line<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Etc.<br /><br /></span></span>All these were owned and run by separate companies, until Syracuse Rapid Transit bought them up. -- MEH<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">(Now Dad speaks -)<span style="font-size:100%;"><br />-------------------------------------------------------------------------<br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><br />1) That winter (probably 1906 - MEH) we lived in your grandmother's (really my <span style="font-style: italic;">great</span> grandmother, Betsy Prisby West Hobert - MEH) house on Gifford Street. I used to get up and walk down to the carbarn on Tallman Street. It was cold, and almost every night it would snow, and I'd have to break a path for myself in the morning. But I didn't seem to mind the cold at all. It didn't bother me. Then on Washington's birthday we had quite a bad storm. We were out with the plows all night. In the morning they told us to back in there by the Weiting Opera House, and stop to eat and rest. I got some breakfast, then I went into the sleeper and turned on the electric heat and lay down. Three or four others came in to sleep, too. A few hours later, I woke up, almost frozen. Some smart guy had turned off the heater, and opened both doors. I never got warm again that winter. Whoever did it knew what I thought of it. I told the whole crew in plain language.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">-------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">2) One morning when I was going to work there was an awful snowstorm, a regular blizzard. I got down on Tallman St., just below Onondaga Circle. I heard a woman. I could barely see her out in the middle of the road, and she kept saying "Oh, my God, where am I" Oh, my God, where am I?" I went out to her and asked her where she lived. She was about nuts, she was so scared. It was dark, only about 5 a.m., and the snow was coming thick. She said she lived on Putnam St. I asked her what she was doing here, and she said she was going on her way to St. Lucy's Church. I said "You'd better forget St. Lucy, and come with me."<br /><br />She did. I took her to the barn, and put her on the first Dudley car going out.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">---------------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">3) One night in the fall, some of the University students were having a dance at Empire Hall, and they had us take a couple cars to run up to the University at 2 a.m. The rails were slippery -- it had been raining, and there were lots of wet leaves. We could hardly make the hill, and of course somebody wanted to get out at nearly every corner, but we finally got there. Then coming back down, the brakes wouldn't hold it. At the crossings the rails were sanded some, but not enough to slow us down, then we'd be going faster at the next crossing. I opened the door, and yelled to the conductor to get down on the steps ready to jump. I was down on the steps, too. When we hit that corner at the end of Crouse Ave., I guess we went around on two wheels. I don't see how we ever kept on the track. The trolley yanked off, of course. Wand when we got it on and got going again, -- SLAM! SLAM! SLAM! The wheels were flat.<br /><br />The next day, Holstack (a boss - MEH) called me in and told me the chief mechanic wanted to see me in the barn. I went out and asked him what he wanted. He asked if I'd had car number so and so the night before. I said I had. He said "I just wanted to know <span style="font-style: italic;">how</span> you put four flat wheels on that car." So I told him.<br /><br />"Well," he says, "That eye-talian is paid to sand the whole length of that hill, and either he'll do it or somebody else will have the job."<br /><br />That night, the whole of Crouse Avenue was sanded, and we never had any more trouble there.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">----------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">4) One night when I was on the Elmwood - Eastwood run, I took the car from old Jim Ferguson down on Genesee and Jefferson. When one motorman relieves another, the one taking off is supposed to sign a card and give it to the relief. The card has places to check anything wrong with the car. But there was never anything wrong with old Jim's car. He never put anything on the card.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyTBlD_evuVpOfLK29ZLzp5uV2bai67peoGktiL95gfEvdwe0x1byM7gUwhEWdlNS0IsL112ujzbndRxBcZx2tHXD8CtwD8LM9swnw2cUsutKjIHW3-jN4e9qmtlGG6qyOMIVIq8OPg8gW/s1600-h/trainincity.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyTBlD_evuVpOfLK29ZLzp5uV2bai67peoGktiL95gfEvdwe0x1byM7gUwhEWdlNS0IsL112ujzbndRxBcZx2tHXD8CtwD8LM9swnw2cUsutKjIHW3-jN4e9qmtlGG6qyOMIVIq8OPg8gW/s400/trainincity.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357677369568154578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">In the very early 1900's, the New York Central railway ran through downtown Syracuse on city streets. The above postcard, from the collection of Michelle Stone, is probably circa 1905 -- note the early electric trolley car at far right. Below, from the same era and the same collection, a big train steams along Washington St. near City Hall.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjG7lgAQYofPn2B8zkgf4d1oSkDhhxMbahoF7VO0YheyApDcUx7XARLlicoGm6IxJJknH6mPbPyPTusV0qqFtssZ-yB76WzLkcCm-wFxQWEnDj_AkP61tWWrsjq1ebANNV3T0BUGJLpcJz/s1600-h/city+streets.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 318px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjG7lgAQYofPn2B8zkgf4d1oSkDhhxMbahoF7VO0YheyApDcUx7XARLlicoGm6IxJJknH6mPbPyPTusV0qqFtssZ-yB76WzLkcCm-wFxQWEnDj_AkP61tWWrsjq1ebANNV3T0BUGJLpcJz/s400/city+streets.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357678424392622498" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div>Well, this night I hadn't gone far when I found there wasn't any sand in the box. You let some down on the rails in front of the wheels when you stop, besides using the brake. I got along as well as I could without it. But coming down from Eastwood, down James Street hill to the railroad, I put on the brakes and it began to slide. I could see an engine coming. I figured if I left on the brakes, I'd stop on the tracks in front of the engine, so I took off the brakes, gave it the power, and shot across just ahead of the engine.<br /><br />The street inspector was at the crossing and saw it happen. The next day Duffy called me in the office.<br /><br />"I thought you were a good motorman," he said.<br /><br />"I never claimed to be," I told him.<br /><br />Then he went on to ask how I came to do that. I explained.<br /><br />He said "If there's no sand in the box, no one else would have as good a chance to know it as the motorman."<br /><br />"Listen," I said, "I took that car from Jim Ferguson downtown, and he reported nothing wrong with it. There was a standing load on it, and I had no chance to lift up the seats to see if the sand boxes were filled."<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Next week: forward to the 1920's again, and the Coal Delivery Sleighride<br /><span style="font-size:100%;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></span></div>Sherwood Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575868746160608731noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321617580973351234.post-25246385238739272912009-07-04T21:01:00.000-07:002009-07-04T21:14:44.636-07:00Remembrances... Installment #6: Deliver Me Almost Everything<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">REMEMBRANCES OF A CHILDHOOD</span></div><div face="times new roman" style="text-align: center; font-family: times new roman;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">By Lynn Harrington</span></p><div style="text-align: center; font-family: times new roman;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center; font-family: times new roman;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Part I: 1918 – 1927, continued</span></div><span lang="EN"><span style="font-size:100%;"><p style="font-weight: bold;">12. Delivery Men</p> <p>In our neighborhood in the early 1920s, the local distribution of goods was still predominantly by delivery men and their horses. Supermarkets and shopping malls lay far in the future. Small neighborhood grocery and other shops were abundant, but to many the most convenient way to shop for specialties was to have them brought to the door.<br /></p><p><span style="font-style: italic;">The Ice Man Visiteth</span><br /></p> <p>Everyone needed ice in the summer, because mechanical refrigeration was in its infancy. So the ice man with his one-horse wagon traveled the streets of his route, looking at each house for the sign that would request delivery. These signs, about a foot square, were of cardboard, bearing in large, clear letters the name of the ice company which had distributed them, People's or Rice's or whomever's. Each sign was so printed that a number appeared at each corner in such a way that the device could be hung in a window diamond-wise, and the desired number, indicating the size of the ice block wanted, would appear upright, reading either 10, 25, 50, or 100. On spotting the sign, the ice man would stop his horse, go to the rear of his wagon, chip from a 100 pound scored block the weight of ice indicated at the upper corner of the sign. This chunk he would carry, using his ice tongs and resting it on a thick pad worn on his shoulder, to the customer's ice box, usually in the kitchen.<br /></p><p><span style="font-style: italic;">Milkman</span><br /></p> <p>If we boys happened to be up and out early in the morning, we might see the milkman and his horse at work. The man had an established route which he covered each day. Our parents told us how, not many years earlier, the milk wagon carried large cans of milk in bulk. The route was worked later in the morning hours, when people in the houses were up and about. As the milkman drove slowly along, he would make his approach known by clanging a bell and calling out, "Milkman!" Then the housewife, or a child she might send, would go to the wagon with a bucket or a jar. </p> <p>The man would dip into a can with a long-handled measure and pour the milk into the customer's receptacle, often along with a stray fly or two. Payment was by cash on the spot. </p> <p>By the time we boys came along the system had been much refined. In the establishment of a route or the addition of a new family to the neighborhood, the milkman would call at the house to sell strips of tickets, one of one color for quarts, another for pints of milk bottled at the dairy he represented. He would also leave a price list, showing, with prices, the various specialties he carried in his wagon, such as cream or buttermilk or cottage cheese. With this information at hand, the customer would, before going to bed, put out on the porch the washed bottles from previous delivery, together with the number of tickets indicating how many quarts or pints of milk were wanted at the next morning's delivery. If specialty items were wanted, a note and payment in coin would be tucked into an empty bottle, or under one.</p></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN"><span style="font-size:100%;"><p><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"The horse knew just how far to plod...</span></p></span></span><span lang="EN"><span style="font-size:100%;"><p></p></span></span><div style="text-align: left;">In most cases the milkman came to know quite well what the customers along the route would want each day. He was carrying two delivery baskets, of metal frame and compartment construction to accommodate a dozen bottles. As his carriers provided stock for deliveries, they also made a place to carry back to the wagon the empties he would pick up. By using the carriers that way, he could walk along in front of several houses, filling orders, before he had to make another trip to the wagon. It did not take a good delivery horse long to learn to know the route as well as the driver did. Once set into motion, the horse knew just about how far to plod along before stopping again. This was a great saving of labor for the milkman. When he needed a refill, the wagon was there, and the only times he would have to double back was when a customer ordered specialties. </div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN"><span style="font-size:100%;"> <p>It was a pleasure to watch that close teamwork between horse and man. Before we moved from Cannon Street, trucks had generally replaced horses on the milk routes. It was one of the sadder marks of progress; trucks did not have to be fed, nor their stables cleaned. Early in the transition period we were amused to see the milkman with his carriers of empty bottles walk to the curb, look about in surprise for his wagon, and then express himself in very positive expletives as he walked back to the stupid truck, standing right where he had left it.</p><p><span style="font-style: italic;">Breadman</span><br /></p> <p>The breadman, working from his wagon with his large basket containing not only bread but also cakes and doughnuts and other delicacies, also had a fairly well established route. He too walked from house to house, his horse following along the street. But baked goods were not the regular staple that milk was, so there was less precision in the operation. In fact, he just didn't bother stopping at our house; Mama did the baking there.<br /></p><p><span style="font-style: italic;">Vegetable Man</span><br /></p> <p>Of all the regular route men, the vegetable man was the most conspicuous. As he walked along beside his wagon he sang out in a loud and rhythmic chant his specials of the day, such as, "STRAWWWBERRIES, CUUUCUMBERS, RAAADISHES", and similar cries for bananas and lettuce and potatoes and tomatoes and other standard items of produce. As he called his loud sing-song housewives along the street would hear him, and by the time he was before their houses they would be at curbside waiting for him, basket and purse in hand. Milk and ice they would accept as delivered; the produce, however, they wanted to select for themselves.</p></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"The Broken Man Is Coming!"</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>I remember quite well the vegetable man who worked our street for several years. Mama would now and then want to be sure she knew when the man was on our street. She might be working upstairs or in the kitchen and not hear him call. So on such days, when we boys might be playing outside, she would admonish us to let her know when he was coming. It just happened that the vegetable man had only one leg, and he swung along as best he could, his crutch under his right arm and his left hand resting on the wagon. We boys, in the innocence of childhood and without thought of any unkindness, would run to the door and call to our mother, "Mama, the broken man is coming!"<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Coal Shooting</span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN"><span style="font-size:100%;"> <p>The coal man's deliveries were something special to watch. Dad seldom ordered more than a half ton at a time. Our coal bin was in the cellar, accessible from outside only by a low, ground-level window that was hinged to be swung inward and upward and held open by a hook. The coal was delivered by a low-slung wagon in spring and fall, and by a box sleigh when the streets were coated with a thick, hard-packed layer of snow in winter. There was not room for the coal man to get his rig between our house and the house next door, so the man halted his wagon at curbside, then carried to the cellar window a straight metal chute which he lowered through the opened window and secured in place by legs extending to the ground from the chute's upper end. Then he would go back to the load, place his carrying bag on the ground or the snow beside it, and shovel it full of coal. The carrier was of canvas and shaped like a pack basket. A cloth strap-handle was attached to the rim at the top, and another on the side near the bottom of the pack. I don't know just what the weight of that carrier filled with coal would have been, but it must have been at least 50 pounds. When he had filled it, the man took hold of the pack with a handle in each hand and, with a swift, deft motion, swing it up onto his shoulder. Then he would trudge to the chute and just as deftly dump it onto that device, down which the coal would rattle and bang as it slid down into the bin. </p> <p>The noise induced by the coal's descent was a roar which reverberated all through the house. For the usual half-ton delivery that would mean at least 20 carries for the man; for the occasional full ton order, 40 trips. He was a short, stocky man, clothes and hands and face black with coal dust, but cheerful and friendly with us kids, and often flashing a wide smile that showed his teeth startling white in contrast to his blackened face.<br /></p><p><span style="font-style: italic;">Instant Messaging, 1920's Style</span><br /></p> <p>Deliveries of quite another sort were handled by an elite group of uniformed older boys and young men. These were the telegraph couriers. The telephone was not then the universally-owned instrument it is today. Especially urgent messages were dispatched and delivered by telegraphic wire services. Two major companies competed for this business: Western Union and Postal Telegraph. Both of these companies maintained service offices in virtually all cities throughout the country. At those offices, messages received from a distant station on their lines were printed out on tape as they arrived over the wire. Clerks would cut the tapes into appropriate length strips and stick them to sheets of paper bearing their company's letterhead, together with the address of the recipient and the point of origin, with the names of both parties, sender and addressee. Each message was stuffed into an envelope, address showing in the glassine window. Such messages were held at the receiving office for only a short time, usually just long enough to allow accumulation of telegrams for several addresses in a given section of the city. </p> <p>Posted at the ready in the office would be a number of carriers, just waiting to be handed a sheaf of envelopes to be distributed in their assigned districts. Each had his own bicycle, and immediately upon receipt of his messages, placed them in his cap, ran to his bike, mounted, and sped away. The courier had to be thoroughly familiar with all streets in his district, even more so than taxi drivers. The cab driver could often get help from the passenger in finding his destination. All the courier had was the printed address. </p> <p>A job as a telegraph messenger was a responsible and respected position. Telegrams were not generally dispatched for casual messages -- they were usually urgent and of a serious nature. In his effort to make the earliest possible deliveries, the courier was especially vulnerable to the risks of bicycling through heavy traffic. When snow made that means of delivery impossiple, he had to travel as far as possible by streetcar and run the rest of the way. Those hard working, dedicated couriers have by now disappeared from the scene, displaced by much more sophisticated, computerized transmission systems. We are the richer for bhe inv~ptionof those mechanical devices, but the poorer for the disappearance of the couriers. </p> <p style="font-style: italic;">The Coal Delivery Sleigh Ride</p> <p>Early one memorable Saturday morning in the depth of winter, when the coal man had finished a delivery to our house, he told us boys that he was going back to the yard to get a big load to deliver to the boiler room at the Netherland Dairy, located about a mile toward downtown from our house. He said we could come along if we wanted a nice sleigh ride. We were overjoyed at the prospect, and ran into the house to tell Mama we were going for a ride with the coal man. We offered no particulars, and she probably assumed he was going to give us a ride to the coal yard, not far up East Brighton Avenue. Then out we dashed to climb into the sleigh, and we were off. </p> <p>At the coal yard, loading up was quickly accomplished. The storage bins were overhead, and the teamster (after telling us to hop out and wait for him by the street) simply drove his team to the proper spot where the sleigh rested under the hopper from which the measured quantity of coal was dumped straight down into it. As the team pulled out into the street we climbed aboard and settled down in comfort to enjoy our princely ride all the way along the busy streets which led us to the Netherland Dairy. Unloading there was easier than at our house, even though the load was much larger. All the man did was drive the sleigh up beside .~ pair of big iron doors, flush with the ground. The fireman in the boiler room swung those doors up and open, the driver removed one section of the side of the his sleigh, and proceeded 'to shove the coal off and down into a large storage chamber which the iron doors had concealed. When the fireman saw us boys standing beside the sleigh he asked, "Are you kids with him?" We said we were, and he said, "You'd better come with me, or you'll freeze before he gets that coal off." </p> <p>We followed with alacrity as he led us into the boiler room, a warm and pleasant place where we sat on a bench and watched him rake and poke around in the fire. After a little bit he disappeared for a few minutes and returned with three Eskimo Pies, one for each of us. Those foil-wrapped, chocolate coated ice cream bars were the most wonderful treat we could imagine, and our pleasure in them was diminished not in the least by the grime on our fingers. </p> <p>Then the coal was unloaded, and it was time to go. This time we traveled seated on the edge of the sleigh box, with our feet and legs inside. Few winter diversions are more fun than a sleigh ride, and we felt quite important, riding there in state as the team plodded south along Salina Street. At Colvin the man stopped the horses and we got off, with many thanks for the ride. He said we were ~ery welcome, and that well could join him again mos t any Saturday, as tha twas a regular run. We knew, as we walked home, that we were quite dirty. Just how dirty we were hadn't really sunk in until we entered the kitchen at home, and Mama explained it to us in no uncertain terms. Needless to say, we didn't take any more Saturday afternoon rides on the coal sleigh.</p></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN"><span style="font-size:100%;"><p>====================================</p><p>Next week: more from Arthur G. Harrington</p><p>====================================<br /></p></span></span><br /></div></div></div><span lang="EN"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></span>Sherwood Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575868746160608731noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321617580973351234.post-20156748747928438262009-06-28T17:42:00.000-07:002009-06-28T18:53:16.719-07:00Tales Told by Arthur G. Harrington (Installment #1)<div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh69L5Rk_DSP19H5QGWe93Tl_t4luCfw-L9in1oNGS-KNGB8CFJ4aAPq-u1HJ2UtDiM5BwtNp7az7ezfUyB3oGPmvghXF_R6Ec0MbsVqMRCs6B5E_Q6MtohA3WJwsZe8jQVy_-STpbsSv7j/s1600-h/1946.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh69L5Rk_DSP19H5QGWe93Tl_t4luCfw-L9in1oNGS-KNGB8CFJ4aAPq-u1HJ2UtDiM5BwtNp7az7ezfUyB3oGPmvghXF_R6Ec0MbsVqMRCs6B5E_Q6MtohA3WJwsZe8jQVy_-STpbsSv7j/s400/1946.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352547487228725618" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Clockwise from lower-left: Arthur G. Harrington, Mary E. Harrington, Sgt. Lynn Harrington, Wilhelmina Hobert Harrington. This 1945 photo was almost certainly taken by my mother, Catherine Murphy Harrington, on her and Dad's first trip North from Atlanta to introduce her to the Harrington family in Upstate New York.<br /><br /></span></span></div>My father's oldest sibling, Margaret, died in the Spanish Influenza pandemic, near its end in 1920, when Dad was only five years old. My grandmother Harrington passed away the month before I was born. Thus, the grand old lady of the Harrington clan was always, to me, Dad's oldest surviving sister, Mary, who was born in 1901.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglCjzVE_iI_6C4S_h06ThyFFlouuvxPjvj8HjVo61oosdI_0UMvwWyNXwLGww1zLCiueKuaLn0yfgPQGFhUcvW4Tc1yfcUGaJS82LtFs2h2X8dROREfqjyC5VxBK0htg2tFUV2fKH8YbpU/s1600-h/TalesPage1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 270px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglCjzVE_iI_6C4S_h06ThyFFlouuvxPjvj8HjVo61oosdI_0UMvwWyNXwLGww1zLCiueKuaLn0yfgPQGFhUcvW4Tc1yfcUGaJS82LtFs2h2X8dROREfqjyC5VxBK0htg2tFUV2fKH8YbpU/s400/TalesPage1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352547358243760802" border="0" /></a>Never married, Mary spent her working career as an Earth Science teacher in Oneida, New York. She was the family's glue for many decades, carrying on voluminous correspondence with her many siblings and their children until her death in 1985. She was also her father's caretaker between the time of her mother's death until his, seven years later.<br /><br />Her father, my grandfather, Arthur G. Harrington, wasn't much for writing, since he hadn't much schooling himself. He had enough to do, I suppose, providing for a family of eight children through the Great Depression, without spending much time on that sort of thing.<br /><br />But he could <span style="font-style: italic;">tell</span> stories. And Mary could record them. And she did -- for all of us.<br /><br />In 1972, Mary presented each of Art Harrington's grandchildren with a fine little booklet called <span style="font-style: italic;">Tales Told by your Grandfather Arthur George Harrington.</span> Mine, as you can see below, is copy number ten of a run of 20.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZmuqYe5AlbGsN1Gv_fBrohyUh7jMDXbHUzZ6lvO-FnCArltYPtE8yl9muXh8tZ1a5m1k5nYvnMlOP9K48bAqm4PiBEpDAHlWMXWNtAykWzWYAZzKeg__vWjniGRUtzuqEaejyzLCAN3FO/s1600-h/TalesPage2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 280px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZmuqYe5AlbGsN1Gv_fBrohyUh7jMDXbHUzZ6lvO-FnCArltYPtE8yl9muXh8tZ1a5m1k5nYvnMlOP9K48bAqm4PiBEpDAHlWMXWNtAykWzWYAZzKeg__vWjniGRUtzuqEaejyzLCAN3FO/s400/TalesPage2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352547292189065954" border="0" /></a>The first few pages of the booklet served as an introduction to Art for us grandkids, most of whom were too young to remember him other than as a big, old man wracked by age and wear. (In his prime, Art Harrington stood 6' 2" -- tall for his time -- and had a 20" neck, so thick that he never had a shirt that could button at the collar, but not fat. Evidently, he was a bull of a man, physically.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbmuaaeY79PRfjNCLm7QuMggsqLYdFhOOhf5kQbHTJzypKqUm5rBtO4xVGh-yeaOygZYYiIAvBw37TzMfz7v1sYt14LzFGK9Z6O9LC27MhJGrCdS9fDIxa9CCdCFOh35bvdocGZO20VCin/s1600-h/TalesPage3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 280px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbmuaaeY79PRfjNCLm7QuMggsqLYdFhOOhf5kQbHTJzypKqUm5rBtO4xVGh-yeaOygZYYiIAvBw37TzMfz7v1sYt14LzFGK9Z6O9LC27MhJGrCdS9fDIxa9CCdCFOh35bvdocGZO20VCin/s400/TalesPage3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352547223156047826" border="0" /></a>Those first few pages also served as something of an introduction for us "kids" to some family history that most of our parents weren't particularly anxious to talk about much: Art's early separation from his father and his later determination to seek out his father, James McMackin.<br /><br />This first installment of "Tales Told..." is presented in graphic rather than text form for two reasons: First, Aunt Mary's little booklet with its irregular, manual typewriter print and numerous handwritten bits doesn't work well with OCR software -- trying to use any of the packages I have available for that turns out to be more time-consuming than simply re-typing will be. But second, and more important, I want Adam and (I hope) others downstream in the gene pool to be able to see what the booklet looks/looked like, and to see how well-worn each of the 20 copies must be or have been. Future installments will be in re-typed, text format.<br /><br />The pages below are stored on blogger in a big enough size to be read easily, but only if you click on each of them to see the larger, more legible image.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghO7hfhn8jLJjiF1PCwExBEsmTFFlNgAxV0ygBzX66pZO22xgjMADwapcVKA1ycnujOx-P50NZvRuFZfO79wfXN0-rvGGJDUVSEilTFlK-cEhGgWKaimWfKGqWM4n8OX-imNyZk9AkWpd1/s1600-h/TalesPage4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 272px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghO7hfhn8jLJjiF1PCwExBEsmTFFlNgAxV0ygBzX66pZO22xgjMADwapcVKA1ycnujOx-P50NZvRuFZfO79wfXN0-rvGGJDUVSEilTFlK-cEhGgWKaimWfKGqWM4n8OX-imNyZk9AkWpd1/s400/TalesPage4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352547124660944338" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The marriage certificate and separation agreement to which Mary refers in the latter footnote can be viewed </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sherwoodh/3011544597/">here</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> and </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sherwoodh/3011544599/">here</a><span style="font-style: italic;">. Also, to my son, Adam: it's interesting to note that the Truman Harrington to whom Mary refers was your great-great-great-great grandfather, or more than a third of the way back from you to Sir John Harrington and the court of Elizabeth I. My, how time flies. --SH</span><br /></span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijyQLWFZsjzGs1UYpqjJ8hJY88udEQ-aZ9vPQPOEDIpHWHWMV0j6CSc6yzBLqJ0GT7H_0hNzIjifasL4sFpjo528QLbJMQuxx78l2Lpy0mYh6KLZ03ojXLG7krdDpDwT5kfHG-CdFwGOXr/s1600-h/TalesPage5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijyQLWFZsjzGs1UYpqjJ8hJY88udEQ-aZ9vPQPOEDIpHWHWMV0j6CSc6yzBLqJ0GT7H_0hNzIjifasL4sFpjo528QLbJMQuxx78l2Lpy0mYh6KLZ03ojXLG7krdDpDwT5kfHG-CdFwGOXr/s400/TalesPage5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352547040282027538" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyfINd3Ubc-xyIAvgiQLvB116-k4sg-Yrpa7X_RZz2qe6c0YRsx0xGS25IbilsW58Im5aXo-ElDlPp4dLNbeadAVGZLZIq2GbGVxgqx0zBDHRATy8hpKqCuEiICAHskIZfegvr0pSImime/s1600-h/TalesPage6.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyfINd3Ubc-xyIAvgiQLvB116-k4sg-Yrpa7X_RZz2qe6c0YRsx0xGS25IbilsW58Im5aXo-ElDlPp4dLNbeadAVGZLZIq2GbGVxgqx0zBDHRATy8hpKqCuEiICAHskIZfegvr0pSImime/s400/TalesPage6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352546973504149170" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhJiAq2zBXfyYJzuzdnZ8zA3txEVu33X8NR_rUDNTurD88Xsuf1u87U0kDW-jWQ_DoQUm8jzKFO11j1pXre0C-ETnu21c8ZspBE_eY9iaVvIcdqH1_sDGHi3xNHtV2ZvR_I6qPLUHl3mWK/s1600-h/TalesPage7.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 272px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhJiAq2zBXfyYJzuzdnZ8zA3txEVu33X8NR_rUDNTurD88Xsuf1u87U0kDW-jWQ_DoQUm8jzKFO11j1pXre0C-ETnu21c8ZspBE_eY9iaVvIcdqH1_sDGHi3xNHtV2ZvR_I6qPLUHl3mWK/s400/TalesPage7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352546871154036210" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAg4GfNG0RXuGm_L5YHnZH9xZs7CsgccdGPGjJ2mbv8qQYVD1XFAWowiR28ta0pk_pkm1s0yn-ttGBasEVjbmX1A-_H5vUJaswtpwIsuNGFqPFYNrKVKvJ3PyjshdRrLCEUti7LNWnJaeM/s1600-h/MEHandUs55.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 270px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAg4GfNG0RXuGm_L5YHnZH9xZs7CsgccdGPGjJ2mbv8qQYVD1XFAWowiR28ta0pk_pkm1s0yn-ttGBasEVjbmX1A-_H5vUJaswtpwIsuNGFqPFYNrKVKvJ3PyjshdRrLCEUti7LNWnJaeM/s400/MEHandUs55.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352547431705920082" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Mary and her little brother, Lynn, assist me in making cider, 1955.<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span>==============================================<br />Next week: We return to <span style="font-style: italic;">Remembrances of a Childhood</span>, and see a<br />bygone era of deliverymen.<br />==============================================<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></div></div>Sherwood Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575868746160608731noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321617580973351234.post-55898245277982935562009-06-19T23:30:00.000-07:002009-06-20T01:12:41.121-07:00Remembrances of a Childhood (Installment #5)<div style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />REMEMBRANCES OF A CHILDHOOD</span></div><div face="times new roman" style="text-align: center; font-family: times new roman;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">By Lynn Harrington</span></p><div style="text-align: center; font-family: times new roman;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center; font-family: times new roman;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Part I: 1918 – 1927, continued</span><br /></div><style type="text/css">.style1 { font-family: "Times New Roman"; } .style2 { font-size: medium; } .style3 { font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; } </style> <span lang="EN"><span class="style2" style="font-size:85%;"> </span><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="style1"><span class="style2" style="font-size:85%;">11. Christmas</span></p></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN"><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="style1"><span style="font-style: italic;" lang="EN"><span class="style2" style="font-size: 85%;">We all sat silent then for a time, hushed by the splendor of the sight. </span></span></p></span></div><span lang="EN"> <p class="style1"><span class="style2" style="font-size:85%;">Of all the holidays of the year, Christmas was to us children the most exciting. In those early years presents were very modest, but our parents saw to it that each of us could buy a small gift for each of our brothers and sisters. The older girls in turn made it possible for us to each buy a gift for Mama and for Dad. I remember that for several years in a span that must have started when I was five the girls would help us boys in our Christmas shopping. The actual shopping was done during the week before the holiday itself -- we couldn't have endured so high a pitch of excitement for much longer than that.</span></p> <p class="style1"><span class="style2" style="font-size:85%;">This is the way it worked: Each of the eldest three would take charge of one of us boys, taking us downtown on the streetcar to shop, handling our money, and helping us with our selections. Mary, for example, would take me to Woolworths or Kresge's or both. They were called 5 and 10 cent stores in those days, and they really were just that. I find myself to this day surprised as I reflect upon the variety of items each store offered for a nickel or a dime. There were toys in great variety (metal or wood, but no such thing as plastics), coloring books, crayons, games, puzzles, and novelties of all sorts. She would help me select a gift for each of the others. The boys, of course, got the toys that appealed to me most strongly. For Florence I would select something like a pencil box or a little story book (which I of course figured she would later read to me). For the older girls I standardized: Each got a package of hairpins.<span lang="en-us"> </span> For the selection of Mama's and Dad's gifts I was usually steered into W. T. Grant's store. The sign on the front of that one read 5¢ - 10¢ - 25¢ - $1. The choosing of gifts in that lofty economic environment was more difficult. I would finally settle on something like a nice handkerchief for Mama and a pair of suspenders for Dad. Then when she had a chance later my shopping advisor would let me help her wrap the gifts in pretty paper.<br /><br />Mildred and Myrtle did similar duty for Bob and Jim, while Florence could take care of her own shopping, except that she was not yet allowed to go downtown by herself. <span lang="en-us"> </span>From year to year we paired off with different sisters. <span lang="en-us"> </span>It was always a very happy arrangement.<br /><br />Just as Christmas was the most exciting day, so was the day before the most interminable. <span lang="en-us"> </span>It just seemed it would never get dark. <span lang="en-us"> </span>Our salvation came after supper, when we were allowed to go to the movies at the Arcadia. <span lang="en-us"> </span>It made no difference at all what was playing. <span lang="en-us"> </span>We three boys were delighted to attend, to find the time slipping away as we enjoyed the comedies and the playing of the piano, and sometimes even paying attention to the feature picture. <span lang="en-us"> </span>But what meant the most to us was the realization that when the show was over it would be time to go home and to bed. <span lang="en-us"> </span>And we would be tired enough to fall asleep quickly, and then when we awoke it would be Christmas!<br /><br />In winter it was always dark when we woke up. It seemed that on Christmas morning our internal clocks sounded their silent alarms not later than 5:00 a. m. But we were ordered to stay in bed and be still, for Mom and Dad and the older girls had to get up first and get the breakfast preparations under way and the Christmas presents all arranged under the tree before we could come downstairs.<br /><br />Then at last, probably between 6:00 and 7:00, we would be called to dress and come down. When we reached the living room several lamps would be burning in their brackets, and everyone was dressed and we could see the table in the dining room all set for the breakfast that would follow the opening of the presents. But what caught our attention more than anything else was the dark Christmas tree,in the corner of the living room opposite to the bottom of the stairway. Then we all took our places, Mama and Dad standing by the tree, we boys sitting on the floor at the bottom of the stairway, and the girls sitting on the stairs.<br /><br />The lighting of the tree was to us a scene of transcending beauty. Distributed about on the tips of the branches, among ribbons and tinsel and threaded strings of popcorn, but not visible to us until lit, were the little candles. Each was held in a little tin sleeve soldered to a clamp which held it tightly near the end of a twig. Dad turned the kerosene lamps down very low, casting the room into near darkness. Then he went to the tree, and, as Mama steadied each candle-bearing twig, Dad used a match to light the candle. This continued until all of the candles bore their tiny flames, and the tree was a shining cone of breath-taking beauty. We all sat silent then for a time, hushed by the splendor of the sight. But the flames had to be extinguished. If one of them happened to touch a dry evergreen needle there would have been an instant, sizzling flame. So Mama turned up the room lamps while Dad pinched out the candles, and the distribution of the presents began. Jimmy, as the youngest, was designated to pass the gifts to the rest. Mom and Dad, by turns, picked up a package, read to Jimmy the name on it, and he would carry it to its recipient. Of course, when they gave him one with his name on it, he plopped right down on the floor and unwrapped it, chortling his glee over the present. I substituted for him in the distribution until he was ready to resume, so the gifts kept flowing.<br /><br />The presents were small and inexpensive, and the colored tissue was, as far as possible, saved for another year. But none of that mattered. We were not expecting great things, and the pleasure was in the receiving and the sharing. And I do not think we were ever at any other time so happy and so unified a family as we were on those Christmas mornings.</span></p></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sherwoodh/3127393794/" title="Christmas in Ft. Harrington, 2008 by Sherwood Harrington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3254/3127393794_12aeba26fd_m.jpg" alt="Christmas in Ft. Harrington, 2008" width="240" height="160" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span>An electrified Harrington Christmas tree, more than 80 years later and a continent away.</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> (Click the image for a more detailed view.)</span></span><br /><br />========================================================<br /><span style="font-size:100%;">The next installment of <span style="font-style: italic;">Satchel</span> will probably be posted on the weekend of June 27 - 28. We'll give Lynn Harrington a little break then, and will hear from other voices. Dad's "Remembrances of a Childhood" will resume the week after that.<br />========================================================<br /></span></div>Sherwood Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575868746160608731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321617580973351234.post-24299902875243819172009-06-14T21:03:00.000-07:002009-06-15T13:21:43.131-07:00Remembrances of a Childhood (Installment #4)<div style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">REMEMBRANCES OF A CHILDHOOD</span></div><div face="times new roman" style="text-align: center; font-family: times new roman;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">By Lynn Harrington</span></p><div style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Part I: 1918 – 1927, continued<br /><br /></span></div> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >6. The Elk Bakery</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >The Elk Bakery was a fine establishment. It was a treat just to spend some time looking in through the window at the fascinating display of baked goods. The assortment changed every day. There were cakes and cupcakes and jelly rolls and sweet buns one day, and the next time I was there I might see a great assortment of pies and tarts and doughnuts and turnovers and cookies. Of course, there were also days when breads and rolls were featured, but they didn't hold my attention for very long.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >By the time I was in the fifth grade I had formed fast friendships with several schoolmates, and on Saturdays and on summer days when school was out we would often get together to play or fight or run like a pack of young dogs. On one such Saturday one of the boys announced that someone had told him that the lady at the Elk Bakery would sell stale cookies and things cheap. So the six of us in the group at that time pooled our resources and came up with a total of ten cents (a couple of us had no capital to contribute, but the others would not have thought of leaving us out). So off we went as a group, to try our luck.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >When we reached the bakery counter, presided over by a nice motherly woman, our acting treasurer asked if we could buy ten cents worth of stale baked goods. The lady asked if we would like some bread or rolls. When we all shook our heads in the negative she said, "Just a minute and I'll see what I can do."</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >She disappeared into the room behind the store, and shortly after reappeared with a rather large paper bag, bulging with its load and securely closed at the top. The ten cents was exchanged for the bag, and out of the store we trooped, all dying to know what was in the sack, but thinking it would be unseemly to look while she was watching.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Once out on the sidewalk the bag was promptly opened and we all tried to look in at once. What we saw might as well have been gold. We whooped and hollered like a bunch of wild Indians when we saw the jumble of cookies and tarts and even cakes in that bag. We could hardly wait to get at the treasure, but with the cunning common to wild animals and little boys, we instinctively concealed our prize and made a quick escape from that busy Salina Street sidewalk where some bigger boys might see what was going on and relieve us of our treasure.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >After a short conference we decided that the safest place to go would be up Colvin Street hill eastward to the mounded eminence beyond Oakwood Cemetery. There we climbed the steep side of what we would learn in later years was a drumlin. People familiar with the area now would know it as the prominence at the southern base of which stands the University's Manley Field House. To us then it was just a wild, grassy hill, dotted with shrubs and small trees, but open at the top, affording a beautiful view down on Syracuse and across to where the city was spreading up toward the western rim of the Onondaga valley.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2lrvwYd_g5EpgUJc3JtnA7kuaPAowijiSa2DPSKiwNeun_oYzbyaImFY-d5u6LOFQg0h_G9CqhlmWSiF4_18SehPf7JnH7XbP2RuFjJyTfvFdxqIe9oRXcKYh2b1N4gCtCied-AGv1U1c/s1600-h/Manley.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 253px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2lrvwYd_g5EpgUJc3JtnA7kuaPAowijiSa2DPSKiwNeun_oYzbyaImFY-d5u6LOFQg0h_G9CqhlmWSiF4_18SehPf7JnH7XbP2RuFjJyTfvFdxqIe9oRXcKYh2b1N4gCtCied-AGv1U1c/s400/Manley.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347401766829530354" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Modern geography of the ten-cent sugar bonanza, as seen courtesy of Google: Cannon and Salina streets are at left, the Oakwood Cemetery is at upper-center, the Manley Field House is the round, white structure at right, and the feast's drumlin is just above that, topped now with water tanks.</span> </span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >By the time we had left Colvin Street for the steep climb our numbers had grown from the original six to eight or nine. A half dozen boys running with a bag of something served as an irresistible magnet that attracted two or three boys of our acquaintance, who voted themselves in for a share of whatever was goingon. When we reached the crest we all sat down, gathered around the prize. Then it was just a matter of lounging there on the hilltop, helping ourselves to whatever we wanted from the abundant supply and luxuriating in the treat. I remember that it was the first time I had ever seen a jelly roll, and I consumed a good share of the one in our stock.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >We all ate to repletion, and it was a rather subdued little group that descended the drumlin that afternoon, more than a little queasy and no doubt surprising our mothers by our strangely light appetites at supper that night.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Over the next year or two, at appropriately discrete intervals, we made similar, but variously rewarded, forays. The Elk Bakery lady was at all times kind, and the goods were never actually stale. But my recollection is that the yields diminished as other boys began showing up at the bakery on similar missions, and that after our initial orgy we were quite willing to exercise more moderation in our Elk Bakery ventures.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >7. Horses and Men</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >The transition from horse power to internal combustion engines in the work of transportation, earth moving, and construction did not occur overnight. In my early childhood, up to about 1922 or 1923, horses and wagons made up a considerable share of the traffic on the city streets. We found the horses most interesting to watch. Some of the peddlers drove bony, worn out old nags, living out the last of their days in equally worn harness. Other horses were fine, vigorous specimens, such as the light animals ridden by mounted police we would see patrolling in the parks, or escorting a parade. Much like them were the single horses that farmers sometimes drove into the city, drawing the buggies in which country people came to town to shop or to visit family or friends. Much larger and more powerful were the draft horses that drew large wagons to the feed store on Salina Street near Brighton Avenue. Those wagons would come bearing loads of oats and shelled corn in burlap bags. At the mill that grain would be mixed and ground to meal with wheat or other cereal grains supplied by the miller. The grist was then bagged and loaded back onto the wagons, to be hauled back to the farms for use as winter feed for the milk cows, to supplement their hay-and-silage diet.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >On early spring Saturdays, before the cows would be turned out to graze in the pastures, we would see numbers of such farm teams and wagons lined up at the mill, each awaiting its turn. We enjoyed walking along beside the standing teams (but, being city kids, not too close), admiring the size and the rippling muscles of those great animals. We would occasionally see a team stopped at the corner of Salina and Elk, quenching their thirst at the large cast-iron watering trough maintained there by the city.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Another good place to watch horses at work was at the sand and gravel pit down near Roosevelt Junior High. There they pulled in with empty dump wagons and took up positions within reach of the large crane-like steam-powered shovel. That machine would dig into the gravel bank, pullout a scoopful of gravel, swing it around and drop it into a wagon. Two or three scoops made up a load, and the driver would move his team with its loaded wagon up the grade out of the pit and along city streets to its destination. That might be a road grading and paving project, or a construction site where gravel and sand would be mixed with cement and water to make concrete. Those wagons lacked, of course, the hydraulic devices which elevate the front end of a modern dump truck. The wagons were so built that the bottom was made up of two door-like lengthwise sections, each hinged to the frame along its side. A chain and ratchet device allowed the driver, from his position on the seat up front, to work a lever back and forth, to either bring the doors tight shut or to let them drop open, thus dumping the load directly under the wagon.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Any construction which involved excavation, as in making a hole for the basement of a new house, called for a still different form of man-and-horse equipment. There were no bulldozers nor backhoes then. The bulk of the dirt was removed by what was called a "scrape'. This was a large shovel-like arrangement, with a steel bed about three feet wide and equally deep from front to rear. The steel backplate extended up about a foot, and at the center of its reinforced top edge was a ring. The two steel side pieces tapered up from the front edge to a welded joint with the back piece. Back and up along the outside of each side piece was a sturdy wooden pole, which extended out two or three feet beyond the back of the scrape. These wooden poles were rounded and smoothed for the last foot or so of their length. The operator would stand between these handles, gripping them firmly. From the ring at the top rear of the scrape, a chain extended forward, several feet, where it was attached to the evener behind a single horse. The reins from the horse's bit reached back far enough that the driver could tie them together and loop them around his back.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Heading the horse in the direction he wanted to go and setting it into motion, the man would raise up on the handles, the front edge of the scrape would bite into the ground, and as the horse moved forward the pan would fill up with dirt. Then the driver would bear down hard on the handles, bringing the front edge free from the ground. Then, engaging each rein between thumb and forefinger of each hand as he grasped the handle, so that he could steer the horse, he would continue to bear down as the horse dragged the load to the desired dumping point. Then the man would tilt up the handles just enough to allow the leading edge to catch in the ground, after which the forward motion of the horse would flip the scrape forward and face down, leaving its load in a heap. Then it was a matter of righting the scrape, reversing direction, and repeating the process.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >This technique was used for rough excavating only; men with hand shovels had to do the more precise labor of cutting the corners sharp and leveling off the rough places in the floor.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Primitive and arduous as this operation was, a strong man with a good horse could dig out a lot of dirt in a day. On major construction jobs, such as excavating for the base of a large office building or apartment house, steam powered shovels did the digging. Horses and dump wagons still did the hauling away.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Horses, in their various labors, made great contributions to the economy. They were, in effect,</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >and in contrast to fossil fuels, self-renewing energy resources. The were also, especially in crowded cities, a source of pollution far different from what we see on the streets today. In the downtown section sanitation men were equipped with two-wheeled pushcarts, each with an open-topped barrel supported between the wheels, and with a shovel and push broom. The men patrolled the streets, sweeping up and carting away the horse droppings that accumulated every day.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >In the residential sections the streets were washed down by the use of water wagons. The body of the wagon consisted of a wooden tank placed like the metal tank on a modern tank truck. At the rear of the wagon was a transverse pipe with holes along its rear surface. The water flowed out with considerable force just by the pressure of the load in the tank. The flow of water washed most of the detritus from the street surface into the gutters, down through the catch basins and into the storm sewer system.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOGxJ6aciLYEQvswbJrDcFqa-c1n5LpCm3YjtSiqTzdE8lDU_wE30vtCVj66Rw9OhvPYCuQDvVrBKaHfU_UiYq8NVFfIaipNmNyNl4WBjPKfu0tTNWfCgjTz7a_cgiedAoO-lIzHLq5X0U/s1600-h/Studebaker+water+wagon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 281px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOGxJ6aciLYEQvswbJrDcFqa-c1n5LpCm3YjtSiqTzdE8lDU_wE30vtCVj66Rw9OhvPYCuQDvVrBKaHfU_UiYq8NVFfIaipNmNyNl4WBjPKfu0tTNWfCgjTz7a_cgiedAoO-lIzHLq5X0U/s400/Studebaker+water+wagon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347404366549627170" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span>A refurbished horsedrawn water wagon, manufactured by Studebaker. Photo from </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><a href="http://www.automotivehistoryonline.com/studebaker.htm">"Automotive History Online"</a>. Click the link to see the photo's context there.</span><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >We lived a little more nearly in the state of nature then than we do now. When a horse felt a call of nature, he stopped and answered it, no matter where he might be. It was a common occurrence in the city, and we took it quite for granted. We noticed, but thought nothing in particular about, the performance of a little man who walked past our house on Cannon Street on his way to and from the street car line which carried him to and from work each day. He carried a brown leather satchel as he walked during the spring and summer months.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Not uncommonly, on his homeward way in the evening, he went out into the street in two or three places, opened his satchel, took out a small scoop, transferred some horse manure from street to satchel, replaced the scoop, closed the satchel, and continued on his homeward way. When I asked Mama why he did that, she said he probably had a nice garden, and used the manure to fertilize it.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >As motor vehicles gradually replaced the horses, tank trucks were used for washing down the streets. On a hot summer day we kids took off our shoes and stockings and had great fun running about close behind the slow-moving truck. Then the city switched to combination washer-sweeper vehicles, which did a better job of actually cleaning the streets, but which ended that particular fun for us.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >8. Coal Stoves</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >The kitchen of our house was a large room and, especially during winter, the center of activity in the home.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Coal was the fuel for the big iron cookstove (often referred to as the kitchen range). A smaller, upright stove stood in the living room. Coal was the fuel for both of these stoves which, in the absence of a furnace or fireplace, provided the heat for the house. Winter evenings were spent gathered in the kitchen, the warmest room in the house. When we went off to bed on especially cold winter nights we all, adults as well as children, took along a securely closed bottle of hot water, wrapped in cloth. One such bottle, tucked between the covers and close to the feet, made falling asleep more comfortable.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Near each of the stoves was kept a scuttle, a sort of pail, oval in outline, with its circumference extended to form a chute from which coal could be dispensed into the stove. The scuttles had to be refilled from the coal bin cellar.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><div face="times new roman" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPwlnhMKhqHSIZnkI5SxmH2zH-9aYIjHSFuQboDrClTifdVYXeKSUDxgBsNboUpJnde2pXQq4-xxEJx4XyCnsm2vEb-vF11yJYuA-aHkYlOC1IzdF3-CZvKBarGVXEFMwVoMu3HCFJ0ySU/s1600-h/Scuttle.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPwlnhMKhqHSIZnkI5SxmH2zH-9aYIjHSFuQboDrClTifdVYXeKSUDxgBsNboUpJnde2pXQq4-xxEJx4XyCnsm2vEb-vF11yJYuA-aHkYlOC1IzdF3-CZvKBarGVXEFMwVoMu3HCFJ0ySU/s400/Scuttle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347405243686937474" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">You can still buy new coal scuttles. This one is available for forty euro from Ireland's <a href="http://www.baumanns.ie/index.php/cPath/297_319?Baumid=ecf4f0a61aea40031ae12de9f94c632a">Baumann.ie</a>.</span> </span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >The coal we burned was anthracite, a hard, relatively clean-burning fuel in contrast to the soft, or bituminous, coal used in factories and other industrial applications. We owed the availability and comparatively moderate price of the hard coal to the proximity of the vast Pennsylvania anthracite coal fields. "Moderate" in relation to price is, of course, a relative term. Coal was one of the major elements in the cost of living, and we had to use it as conservatively as possible. This involved a job for us children. A grownup, for obvious reasons) would shovel the ashes from the pit under the firebox of each stove, into a metal basket and carry that out to the back yard. It was then up to us kids to sift the ashes, using a device consisting of a circular, cheese-box like holder open at the top and with a coarse wire screen bottom.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >A handle like a broomstick was attached to the sifter. We would scoop ashes into the sifter, then hold it over an ash can and shake. The ashes went into the can, and we then picked from the sifter any incompletely burned pieces of coal for return to the scuttle.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >9. Laundry Day</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Laundry day was a hard one for Mama. I can see her now, with a large wash tub on a platform Dad had placed near the kitchen range. The wash boiler on the stove was full of steaming hot water, which Mama transferred, a dipper at a time, into the wash tub. She then refilled the boiler, for more hot water would be needed for the rinsing. The stove had to be kept hot, too, which added nothing to the comfort of the task.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >The dirty laundry was put into the tub, and a washboard was inserted. This was a wooden frame holding a horizontally-corrugated sheet of galvanized iron which extended a little above the rim of the tub. Using a brown bar of strong Fels-Naptha soap, she would work up a head of suds on the hot water, and then, taking the pieces one at a time, rub them vigorously over the corrugations of the metal. Shirt collars, knees of pants and elbows of shirts usually needed extra attention, and these were rubbed vigorously with the bar of soap before they were scrubbed. Each piece, after scrubbing, was wrung out by hand and then dropped into a second tub, situated on the floor beside the platform and containing clear, moderately hot water. When all of the clothing had been scrubbed, it was sozzled in the rinse water and left there to soak while the wash water was dipped out and into the sink to drain away. Then the boiler of water, hot by this time, was dipped into the tub which had been used for the scrubbing. The clothes soaking in the first rinse water were once more wrung out and then dropped into the second rinse water. Each piece was again sozzled about in the clean hot water, then wrung out and dropped into the clothes basket. The basket was carried out into the back yard with the bag of clothespins and the laundry was hung out to dry.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >While the majority of this work fell to Mama, whenever possible she arranged to have one of the big girls on hand to help her with it. She had need of a second pair of capable hands especially for the wringing operations, and anyone big enough to reach into the wash boiler could do most of the dipping.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Mechanical assistance came very slowly as the years passed. I do not remember just when it was, but at some time in my early years Dad brought home from somewhere a crank wringer device, which could be attached to the edge of the rinse tub. This device consisted of two rubber-clad rollers pressed close together in a spring-loaded frame.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><div face="times new roman" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjByMM79VGCCK0hhDQtxdgwNHTtloG7gvEc-3RXDl59oqCyUsE9y_bQCis1jsRQ3BxHGYOIZvl1AvJ1c2A4x8Z1Gvkmmpbbz9Qe7lbAT6DPXoM2YiHB6HJXzSgpFmjkGzhL_ur3BYgKCovL/s1600-h/HandCrankWringer.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjByMM79VGCCK0hhDQtxdgwNHTtloG7gvEc-3RXDl59oqCyUsE9y_bQCis1jsRQ3BxHGYOIZvl1AvJ1c2A4x8Z1Gvkmmpbbz9Qe7lbAT6DPXoM2YiHB6HJXzSgpFmjkGzhL_ur3BYgKCovL/s400/HandCrankWringer.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347406323630358386" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Hand-cranked wringer: a technological wonder for laundry day. Photo from an <a href="http://buy.ebay.vn/buying/en/display/140317687123_ANTIQUE-HAND-CRANK-WRINGER-BY-LOVELL">entry on EBay</a>.</span> </span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >This must have been a great help, but it would not have been until at least 1928, when we first lived in a house wired for electricity, that Mama could have had a washing machine of any kind.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Much of the laundry required ironing. There were no wash and wear fabrics in those days. The items of clothing and sheets, pillow cases, and such were first sprinkled in preparation for ironing. Two flat irons, similar in shape to modern irons but each a single piece of cast iron with a polished, flat bottom surface, were placed on the kitchen stove to heat. The ironing board was set up near the stove, with the basket of sprinkled pieces close at hand. When an iron was hot enough for use (the simple test was to lick a finger and touch it gingerly to the polished surface; if it hissed, it was hot) the ironing began. With those old one-piece flat irons, the handle was so hot that a hotpad was necessary as an insulator. When the iron cooled only a little it was returned to the stove in exchange for the one resting there.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Later in the years of our residence there, a new iron was developed which contributed to the comfort and efficiency of the operator. The irons looked like the old models except that they had no handles. Instead, they had been cast in a mold that formed a pair of recesses in the center of the upper surface. The separate handle was a metal frame affair with a smooth wooden grip and a clamp arrangement so that the operator could release one iron and pick up the next without the necessity of wrapping a cloth pad around a hot iron handle. Alternation of irons could be achieved as before, but much more comfortably.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >10. Kerosene Lamps</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >The lack of electricity or gas in the house meant that we had to depend for illumination on kerosene lamps and on candles. The lamps provided the basic lighting; the candles were just supplementary. In some central locations, Dad had placed lamp-holding brackets high enough on the walls to put them out of the reach of the smaller children and high enough to achieve better distribution of the lamps' limited light. However, lamps were also needed closer at hand for dining or reading or such tasks as sewing, so a number of them were distributed on tables and stands around the house. Portability was one of the advantages of the table lamps.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center; font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfwtAv75y8-ijAzgm7jX-L8J48t3nkxFNm211eu00HdK9g0eCyyxFolbJ4xQ4DDeViJ2BrxR_52ZZ74iB1lirnAQq8Wue3xFBNH_u_pAhWL-HgE8DL2xVFdhkOffRG-Rpx8TmSWUyoenb2/s1600-h/ScoutLamp.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfwtAv75y8-ijAzgm7jX-L8J48t3nkxFNm211eu00HdK9g0eCyyxFolbJ4xQ4DDeViJ2BrxR_52ZZ74iB1lirnAQq8Wue3xFBNH_u_pAhWL-HgE8DL2xVFdhkOffRG-Rpx8TmSWUyoenb2/s400/ScoutLamp.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347407636329923522" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Early 20th-Century kerosene lamp. Photo from the <a href="http://www.laurelleaffarm.com/pages/camp_and_cabin/dietzscoutlantern.htm">Laurel Leaf Farm online antiques catalog</a>.</span><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Maintenance of the lamps provided small jobs for each of us, as we reached an age where we could be trusted with the tasks. For one thing, the chimneys required frequent washing, and this was a job for the older girls. Rather early on Bob, and then I and then Jimmy were assigned the daily task of refilling the lamp bases with oil. This was done on the back porch where the oil drum was kept. We had to learn to do the work carefully, spilling no oil, for kerosene was at best a stinky fuel. We also learned to trim the wicks, using scissors made special for the job. An even wick and a clean chimney meant clear, bright light.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >I seldom think of those kerosene lamps without vividly recalling an accident involving one of them. It happened in the after-supper time in winter when darkness fell early. Mama was in the kitchen ironing, with a lamp on the base end of the ironing board casting its light on her work. The end of the board was close against the frame of the doorway that opened on the dining room.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >I was playing on the floor nearby. Suddenly I heard the sound of breaking glass and a cry from Mama. The piece she had been ironing was a large one, a sheet or tablecloth, and in maneuvering it as she worked she had somehow struck the base of the lamp with the iron. The lamp collapsed, spilling kerosene on the vertical board of the door frame. As the broken lamp tipped against that board the chimney smashed and the burning wick came into contact with the oil-coated board. Flame leaped from the board, and Mama instantly wadded up the cloth she had been ironing and, by rubbing it frantically against the flame she managed to extinguish the fire.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Everything had happened so fast that I could scarcely believe what I was seeing. But as brief as the action was, it was indelibly burned into my memory.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >==============================================</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Next: Christmas</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >==============================================</span><br /></div>Sherwood Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575868746160608731noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321617580973351234.post-90510279864490983502009-06-13T08:00:00.000-07:002009-06-13T09:26:59.599-07:00Remembrances of a Childhood (Installment #3)<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">REMEMBRANCES OF A CHILDHOOD</span></div><div face="times new roman" style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">By Lynn Harrington</span></p><div style="text-align: center; font-family: times new roman;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center; font-family: times new roman;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Part I: 1918 – 1927, continued<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">3. The House</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The house on Cannon Street, not as large in fact as it seemed to a small boy, must have been, for so numerous a family as ours, crowded to the limits of comfort.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">It was not very long before the number in residence was reduced. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The first to leave was Margaret, who was married in early 1919 to Lester Gilbraith, not long after his return from traumatic service with the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Expeditionary_Force">American Expeditionary Forces in France in World War </a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Expeditionary_Force">I</a><b>. <span style=""> </span></b></span><span style="font-size:100%;">Then, in 1921, Mary graduated from Syracuse University and took her first teaching job, in Fort Plain, where she took boarding accommodations for most of the year. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Myrtle, in 1924, was next to marry and move away. From then until the </span><span style="color: rgb(37, 38, 37);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">nd of our tenancy there in the spring of 1927, there were only seven of us to whom the house on Cannon Street was home.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><i style="">[The remaining seven: two parents, Florence, Mildred, and the three boys.<span style=""> </span>–Ed.]</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i style=""><br /></i></span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The house itself, despite its city location, could hardly be described as modern even for that day. It had running water, but cold water plumbing only. No electricity, no gas, no central heating, no bath tub nor shower, and no telephone. The lack of electricity meant none of the multitude of electrically operated household conveniences we take for granted today.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">City water was piped to the kitchen sink and to a small lavatory equipped with a toilet and a small wash-up sink. The large cook stove in the kitchen was so designed as to circulate hot air from the firebox under the cooking surface and around the oven and the built-in water tank. That tank was kept full of water carried in a pail from the faucet of the sink, and hot water was dipped from it for use as needed. </span><span style="color: rgb(119, 121, 121);font-size:100%;" > <span style=""> </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;">Baths were taken standing in a large, circular wash tub placed on the kitchen floor close to the stove. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Larger quantities of hot water, for those baths or for laundry work, were heated in a large oval copper container called the wash boiler. [<span style="font-style: italic;">Copper wash boilers are now <a href="http://shoptony.com/hearth/copper-wash-boiler-19.html">trendy antique items</a> for storage of various items, such as firewood. -- Ed.</span>]</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">4.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Mrs. Searles’ Dry Goods Store</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">It was not unusual for my mother to give me a nickel and a piece of thread, and tell me to go to Mrs. Searles' and give them to her and ask for a spool of thread just like the sample.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><a style="font-family: times new roman;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaUs4LSyvGssUbO-zJIIW_Vfs7i1BUvh-InntTg2FDL4Gvl_k9igk-3sQkXBbOL5-Lxx9LV0bGZ2s9mXTURfhuQuEwX_2w1Q-9A9m1AFCehyBwRN0P9SNYwzzuwtk48tYKuOLoJ_YFZIg8/s1600-h/1924nickel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaUs4LSyvGssUbO-zJIIW_Vfs7i1BUvh-InntTg2FDL4Gvl_k9igk-3sQkXBbOL5-Lxx9LV0bGZ2s9mXTURfhuQuEwX_2w1Q-9A9m1AFCehyBwRN0P9SNYwzzuwtk48tYKuOLoJ_YFZIg8/s200/1924nickel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345927680381824274" border="0" /></a><a style="font-family: times new roman;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOB81RDXYKeoB4IeFp3HReqp8Z2oe8QN2ZR6Zigj9mZHLPx-5hI0Vcm8P7pgKrPcrGyZiBMSQzcO0InX79q5Ih2nqAyXUUbf6OQyn-Pf4dQJU9prGjE6WskS5si490W6RwCOyFewOb06DN/s1600-h/1924nickel.jpg"></a><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">1924 nickel</span></span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">That store never failed to awe and subdue me. A little bell tinkled when I opened and closed the door. Outside, it might be bright and sunny</span><span style="color: rgb(37, 38, 37);font-size:100%;" >, </span><span style="font-size:100%;">with streetcars rumbling along, their motormen clanging their bells to demand that all other traffic make way. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">A few automobiles with their Claxon horns and trucks with their noisy engines added to the din, while teamsters drove their rattling wagons over </span><span style="color: rgb(37, 38, 37);font-size:100%;" >t</span><span style="font-size:100%;">he bricks and paving stones.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">But the door which closed behind me when I entered Mrs. Searles' st</span><span style="color: rgb(37, 38, 37);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">re cut off all outside noise at once and completely.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Along one side of the room ran a counter; the wall back of the count</span><span style="color: rgb(37, 38, 37);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r aisle was lined with shelves, from floor nearly to ceiling, all loaded with sewing specialties and b</span><span style="color: rgb(37, 38, 37);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">xes </span><span style="color: rgb(37, 38, 37);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">f unknown contents. On the counter wer</span><span style="color: rgb(37, 38, 37);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">gla</span><span style="color: rgb(37, 38, 37);font-size:100%;" >s</span><span style="font-size:100%;">s cas</span><span style="color: rgb(37, 38, 37);font-size:100%;" >es </span><span style="font-size:100%;">of bows and ribbons and pins and ne</span><span style="color: rgb(37, 38, 37);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">dles and </span><span style="color: rgb(37, 38, 37);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">reat numbers of spools of thread in all colors ima</span><span style="color: rgb(37, 38, 37);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">inable. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The remainder of the store was giv</span><span style="color: rgb(37, 38, 37);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n over to </span><span style="color: rgb(37, 38, 37);font-size:100%;" >r</span><span style="font-size:100%;">acks and frames and hangers all heavily l</span><span style="color: rgb(37, 38, 37);font-size:100%;" >oa</span><span style="font-size:100%;">d</span><span style="color: rgb(37, 38, 37);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">d with bolts and spreads of cloth of countles</span><span style="color: rgb(37, 38, 37);font-size:100%;" >s </span> kinds and c<span style="color: rgb(37, 38, 37);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">lors, mostly subdued.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I do not remember ever entering that muffled stillness and finding anyone else in the store</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 1, 0);font-size:100%;" >. <span style=""> </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;">I would stand there for a few moments, just a little apprehensive lest by my presence I might disturb the silence. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">And then, moving majestically forward from a passageway at the rear, Mrs. Searle would appear. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">She was a tall, severe woman in a long black dress, and as she slowly approached, arms folded across her chest and her glasses reflecting little flashes of light from the few ceiling-hung lamps, it seemed that her movements did not even stir the air through which she passed. She would come to a stop a short way from me, stare at me briefly, and then whisper the single word:<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"Yes?"</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I would quickly hand her the nickel and the thread, much too frightened to speak. She would go and get me the spool of thread, hand it to me, fold her arms again across her chest, and resume staring at me. I would turn and get to the door as quickly as possible </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 1, 0);font-size:100%;" >w</span><span style="font-size:100%;">hile maintaining absolute silence. Once out of doors into the light and the noise and the bustle all about me, I would run all the way home just as fast as my legs would carry me.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">5.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The Fire House</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">By the time I was in the second grade (<span style="font-style: italic;">1922 -- Ed.</span>), I had begun to enjoy exploring the neighborhood, and to look upon it as my own domain. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">One of the first places we boys and our friends would go to of a Saturday morning was the fire house</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 1, 0);font-size:100%;" >. </span><span style="font-size:100%;">We would approach as near as possible to the great doors and peer in to admire the equipment poised there</span><span style="color: rgb(119, 120, 118);font-size:100%;" >. </span> <span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Now and then a fireman would call us in, to visit with us and to show us the two engines stationed there. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">On one memorable day one of the men took us on a tour of the building, taking us first upstairs where he showed us the big room lined with the single cots where the night shift slept</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 1, 0);font-size:100%;" >. <span style=""> </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;">There was a chair by each cot, and he told us that the men kept their uniform pants and shirts on their chairs, ready to be donned in an instant when the alarm bell sounded</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 1, 0);font-size:100%;" >. <span style=""> </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;">He showed us the shiny brass pole that extended from the ceiling down through a large circular hole in the floor to the main floor below</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 1, 0);font-size:100%;" >. </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The men upstairs could reach the engines quickly by sliding down the pole.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">We looked longingly at that beautiful pole, and [my older brother] Bob even reached out tentatively to touch it. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">But the fireman knew what Bob was thinking of, and told us at once that we mustn't try to slide down it -- that was a very slippery pole, and too dangerous for us.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Downstairs again, he showed us the inside of the tall tower in which hoses were hung to dry upon return from a call. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">He showed us, too, where until quite recently the fire horses had been kept, before they were replaced by the trucks. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">He said that when the horses were resting at night, their harnesses had been suspended above them in the stalls, with a pulley arrange</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 1, 0);font-size:100%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ent by which the harnesses could be dropped and buckled into place very quickly.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">One fireman </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ach shi</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >ft </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> w</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >as o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >d</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ut</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >y co</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ntinuousl</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >y </span><span style="font-size:100%;">at the si</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">nal de</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >s</span><span style="font-size:100%;">k. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Th</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">fire dep</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">rtment had no radio communication in those days. </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >E</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ach </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">f the alarm b</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">xes in the ar</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">a se</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >r</span><span style="font-size:100%;">v</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >ed </span><span style="font-size:100%;">b</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >y </span><span style="font-size:100%;">C</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">mpa</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >ny 8 </span><span style="font-size:100%;">w</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >as </span><span style="font-size:100%;">conne</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >c</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ted b</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >y </span><span style="font-size:100%;">wir</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, like telephone lines, </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >to t</span><span style="font-size:100%;">h</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">t si</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">nal desk. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Th</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">system was so desi</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ned that when the lever at any box was pulled, the connection automaticall</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >y </span><span style="font-size:100%;">tr</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >igg</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ered th</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">alarm </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ong in the </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >st</span><span style="font-size:100%;">at</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >io</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n h</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">u</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >se </span><span style="font-size:100%;">t</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o </span><span style="font-size:100%;">sound a pre-coded series of </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >c</span><span style="font-size:100%;">lan</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">s </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">f </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >t</span><span style="font-size:100%;">he bell. Three strokes followed by a brief pau</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >s</span><span style="font-size:100%;">e, then two strokes, for example would identify f</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r the man at the desk the location of the box from wh</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >ic</span><span style="font-size:100%;">h the alarm was s</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">unded.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">All of the firemen made it a practice to memorize the location from which any coded call ori</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">inated. If the fire chief of any district f</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">und his men and equipment unable to handle alone a fir</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="color: rgb(174, 172, 166);font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">in</span><span style="color: rgb(133, 134, 133);font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">h</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">s area, he would call by telephone the central</span><span style="color: rgb(174, 172, 166);font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> disp</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">tching office downtown, from where additi</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">nal units from adjoining districts would be instructed to s</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">nd help. The most serious of fires w</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">uld result in the em</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">enc</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >y </span><span style="font-size:100%;">ca</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >l</span><span style="font-size:100%;">l-out of the entire city fir</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">fi</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">htin</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g </span><span style="font-size:100%;">f</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >c</span><span style="font-size:100%;">e, save </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">nl</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >y </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> f</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r a few scattered </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >c</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ompan</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">es assi</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ned to standby alert </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n the event of another fire an</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >y</span><span style="font-size:100%;">wh</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">in the c</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">t</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >y</span><span style="font-size:100%;">.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">S</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >uc</span><span style="font-size:100%;">h a blaz</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">t l</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ast in th</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Sy</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >r</span><span style="font-size:100%;">acus</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e s</span><span style="font-size:100%;">yst</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">m, wa</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >s </span><span style="font-size:100%;">called a th</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >r</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ee-alarm fire. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I remember only</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" > o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">such </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >f</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ire durin</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g </span><span style="font-size:100%;">m</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >y </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Ca</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >n</span><span style="font-size:100%;">no</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >n </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Str</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">et </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >y</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ears. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Fr</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">m </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">u</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >r </span><span style="font-size:100%;">h</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">u</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >se </span><span style="font-size:100%;">we </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >c</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ould hear C</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">mpan</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >y 8 </span><span style="font-size:100%;">m</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >ove </span><span style="font-size:100%;">ou</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >t</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, bells r</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >gi</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >d si</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >s </span><span style="font-size:100%;">wailin</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Th</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n w</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">hear</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >d </span><span style="font-size:100%;">othe</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >r </span><span style="font-size:100%;">en</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ines, f</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >ro</span><span style="font-size:100%;">m a </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >s</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ta</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >t</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ion farther s</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">uth, r</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">arin</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g </span><span style="font-size:100%;">north on Salina Street. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Pe</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">pl</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">we</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >re </span><span style="font-size:100%;">soon out in the street, talkin</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g ex</span><span style="font-size:100%;">c</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">tedl</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >y </span><span style="font-size:100%;">ab</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ut the </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" > g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">at fire that w</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">s </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >r</span><span style="font-size:100%;">a</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">in</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g </span><span style="font-size:100%;">d</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">wn</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >t</span><span style="font-size:100%;">own. We b</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >oy</span><span style="font-size:100%;">s ra</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >n to S</span><span style="font-size:100%;">alina St</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >r</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ee</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >t, </span><span style="font-size:100%;">fr</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >om </span><span style="font-size:100%;">wh</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >lo</span><span style="font-size:100%;">o</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >ki</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g </span><span style="font-size:100%;">n</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >or</span><span style="font-size:100%;">th toward </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >t</span><span style="font-size:100%;">h</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e c</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ent</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >er </span><span style="font-size:100%;">of the city, we could </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >s</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ee a </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">reat mass of </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >s</span><span style="font-size:100%;">wirlin</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g re</span><span style="font-size:100%;">d and </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ray an</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >d </span><span style="font-size:100%;">black smoke risin</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g </span><span style="font-size:100%;">hi</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">h int</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >o t</span><span style="font-size:100%;">h</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e sky</span><span style="font-size:100%;">. </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" > We w</span><span style="font-size:100%;">er</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">t</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >ol</span><span style="font-size:100%;">d th</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >at </span><span style="font-size:100%;">t</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >h</span><span style="font-size:100%;">e Bastable Bu</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ldin</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g (i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n l</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">t</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >er ye</span><span style="font-size:100%;">a</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >rs t</span><span style="font-size:100%;">he s</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">t</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">f </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >t</span><span style="font-size:100%;">he State Tower buildin</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">) was burn</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I knew very little of the downtown scene, but M</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >y</span><span style="font-size:100%;">rtl</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">w</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">s with us and told us that was one of the b</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >igg</span><span style="font-size:100%;">e</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >r </span><span style="font-size:100%;">buil</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >di</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ngs in the city. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">It was leveled th</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">t </span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >n</span><span style="font-size:100%;">i</span><span style="color: rgb(11, 12, 11);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ht [<span style="font-style: italic;">but resurrected:</span><o:p style="font-style: italic;"></o:p><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://yestercuse.com/towerhistory.htm"> http://yestercuse.com/towerhistory.htm</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> --Ed.</span>]</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a style="font-family: times new roman;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Yywg6g2p-SHKrBlzOd9U-fP6tpjklEMf-JqvJo8y9ntc8R4xgNYeNfMp-N7VafIKkbMPQT3Gjpb6g1ijRKwNXvqccs2CgWg7tZy7iYREoHOPoEjiOywVay_PO6iJavzBnf7sU1jzyohe/s1600-h/Bastable.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 217px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Yywg6g2p-SHKrBlzOd9U-fP6tpjklEMf-JqvJo8y9ntc8R4xgNYeNfMp-N7VafIKkbMPQT3Gjpb6g1ijRKwNXvqccs2CgWg7tZy7iYREoHOPoEjiOywVay_PO6iJavzBnf7sU1jzyohe/s400/Bastable.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345933264912960338" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">New York Times account of the Bastable Building fire, February, 1923</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">=========================================</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Next: Urban horses, coal stoves, and laundry without electricity.</span><br /></span></span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Sherwood Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575868746160608731noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321617580973351234.post-21001857151933657752009-06-07T08:00:00.000-07:002009-06-07T08:39:34.318-07:00Remembrances of a Childhood (Installment #2)<span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >Setting the stage: Dad meticulously introduces the geography of his childhood neighborhood.</span><br /><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> 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New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} .MsoPapDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; margin-bottom:10.0pt; line-height:115%;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.0in 1.0in 1.0in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">REMEMBRANCES OF A CHILDHOOD</span></p><div face="times new roman" style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">By Lynn Harrington</span></p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><o:p></o:p></strong></span></p><div style="text-align: center; font-family: times new roman;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center; font-family: times new roman;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:180%;">Part I: 1918 – 1927</span></p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">1. Beginnings</span></p><p style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">My earliest memories are of life in the house at 145 Cannon Street, located in what would now be called the inner south side of Syracuse. Our family moved there from the Hubbell Avenue house in which I was born. The Cannon Street house was to be home to me until the late spring of 1927. That house, during my earliest remembered years, seemed a very large one, always crowded with people. As I think back on it now, I realize that it was quite small, and that it was indeed crowded. On our arrival there our family consisted of our two parents and eight children. The oldest child was our sister Margaret, born </span><span style="color: rgb(217, 220, 220);font-size:100%;" >,</span><span style="font-size:100%;">in 1899. Over the 18 years following her birth, she was followed by four more girls, and then by three boys, of which I was the second.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-size:100%;"><a style="font-family: times new roman;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpeRCQAMeJmVoFmA0u8ex0BBJxbJMTxI7MzooKl6uVWxGD2pWC_5oJxJBFEQp80k1ZmgQxn2dGkmzKCaqkla_-CPeyNbLweam8OiI_uRNrWP0xBUF3keTAOzC_prVY9SdYGPaYkBB8C2Z-/s1600-h/CannonSt140s.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 208px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpeRCQAMeJmVoFmA0u8ex0BBJxbJMTxI7MzooKl6uVWxGD2pWC_5oJxJBFEQp80k1ZmgQxn2dGkmzKCaqkla_-CPeyNbLweam8OiI_uRNrWP0xBUF3keTAOzC_prVY9SdYGPaYkBB8C2Z-/s400/CannonSt140s.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344439492269892546" border="0" /></a></span><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Houses in the 140's on Cannon, Syracuse, today. Google street-level view. -- Ed.</span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">As this is not intended to be a family history, I shall not dwell on th</span><span style="color: rgb(33, 33, 33);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">changes that took place in the lives of the members of the household while we were tenants in that and succeeding homes. It is enough to say that the Cannon Street house was always busy - busy with living and laughter, happiness and sorrow, and with all the changes common to the development and aspirations, the hopes and the dreams</span><span style="color: rgb(33, 33, 33);font-size:100%;" >. </span><span style="font-size:100%;">of all the individuals makin</span><span style="color: rgb(33, 33, 33);font-size:100%;" >g </span><span style="font-size:100%;">up so large a family.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">There extended through our family life one consistent thread of concern of which I became aware very early, and of which I remained conscious during my childhood, my adolescence, and on into my working years. That concern was of money – how scarce it was, and how hard to come by. I read, not long ago, a passage in my mother's diary where she wrote of those early, difficult years. She made mention of the many times when she awoke in the night and lay awake, trying to figure how she could earn a little money to supplement m</span><span style="color: rgb(33, 33, 33);font-size:100%;" >y </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Dad's weekly pa</span><span style="color: rgb(33, 33, 33);font-size:100%;" >y </span><span style="font-size:100%;">of $12, which at that time he earned by laboring six da</span><span style="color: rgb(33, 33, 33);font-size:100%;" >y</span><span style="font-size:100%;">s a week at the Brown-Lipe-Chapin </span><span style="color: rgb(33, 33, 33);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ear factory. Even as little as two dollars more in a week, which she could earn by finding an occasional day job housecleaning for someone, was</span><span style="color: rgb(100, 102, 100);font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">a blessing that meant a pair of new shoes for one of us boys, or a dress for one of the girls. Takin</span><span style="color: rgb(33, 33, 33);font-size:100%;" >g </span><span style="font-size:100%;">such work, wh</span><span style="color: rgb(33, 33, 33);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n sh</span><span style="color: rgb(33, 33, 33);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">c</span><span style="color: rgb(33, 33, 33);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">uld find it, meant keeping Mildred or Fl</span><span style="color: rgb(33, 33, 33);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">rence at home from school for the day, to take care </span><span style="color: rgb(33, 33, 33);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">f the youn</span><span style="color: rgb(33, 33, 33);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">er ones not </span><span style="color: rgb(33, 33, 33);font-size:100%;" >y</span><span style="font-size:100%;">et of school age.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">2.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The Neighborhood</span></p><p style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Let me offer a sketchy account of the neighborhood in which we lived. During our early years at school that experience and our home life made up for us boys the only social world we knew.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Our neighborhood comprised an area extending five or six blocks in each direction from 145 Cannon Street.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Second to our home the building with which we were most familiar was Brighton School, which stood at the southwest corner of the busy intersection of South Salina and Colvin Streets. It was a substantial brick building, with two floors of classrooms and a basement, in which the boys' and girls' lavatories were located. (Years later, when I was in Junior High School where there were lavatories on each floor, I would as often as not refer to the lavatory as the “basement.” </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The teachers understood, and made no comment on the usage.)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: center; font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD52mz5J9Do6LKMDEnnirQlADdE8drBGGsXFz0MgthyphenhyphenZnt_lf_6Mo_iiDmtjmkM9p4dpe30CaMlepk-v-K3Ld0VObqM7A9Xi96F-gpTgrD0mT4hHwJHiWluZ6LIO_QD_1O4beeTm2Xv8VE/s1600-h/SyrMapAnnotated.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD52mz5J9Do6LKMDEnnirQlADdE8drBGGsXFz0MgthyphenhyphenZnt_lf_6Mo_iiDmtjmkM9p4dpe30CaMlepk-v-K3Ld0VObqM7A9Xi96F-gpTgrD0mT4hHwJHiWluZ6LIO_QD_1O4beeTm2Xv8VE/s400/SyrMapAnnotated.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344077871239881026" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Annotated, present-day map (from Google Maps) showing some of the places Dad mentions; 145 Cannon Street is circled in red. This should be viewed at full size (just click on the image) to read the street names. -- Ed.</span><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Brighton School, when I entered there, was a kindergarten through sixth grade facility, recently truncated by transfer of the seventh and eighth grades to the new seventh through ninth grades Roosevelt Junior High School. The Brighton School of my childhood was a large structure of vast hallways, big classrooms, and very high ceilings. Only when I made a return visit several years later, just to look around, did I discover how small the classrooms had become as I grew larger, and how much narrower the hallways looked.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">A Mysterious Room<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">In one end of the basement was a dim, mysterious room, into which we kindergarteners could peer only by standing on</span><span style="color: rgb(171, 172, 170);font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">tiptoe to bring our eyes to the level of a window in the door. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Inside were rows of benches and machines of</span><span style="color: rgb(229, 230, 229);font-size:100%;" >' </span><span style="font-size:100%;">large bulk and unfathomable purpose. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">No one entered there, where a hushed silence prevailed. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Along about the time I entered the second grade I mustered the courage to ask the teacher what was in that room. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">She explained that it was the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sloyd">sloyd</a> shop where eighth grade boys in former years had been taught to work with wood, and with the machines that formed and shaped it. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">That teaching was done now in the Junior High School, she said. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">And that set me dreaming of the time when I would be old enough to enter such a shop class.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The next building south on Salina Street was a glamorous one <b>-- </b>Engine House No.8 of the Syracuse Fire Department. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">We boys were fascinated by that installation, by the two bright red fire trucks stationed there, and by the uniformed men who staffed it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">On the opposite side of Salina Street, acr</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >os</span><span style="font-size:100%;">s fr</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">m the s</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >c</span><span style="font-size:100%;">hool and th</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">f</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">re h</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">use</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >, </span><span style="font-size:100%;">was a bl</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >oc</span><span style="font-size:100%;">kl</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >g </span><span style="font-size:100%;">row </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >of c</span><span style="font-size:100%;">omme</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >r</span><span style="font-size:100%;">cial establishment</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >s</span><span style="font-size:100%;">. I d</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o </span><span style="font-size:100%;">n</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">t remember all of them, but a few stand out in recollection</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >. </span><span style="font-size:100%;">On the south</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ast corner of Salina and Colvin was a </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >r</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ed brick buildin</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >g </span><span style="font-size:100%;">which housed at least three businesse</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >s</span><span style="font-size:100%;">: On the corner was a drugstore, complete with soda f</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">untain and a tobacco counter</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 1, 0);font-size:100%;" >. </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Back of that, entere</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >d </span><span style="font-size:100%;">f</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >ro</span><span style="font-size:100%;">m Colv</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n Stre</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">t, was th</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Arcad</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">a Theater</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 1, 0);font-size:100%;" >. </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >U</span><span style="font-size:100%;">p</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >s</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ta</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >s </span><span style="font-size:100%;">was a school fo</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >r </span><span style="font-size:100%;">mortician</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >s</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, about which I was curi</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">us but c</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">nc</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">rnin</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >g </span><span style="font-size:100%;">which no on</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">at that time w</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">uld enli</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">hten me</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >. <span style=""> </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;">Next down Salina Street wa</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >s </span><span style="font-size:100%;">a bank building, resplendent with ver</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >y </span><span style="font-size:100%;">impress</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ve </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ranite facin</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >g </span><span style="font-size:100%;">stone and columns</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 1, 0);font-size:100%;" >. </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I don't remember ever enterin</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >g </span><span style="font-size:100%;">that build</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, but I always regarded it with something like awe.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">A little way down from the bank was Mrs. Searle's dry </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">oods store</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 1, 0);font-size:100%;" >. </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The business strip continued s</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">uth along that side of Salina, including a variet</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >y of </span><span style="font-size:100%;">small sh</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ps <b>-- </b>a g</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >r</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ocery, a hardwa</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >r</span><span style="font-size:100%;">e store, and others that I have forgotten. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">But there was one that became a special favorite of mine</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 1, 0);font-size:100%;" >. </span><span style="font-size:100%;">That was the Elk Bakery, </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">bout which more later.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Other s</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">t</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">s in the nei</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">hb</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">rhood were important to us in those formative years</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >. <span style=""> </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;">There was anoth</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r small business district centered sev</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ral blocks south of Colvin Str</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">et, at the inte</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >rs</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ection </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">f Salina Stree</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >t </span><span style="font-size:100%;">and Brighton Avenue</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >. </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Several busin</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">sses in that area </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >p</span><span style="font-size:100%;">la</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >y</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ed a significant part, </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">wa</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >y o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r an</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ther, in </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ur chi</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >l</span><span style="font-size:100%;">dhood. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">One of </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >t</span><span style="font-size:100%;">hese was the Pe</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ple's Ice C</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">mpan</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >y </span><span style="font-size:100%;">d</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">stribution center</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >. <span style=""> </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;">Ice was n</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">t </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >m</span><span style="font-size:100%;">a</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >de </span><span style="font-size:100%;">ther</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e, </span><span style="font-size:100%;">bu</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >t t</span><span style="font-size:100%;">h</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">compan</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >y </span><span style="font-size:100%;">used the </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >s</span><span style="font-size:100%;">mall, thi</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >c</span><span style="font-size:100%;">k</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >-w</span><span style="font-size:100%;">all</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >ed b</span><span style="font-size:100%;">uil</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >d</span><span style="font-size:100%;">i</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >ng fo</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r sto</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >r</span><span style="font-size:100%;">age </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">f lar</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">e blocks of </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >ice </span><span style="font-size:100%;">f</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r d</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >is</span><span style="font-size:100%;">tr</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">bution to </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >c</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ustomers in that section </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">f the </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >c</span><span style="font-size:100%;">it</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >y</span><span style="font-size:100%;">. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The men who delivered the ice picked it up th</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">re, </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >loa</span><span style="font-size:100%;">din</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >g </span><span style="font-size:100%;">it int</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o </span><span style="font-size:100%;">their horse-drawn wa</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ons, and</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >, </span><span style="font-size:100%;">usi</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >ng </span><span style="font-size:100%;">th</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ir </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ce picks, separated the great block</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >s </span><span style="font-size:100%;">int</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o </span><span style="font-size:100%;">man</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >agea</span><span style="font-size:100%;">bl</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">prop</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">rti</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >s</span><span style="font-size:100%;">. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">On a hot summer da</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >y</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, that ic</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e ho</span><span style="font-size:100%;">u</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >s</span><span style="font-size:100%;">e w</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >as ve</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >y </span><span style="font-size:100%;">p</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">pula</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >r </span><span style="font-size:100%;">with boys from a </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >c</span><span style="font-size:100%;">onsiderabl</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">area</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 1, 0);font-size:100%;" >. <span style=""> </span></span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >As </span><span style="font-size:100%;">t</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >he </span><span style="font-size:100%;">i</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >ce </span><span style="font-size:100%;">men worked at the blocks, </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >c</span><span style="font-size:100%;">hip</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >s </span><span style="font-size:100%;">f</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >l</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ew, </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >d a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ll the b</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >oy</span><span style="font-size:100%;">s scrambled for the choicest chunks</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 1, 0);font-size:100%;" >.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 1, 0);font-size:100%;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style=";font-size:100%;color:black;" >An</span><span style="font-size:100%;">o</span><span style=";font-size:100%;color:black;" >ther si</span><span style="font-size:100%;">te </span><span style=";font-size:100%;color:black;" >s</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ignifica</span><span style=";font-size:100%;color:black;" >n</span><span style="font-size:100%;">t to us was t</span><span style=";font-size:100%;color:black;" >he </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Plaz</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >a </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Theater, </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >a </span><span style="font-size:100%;">small m</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">v</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >ie </span><span style="font-size:100%;">h</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">u</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >se on Sal</span><span style="font-size:100%;">in</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >a St</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >ee</span><span style="font-size:100%;">t</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >, </span><span style="font-size:100%;">espe</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >c</span><span style="font-size:100%;">iall</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >y </span><span style="font-size:100%;">p</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">pul</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r with th</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e s</span><span style="font-size:100%;">m</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">l</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >l fry on Sa</span><span style="font-size:100%;">turd</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >ay </span><span style="font-size:100%;">afternoons, when </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">t ran matin</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >ee </span><span style="font-size:100%;">thr</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">l</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >le</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >s </span><span style="font-size:100%;">w</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e co</span><span style="font-size:100%;">uld attend for a nickel. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Still </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">th</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ttra</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >c</span><span style="font-size:100%;">t</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >io</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n was </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >t</span><span style="font-size:100%;">h</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e K</span><span style="font-size:100%;">elle</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >y </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Broth</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">rs </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >co</span><span style="font-size:100%;">al </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >y</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ard, on</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">bl</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >oc</span><span style="font-size:100%;">k </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >up Br</span><span style="font-size:100%;">i</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >g</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ht</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n A</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >ven</span><span style="font-size:100%;">u</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">t</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o </span><span style="font-size:100%;">the e</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">st</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >, </span><span style="font-size:100%;">just be</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >y</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ond t</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >he </span><span style="font-size:100%;">L</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >ac</span><span style="font-size:100%;">k</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">w</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">nn</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >a </span><span style="font-size:100%;">R</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >ai</span><span style="font-size:100%;">l</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >road over</span><span style="font-size:100%;">p</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >ass</span><span style="font-size:100%;">. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >Coal was a ve</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >y importan</span><span style="font-size:100%;">t </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >fuel at that time</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >as i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">t w</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">s th</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">h</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >ea</span><span style="font-size:100%;">t </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >sour</span><span style="font-size:100%;">c</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e of choice for most of t</span><span style="font-size:100%;">h</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">h</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >omes</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, fa</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >c</span><span style="font-size:100%;">t</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">rie</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >s</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >and o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">th</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >er </span><span style="font-size:100%;">buil</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >dings in the </span><span style="color: rgb(48, 49, 48);font-size:100%;" >c</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >ity. <span style=""> </span>N</span><span style="font-size:100%;">u</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >merous </span><span style="font-size:100%;">co</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >al co</span><span style="font-size:100%;">m</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >pa</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >ies co</span><span style="font-size:100%;">mpet</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e</span><span style="font-size:100%;">d </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >for t</span><span style="font-size:100%;">h</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >e </span><span style="font-size:100%;">b</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >usiness</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >but Ke</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ll</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >ey </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Br</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ther</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >s </span><span style="font-size:100%;">prett</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >y </span><span style="font-size:100%;">m</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >uc</span><span style="font-size:100%;">h d</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">m</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">nat</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >ed i</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n </span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >our neig</span><span style="font-size:100%;">h</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >bo</span><span style="font-size:100%;">r</span><span style="color: rgb(10, 11, 10);font-size:100%;" >hoo</span><span style="font-size:100%;">d.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-size:100%;color:black;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">A few blocks northwest of our Cannon Street house was another focal point in our young lives. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">This was Kirk Park. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">That was our first really large public playground. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">As we grew a little older our range of exploration and adventure extended up the hill to the west to Onondaga Park, with its more diversified playground equipment and a large swimming pool. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">That pool had once been a city reservoir, and carried the rather romantic name of Hiawatha Lake.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">A few blocks southwest of home, within sight of Roosevelt Junior High, an</span><span style="color: rgb(156, 157, 156);font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">otherwise vacant lot was the site of a very large pit, a sand and gravel bed from which those materials were always being loaded into wagons and hauled to construction sites, for fill and for mixing into concrete. The steep banks of that pit and the huge piles of sand accumulated there made an exciting place for kids to play.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">One further feature of the neighborhood, very important to all, was the system of electrified streetcar lines. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Two of those lines, one on Salina Street and the other operating parallel with it along Midland Avenue two blocks to the west, were the ones with which we were most familiar. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Streetcars were the principal means of local transportation for the grown-ups as they traveled back and forth between home and work, or downtown shopping, or to the theater. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">They also served as the carriers of families bound for the various amusement parks located (not by coincidence) at the ends of the lines extending out to the suburbs. There were also electric car lines radiating out from the heart of downtown as far as city streets extended, and then moving over their privately owned, railroad-type rights of way to more</span><span style="color: rgb(126, 128, 128);font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">remote locations. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">These were known as interurban lines, and they offered fast, frequent, and relatively inexpensive transportation between the city and various destinations, including Rochester, Utica, Auburn, Baldwinsville, Oswego, Manlius, and Oneida Lake points.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">==================================</span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Next -- A Working-Class House in the 1920s and a Dry Goods Valkyrie</span><br /></p>Sherwood Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575868746160608731noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321617580973351234.post-8060520705011417102009-06-06T08:00:00.000-07:002009-06-06T09:46:37.380-07:00Remembrances of a Childhood (Installment #1)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:donotpromoteqf/> <w:lidthemeother>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:lidthemeasian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:lidthemecomplexscript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> 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style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sherwoodh/3583819688/" title="For "A Satchel of Ordinary Treasure" (1 of 3) by Sherwood Harrington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3356/3583819688_6acae52841_m.jpg" alt="For "A Satchel of Ordinary Treasure" (1 of 3)" width="239" height="240" /></a><br /><br /></span></div><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-size:130%;">REMEMBRANCES OF A CHILDHOOD<o:p></o:p></span></p><div face="times new roman" style="text-align: center; font-family: times new roman;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-size:130%;">by Lynn Harrington</span></p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoPlainText"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center; font-family: times new roman;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-size:130%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;"> </div><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Preface</span><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-size:130%;">1920, Syracuse, New York</span></p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:times new roman;" class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The lamp she carried made flickering patterns of light and shadow on the walls and steps as Mama led Jimmy and me up the steep stairway to our little bedroom under the gable at the front of the house. It was our bedtime, and after she had tucked us in and kissed us goodnight, she took from her apron pocket a candle stub which she placed in a Mason jar that rested on our small dresser. This bit of candle she lit for us, admonishing us that when the candle went out, we must close our eyes and go to sleep. We watched in silence as she left the room, taking with her the sphere of light which surrounded her as she carried the kerosene lamp away down the stairs.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">We loved to watch the wavering candle light that shone through the glass of the jar. It danced and darted on walls and ceiling, and flashed dim reflections from our small window. On most nights we drifted off to sleep before the end of that magic-lantern show. If sleep did not steal us away first, we would listen and watch for the moment we knew would come when the candle, burning slowly lower in the depths of the jar, would fail for lack of air, and with a muffled, guttering sound, go out. Then in a moment, in the still darkness, we would catch the faint whiff of the expiring candle's little puff of smoke, and know that it was time for sleep.</span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">We were little boys that summer, Jimmy and I. He was three and I was five. When we awoke in the morning our first thought was of the weather. Not as weather is analyzed and forecast for us today; our concern was much simpler. If it had rained and the grass and ground were wet, we would have to stay in the house; if it was dry, we could play out in <o:p></o:p>the wonderful out-of-doors. <span style=""> </span>And so when we awoke we lay quite still, listening for the first delivery wagon that would pass along the street below our window.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Horses drew those wagons, horses wearing iron shoes. As they passed by we would listen for the sound of their tread on the hard, black pavement. If it was dry, their iron shoes made a sharp, metallic sound -- clip, clop, clip, clop. If the pavement was wet, the sound was a softer, disheartening shlip, shlop, shlip, shlop.</span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">And that is the way we awoke to the sounds of morning, and to the lives that were opening before us.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><div face="times new roman" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sherwoodh/3583819878/" title="For "A Satchel of Ordinary Treasure" (2 of 3) by Sherwood Harrington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3122/3583819878_c479d40810.jpg" alt="For "A Satchel of Ordinary Treasure" (2 of 3)" width="304" height="500" /></a><br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" ><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sherwoodh/3583011341/" title="For "A Satchel of Ordinary Treasure" (3 of 3) by Sherwood Harrington, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3625/3583011341_be0045569f.jpg" alt="For "A Satchel of Ordinary Treasure" (3 of 3)" width="335" height="500" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">More, of course, to come. -- Ed.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">======================================</span><br /></div><p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p>Sherwood Harringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09575868746160608731noreply@blogger.com6