tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22637287437202450622024-02-07T12:24:59.643-08:00Whimsical Tales and Honorable TributesR. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.comBlogger159125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-61374747192247774722021-01-22T11:51:00.000-08:002021-01-22T11:51:16.529-08:00<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;">Deadly on the
Breeze</span></p>
<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">With apologies
to Housman</span></i><span style="font-size: 18pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Deadly on the breeze the pollen
now<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Blows in my face from every bough,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Swelling eyes and nostrils wide,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Burning them red at eventide.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Of my three-score snorts and ten<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Hundreds always come again<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>To make my coughing <st1:time hour="20" minute="20" w:st="on">twenty score</st1:time><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>And give me fifty sneezes more.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>And so to hide from thugs in bloom<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>I haunt my air-conditioned room.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>About each window I will go<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>To see the spring and bear the
woe.<o:p></o:p></span></p>R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-52550541693922840402021-01-22T11:46:00.000-08:002021-01-22T11:46:03.800-08:00<p style="text-align: left;"> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span> Summer Love</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“What’s your
hurry, love?” she seemed to ask,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As wincing I
stood wounded by her grasp.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The more I
tugged, hoping to pull free,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The more she
gripped my pant leg near the knee.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I </span><i style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">always</i><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> hurt the ones I love,” she
sighed.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Now I, the one,
alarmed at being tied,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Reached to free
her grip from off my side.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But then she
clutched with lovesick might<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My shoulder with
a stinging bite,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And rapt with
ecstasy she held me tight.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The more I fought
the more her claws dug in.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Let loose, Tar
Babe!” I called. “I’m stuck again.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I’d <i>love</i> to hold you longer,” she replied.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But gingerly with
pain I deftly pried<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Away those thorny-fingered,
clinching arms<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And wrestling
free I slipped outside her charms.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I left her
flailing there in helpless search<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Of other wayward
beaus within her perch.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And looking back
I saw her lurch and sway,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As if the wind
might help her break away<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">To curse the dirt
that dared to hold her bound.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And then she
swung and curled herself around.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I watched and
listened as I backed away,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And with amazement
stopped to hear her say:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“As time goes by
you’ll watch for blooms of white<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That flourish on
me almost overnight.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Oh you’ll be
fondling <i>me</i> in warmer weather.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">By then you’ll
want to stick with me forever—<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.5in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When suns of summer bake my
beauties black<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And crafts a
taste so pure to bring you back,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And forms them
round in almost perfect spheres,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Curing them soft
with juice as autumn nears.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">You’ll disregard
my prickly tines of love<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">To mouth delicious
fruit from up above.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I walked awhile
beyond her sound and view<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And as I tramped
I thought and then I knew<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That I’d return
into her arms again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Ah, well I knew
that this was not the end,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For lovers bear
the pain they have to face<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">To taste the joy
in some secluded place.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">They suffer but
give in to their desires,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And rush to know
the splendor in the briers.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And so I’ll go
again to suit my wishes,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> And suck my thumb in pain for dark-lipped kiss</span></span></div>R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-83007252846540927382021-01-14T12:42:00.000-08:002021-01-14T12:42:19.314-08:00<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial;">Double Dating – Autumn,
1950</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial;">You know how it
is on a late October day, when the morning chill makes you think you're two
months into December, and makes you pull last March’s sweatshirt over your
shoulders and hug yourself for warmth. But then, by early afternoon, before you
have time to think about it, cosmic batteries charge the eastern floodlight, so
that beams of magic radiance warm the earth, taking you back two months into
August and making you chuck that sweatshirt and fling open your arms with delight.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial;">It was one of
those days that Saturday, that Saturday in 1950 when I was fourteen, so many
years ago. Let me take you back to that day, that day filled with youthful
bewilderment and uneasy anticipation. I promise to return you to the present,
and leave you tainted only temporarily by the tender turbulence of those
teenage times. It all started in our eighth grade science class. Temple Smith
and I were pretty good buddies at that time, and he and I were fooling around —
talking and having fun with Libby Jean Powell and Betty Fasbenner, trying to
sweet-talk them, I guess, if we had the knack or even the inclination to
sweet-talk at that age.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial;">Now, wistful
reader, think back to your early high school years and, whether you lived in
Chesapeake City or China, think of how those adolescent yearnings were
especially active, sort of in a jitterbugging frenzy throughout your body.
Well, that was our condition that day as he and I bantered with those pretty
girls. Anyway, it was Friday, near the end of class, and at one point during
the interplay, either Libby or Betty said, "Hey, why don't you two come
out to see us tomorrow? We can have more fun together away from school."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial;">Well, we talked
it up and decided that Temple and I would meet Libby and Betty at Churchtown, just
past Mr. Foard's big brick general store on the corner and near the historic
Saint Augustine Church, not far from where the girls lived. It was settled:
we'd meet at 1 p.m. the next day, Saturday. I was to meet Temple at his Uncle
Sam Caldwell’s farm, which was on the way to Churchtown. From there we’d cycle
to meet the girls. I pedaled home from school that afternoon with all kinds of
thoughts swirling through my mind: "Should I bother to go? Did Temple like
Libby or Betty? Where would we go when we got there? What would we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do,</i> anyway? I always make fun of girls.
What's going on here?"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial;">Saturday morning
I got up before dawn to hunt ducks along Long Creek, up above the Marine
Construction Company (where the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Delaware
Responder</i> is now at Capt. Dan’s). But my heart wasn't in it. I was turning
over in my head what that double date was going to be like, and whether I was
bold enough to even ride out there. So I tied off my boat at Borger’s Wharf
(now the Chesapeake Inn) and trudged on home the back way: up Mount Nebo, past
Mallory Toy’s fish pond, and through the woods to our farm.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial;">I shot baskets
for a while and then checked the clock and sure enough I had almost enough time
to get to my double date. So I got on my bike, pedaled around McNatt's corner,
and labored up that long, steep hill to Temple's farm. But I didn't pedal with
much enthusiasm, sort of meandered along. I rolled into Temple's lane and up to
his big farmhouse—nobody in sight. I went out to the barn—nothing but cows. I
rode my bike around the house several times and made a few circles out in the
road. Then I said, "Aw, what the heck!" and headed out to Churchtown.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial;">But, when I
arrived, nobody was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">there,</i> not even
old Mr. Foard, the owner of the general store. So I spun over by the graveyard
and rode out a little towards Cayots Corner—still <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nobody,</i> not even any cars went by. Why did I think I might see
Libby or Betty in the distance, waving with happy excitement to see me? But it
was the quietest, most deserted area I had ever seen. And so, relieved and
disappointed at the same time, I sped on back home, glancing over at Temple's
deserted farm on my way past.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial;">And do you know
that in school the next Monday none of us said a word about the previously
planned date? It was as if that Friday conversation never took place. To this
day I don't know what went on that afternoon. Could it have been that, because
I was late, Temple had the company of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">both</i>
girls that day? Geez, I hope not! More than likely, I'll bet that Libby Jean,
Betty, and Temple don't remember even the slightest thing about the planned
date. I thought of my Uncle Ernest, and how he said all the beautiful girls
found him irresistible, and here I was not even able to get girls to meet with
me to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">talk.</i> Oh, I was to have some
nice double dates when I grew older, but none as memorable as the one I had
with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">myself</i> on that special late October
Saturday in 1950.</span><o:p></o:p></p>R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-34473602868762530382021-01-14T12:39:00.000-08:002021-01-14T12:39:10.700-08:00<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Self-Restraint</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve been around
religious folks all my life. My mother was a Methodist who attended the Trinity
Methodist Church on Chesapeake City’s Bohemia Avenue. Services are still held
in the beautiful church, which was constructed with stone at the end of the
nineteenth century. </span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial;">The church has a belfry and a sexton who
pulls the rope that rings the large bell, and as a boy I remember being alerted
by the sound of the tolling bell on Sundays at 10 a.m. for Sunday school, and at
11a.m. for the adult service. My family lived on a small farm about a half mile
from Chesapeake City. Echoing clearly across the field, the peal of the
rhythmic chimes would always give me pause, stirring in me, somehow, a
comforting feeling. And, sure, it tolled for me a lament on the occasional
Sundays when I didn’t make it to Sunday school. On most Sundays, however, my mother
took me in, making sure I wore shoes and a clean shirt.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial;">I have a vivid memory of my first day in Sunday school; I was
five years’ old. My first Sunday school teacher was impressive as well. His
name was T. H. Johnston. His lesson was impressive because, even after
seventy-eight years I’m still thinking, talking, and writing about its value. T.H.
surely didn’t concern himself with self-restraint, because soon after I had
entered the room, he wrestled me down to the floor and dragged me under the
table amongst the dust bunnies. His sermon made up in physical dexterity for
what it lacked in Spiritual refinement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yes, indeed, I learned to manipulate my jabbing elbows, knees, and feet
almost as well as he did before his mother and mine broke it up. So, folks are
stretching the truth when they say that a little religion won’t hurt, because I
found out that it did. Even so, from that point on I understood why church
going was so appealing, and that, dang gone, I was going to like it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial;">But that stimulating event is really not what I intended to
tell you about . . . so don’t pay any attention to what I just wrote. In fact,
clear it from your mind and be ready for the story I’m about to relate. Let me
take you back to about the year 2005 with my friend, Walter Watson. I won’t
keep you long.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial;">I made friends with Walter after I became interested in the
history of Chesapeake City and its canal. I would visit him at his home in town
about once a week. He would let me copy his vintage pictures of the old town
and canal. He was especially knowledgeable and articulate. He told stories
about his escapades as a boy and young man. One of his reminiscences took place
when he was eight years’ old. He explained that he was playing by the top, open
window of Ralph Rees’ enormous granary that was built on pilings that extended
into the canal. The building was located where the creamery is today (2019).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial;">Well, Walter (he was 85 when he told me this) said that
jumping and fooling around as kids will do, caused him to tumble through the
open window and fall thirty feet into the canal. He fell head-first, hit the
water, and submerged to the muddy bottom and got his head stuck in mud. Just
his feet were sticking above the water as he struggled to free his head.
Animated and shaking as he described the occurrence, he told me that, if it had
not been for a worker who had seen him fall, he would have drowned.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial;">Obviously I enjoyed my conversations with Walter very much.
On every occurrence, he would work in his favorite little joke. It never failed
that, as he spoke about quirky people and peculiar events from Chesapeake
City’s past, at some point in my visit he would show and tell his favorite
witticism. Grinning as he looked at me, he would raise his arm towards his
face, with his thumb and forefinger held a half inch apart (as if to say “I
missed it by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> much”) he would
declare, “My memory is only this long.” And, grinning, he’d deliver his zinger:
“And that’s not the only thing that’s this long.” Even though I had heard the
quip many, many times, I would smile and giggle acknowledgement. Then he would
continue to show me pictures that would remind him of stories about the old
canal and town.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial;">At this point, patient reader, you’re probably wondering what
all this has to do with self-restraint. Well, sit back and relax. Put your feet
up, take a sip from your highball and brace yourself. I’m going to tell you.
One Sunday, back when I had been visiting Walter frequently,</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> my wife and I went to a service at</span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial;"> Chesapeake City’s Trinity Methodist Church. At that time the
minister happened to be a young lady. After her stimulating sermon, by chance
my wife and I, the minister, and two other women were assembled in the small
antechamber attached to the church proper.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial;">Well, as we all chatted, Walter strode in and joined the
conversation. We talked about the sermon and the beautiful church. Walter said
that he remembered the church before the fellowship hall was built. Years ago,
he explained, the lawn contained grave markers. Well, at this point my eyes got
big and I steadied myself for what was to come. And, sure enough, Walter held
out his hand with his thumb and forefinger a half-inch apart and, loud and
clear, stated, “You know, my memory is only<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
this</i> long.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then he paused as I
glanced at the preacher and my wife . . . <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">but
he didn’t deliver the punch line</i>. Instead, he nodded to us and said,
“Lovely day we’re having” and stepped out the door. Impressed (and relieved), I
marveled at the self-restraint it must have taken to leave his favorite, oft-uttered
punch line hanging in the air – squandered.</span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-75097994922282156272021-01-11T11:48:00.000-08:002021-01-11T11:48:42.201-08:00<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Harry Alston</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Back in high school in
the early 1950s, in a town called Chesapeake City, we teenage boys used to
watch Harry Alston perform at our Friday night dances. The school sponsored the
activity after the basketball games that were held in the early evening. Harry
was a local man who had recently been discharged from the service. I’d like to
tell you about him, as well as some other things that happened back then.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Those evenings of music
in the gym would give the older teenaged students, as well as young adults of
the town, a chance to socialize. On most Friday nights, Harry Alston and
Maggie, his wife to be, would dance to the great pop music emanating from the
jukebox. Well, believe me, Harry and Maggie used to steal the show. Maggie
would be attractively dressed in bright colors. She was resplendent with her
fluffy, coiffured hair and her lips painted fire-engine red. And her partner,
Harry? Why, he was the best dressed dancer on the floor. Princely thin, he was
dazzling in white shirt, dark-blue tie, and stylish, powder-blue suit. And his
black shoes were so finely polished that you gave them only a quick glance for
fear of hurting your eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But their attire was
secondary compared to the way they danced. They glided gracefully around the
floor. Sometimes they danced cheek-to-cheek, and sometimes Harry would sort of
fling her out and they would dance apart, hand-in-hand. And all the time Harry
would display a serene smile, his long, thin, sun-tanned face would radiate
with delight, as if his enjoyment of the music filled him with immeasurable
pleasure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But, now, let me tell you
about how Harry Alston entertained us in quite a different way. I used to hang
out with a group in the early 1950s when I was a know-it-all teenager. There
would be maybe seven or eight boys standing around in front of Luther Postell’s
soda shop and newsstand. </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">We all called it </span><i style="font-size: 14pt;">Postell’s Corner</i><span style="font-size: 14pt;">, where store patrons had to filter through the cluster
of boys in order to enter and exit the store. I never heard Mr. Postell
complain about the nuisance; but it must have given him pause.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In those times, in provincial Chesapeake City,
there was little else for boys in our age group to do. Of course, we would do
and say the standard, dumb teenage things: one of the boys would get in another
boy’s face and say, “God, you’re ugly.” Then he would raise his fist as if to
strike him, and if he flinched, the first boy would say, “Ahh, you flinched.” Then
he would sock the flincher on the arm with enough impact to raise a lump. This
was an activity that occurred fairly often whenever a group of us goofy teenage
boys got together back then.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I, of course, was a
participant in this idiocy, being a recipient as well as a perpetrator. Each
boy contributed his special talent to the fragmented banter. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lot of unsavory language prevailed. Certain
boys were experts in scatological cursing; others had it in for the various
deities. And some just listened and watched because there was nothing better to
do. The chat would be varied, for sure. Girls and their relative attractiveness
would be covered. The comments would deal with which girls were shy, which ones
were friendly, and which ones would tell you to get lost if you talked to them.
And there was usually a Romeo in the group who would brag about how popular he
was with the ladies.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Another topic of
conversation was professional sports. We had followed the teams on radio and
later on black and white television. Since Baltimore did not have the Orioles until
1954, many of us were fans of the New York Yankees, whose Joe DiMaggio, Yogi
Berra, and Mickey Mantle were heroes. In pro basketball, the Boston Celtics
were powerful. We all admired Bob Cousy, Tommy Heinsohn, and big Bill Russell.
And in pro football, we praised the feats of the great Johnny Unitas and Gino
Marchhetti. And all of us boys who adorned Postell’s Corner at the time,
discussed the abilities of the top professional boxers: Joe Lewis, the brown
bomber (heavyweight), classy Sugar Ray Robinson (middleweight), and the most elusive
heavyweight, Jersey Joe Walcott.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Often
the corner talk would be about souped-up cars and their owners. Oh, we looked
up to the older boys who installed enormous horsepower engines in their Chevys
and Fords. Local boy, Shorty Stafford, just home from the service, augmented his
1952 Chevy engine so he could race it. We talked with envy about how we wished <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">we</i> could tear down Route 40 at a hundred
miles an hour. Yet the last time we talked (quietly) about Shorty, was just
after he was killed by crashing his Chevy into a stone wall next to a Glasgow
church. At this writing the damaged wall, with its dislodged, contrite
fieldstones, can still be seen.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
time, while we were all standing around on the corner, being simple as usual, a
man in a shiny new Ford drove past us up George Street. As he passed he glanced
over at us assembled boys. He continued on until he was about thirty feet
beyond us. Then he slammed on his brakes and backed up furiously until he was
just next to us. He then flung open his car door to the hinges’ limits and stared
at us. At that point I recognized him as Harry Alston, the superb dancer at our
Friday night events. I was amazed at the transformation of his appearance. Now,
Instead of that confident expression of pleasure and serenity on his face,
there glared at us a distorted one of utter anguish and contempt.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He then swaggered a few
steps towards us (at this someone whispered, “Uh oh; it’s Harry again.”). Then,
in a raucous voice, Harry would shout, “I can whip all of you. I can take all
of you at once, or take you one at a time. And, if I beat you, I’ll thank you.
And if you beat me I’ll <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">still</i> thank
you.” We boys were all quiet standing there and kind of glancing furtively at
each other. “Didn’t you all hear me,” he yelled. And, as he swayed back and
forth swinging his arms, his car, with its door still swung open to its limit,
started drifting backwards ever so slowly down George Street (the emergency
brake must have been only partially engaged). And Harry, paying not the
slightest attention to his moving car, shouted again, “All of you! I’ll trounce
all of you! And if I beat you I’ll thank you, and if you beat me, I’ll <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">still</i> thank you.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">All this time his car was
creeping down towards the canal barrier where the lift bridge used to be. After
a few more taunts, he would finally notice it moving and get in and jerk up the
brake, with the door still gaping open. Stumbling out, he lurched back to
confront us. “What’s the matter with you heroes?” he roared. “I’ll whip each
one of you at a time. And if I beat you I’ll thank you, and if you beat me I’ll
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">still</i> thank you.” Temple, one of the
new boys in town, called sheepishly, “But I don’t know you, Bud.” To this an older
boy half whispered, “You stoop. What’s wrong with you? Shut up!” Soon after
that Harry called us heroes again. Then he went through his harangue once more
before he slumped into his car, slammed the door and, with the emergency brake
squealing, drove slowly up George Street.<o:p></o:p></span></p>R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-19379401856608840702014-01-07T09:23:00.001-08:002014-01-07T09:23:23.096-08:00<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Memories of Winters in old Chesapeake City, part 2<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBJOuL9Wp5qGWSKfta6fYDSYKQac09RdSelXaFDGxrEytX2v3Bgg4Qj8PCfSBRU4Y56NI3-Vc64r9hC79MVXzTTOqrF7ZfzbsiYNdmQ8Td5vWNxR7L58WDVF8xlYtPUOizAe0S7kkO5Oo/s1600/01+Town+Wharf+Ice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBJOuL9Wp5qGWSKfta6fYDSYKQac09RdSelXaFDGxrEytX2v3Bgg4Qj8PCfSBRU4Y56NI3-Vc64r9hC79MVXzTTOqrF7ZfzbsiYNdmQ8Td5vWNxR7L58WDVF8xlYtPUOizAe0S7kkO5Oo/s1600/01+Town+Wharf+Ice.jpg" height="320" width="315" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Part of the <b>Chesapeake City Basin</b> iced over, circa <b>1950</b>. Note South Side ferry slip
pilings. Area at far left is now site of the Chesapeake Inn.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ-DBREMPULDj9MaYJ-BBd0XTDcXvogW3F7Ojbv2LPK4cBjVzgpl8fZvLBHNfRey6aqyhb2YRhWhWKxYfo8oJt_iOzrm80fnYtZbYH4gJCX2UbRlJf_BtIrKDdZ5gfBqDfKHwZfOujbGM/s1600/02+Ferry+Close-up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ-DBREMPULDj9MaYJ-BBd0XTDcXvogW3F7Ojbv2LPK4cBjVzgpl8fZvLBHNfRey6aqyhb2YRhWhWKxYfo8oJt_iOzrm80fnYtZbYH4gJCX2UbRlJf_BtIrKDdZ5gfBqDfKHwZfOujbGM/s1600/02+Ferry+Close-up.jpg" height="217" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Close-up of the <b><i>Gotham</i>
ferry</b>, circa <b>1946</b>. The room on the
top level had the smoke stack where riders huddled for warmth.<span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So, do you think it’s been a cold
winter so far? Well, let me tell you what many of the older residents of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Chesapeake</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place> told me about the cold winters of
years ago. <b>Dick Titter </b>starts it off
with his recollection of the coldest day ever in our canal town. “I remember
when the old Clayton house burned down. That's on <st1:street w:st="on">Bohemia Avenue</st1:street>, where <b>Birdy Battersby</b> used to live. At that
time that house was outstanding in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Chesapeake</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place>—a premier house so to
speak; I was thirteen, and that night in1936 was the coldest on record for <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Chesapeake</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place>; it was 16 degrees below zero. The
weather had been bitter cold for quite a while, the canal jammed with ice and
everything frozen solid. And I can remember going down there to see the house
on fire.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“I was all bundled up and ready to
see what was going on. Well, I was standing in front of <b>Groom Steele's</b> house—where <b>Frank
Ellwood</b> used to live—watching the firemen with their hoses trying to do something
with that fire. Well, Mr. Steele was out there with a bottle of whiskey, and he
was giving shots to the firemen because it was so very cold. I was standing
right next to them and I recall how their raincoats and boots were frozen stiff
from the ice all over them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“<b>Johnny Walter</b>, <b>Albert Beiswanger</b>,
and <b>Dick Borger</b> were there, as I
recall, and Johnny Walter had to go down to the basin there, by the town wharf,
and cut a hole in the ice to get water for the fire engine. And Johnny told me
that he took an ax and measured the thickness of the ice with the handle. He
stuck the ax head down the hole and it just cleared the bottom of the ice. So
that ice was three-and-a-half to four feet thick. But, anyway, that was a
famous fire, because it burned down the nicest house in town.” <b><i>Dick
Titter</i><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“I recall how cold the winters were
in those days. The ferry would have to fight its way through the ice in the
canal. To get warm, everybody in the upstairs room would huddle together up
against the wall where the smoke stack was.” <b><i>Gary Tatman</i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “<b>May Briscoe
Kane</b> used to talk about walking on the ice. She said that she got out on a
piece of ice and it floated on out with the current. I don't know how she got
back to shore.” <b><i>Earl Schrader.</i><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“We used to really have some ice in
the canal when I was a kid. There used to be enormous chunks of ice floating in
the canal, and I remember how <b>Walter
Basalyga</b> used to ride those icebergs up and down the canal. He would jump
on one down where he lived, near Basalyga's Wharf on the South Side—past the Chesapeake
Boat company—and ride it up to school. And then, at night, if the tide was
running the other way, he'd catch one and ride it home. I have a clear memory
of seeing him out on an iceberg. He jumped from iceberg to iceberg.” <b><i>Joe
Hotra</i><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Daddy (<b>Capt. Ed Sheridan</b>) used to talk about when he was on the tugboats.
He told me about one severely cold winter when they were frozen in the ice. It
was so bad that they had to get the fuel to the tug by rolling barrels across
the ice. They needed the fuel oil to keep the tugboat running and to keep them
warm.” <b><i>Jeanette Miklas</i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“One time, when the ice was bad,
one of the pilots lost control of the big ferry. My father said that the boat
ended up way up there by the government plant. In fact, he had to grab one of
the Losten boys to keep him from jumping overboard. He was going to jump off on
the ice and walk to shore.” <b><i>Ted Lake</i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“I think the biggest thing was
being late for school in the winter because the ice would take the ferry down
past Schaefer's. All of us kids would get excited. We'd say, "Oh boy,
we’re going to be late for school!" <b><i>Becky May</i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“I recall the bad winters we had in
the forties on our farm near <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">North</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Chesapeake</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
As a boy I used to cross over the lift bridge by hanging on to the back bumpers
of cars in a sled when there was snow and ice on the road. We kids did all of
those bad things. I also remember something special that happened on our farm
in March of 1941. My mother was at the end of her third trimester, and went
into labor during a blizzard. Until the snow drifted across the lane, my father
figured we could easily negotiate it with our three-year-old '37 Chevy and get
to the hospital six miles away at Elkton with time to spare.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “We all got up, dressed, and my father helped my mother
to the car, wrapped her in blankets in the rear seat, started the car, and
proceeded down the lane for about one car length. But the car came to a halt
against the drifted snow and would go no farther. At this point, my father got
the tractor out of the carriage house and we chained the car to it. While my
father tried to drag the car down the lane, I jumped in to steer it. The rubber
tires on the tractor spun down through the gravel and clay, which had just
started to get soft, but the tractor stayed where it was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“We were running out of time so Dad told me
to harness our two best horses. We hitched the two horses to the car with a
double tree and chain to the front bumper. Again, I steered the car while my
father drove the team. The horses pulled that car across the top of the drift
as if it were a sled, on out to the main road. My father then drove my mother
on to the hospital, and just after <st1:time hour="0" minute="0" w:st="on">midnight</st1:time>
on the Eighth of March 1941, our brother David was born.” <b>Paul Spear.</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b> </b>The great town of Rising Sun sometimes
had difficult winters also. <b>Don Gifford</b>
recalls an especially big snowfall: “When I was five years old we had a snow
drift that was as high as our barn. That was at about10 p.m. and by the morning
the drift had blown off a bit but was still about 12 feet high. My brothers and
sisters and I dug a bunch of tunnels all through that enormous drift.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> <b>Norman
Astle</b>, a nearby Rising Sun farmer, remembers hearing older folks talk about
driving horses down the Susquehanna river from Port Deposit to Havre de Grace.
“Sometimes,” he recalls, “after a bad blizzard we had to leave the farm by
taking down the pasture fence and making a passage-way across the field with
our tractor and loader. In fact, when we moved here in January of 1954, we had
to use the tractor to pull the truckload of furnishings up to the farm house.
Moving in and securing our small dairy herd was quite an order for a day or
two.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I
have a feeling that I’ve chilled you to the bone by having you read all this
about those bitter-cold winters. And so, in contrast, I’d better tell you about
the <i>hottest</i> summer we ever had when I
was a boy on our farm. That summer it was <i>hot</i>.
How hot was it? It was so hot one afternoon that both of my father’s fields of
popcorn started popping and blowing up into the sky. And then, when it began
falling back to earth, our poor chickens thought it was snow and froze in their
tracks. It was bad. We had to take them into the kitchen to thaw them out. Well,
impressionable reader, I sure hope that you’ve now heated up a bit and are
warmly looking forward to my next week’s story on facebook.</span>R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-62405509423421495092014-01-02T10:07:00.000-08:002014-01-02T10:07:06.776-08:00Winter Memories in Chesapeake City<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Memories of Winters gone by in
Chesapeake City, part 1</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The Lift Bridge with
the canal filled with ice, circa 1940.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The clear ice of
Bunker Hill Pond, with Liane Hazel Kropp in top skating form<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">In some ways it’s nice that our
winters in the 21st Century are not nearly as cold as the ones I remember in
the early and mid-20<sup>th</sup> century. But in a way our warmer winters are
not nearly as much fun. I recall how we used to wait impatiently for the
temperature to drop so we could ice skate on the Back Creek mill pond and
especially on the <st1:place w:st="on">Bunker Hill</st1:place> pond. That was
back in the 1940s through the 1970s. The <st1:place w:st="on">Bunker Hill</st1:place>
pond was a wonderful place to skate. It was about 50 yard wide and 300 yards
long, with over-hanging trees and, at the far end, an array of cattails
interspersed with muskrat houses.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">We played ice hockey with old soda
cans and tree branches. Our toes would be numb from the cold until we warmed
them next to the inevitable bonfire. Some times, when we skated down towards
the end, we’d be the first to arrive there, and the ice would be clear and smooth
as glass. At times, when we least expected it, the ice would emit a prolonged
crack, with an eerie, hollow, echoing sound. And I would think, “Wow! I hope it
doesn’t break through.” There were also frozen side streams to explore, always
with a stimulating sense of adventure. It’s so different now; instead of a pond
we have to go to an indoor rink and skate around in circles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Many of the senior citizens whom I
talked to over the last ten years also remember those icy winters of long ago
and have told me about them. One person talked about how her grandfather used
to race his horse and sleigh on the frozen canal. Another told about playing
“crack the whip” on the ice and the time her father drove his car out over a
pond. Still another explained how his father had to shovel snow off the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Chesapeake</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place> lift bridge so it would rise to let
a ship pass through the canal. The span was piled so high with snow that it
wouldn’t lift.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">What follows are other memories by <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Chesapeake</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place> folks who recall those harsh
winters: “I remember how we used to bring our sleds to school and, after eating
a quick lunch, we bundled up and took our sleds across the field as far away as
we could. Our teacher, Miss Ferguson, had a large hand bell and she used to
ring it at <st1:time hour="12" minute="50" w:st="on">12:50</st1:time>. Of
course, we could never hear it! So she would bundle up and come across the
field to get us. Several times, as I recall, we pulled her back to the
schoolhouse on a sled.” <b><i>Miriam Burris</i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“We used to ice skate on the Back
Creek Mill Pond. Sometimes we'd skate right out here on the canal. When the locks
were here the canal was all fresh water, and when it froze up the iceboats would
come up and break up the ice so the barges could get through. Then, the next
day, we'd go out and skate up and down where they had been. There were big
chunks sticking out because of being broken up, but we'd skate around them.
There were times when we'd skate down Back Creek almost as far as Welsh's
Point.” <b><i>Walter Coolin</i></b><i>g</i><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“In the wintertime I would walk out
on the ice. My father told me that years ago the ice would be so thick that you
could walk to <st1:city w:st="on">Baltimore</st1:city>.”
<b><i>Grason
Stubbs.</i></b> “I recall one time in the winter when the government had a big
steam tug called the <i>Deland,</i> and they
would come over and hook on to that ferry and tow her across the canal in the
ice. The <i>Deland</i> would break up the
ice as she went, drop the ferry off in close as it could to the slip, work her
way around, and then push the ferry up into the slip.” <b><i>Morrison Watson</i><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “I grew up in Port Herman and I can remember
when the old steamers used to come up from <st1:city w:st="on">Baltimore</st1:city> when the river froze over. One time
a side wheeler came up as far as the Town Point wharf, and she would ride up on
the ice until the weight of her would break through. Well, one day she rode up
there and the ice didn’t break; she sat there for two weeks. They had to carry
food out to the crew. My father used to say that he rode a team of horses
across the ice there. Years ago, that’s how thick the ice got.” <b><i>Frank
Ulary</i><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“I remember when the steamer, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><i>Annapolis</i></st1:place></st1:city>,
used to come up to break up the ice. It was an old side wheeler. I was just a
teenager at the time, and in 1934, the year I graduated from high school, the
canal was frozen over. We used to walk across the ice, right there from below
the school to Schaefer’s.” <b><i>Albert Clark.</i></b><i> </i>“Now, talking about ice, I remember when my brother pulled me up
the canal on a sled, up to Schaefer’s from Hog Creek, which was down below the
old Burnt House. That was back in 1934 when the canal was frozen over.” <b><i>Pete
Swyka.</i></b><i> </i>“One time we were late
getting to school because the ferry had trouble getting through the ice in the
canal, but when the ice got too bad it couldn't run at all. I remember taking
pictures of the ships stuck in the ice. They brought ice-breakers up when it
was that bad.” <b><i>Merritt Collins, Sr.</i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“My grandfather Pyle had built an
icehouse near Court House Point. He dug it into the North Bank, which kept ice
solid for a long while. He walled it up with logs on top of one another. He
then ran a long chute down the bank right out onto the frozen river. Then he
took a long rope and a set of ice tongs and went out on the river and sawed a
huge chunk of ice. He hooked the ice tongs into it, ran the other end of the
rope through a hole in the back of the icehouse, and had a horse pull it all
the way up into the icehouse.” <b><i>Ralph Pyle</i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“I came to live in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Chesapeake</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place> in the winter of 1936, and there
was so much ice that the canal was completely closed; no vessels could get through
here. As a matter of fact, a tug sank in there trying to break the ice. I
walked across the canal that winter.” <b><i>Harold Lee.</i></b> “The thing I recall best
is how we used to ice skate on Mallory Toy’s fish pond. We'd walk or ride our
bikes out there and skate all day. It was nice because you were protected from
the wind in there because it was low and surrounded by trees. I also walked
across the canal on the ice one winter. I started down there by the old lift
bridge and walked straight across to Schaefer's. Winters were cold back then. I
used to skate all around in the basin in those days.” <b><i>Cliff Beck</i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Oh yeah, it certainly <i>was</i> cold back in those days. I
recall one of those bitter mornings when our cow was nearly frozen in her
stall. When we milked her, instead of the milk tumbling into the pail it came
down as icicles and we had to snap off the squirts. We had a devil of a time
churning butter that evening. But it was especially hard on our laying hens.
Why, every evening we’d have to place hot water bottles in their nests so we’d
have eggs for breakfast instead of ice cubes. Well, anyway, I’m certainly
sorry, imaginative reader, if I’ve made you shiver from reading these cold
winter tales. But I know you’ll thaw out and get cozy when you curl up with my
next week’s story on facebook.</span>R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-29991106982231172852013-08-27T09:39:00.000-07:002013-08-27T09:39:30.300-07:00Historic Photos of North Chesapeake City<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Historic Photos of North Chesapeake City<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">1830 sketch of Back Creek
& canal – note Back Creek at East end, no Basin at that time but Back Creek
was marshy and much wider.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Very old photo (1840?) of the
lock and Back Creek – looking west. Note lack of trees, just bare ground. Joseph
Schaefer’s ships’ chandlery was to be at the area at top right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Steam tug, <i>Startle</i>, headed East through High Bridge –
North Side at right. It was the most active tug servicing the Chesapeake City
segment of the canal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-12991354000133252832013-08-20T07:40:00.000-07:002013-08-20T07:40:27.520-07:00Steamboat Days on the C&D Canal<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Steamboat Days on the C&D Canal</span><span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: bold;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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The <i>General I. J.
Wister</i>, a wooden, steam-powered tug owned by the Back Creek Towing Co. <b>Inset:</b> Capt. Jacob Isaac Truss, master
of the <i>Wister.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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The <i>Startle,</i>
emerging from the Chesapeake City lock with a schooner in tow. Note Masonic
Hall in distance, circa 1910. <b>Inset
left:</b> The steam whistle off the <i>Startle</i>,
courtesy of Harold Lee. <b>Inset right:</b> Capt. Ed Sheridan, master
of any craft on the water.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The <i>Lord Baltimore</i>,
the most popular day boat of Ericsson Line fleet. <b>Inset:</b>
John Sager, about the age when he sailed on the steamer to Baltimore.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It was the mistake of my
life that I was born too late to have enjoyed the escapades aboard the various steamboats
that puffed their way through Chesapeake City’s canal. But I’ve been blessed
over the last several years by being able to talk with folks who <i>were</i> born early enough to remember the
glory of those extraordinary times. I <i>do</i>
recall seeing the old Wilson Liners, and even sailed aboard the <i>City of Wilmington</i> on its voyage to the
great Riverview Amusement Park on the Jersey side of the bay. I also talked
with Jim Peaper, who ran a concession stand aboard the Wilson Line steamer, <i>Mount Vernon.</i> Edna, Jim’s widow,
remembered putting her three-year-old daughter, Susan, up on a table so she
could sing for the admiring passengers.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">But I like to think that
living during the earlier days of the steam vessels—the days of the tugs and
Ericsson Liners—would have been even more delightful. With this in mind, let me
take you back to those days via the memories of those chosen ones who talked
with sparking eyes as they relived in words those youthful, enthusiastic times.
And, by the way, hand over your TV remote and iPhone. I promise to return them
after the steamboats glide by, trailing their pitch-black smoke, phantom-like, in
the distance . . . until the air clears and returns us to the sanitized year of
2013.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">“My father was master of
the steamboats.” That’s what my grandmother used to exclaim with pride when I
was a boy in the forties. She told about Capt. Jacob Truss, pilot of the <i>General D. J.</i> <i>Wister</i>, one of five wooden tugboats powered by steam. The tugs
worked the waters of the Chesapeake and Delaware bays and their tributaries. My
grandmother told me that Capt. Truss sometimes saw Civil War battles in the
distance when he steamed along on the Potomac River. <b>Capt. Ed Sheridan</b> explained further: </span><span style="line-height: 115%;">“My great-grandfather,
Capt. Jacob Truss, moved to Chesapeake City in 1852 when he was 18 years old.
He became captain of the old side-wheel tug boats, towing barges down the bay,
then up the Potomac River. It was while he was going up the Potomac toward the
end of the Civil War that he had a four-legged stool shot out from under him.”</span><b><span style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> The most popular and most recently-seen
steam tug in the canal was the <i>Startle</i>,
which can be identified by a statue of a horse on the bow. Capt. Stanley Benson
was its pilot, Nobe Benson its engineer, Groom Benson its fireman, and John
Sager its cook and deck hand. I believe it was the <i>Startle</i> that was pulling a barge through the canal when the barge
sank. <b>John Loveless</b> remembered: “The barge was loaded with a 65-foot
whale, weighing 75 tons. They had the whale’s mouth propped open, which was
about eight feet long, and inside the whale they had laid a floor with a
carpet, a small table, and four chairs. When the barge sank, the whale was
loaded onto another barge and taken to Tolchester and displayed for sightseers.
After that it was made into fertilizer.”</span><b><span style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></b><span style="line-height: 115%;">The other very popular steam vessels
were the ones in the Ericsson Line fleet. <b>Capt.
Ed Sheridan</b> remembered them well. He explained: “</span><span style="line-height: 115%;">The route
to Philly is the same that was taken by the <i>Lord
Baltimore</i> and the <i>Penn</i>, which
have long since been turned into scrap. Those steamers used to make stops in
Chesapeake City when the lock was operating, before 1927. When I was a boy I
used to go to the lock at noontime to meet the two steamboats as they stopped
on their way to Philadelphia and Baltimore. There were dining rooms for their
use on both boats. A pianist and often a band played waltzes and fox trots for
dancing during the trip.”<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Other residents who were lucky enough
to have sailed on those luxury liners remembered: <b>John Sager:</b> “I remember riding from here to Baltimore on the <i>Lord Baltimore</i>. I went with my mother;
we boarded just below the Pivot Bridge, near the Pumping Station, at the
Ericsson Line Wharf on the North Side. I recall how much smoke those steamers
put out, and how narrow they were—about 20 feet wide. Sometimes we'd sail on
the day boats and sometimes on the night boats. If we were going down at night
we'd get on in the evening at 8 or 9 o'clock. We went to see my aunts in South
Baltimore and stayed about a week before returning on another steamer. The
steamboat docked at Pratt and Light Streets, in the last berth up in the
harbor. At the stern of the Ericsson Line Berth was an area where the banana
boats used to come in from South America. They were boarded-up high. I remember
that if you wanted to be brave you could go down and throw a pack of cigarettes
up there and they'd throw down all the bananas you wanted.<b>”</b><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;">Bill Briscoe:</span></b><span style="line-height: 115%;"> “When I
was a kid we owned the farm that went right down to Hollywood Beach. I remember
when the Ericsson Line steamers used to stop at the Town Point Wharf. In fact,
we used to ship tomatoes from that wharf. Yes, I watched those steamers run up
and down the river. We used to go to Philadelphia on the Night Boat. We'd board
at the wharf in Chesapeake City at 10:30 and get to Philly real early in the
morning. I wasn't tired when we got there because we always got a berth.” <b>Bob Nichol:</b> “I used to ride up on the
Chesapeake City lift bridge. On Saturday evenings the steamer, <i>John Cadwalader,</i> would pass under and
many people would sometimes ride up so they could look down on it and all of
the passengers aboard. Sometimes there would be so many people on the bridge
that the tender would come out and chase some of them off. Two of the bridge
tenders were Friday Rhodes and George Knott, the boss. They didn’t care if we
rode the bridge.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;"> Edna
Gorman:</span></b><span style="line-height: 115%;"> “I still remember when the steamers stopped at the Ericsson Line
Building to load and unload freight and a few passengers. I remember when they
closed the lock. I used to swim down there. I never rode the boats, but in the
evenings I used to go down there and watch them. The smoke used to just pour
out of them.” <b>John Reynolds:</b> “I
remember the steamer, <i>John Cadwalader</i>.
My grandmother and aunts used to come up from Baltimore on those steamboats.
They'd get off at Schaefer's in the morning to visit us, and then get back on
board in the evening to return. I never rode the boats, but I used to ride up
on the old Lift Bridge and look down on them as they passed under. That was in
1934 or 1935.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;">Walter Cooling:</span></b><span style="line-height: 115%;"> “I recall
the steamboats that used to come through here. As a kid I used to jump off them
into Back Creek. You see, we kids used to swim off the V, which was a wharf
area at the entrance to the Chesapeake City Lock. The lock was next to Schaefer's
old store. Well, if we saw the <i>Penn</i>
or the <i>Lord Baltimore</i> in the lock,
ready to drop into Back Creek, we would run up there, climb aboard, ride it a
short distance, and then dive off into the water. Nobody on the boats ever
objected.” <b>Lucy Titter:</b> “Miriam
Watson told me that when she and Helen Titter were teenagers they rode with
Mrs. Titter to Philadelphia on the steamer, <i>Penn.</i>
Miriam recalls getting a bloody nose when the upper bunk collapsed onto Mrs.
Titter, who was sleeping below.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The steam vessels are
gone, as are the locks, the lift bridges, and the pivot bridges. The canal is
now a 450-foot wide, sea-level waterway. But older residents whom I talked with
took great pleasure in reminiscing about the lost days of the steamboats.</span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-26934258311308176762013-08-12T10:53:00.000-07:002013-08-12T10:53:32.676-07:00Return of the Chesapeake City Snakeheads<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Return of the Chesapeake City Snakeheads</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheu9_ygs3wDL1sdAEE0jasJNk3IzFVivX-Gjr5vxWsDho-X06PTO6bkW9waQZ-qhgVVnfBYqcCv7UELqKBmqNaff0ul0zTImGmSUL-oEu5az8hlFTOqk2YdjKiO7dJ7X1vdV1LMNOCao8/s1600/Schooner_Lock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheu9_ygs3wDL1sdAEE0jasJNk3IzFVivX-Gjr5vxWsDho-X06PTO6bkW9waQZ-qhgVVnfBYqcCv7UELqKBmqNaff0ul0zTImGmSUL-oEu5az8hlFTOqk2YdjKiO7dJ7X1vdV1LMNOCao8/s1600/Schooner_Lock.jpg" height="205" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Mules</b> ready to
pull schooner through lock. <b>Inset:</b>
Harry “Hat” Borger, one of the last mule drivers to work the canal’s towpath</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvGSGCljGZfu-BhsCjcHgm-Oguco-QbxQzeWifoqodhjBuNZ1EHpsB_RoisahTLnS5H9Ff-86KhvbHqziv4kPljGiYkv44usSG8sChiDXRfrQYacQEWNW-rGiP1NeU9HNizUxKNRZEgAs/s1600/Lift+Brdg_Shines.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvGSGCljGZfu-BhsCjcHgm-Oguco-QbxQzeWifoqodhjBuNZ1EHpsB_RoisahTLnS5H9Ff-86KhvbHqziv4kPljGiYkv44usSG8sChiDXRfrQYacQEWNW-rGiP1NeU9HNizUxKNRZEgAs/s1600/Lift+Brdg_Shines.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Lift bridge</b> that
connected George St. with Lock St. Note Rio Theater at left and part of Shine’s
Gulf service station at right. <b>Inset:</b>
Kaky and Shine Crawford.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicme9u4_2KPGYsW-KVbFvijWwY9rJs1-yS7dKYxRaU1PNuop3PQL9DT2oLlVRzNt17VcsK8zwyHY46pPl7GfXffA8IXUdu7q0zAi15WZOU50EErsfF3fCsnVAmb6PpsfcN9rFzE5dBfEE/s1600/Pilot+Boat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicme9u4_2KPGYsW-KVbFvijWwY9rJs1-yS7dKYxRaU1PNuop3PQL9DT2oLlVRzNt17VcsK8zwyHY46pPl7GfXffA8IXUdu7q0zAi15WZOU50EErsfF3fCsnVAmb6PpsfcN9rFzE5dBfEE/s1600/Pilot+Boat.jpg" height="231" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Early, wooden <b>pilot
boat</b> alongside of tanker to exchange pilots. Note pilot climbing ladder to
assume command, circa 1943. <b>Inset L:</b>
Marty Poore, one of the operators of the early pilot boats. <b>Inset R:</b> John Schaefer, owner and
principal operator.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I’ve been concerned
recently about a report describing an undesirable creature called the snakehead
fish. It seems that they have been seen and sometimes caught in certain streams
and ponds on the East Coast. They were brought here from another country and
have the potential for rapid reproduction and thus could threaten the native
fish. They are especially resilient, even having the ability to navigate on
land with their flippers. These facts are upsetting because they remind me of a
story told to me by my reliable Uncle Ernest when I was nine years old.
Apparently these resourceful snakeheads have returned and again could cause big
problems. That’s right; I said “returned,” because back in the early 1900s,
according to Unk, there were many, many more of them and they were a force to
reckon with.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It was 1945, and Uncle
Ernest was visiting our farm, and as usual he brought along his best friend,
Jack Daniels. I remember the evening well; it was dusk, after a warm day for
early November, and as we watched the darkness squeeze out the last filament of
light beyond Dave Herman’s immense oak tree, and as we eyed a mated pair of
bluebirds flitting back and forth to snag bugs from mid-air, Unk told me his
incredible tale. I had just brought home an ugly catfish I had caught in the
canal, and that was what reminded him of the ugly fish that besieged Chesapeake
City in the early 1900s.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Back then our canal was not
sea-level; it was a long, narrow pond that ran from Chesapeake City to Delaware
City. It required locks to raise and lower vessels as they entered and exited
the canal. There was a pump house (now part of the Canal Museum) with a
forty-foot water wheel that transferred water from back creek into the canal
when it needed replenishment. Back then the tugboats and Ericsson liners were
steam-driven. Large sailboats and barges had to be pulled through the canal by
mules. Operations were much different back then before the Corps of Engineers
bought the canal in 1919 and eventually widened and deepened it, thus making it
sea-level.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">But now, let me take you
back to 1945, when I was a boy and thrilled to Uncle Ernest’s snakehead story.
Here is what he told me in his own special way: “Well, Moose the Goose,” he
said, swirling and clicking the ice cubes against his glass, “what I’m about to
tell you I’ve remembered from the account your grandfather, Harper Hazel, told <i>me</i> when I was about your age. You see,
he lived here on the farm in the early 1900s and had a clear recollection of
the shenanigans that went on back then. Here is his story as I remember it: ‘You
know, Sonny,’ Grandfather Harper began, ‘Chesapeake City was a quiet fishing
town in 1915. The area was surrounded by farmers who came to town for supplies
and for church and other activities. It was right about then that weird things
started happening. Repulsive part-fish, part-snake creatures called snakeheads got
into our canal and evolved at rapid speed. These crafty critters did it all
practically overnight.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“ ‘That’s right, in a
short time they undulated up the canal banks and began walking on their flippers
all around the streets, especially the South Sides’ legendary Bohemia Avenue. Their
numbers multiplied and they matured early, enabling them to establish
institutions of all kinds. They had their own schools (underwater of course) not
far from the Canal Museum. They even started their own church on the grounds by
the old High Bridge. I recall being in the area one time and being touched when
I heard the congregation singing their favorite hymn: <i>Slithering to the Sweet Bye and Bye.</i> Their nasal, out of tune
voices brought tears to my eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“ ‘Also remarkable was
what they accomplished as individuals. One brave, young snakehead attached a
line to the pilot boat and could be seen tubing back and forth in front of the
Hole-in-the-Wall. Another learned to ride a motorcycle up and down the streets.
It was so neat to see how he gripped the seat with his little back flippers as
he worked the accelerator with his front ones. Soon many other young snakeheads
took to riding motorcycles and even formed a club. And they all let their head
scales grow long so that they could tie them into attractive pony tails. Yeah,
it sure was heartwarming to watch them speeding along with those scaly pony
tails flopping in the breeze.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“ ‘Some of them tied
camouflaged bandanas to their heads, which made them even more appealing. And my
but it was entertaining to watch and listen to them roaring down George
Street—past Foard’s Hardware Store, past the Church of the Good Shepherd, past
Beiswanger’s Ice Cream Parlor, past Shine Crawford’s gas station, and
eventually across the lift bridge to Lock Street. But, of course, the sensible
folks of the North Side always got together to drive them back across the
bridge, where they could frolic as they pleased. Most of the townspeople,
besides me, were delighted by the spectacle while others were unexplainably
disgusted by it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“ ‘Some of the other equally
flamboyant snakeheads used to frequent the famous Hole-in-the-Wall bar to
entertain and be entertained by Birdy-the-Bartender. One especially large one,
named Allen, used to sidle in and bite the customers on the tops of their
heads. Sometimes Birdy had to throw certain over-zealous revelers out the
screen door, which meant that Birdy’s brother had to fix it the next day.
Anyway, this snakehead named Allen, who had grown to the height of 6’8’’ and,
by the way, walked on the tips of his tail like a clown on stilts and whose
voice reminded me of John Wayne, sometimes threw <i>Birdy</i> out the screen door. This same Allen used to bite the beer
glasses to pieces, and over the Christmas holidays would always eat the red Christmas
lights as they hung on the tree. One time, and I witnessed this, Sonny, Allen
removed one of Ralphy’s new boots.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“ ‘Ralphy was a whimsical
Hole-in-the-Wall fixture who was known for his beer-drinking marathons. Most
people drank their beer from a mug, but Ralphy drank his from an oft-filled pitcher.
Anyway, Allen snatched off one of Ralphy’s boots, filled it with beer, and made
everybody take a swig from it. Ralphy had just bought the boots that day, so
they were brand new, and the comical part was that the beer began leaking out
of the one like a sieve. Another time when I was there Allen came swaggering in
with a 20-pound large-mouth bass. He made Birdy open its mouth and fill it with
beer. And, you guessed it; everybody had to take a drink from it, including me.
What a nasty-tasting mixture! Take my advice, Sonny, and don’t ever try it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“ ‘But listen, I don’t
mean to give the impression that the snakeheads were all playboys without
respectability. Certain groups were inspired by cultural refinement. Why, some
performed in the town’s minstrel shows (being naturally dark made charcoal
application unnecessary). Others participated in the annual Chautauqua
presentations. Oh yes, some were extremely bright. I became personal friends
with a bright one named Oscar, and I know for a fact that he used to help Birdy’s
son, Chuck, with his homework, which improved the lad’s grades considerably.
Oscar became so respected that he even ran for mayor. He ran under the slogan,
“A Flounder in Every Pot,” and he was only five votes shy of winning. My word,
Sonny, imagine how different things would be if he had won.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“ ‘Eventually, though, despite
the good intentions of the conscientious ones, the snakehead episode turned
sour, because when the young, male snakeheads started dating the eligible
daughters of the town, the influential
leaders had all of them rounded up and banished to a swampy compound somewhere
in the wilds of Southwestern Cecil County.’ And that, Moose, is the end of Grandfather
Harper’s story as I remember it. And now I have some serious partying tonight
at Dolph Wharton’s tavern.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So off he trudged, and as I watched him descend our
field towards town, fantastic images of humanized snakeheads cavorted in my
brain. And even now, 68 years later, snakeheads are on my mind. You can
understand, concerned reader, the seriousness of our situation today, because
somehow some of those dreaded buggers have apparently escaped captivity after
nearly a hundred years and may be headed for our canal and town again. And we
certainly don’t want a return of the problems cited by my grandfather’s
historic, eye-witness account.</span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-70784888382692695442013-08-06T09:46:00.003-07:002013-08-06T09:46:54.392-07:00Model A Memories—A Love Story<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Model A Memories—A Love Story</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVfJLrdRmfl6GPVw8HdzqKbneHwumJcPhsog_rCXf06p-90Sjd-N5-5cJrjl5UEJp2xDmSN2b_zm9p6xkVkav3AewfeYMEDEr0_zHi8ccYpSChufNfYJdzQgfZ8zMt1S-DDCO1_XsxU7E/s1600/Milk+Bar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVfJLrdRmfl6GPVw8HdzqKbneHwumJcPhsog_rCXf06p-90Sjd-N5-5cJrjl5UEJp2xDmSN2b_zm9p6xkVkav3AewfeYMEDEr0_zHi8ccYpSChufNfYJdzQgfZ8zMt1S-DDCO1_XsxU7E/s1600/Milk+Bar.jpg" height="206" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Milk Bar (now site of Baker’s Restaurant) on Rt.213 at
Brantwood, circa 1950.</span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl4MPSvfJaXrySK6dRSM-wdSMWl2_PAN0Aou-kBIO6qH-S9qQ-2h4tmsVpd8TrsYKGhoEbdGgk4lwBW_ngKy9Tc-DkU-M2MDS9WZrFMZ4BZFUlt3cNYa7QjRQ9qMDSaF_48myn_tdDH3E/s1600/Hanging+Deer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl4MPSvfJaXrySK6dRSM-wdSMWl2_PAN0Aou-kBIO6qH-S9qQ-2h4tmsVpd8TrsYKGhoEbdGgk4lwBW_ngKy9Tc-DkU-M2MDS9WZrFMZ4BZFUlt3cNYa7QjRQ9qMDSaF_48myn_tdDH3E/s1600/Hanging+Deer.jpg" height="320" width="210" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hanging Deer at Schaefer’s Wharf, with well-liked bartender,
Uncle Frank Smith—circa 1950.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcujptiC2WeY3Pnnjm_O6KhQ4vJcL9ATPhz6tPPHY7hanR1ijWW6ybsnaHbqzMWi2YPCVcVqQ-2ZuWr5uuyKmL7O4Yw9gaOgBAtbiUMuglqRf1KfdAYgvQUwJc3YAo6TndkzjtjC0xQOM/s1600/Schaefer+House+Pensel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcujptiC2WeY3Pnnjm_O6KhQ4vJcL9ATPhz6tPPHY7hanR1ijWW6ybsnaHbqzMWi2YPCVcVqQ-2ZuWr5uuyKmL7O4Yw9gaOgBAtbiUMuglqRf1KfdAYgvQUwJc3YAo6TndkzjtjC0xQOM/s1600/Schaefer+House+Pensel.jpg" height="216" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The John Schaefer House, </span><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">designed by architect,
Armond Carroll, and built by Harry Pensel in 1953. Inset: Master Carpenter,
Harry Pensel in circa 1950.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Fifty dollars,” he said.
“I’ll let it go for just fifty.” That’s what I heard Nip Pierce say in Foard
Brothers’ Hardware Store back in the Chesapeake City of 1950. Nip worked on the
widening of the C&D Canal in the 1930s, and he was one of several older men
who gathered at Foard’s to reminisce about their lives in the water-divided
town. I was a skinny 14-year-old and worked in the store for a couple of
summers. I soon found out that it was Nip’s 1929 Model A Ford that he had for
sale, and right away I told him I wanted it.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Oh yes, 1950—It was
something special. So sit back, put your feet up, and let me return you to
those days, those days of hard work, hard play, and memories hard to forget. In
the news, North Korea invaded South Korea (which led to war), President Truman
approved the production of the hydrogen bomb, the first credit card was
introduced, and we laughed at the first “Peanuts” comic strip. In the movies,
Gloria Swanson and William Holding entertained us in “Sunset Boulevard.” In pop
music, Bill Haley energized us with “Rock Around the Clock” and Elvis pulsated
to “All Shook Up.” In sports, golfing great, Ben Hogan, won the U.S. Open and
Boston’s Ted Williams became the highest paid baseball player at $125,000 a
year. And in the World Series the Yankees beat the “Whiz Kids” of Philly in
four straight.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Anyway, returning to my
impatient, adolescent yearnings, I just <i>had</i>
to have Nip’s Model A and, despite Pop’s objection (“Just too much for that
worn-out jalopy”), I bought it with a combination of my money and his. I swayed
him by whining that I had worked hard for that car. With Clint Foard as my boss
I took care of the gas pumps as well as the whole general store. And, believe
me, Foard Brothers’ sold practically everything: gasoline, kerosene, motor oil,
linseed oil, farm implements, pen knives, boots, candy bars, sodas, and chewing
tobacco—to name just a fraction of the merchandise.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And so, with the fifty
bucks hot in my hand, I gave it to Nip for the jalopy, and I report with
pleasure that over the next three years I derived a thousand dollars worth of
fun from it. I still recall what it was like to sit at the wheel of the ancient
buggy. One’s senses were overwhelmed with an emanation of rust, grease, stale
gasoline, mildew, and fragrant, damaged upholstery that must have been
comfortable lodgings in which field mice had set up housekeeping. But to me it
was as good as a new Cadillac, because it took me wherever I wanted to go—over
roads, fields, and through the woods. It even started sometimes without having
to crank it. And if you ever have to crank a car, concerned reader, you’d
better hope it doesn’t back-fire and break your arm the way my Model A almost
broke mine. But once started I was able to travel to see things and talk to
folks I had not known before. I wish I could report that I sputtered down the
roads legally, but you must know that I had no driver’s licenses and the heap
was not tagged. I’m counting on you, faithful reader, to keep my recklessness
under your hat and not hold it against me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My first journey was to pick
up Cousin Dick Sheridan and buck and backfire over the bridge to visit Mayor Harry
Griffin, who was standing outside Chesapeake City’s first firehouse with Johnny
Walter, a respected waterman who worked on the canal. The old firehouse served
as our town hall since it had been replaced by a larger, more modern firehouse located
on Lock Street. Then we drove up Biddle Street to talk to master carpenter,
Harry Pensel, who showed us the unique house he had build for John Schaefer. After
that we chugged around to Schaefer’s wharf to see a hanging deer bagged by avid
sportsman, John Schaefer, as it swam along his pilings. Frank Smith, John’s
uncle, said that venison would be on the restaurant’s menu for the next two
weeks. On one of my last Model A jaunts (I drove around in it for about three
years before it broke down), I took my girlfriend to talk to Capt. Ed Sheridan,
the competent former pilot of the <i>Gotham</i>
ferry. At the time, “The Captain” was master of the luxury-liner, <i>Port of Baltimore. </i>He delighted in
telling stories about his incredible career on the Chesapeake Bay and its
tributaries.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">But now let me take you
forward in time to 1952, when our over-head bridge was three years old and I
had my driver’s licenses. In those times most families had only one car and our
family was no exception. So, when I borrowed our 1948 Ford, my folks stayed
home and watched Milton Berle, Arthur Godfrey or some such on our 12-inch,
black and white TV. I begged the keys from Pop often for many outings, but
mainly to speed over to Cecil Street on the North Side to pick up my girlfriend.
And I have a clear memory of one hapless evening during that humid-hot summer
of 1952.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">We watched a horror movie
at the drive-in, cooled off at Brantwood with a milkshake from the Milk Bar
(now Baker’s Restaurant) and, nestled as one driver, cruised down Route 213
towards home. Little did we know that it would be quite a while before we
reached our respective houses. I, of course, was anxious to get home, but my
girlfriend pleaded for parking at the gravel pit on Knights’ Corner Road. Once
settled we turned on the radio and deployed our air conditioning by opening all
the windows. We watched mesmerized while the plump moon panned leisurely
overhead on its nightly journey, as midnight gave way to the next early day.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">By now, gentle reader,
you must suspect how hard this was on me because, naturally, I was concerned
with the grandeur of the stars and that intriguing moon, never mind the glory
of those soothing, early-fifties’ songs flowing softly from the radio. But when
Jo Stafford sang “You Belong to Me” and Tony Bennett crooned “Because of You,”
well . . . how could I enjoy those sensuous wonders with all of the kissing
going on? As distracting as it was, however, I endured the smothering until
well into the night, at which time I switched on the starter only to hear a
click and a buzzing noise. Oh yeah, the battery was dead all right! And, unable
to crank the newer car, we walked hand-in-hand all the way down 213 to Cecil Street
and her doorstep. Then I jogged across Sisters’ field, up the long bridge
steps, and eventually to my farmhouse. I woke up Pop and we borrowed a
neighbor’s truck to jump start the battery and bring home the family car. As
you might imagine, I couldn’t borrow it for quite a while after that.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Since that nocturnal
excitement, my girlfriend has kept me around for the last 61 years, and in late
summer we take mini-vacations to the Ocean City area. Even now, when the time of
night is right, she still pleads to park . . . but this time at the ocean’s edge
to watch the moon puncture the distance darkness, and rise to color the glistening
waves with breathtaking shades of gold. And, reclined there, it’s then that I
secretly thank whoever invented those snuggle-restricting bucket seats, because
regular breathing is important at my age. Now our embraces make up in contentment
for what they lack in fervor. After a while, when the splendor wanes and I
switch on the ignition to leave, the car never fails to start, so that we miss
the dubious adventure of a long, exhausting walk in the dark.</span></span>R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-42530180494607822872013-07-30T08:28:00.000-07:002013-07-30T08:28:14.207-07:00The Day the ship knocked Our Bridge Down<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 225.0pt; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The Day the ship knocked Our Bridge Down<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaE-nnInxobaeDnu6_RQ3WSq0JFbZzgjFfIhJM_AYWnMlHK7MwUWLtI52FvR0jqx2pOnKLLPEHjaEr-WcGyjPnAhuGlv-D6vSB5K5E-qESwy_4jkTgFvgP7MoqQeBMqUGsekTlRmagvqI/s1600/Bridge+Ckearance+Inset+Link.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaE-nnInxobaeDnu6_RQ3WSq0JFbZzgjFfIhJM_AYWnMlHK7MwUWLtI52FvR0jqx2pOnKLLPEHjaEr-WcGyjPnAhuGlv-D6vSB5K5E-qESwy_4jkTgFvgP7MoqQeBMqUGsekTlRmagvqI/s1600/Bridge+Ckearance+Inset+Link.jpg" height="320" width="288" /></a></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">There was not much clearance for ships to pass
between the lift bridge towers. <b>Inset:</b>
Link from the chain that raised and lowered the span. Link measures 13x8x7
inches and weighs 100 lbs<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN070o1wmEOeVMMLjwMMCajw-HfwEUb3yNj4DYBhhn0bBTtK9MdAnT53QTN0C8wMSHEnGq7nEMjWYOajU8aQ3Imf7eJPFrBGu8yMuEGWy5rvmkAKxY0-FLJ6Uc_Z6oPU6cLXUnRRsK_dU/s1600/Schreiber+Marina.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN070o1wmEOeVMMLjwMMCajw-HfwEUb3yNj4DYBhhn0bBTtK9MdAnT53QTN0C8wMSHEnGq7nEMjWYOajU8aQ3Imf7eJPFrBGu8yMuEGWy5rvmkAKxY0-FLJ6Uc_Z6oPU6cLXUnRRsK_dU/s1600/Schreiber+Marina.jpg" height="145" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Scriver’s Marina at Court House Point, second
site of Cecil County’s court house. Our first court house was at Ordinary
Point.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-fku7U3BDRk4lnNd2BSvkA-Wf_zmNXkMAP_0Nn2t6hyphenhyphenikefFeJsNzpQsPyHBMdkNf3C7pAAbwkbqJH1XijVnWzhxoMDa0xGNOBQNOkuhrA_tpoNu03y1GoYx1UDAiPkilmFBqRokfu6U/s1600/Sturgeon+1939.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-fku7U3BDRk4lnNd2BSvkA-Wf_zmNXkMAP_0Nn2t6hyphenhyphenikefFeJsNzpQsPyHBMdkNf3C7pAAbwkbqJH1XijVnWzhxoMDa0xGNOBQNOkuhrA_tpoNu03y1GoYx1UDAiPkilmFBqRokfu6U/s1600/Sturgeon+1939.jpg" height="204" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">440 lb
sturgeon, with victorious anglers: Arch Foster, John Schaefer, and Eddie Taylor, circa 1939<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Up until a July morning in
1942 things had been pretty quiet for most of us in our little town along the
Chesapeake and Delaware Canal. Pop worked for the Corps of Engineers, my mother
was heavy with child (not to be light until late October), and at six years old
the most important thing I had to worry about was how often I could hit a
telephone pole at fifty feet with stones from our pot-hole dominated lane. But
then the spectacular happened. At 11:38 AM, after negotiating the curve near
the pump house, the tanker, <i>Franz Klasen,
</i>sheered uncontrollably to port and crashed into the south tower of our lift
bridge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> From
our farm about a quarter of a mile away, I heard a sort of dull clanking sound
coming from town. I looked over towards the sound and saw that the bridge had
disappeared. In those days the fields between our farm and the bridge were
dotted with saplings, not the tall, dense trees that now block the view. Back
then, I could always see the black lift bridge looming in the distance,
outlined against the sky. My grandmother came outside and I pointed and yelled.
She said, “My word, where’s the bridge?” She then told me “not to fret” but to
wait till my father came home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> When
Pop did come home that evening he took me to town to see what happened. He
drove down Bohemia Avenue and turned left on the dirt street that ran between
the canal and the Hole-in-the-Wall. He stopped the car just before we got to
Mallory Toy’s building (now the Shipwatch Inn) and we looked out at all of the
wreckage. The big ship was where the bridge used to be and the black steel from
the bridge was strewn across its bow. The steel was twisted out of shape, with
some of it jutting high out of the water. I was excited and started jumping
around in the car. Pop explained that the bridge was constructed between 1924
and 1925, was opened for traffic in 1926, and served our town for only sixteen
years.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The
bridge excitement had just died down when Uncle Ernest came for a visit and
told me about the exciting time <i>he</i> once
had in the North Atlantic. “Well now, Moose the Goose,” he began, jostling the
ice cubes in his glass, “a while back, after those Delaware Park ponies let me
down, I went fishing off the coast of Maine to make some money. Taking with me
my best friend, Jack Daniels, I sailed pretty far off shore in my run-about and
just started landing some big trout when a tornado blew me far out to sea. After
a while, I saw something large floating in the water. When I paddled up to it I
saw a sorry-looking, water-soaked guy hanging on for dear life to a log. He
must have had a strong will to survive because he clutched the gunwale and
flopped aboard before I could help him. His name was Chuck and, after a long
pull on my bottle, he explained that his ship, the <i>H.M.S. Bagel</i>, a majestic Jewish steamer, had foundered in the
Bermuda Triangle on its way from the Galapagos Islands to England.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“I
got the impression that Chuck was some kind of important person because he said
that he had written a book called <i>The
Origin of the Spacies</i>, a science fiction story I assumed, but to tell you
the truth I thought he was some kind of kook, because every so often he would
raise his fist and yell, ‘Only the fit will survive.’ Geez, Moose, he was
overdosed on salt and sun. Anyway, he blabbed that he was a scientist and had
been studying the animals around Ecuador. I couldn’t understand most of the
stuff he talked about but I think he believed that all living things, over a
long, long period of time, could somehow change into other, different living
things. At any rate, I needed somebody to talk to and help with the boat so I
kept him aboard. He said that if he survived he would return to England and
write more books, which I would never want to read because he admitted that
none of them would have any pictures in them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“But
staying afloat wasn’t easy, Moose, because the weather turned really dirty. A
vicious, driving storm drove us north, and then we began seeing larger and
larger ice chunks in the water. A while later Chuck pointed to a gigantic
iceberg off our bow and we both were shivering something awful. Soon after
passing the iceberg we saw a deadly sight. A mammoth ship, an ocean liner, was
half submerged in the sea, its stern under water and its bow jutting straight
up into the sky. The liner looked almost new, and its name on the bow was
scraped off except for the last four letters: ‘<i>---anic</i>.’ And, Geez, I’d give anything to know that poor ship’s full
name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“This
is the part of my story that I don’t like to tell, because people were
screaming and crying something awful. It was about this time that we saw a man
bobbing in the water. I reached down and pulled him aboard. The fellow was
almost an iceberg himself, so I gave him a hefty shot of Jack Daniels to warm
him up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“And
then, luck must have been on our side because a strong current and warm breeze
carried us west towards the good old U.S. of A. We sailed into the Chesapeake
Bay, passed Scriver’s Marina at Court House Point, and made our way beyond
Schaefer’s Wharf to the yacht basin. We arrived just in time to see John
Schaefer land a 440 pound sturgeon. The giant fish almost caught John, whom we
watched struggle at the line for about an hour. Finally, with the help of Arch
Foster and Eddie Taylor, the exhausted sturgeon was hauled aboard John’s boat. Then
they hung the fish up for display at Schaefer’s Wharf.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">After
that excitement we learned more about the little guy we had rescued from that
icy water. His name was Al and he sure was an odd looking bird, with an unruly mustache
and hair that was fluffed up on the sides of his head. He told us that the
first time he ever did anything for fun was to sail on that ill-fated ocean
liner, and then he started telling us about himself. Laboring with the English
language, he told us that he had come from Germany, and although he had had
trouble with math in school, he was relatively sure that he knew some new
theories about the universe that no one else did. But he made a funny statement
that gave him away. He said, in his stilted English—now, Moose, I think I’ve
remembered it right; he said something about an E equaling a square MC. And
when he went on about relatives in space and warped time and all, I knew that
we had rescued a goofball and, I swear, I almost booted him into the canal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “I restrained myself,
though, because I’ve always felt sorry for slow learners. And it made me feel
good when he told me that he had managed to get a job at an obscure college in
New Jersey called Princetown. For all we know, he may be performing his
janitorial duties now, even as we speak. And I wish him well because some
people say that I’m not that smart myself.” But, dern, <i>I</i> sure thought Uncle Ernest was smart, as well as brave, never mind
lucky to have survived such a dangerous adventure.</span>R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-68473273607999166802013-07-23T11:29:00.000-07:002013-07-23T11:29:33.750-07:00Chesapeake City and The Two Marys<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Chesapeake City and The Two Marys</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">American Store (now Town Hall), the town’s most
patronized grocery store in the mid1900s. L-R: Betty Jean Needles Watson,
Tillie Blendy, Kathleen DeShane, Olive Spear, Anna Merchant, Dorothy Downs,
Wilber Needles, Walter Bennett, Harry Potter, Hazel Hessey, and <b>Inset at right:</b> Frank Bristow (who was
missing from original photo)—April 1946</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhunbiAGDrjP9vBT0mWrsvzTvx5NWPo42T0dlNpJrQsPQTInbnqEMaxq-IdkutO-nu8mJ9F6WgOulN9ScMysNmS2NsmrCM1eHwbjDOhN9TMLrWkXAi9sT3WmHj0ztDAeK-yFeZZldYMEpA/s1600/Bouchelles+Store.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhunbiAGDrjP9vBT0mWrsvzTvx5NWPo42T0dlNpJrQsPQTInbnqEMaxq-IdkutO-nu8mJ9F6WgOulN9ScMysNmS2NsmrCM1eHwbjDOhN9TMLrWkXAi9sT3WmHj0ztDAeK-yFeZZldYMEpA/s1600/Bouchelles+Store.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Harry Bouchelle’s store, circa 1910. Later it
was H. B. Bungard’s and after renovation the building became Walter Cooling’s
general store for many years (now called Black Swan Antiques). People L-R:
George Metz (blacksmith), Lou Blanchfield, 2 girls: one married Joe Schaefer
(John’s brother) and the other married Mr. Mason, Mrs. Bouchelle, Harry
Bouchelle, Tucker Steele, Charlie Banks.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;">Henry Hager’s butcher shop at Bohemia Ave. & 1st St., later the site of Mewhiter’s Drug Store and now a vacant lot next to The Victorian Lady—circa 1910. </span><b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;">Inset:</b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;"> Henry Hager, said to have been a large man who delivered meat to both sides of canal</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I was in love with Mary Boyko, plain
and simple. She was a blonde beauty who visited my mother from her house across
the road from our small farm. I remember how she would help my mother with the
dishes—Mom washing and Mary drying. The last time I saw her I was rolling
around on the linoleum floor of our kitchen when I heard her say that she was
soon to be married and would be moving to California. Oh, sensitive reader,
what a falling off was there! For the first time in my life I was heartbroken,
but I was to remember her beauty and the sound of her soft, girlish voice
forever. As time passed I was to learn that we had had nothing in common—she
had been nineteen and I had been five. Yet it’s surprising how the prospect of
her not continuing to share my secluded world shocked me at the time and
continued to haunt some remote section of my brain for decades.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Sixty-seven years later I thought about
the power of that childhood fascination and, obtaining her California number
from her sister, I called her. A chill migrated up my spine when I heard that
same soft, girlish voice radiate surprise at hearing from a man whom she
remembered as a toddler from her teenage years. She said that she would come to
see me when she visited her sister in a few weeks, and when she finally did arrive
it was something special. Now I was a foot taller than she and we laughed about
it. She brought a photo of herself as a girl and one of me as a five-year-old.
She was married with kids and I had a wife and a whole tribe of kids and
grandkids. We were both happy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And now, let me take you back to five
years after Mary left (when I was eleven) to a time when another Mary entered
my life with almost equal impact. She came to live with us unexpectedly, and
she was dramatically different from my first Mary. This Mary was a short,
energetic, platinum blonde with green, bulging eyes. She was more talkative and
expressed herself loudly when the occasion called for it. A chill still bolts
up my spine when I recall how that strident, staccato voice rattled my brain.
She didn’t dry dishes or have much to do with my mother, but she was a fast
runner and to my delight followed me all around the farm. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Oh, I almost forgot.
When she first became a family member she didn’t even <i>have</i> a name, so Pop let me pick her appellation: “Mary,” after the long-departed
Mary Boyko.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">But now I must tell you that Mary II
had some curiously bad habits, such as refusing to wear shoes (when I used to
put them on her she’d always kick them off). And my but she did make the most
annoying slurping noises at dinner, so bad that Mom insisted that she eat out
on the porch. Not only that, but she displayed such a lack of hygiene that we
all agreed that making her sleep in the barn with the cow would be a much
better arrangement. But I liked her, never mind her habit of knocking people off
balance when they least expected it. And I sort of admired the unique quality
of her elongated chin. Another alarming thing was that Mary had a stupendous
appetite during all hours of the day, sometimes eating unsavory things such as certain
kitchen leftovers and normally unpalatable items from the garden.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">After she got used to living on the
farm and after she had fattened up a bit, Pop and I constructed a cart so that
we could hitch her up to it with a harness and have her pull me into town,
where I would be able to sell our excess corn and tomatoes. I don’t know why
but, especially going uphill, Mary would sometimes balk at the strain of having
to pull me and a cartload of vegetables, causing me to switch her on the rump
to keep us moving.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I mean to tell you, we sold our goods
to many grateful Chesapeake City families and businesses. We sold mainly to the
South Side but also made our way across the lift bridge to the North Side. I
remember how Mary and I talked to Mr. and Mrs. Harry Bouchelle, the proprietors
of Bouchelle’s General Store. More recently the store was bought by Walter
Cooling and is now owned by Black Swan Antiques.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Back then it was one of the places
where townspeople gathered. I recall how, in the mid-forties, certain residents
and I would stand in front of the store to watch the Friday night fights on a
TV that Walter displayed from his front door. He was attracting customers, of
course, even though not many families could afford to buy one back then, mine
included. I remember seeing Dr. Davis pull up almost on the sidewalk to watch
the fights in the comfort of his car. Surely <i>he</i> could afford to buy a TV, but he must have enjoyed the ambiance
of that boisterous crowd of fight fans.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">At any rate, years earlier, when
Bouchelles owned the store, Mary and I sold our tomatoes to Mrs. Bouchelle, and
while there we talked with undertaker, Charley Banks, and George Metz, the
town’s blacksmith. After that, Mary pulled me and the cart down Bohemia Avenue
to the American Store, where manager, Wilber Needles, bought our produce and
where Frank Bristow, the store’s butcher, joked around by insisting that I must
have stolen the vegetables. Across the street was the bank, where we said hello
to Banker, Fletch Nickerson, and Janet Pyle, the teller.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">With still more vegetables to sell, we
rumbled down past Henry Hager’s butcher shop (later Mewhiter’s Drug Store and
now a vacant lot) and descended to the oldest building in town, the famous
Harriott Hotel. Bill Harriott bought some of our stuff, after his son, Punch,
sampled a tomato. While there a juvenile Birdy Battersby emerged dripping wet
from the canal and tried to ride Mary, who, indignant, reacted by butting him
back into the canal, across which he swam back to Canal Street to lick his
wounds. Birdy was to become the town’s most famous and well-liked bartender at
the Hole-in-the-Wall, that exotic bar beneath the Bayard House.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">After that, nearly sold out, we labored
across the lift bridge to Schaefer’s North Side store where Kitty Schaefer
bought us out and even offered to buy Mary—an offer we both graciously refused.
While there we gabbed with Wilson Reynolds and Monica Breza before heading
home, stopping only on George Street to wave at Jumping-Jim-the-Barber and to
shoot the breeze with Walter Cooling who, with us, was perusing the “Coming
Attractions” on display at the Rio Theater. Finally, tired but happy about
making some money, we made our slow trek back to the farm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> After two
productive summers of our partnership—and I’m sorry to have to tell you this,
sympathetic reader—I awoke one fall morning to discover that just like my old
Mary, my new Mary left me as well. And you can imagine my sorrow when Pop
explained that he took her to live with a farmer who needed the honeysuckle and
wild rose bushes cleared from his fence rows. Later I learned of another reason
(maybe the real one) as to why she was relocated. In a fit of hunger she had
provoked Pop’s acrimony by eating the windshield wipers off of his 1941 Ford. And
yet, it’s so sad to realize even now that Mary must have known she was leaving
me, because on the previous evening, telling me farewell in that gruff yet
endearing stammer, she exclaimed: <i>“<em><i>Naaaaa</i></em>-aa-aa-aah<em><i>. Naaaaa</i></em>-aa-aa-aah.”</i></span>R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-26840845487579964832013-07-16T08:51:00.001-07:002013-07-16T08:51:40.115-07:00Life in a Tree and Uncle Ernest’s Adventure<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Life
in a Tree and Uncle Ernest’s Adventure<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1vtNnT3F0QStVBfF9guAXOUZlKs0wR3CQ1pbC_8GKJW8FtSQt_pEi_vxVRvMjRR2PamOCEXWzaF7zWt3aSQf4mcBdZsto6eCDxLWCXKqsTMkORg9J9K0fAtASaEAsNoEBps_0Vq_k01w/s1600/Collins+Market.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1vtNnT3F0QStVBfF9guAXOUZlKs0wR3CQ1pbC_8GKJW8FtSQt_pEi_vxVRvMjRR2PamOCEXWzaF7zWt3aSQf4mcBdZsto6eCDxLWCXKqsTMkORg9J9K0fAtASaEAsNoEBps_0Vq_k01w/s1600/Collins+Market.jpg" height="217" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Collins’ Market, circa 1970. Both buildings comprised the
store. The wooden right side was built about 1885. The building at left was a
private school in early days. Lewis Collins, Sr. bought the store in 1941.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIU4i95kdcVw67kuBMesjnFb4QU7hYXkI7q5t3aNnrRiCW7y_b7OaDDTouQatgtY5xkmuYWt2okOqsbYqyiAABuz9k_cejuiQrwJQYccrkM5PTOkJ74tP_aXNhP_JFBh2XXSlcrd5Apbg/s1600/J+Schaefer+etc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIU4i95kdcVw67kuBMesjnFb4QU7hYXkI7q5t3aNnrRiCW7y_b7OaDDTouQatgtY5xkmuYWt2okOqsbYqyiAABuz9k_cejuiQrwJQYccrkM5PTOkJ74tP_aXNhP_JFBh2XXSlcrd5Apbg/s1600/J+Schaefer+etc.jpg" height="207" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;">John Schaefer’s store, with L to R: John Schaefer, Winifred Schaefer (John’s mother), and Kitty Maloney (John’s sister). Inset at right: famous butcher, Frank Bristow</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When
I was a poor, lonely pre-teen I used to practically live near the top of our
gigantic maple tree alongside of our farm house. Strangely enough, I enjoyed
reclining high in its fork of branches, among the secluded, majestic leaves
where four of my senses were especially keen. I could see for miles about the
countryside: Chesapeake City with its picturesque lift bridge to the north,
Bill Herman’s highly cultivated farm (with his work horse, Babe, pacing her
pasture) to the west, the wide cornfield to the south, and to the east the
grandeur of the deep woods. I had only to look at the bark near my hand to see
a tiny ant foraging as if his life depended on it, or glance at an outer branch
to grin at a blue jay scolding me for invading her domain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But
don’t think, attentive reader, that I always lounged there comfortably, for I
had to readjust my position frequently because of the solid branches
compromising my aching bones. Despite that, and the sore hands and feet from
climbing the rough branches, I was sensitive to the dialog of the wild geese as
they assured one another of the correctness of their flight. I’d hear the Bob
Whites’ echoing whistles and the killdeers’ shrill melody. And every evening
after dusk I’d be attuned to the haunting cadence of the whippoorwills from the
deep woods. And through it all I marveled at the varied aroma of leaves and
bark found only in the midst of the great tree, aroma enhanced by the gentle
stirrings of the purest air on earth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
tree was about ten feet from our porch roof, so one day I tied a rope to a high
overhanging branch and would swing back and forth between the two. For quite a
while it was great fun, but one time—the last time—swinging from the roof, I
found myself on the gnarled roots at the base of the tree, moaning with pain.
It was the fastest journey I had ever taken, for my hands slipped and in a
split second I was lying crumbled on the ground. And someday when I’m sent to
the bad place I suppose the trip down might be something like that. When I
looked up—bruised but intact—I saw Uncle Ernest staring down at me with a silly
grin on his face. He chuckled and quipped, “Nice trip, Moose the Goose; see you
next fall!”<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My
pain subsided quickly because I remembered that he had promised to tell me
another true adventure story. He said that he just had time to do so before he
was off to spend the night partying with Snake Johnston, the well-liked
bartender in Martin’s Tavern, Chesapeake City’s popular Second Street bar. First
he said he had to catch the ferry to the North Side to meet at Lewis Collins’
market with Jazz and Eddie, his two best drinking buddies. The trio would then
stroll over to Canal Street to get Birdy Battersby and then ride the ferry back
and collar Bobby Sheridan, whom they knew would be frolicking with the gang on
Postell’s Corner.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Then
the five revelers would stride a few steps down the street to Martin’s Tavern
for a night of shuffleboard and liquid entertainment until the morning hours. And
so, with limited time available, as he sat next to me there in our double lawn
chair and, interrupted only by his frequent trips inside to freshen his ice
cubes, he told me about his brave escapades in the Brazilian jungle. “Yeah, Moose,
a while back I had the urge to visit South America, so I stowed away on a
freighter headed there, but some burly ruffian tossed me overboard next to a
jungle, many miles north of Rio de Janeiro, where I had hoped to visit.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I
swam ashore, walked a short distance inland, and entered a small encampment of folks
who spoke a language that was Dutch to me. And it was a good thing they knew
enough English so that we could communicate. But they’d say things like, ‘<i>Guten Morgan</i>,’ and to their leader
they’d yell, <i>‘Heil Dolphie.’</i> This
Dolphie guy was a scrawny devil, with a black, toothbrush-sized mustache and a band
of jet-black hair that sort of slashed across his forehead. I’ll tell you, I
didn’t like that bird at all. Something he had though was one gorgeous
girlfriend, who was as pretty as he was ugly. Her name was Ava, the most
beautiful buxom blonde I had ever seen, with luxurious golden curls that sort
of tumbled down in ringlets, accentuating her stunningly beautiful face. And
her figure . . . how can I tell you about her figure? It was breathtaking,
designed and molded with curvaceous perfection, one that would put to shame any
model or movie star you’ve ever seen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Anyway,
after I decided to build a sturdy canoe to get me to Rio, and just as I yelled <i>‘Timber’</i> and my axe severed the last fiber
of a giant Brazilian nut tree, it fell and busted old Dolphie, who was lurking
nearby, right on the noggin, driving him six feet into the Brazilian turf.
Well, Moose, to my surprise all the people bowed to me and called me a hero. I
discovered that Dolphie ruled them as an evil tyrant; everybody hated him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Ava,
it turned out, had been kidnapped and dominated by him, whom she hated because
of his brutal treatment of people. Anyhow, because I freed her of him—never
mind my handsome, muscular looks and my irresistible way of sweet-talking—she
fell instantly in love with me. Yeah, and it was tough on me, too, because she
embraced me with so many kisses and hugs that I had to beg her to ease up or be
smothered. I finally got her to relent by promising to become her ever-lovin’
steady boyfriend and by assuring her that she could accompany me as I sailed to
Rio once my canoe was finished and equipped.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“And
so, after I finished the canoe we shoved off into the vast Atlantic Ocean. We
stayed on course until a hurricane drove us north for several hours. It then
blew us up onto a small island, which we soon discovered was <i>moving.</i> Geez, Moose, we were riding on
the shell of a giant snapping turtle that had been blown off to sea by the
hurricane. It was returning up the coast to Chesapeake City’s Back Creek swamp.
And so, with us clinging on for dear life, he carried us up the Chesapeake Bay,
past Welsh’s Point, and up Back Creek towards the canal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But
when we got near Schaefer’s Wharf we saw John Schaefer and his sister, Kitty,
along with Frank Bristow. They leaped into John’s boat, lassoed that snapper’s
head, and dragged us ashore. My, but it was amazing the way Frank Bristow
handled that angry turtle. Then John and Kitty got to work and prepared the
most delicious snapper soup I’d ever eaten. And, for the next two years the
gentle people of Chesapeake City feasted on Schaefer’s Restaurant’s snapper
soup.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"> And
with that true adventure account, Uncle Ernest jumped up and told me that he
was expected at Martin’s Tavern for his night of partying, and I thought that I
was the luckiest 10-year-old alive, because what other boy in the world had
such a resourceful hero as my Uncle Ernest?</span>R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-52145057961190637872013-07-09T09:25:00.003-07:002013-07-09T09:25:51.391-07:00Canal Street – Chesapeake City<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Canal Street – Chesapeake City<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">North
Side school children boarding the <i>Victory</i>,
the temporary passenger ferry from August, 1942, until the car ferry, <i>Gotham,</i> arrived in March of 1943. Many
children aboard and boarding lived on Canal Street.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn-9eMH_TzU2ujLZI29r1OhOr7zMteZ2GzvBS9Cb61Z2qwYl8n9dn3aZ9CLhPrV_3Vh_F25LPYAv7-31L5-sPt7LIplkpGaQHookgXHRF2z3Li42UYTk2rYgEToi20KAAaES5lfd4qe0I/s1600/Canal+St+Hse+Destruction.+Inset+-+Aunt+Kate+Lloyd%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn-9eMH_TzU2ujLZI29r1OhOr7zMteZ2GzvBS9Cb61Z2qwYl8n9dn3aZ9CLhPrV_3Vh_F25LPYAv7-31L5-sPt7LIplkpGaQHookgXHRF2z3Li42UYTk2rYgEToi20KAAaES5lfd4qe0I/s1600/Canal+St+Hse+Destruction.+Inset+-+Aunt+Kate+Lloyd%5D.jpg" height="216" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Large
Canal Street house being razed—Inset: Aunt Kate (Battersby) Lloyd, who cried,
“They’ll have to carry me out before I move!”</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wish I could remember
what I had done wrong that caused all the excitement in my house on that
bitter-cold, late December day. 1942 was about to end; it had been the best of
years and it had been the worst of years. Relax, and let me take you back there
for a spell. In that year many pleasurable events occurred. Bing Crosby was
crooning <i>White Christmas,</i> The Andrews
Sisters were singing <i>Don’t Sit Under the
Apple</i> <i>Tree,</i> and Glenn Miller was
conducting <i>Moonlight Cocktail.</i> In the
movie theaters James Cagney dazzled us in <i>Yankee
Doodle Dandy,</i> Bogart and Bergman held us spellbound in <i>Casablanca,</i> and Walt Disney astounded us with <i>Bambi,</i> an animated marvel. On a personal basis I was managing to
make it through the first grade, never mind my doubts about completing the
second. And my family was happily excited because my only brother was born in
October.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On the disheartening
side, our nation was at war. The Germans were bombing the daylights out of
Great Britain. We were fighting the Japanese in the vicious <i>Battle of Midway.</i> Locally, our lift
bridge was destroyed by a freighter on July 28<sup>th</sup> and our car ferry
didn’t arrive to serve us until March of 1943. Furthermore, for me personally, as
I mentioned earlier, our household was in a frenzied uproar one day because of
some devilish thing I had done. And it must have been something pretty bad for
it to make my mother and grandmother furious with me. Maybe I had hurt my
little brother, or maybe I had stoned one of our settin’ hens. But no, wait! I
think I <i>do</i> recall now. Granny was
babysitting me and my little brother there in the farm house. I was not
behaving for her at all. I don’t remember what I was doing wrong, but I recall
Granny’s warning: “Boy, if you don’t behave yourself I’m going to go out and
cut a switch and go aboard you with it.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Well, she did walk outside for a switch so I
locked her out in that fifteen-degree weather. It was so cold that two-foot
icicles hung from the shed roof, and one even extended from the roof into the
frozen-solid rain barrel. When my mother came home with the key about an hour
later, she and my frozen Granny screamed their heads off at me. “You just wait, young man, until your father
comes home,” they yelled. “He’ll whip you within an inch of your life.” Granny
was especially disgusted with me, crying out, “I just don’t know what to think
of such a nasty rascal.” My mother cried, “The very <i>idea!</i> Your father will be home soon. You just <i>wait, </i>buckaroo.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So when I saw Pop’s car
rolling up the lane, I ran upstairs and lay stretched across my bed, sobbing to
beat the band. Then all three of them came up the stairs, and I could hear
their animated chatter in the hall. Then they came into my room. Pop didn’t say
a word, but Mom and Granny were both talking at once. I started crying as Pop
stood there, belt in hand, glaring down at me. Then he came towards me and in a
flash my mother was next to me. She put her arm around me, looked up at Pop and
screamed, “You’re not going to hurt him; you’re not.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Almost at the same time,
Granny lunged in front of her son, grabbing the belt as she said, “Now, Ralph,
you leave him alone. He’s suffered enough; leave him <i>be</i>; you hear?” Pop then shook his head and slumped out of the room
as Mom and Granny comforted me. As I sobbed softly, Granny stroked my head and
whispered, “You rest yourself now, good boy. When you’re feeling better, you
come on down and get your supper.” So, understanding reader, from this you can
see the kind of hard life I led; how I survived it I’ll never know.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was ten years later,
1952, when I was 16 and driving Pop’s ’48 Ford that I eyed with special
interest the Dungaree Girl of Canal Street. You know about Canal Street, of
course, that ran along Chesapeake City’s North Side, the one where so many
wonderful people raised their children, worked their jobs, and lived their
lives in sight of the vibrant waters of the C&D Canal. Over thirty houses
of varied architecture lined the narrow street, and out front, toward the
250-foot waterway, was a steep bank that descended in certain places to sandy
shorelines that provided joyful recreation for generations of children.<b> </b>Sometimes joining the fun, I recall
sliding down the bank into the water on a piece of cardboard.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But then, in the
mid-sixties, all residents of Canal Street were relocated when the Corps of
Engineers widened and deepened the canal. Except for the Stapp House and the
Snyder House, which were moved to other locations, all of the houses were
demolished. Many people were distraught at having to move, especially Aunt Kate
Lloyd who, crying, had to be carried off her front porch the day before it was
razed. Many Chesapeake City notables were displaced, including one-time mayor,
Jim Wharton, Harold Reynolds, Mable Thornton, Eddie Bedwell, and Capt. Albert
Battersby, father of Birdy Battersby, who became a respected councilman as well
as the town’s most popular bartender.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But wait. Geez, I almost
forgot about Canal Street’s Dungaree Girl. So let me return you to 1952, to when
I was a teenager with wheels and paying attention to those beautiful and lively
girls who flowered that ill-fated street. Why growing up near the water there made
them so attractive I’ll never know. There were Betty and Dotty Thornton
brightening the East End where Birdy Battersby lived. Other beauties were Ina
Lloyd, Betty Dixon, Louise Bedwell and, of course, the enchanting Dungaree
Girl.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cousin Dick Sheridan and
I used to ride or walk over the bridge to talk to them for hours, sometimes
even amusing them with our adolescent sweet-talk. I first saw the Dungaree Girl
astride her bike alongside of George Gorman’s gas station and candy store. And I
wish I knew why talking to or even eyeballing her increased my heartbeat the
way it did. Maybe it was the delicate way she rode that bicycle when I pulled
up next to her and smiled. Maybe it was the way she flickered her eyes at me.
There was for sure something elusively special about her. Her eyes, that was
it—those eyes that seemed to glance about fleetingly with a kind of equivocal playfulness
that appeared sometimes to have <i>me</i> as
their focus.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And yet, now that I’ve thought it over, it
must have been the combination of bike riding and eyes, never mind the way she
sort of flipped her pony tail, and the way she wore her white socks above her
penny loafers, socks that left a three-inch gap of leg below those delightfully
faded, rolled-up dungarees. Anyway, after what seemed like months, she agreed
to attend a movie with me and eventually she was my date to the prom. So 1952
was absolutely the best of years for me. But when I picked her up I was shocked
silly: <i>She was not a Canal Street Girl at
all! </i>She lived on <i>Cecil</i> Street.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> But I let it slide and,
regardless of her disappointing location, she was awfully pretty when I strode
in to get her for the prom, despite the comical prom dress and the doctored
hairdo. At any rate, her tentative agreement to go steady has lasted 61 years
so far, and when I ask when she can make it permanent she just shakes her head
and says: <i>“Give it time! Give it time!”</i> But you know it’s sad that she doesn’t ride
her bike anymore, and I don’t know <i>what</i>
happened to those engaging dungarees. But don’t you wish, as I do disappointed
reader, that she had turned out to have lived on that historic street, just so,
along with the real Canal Street girls, she could say with an emotional catch
in her voice: “Where I grew up is now under thirty feet of water.”</span></span>R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-50234509051695583262013-07-02T12:09:00.000-07:002013-07-02T12:09:00.898-07:00Riding a Dead Horse and Chesapeake City’s Crystal-Ball Doctor<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Riding
a Dead Horse and Chesapeake City’s Crystal-Ball Doctor</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMzYcWUDGP-v1EZvK8YfDGAKFLQVGw2XZCCePdgfs4QBRBascAvMZrsmGrlTeAUYyKtm64HfLROQEF9r7JYN2_JbbTKdJNG2ghyphenhyphenhxpbbfzfgJTC4ZvBvuNNNROaTLnxjMWa4pFW-oyIrk/s1600/Locust+Tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMzYcWUDGP-v1EZvK8YfDGAKFLQVGw2XZCCePdgfs4QBRBascAvMZrsmGrlTeAUYyKtm64HfLROQEF9r7JYN2_JbbTKdJNG2ghyphenhyphenhxpbbfzfgJTC4ZvBvuNNNROaTLnxjMWa4pFW-oyIrk/s1600/Locust+Tree.jpg" height="192" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Locust tree at left where Jack strangled himself. Tent
occupants: Wiggsey, the dog for all seasons, with his best friend.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZWzk8VhrPzoPVgQaxyvje7CQxuG7MbMA0hs82blgxzX2aeTRZ6PyUj37qYg35G7gIHKnKumZXpLHX2oPO4DAAvuX31w5wZ3PvuyQnbKX1UAXybdQQYSD8VZXX_s4ZBydHVUms07lBnhA/s1600/Dr+Van+Norden+Hse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZWzk8VhrPzoPVgQaxyvje7CQxuG7MbMA0hs82blgxzX2aeTRZ6PyUj37qYg35G7gIHKnKumZXpLHX2oPO4DAAvuX31w5wZ3PvuyQnbKX1UAXybdQQYSD8VZXX_s4ZBydHVUms07lBnhA/s1600/Dr+Van+Norden+Hse.jpg" height="193" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Dr. Van Norden’s house and office, built by Mr. Lindsey in 1917.
Dr. Van Norden lived there from 1941 until about 1948. Jim Peaper and family
lived there and the current residents are Cathy and John Watson. Stone fence
built by Taylor S. Stubbs</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">I
woke up early that mid-summer morning in 1946 and ambled outside to pick some
grapes from our flourishing arbor. And before I sat down on the back steps to
enjoy them I did a few forward rolls and, dizzy, sat up just in time to see a
robin dart onto the grassy island next to our pump trough. She stood erect and
motionless, proud red breast puffed out, and beak lifted high. She then
skittered quickly across the grass with her body tilted level with the ground
like a speed boat leveling into its plane. Stopping abruptly, she again
presented that boasting chest and attentive head. In a flash, she pivoted her
body downward, placing her beak about an inch from the ground, with head tilted
as if listening for some weak though important message. She stabbed the ground,
bringing up a wriggling, startled worm. Repeating her quick-footed, level dash
and her martial stance—with the frenzied worm dangling in her beak—she lifted
off and glided with a graceful swoop into the pecan tree.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Then
I turned toward our lane just in time to see Uncle Ernest, who stumbled up next
to me and squatted with exaggerated effort accompanied by a long groan of
fatigue. He had just arrived from a night of bar hopping that ended with his
eviction from Earl White’s tavern on Chesapeake City’s North Side. He promised
to tell me an adventure story after he rested his eyes on our couch. And, geez,
I just couldn’t wait until I could hear another one of his true stories, just
as I know you can’t wait, pensive reader, until you read it in the next week’s
posting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So
I cooled my heels and thought about a crazy thing that had happened earlier
that summer. Old man Dave McNatt, a local farmer who tilled our forty acres,
had horses, mules, cows, and many other domesticated farm animals. The cows he’d
graze on our fields occasionally, but the mules and horses were there often.
Well, one of the horses he had was a bad one. As you know, sometimes an animal
can be as ornery as a person. At any rate, this horse, a large, brown stallion
named Jack, was wild and hard to manage, and one evening, before McNatt
returned to his farm with the other mules and horses, he had tied Jack to one
of our locust trees. Well, old Jack snorted, whinnied, and stomped the ground like
crazy that evening before bedtime.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
tree was right outside my bedroom window, and let me tell you, sympathetic reader,
that when I woke up the next morning I saw a startling sight. Jack was lying dead
on the ground, strangled around the base of that tree, with his eyeballs
bulging out and his purple tongue dangling to the ground. He had twisted
himself around and down to the bottom of the tree trunk until he had no where
to go, so that his head and neck were snug up against the trunk. He had
struggled valiantly—in one direction only. His enormous body lay fully across
the area where I had pitched my tent a few days before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And
do you believe that Old Dave McNatt didn’t bother to remove the carcass. As days
went by the body swelled up to twice its size, its belly especially, bloating
up like a gigantic hairy balloon and stretching as taut as a bass drum. I
remember how bizarre it was to look up at the prostrate Jack as I stood there
on the ground, but it was even more remarkable to see it from the hall window
upstairs, where I could take in the full absurdity of it all.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But
you must know that as a kid I didn’t think it was that bad, because my buddies,
Junior and Dick, and I would climb to the top of that belly and slide down it. We
even switched him and pretended to ride him. We played on poor old Jack every
day, never mind what my mother said: “My, the very i<i>dea!</i> Don’t you <i>dare</i> climb
on that disgusting thing?” And yet, sixty-seven years later I can still feel my
bare feet stepping on that distended, hairy belly, a belly that grew larger day
by day. And I can still feel my fingers digging into that taut, hairy horsehide
as I struggled to reach the top. Yep, we enjoyed an unusual sliding board,
which I’ll bet no other kid ever had, until the flies and the stink got so bad
that Pop had to pay a renderer to haul it away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Later
that summer I started my first job: pulling weeds out of Dr. Van Norden’s
garden. The doc lived on South Chesapeake City’s Third Street, just up from the
school. He wanted me to begin work at noon, in the heat of late July. After an
hour of battling the infested weeds, the heat, and the biting insects, I
decided that being a wage earner at ten years’ old was not only exhausting but
unnecessary. And the more weeds I pulled the more unnecessary it became. So,
after about an hour, drenched with sweat, with a sunburned and welt-dotted
face, I knocked on his door for my pay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He
opened the door, peered out and beckoned me in. Let me tell you about Dr. Van
Norden, my first doctor and my first employer. He was a small man so it won’t
take long. Thin and maybe five feet tall if you were to stretch him out, he had
a head that made up in magnitude for what his shriveled body lacked. He had piercing
eyes, a long nose, and a full head of pure-white hair.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He
drove a 1915 Pierce-Arrow automobile, and when he ran it around town it looked
as if there was no driver because he could just barely see over the dashboard.
Folks said that he always drove through town ignoring the stop signs and
pedestrians. Nevertheless, he paid me for my labor with a tarnished quarter. Four
years earlier he had given me my school vaccination on my left bicep. The
quarter I spent that evening; the vaccination I still have, and if I flex my
muscle it’ll pop right out at you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
winter before I pulled those weeds for him I was his patient. Pop took me to
him because I had a bad cold with a high fever. Feeling miserable, I sat next
to his desk as he told me to chew on a small absorbent, paper tab and then spit
it into his hand. He made a fist for about five seconds, cocked his head to one
side and said: “Um <i>humm</i>, 102 degrees—not
good.” Then I answered his questions: “Are your mouth and lips dry?” “Uh-huh.”
“Do you stick your feet out from under the covers at night?” “Uh-huh.” “Do your
bowel movements have an odor?” “Uh-huh.” Well,” he said, “Everything points to <i>nux vomica</i>, but we’d better make sure.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Then
he pulled out from his drawer a crystal ball about the size of a baseball that
had a foot-long string attached to it. He cleared his desk and poured and
folded what looked like sugar (the <i>Nux
Vomica </i>medicine) into a tiny piece of white paper. Next he placed it about
eight inches from the tab I had saturated. After that he grabbed the end of the
string attached to the crystal ball and held the dandling ball about six inches
above the saliva tab.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
sat there wide-eyed at the spectacle and looked over at Pop, who nodded his
approval. Then, believe it or not, that crystal ball began swinging back and
forth between the medicine and my saliva. “There’s the proof,” Doctor Van
Norden said. So Pop paid him two dollars, took me home, and dissolved the
medicine in a glass of water. That evening he gave me a teaspoon full of it
every hour, and the next morning I felt fine—no cough, no sore throat, and no
fever. I was <i>cured.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-28788959565837026532013-06-25T08:24:00.001-07:002013-06-25T08:24:58.596-07:00White Crystal Beach in 1952—a Time of Sweets and Sours<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">White Crystal Beach in 1952—a Time of Sweets
and Sours</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCexzzBgZGZFgvkTT3L_gAKKG0_s73AsXgKqg6MaPsLUNDy8f7UZuW3ICknDeO9Pc6hEwu04x3e28B0_dy3r8JPPi-DWWv4t7wkjELuViRVyNelgWO8jgjmnSiUSpifD-98SPzcvez7j0/s1600/White+Cry+Dancers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCexzzBgZGZFgvkTT3L_gAKKG0_s73AsXgKqg6MaPsLUNDy8f7UZuW3ICknDeO9Pc6hEwu04x3e28B0_dy3r8JPPi-DWWv4t7wkjELuViRVyNelgWO8jgjmnSiUSpifD-98SPzcvez7j0/s1600/White+Cry+Dancers.jpg" height="198" width="320" /></a></div>
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Dancing on<b> </b>the boardwalk at White Crystal Beach,
circa 1950</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8HRCgflnSgJKJ5DK0Dt8HVKFlpaVI7h57XTo7FOGtZLhDDivba_NjSuNbzhDJo-FD7zLeaP-l32iKazHULErzc2gE9nznYfoCFEOE5xD5m6dFBkYsEefTkspJrMLAiQTImgD0cLfptNw/s1600/Turkey+Pt+Light.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8HRCgflnSgJKJ5DK0Dt8HVKFlpaVI7h57XTo7FOGtZLhDDivba_NjSuNbzhDJo-FD7zLeaP-l32iKazHULErzc2gE9nznYfoCFEOE5xD5m6dFBkYsEefTkspJrMLAiQTImgD0cLfptNw/s1600/Turkey+Pt+Light.jpg" height="320" width="261" /></a></div>
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The Turkey Point Lighthouse,
circa 1930. Note vestige of wooden steps and chute ascending the cliff.
Supplies, unloaded from a boat, were hauled up the chute to the keeper</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">For
the life of me I couldn’t rouse Uncle Ernest that Saturday morning in 1952.
Having just arrived from Nola’s Bar, he was in no condition to talk. So I went
outside for a while to cool my heels.<b> </b>It
was late August and you know what it’s like when it’s especially hot and humid.
It would be years before we had air conditioning, so we’d sit under our maple
tree and bless the occasional breeze that cooled us off. Sometimes abrupt, violent
thunder storms would really cool us off. The wind, teeming rain and occasional hail
would rage, bending our orchard saplings double.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Anyway,
I had big plans for that particular afternoon. Time was valuable because school
would reopen in two weeks and I wanted to make the most of my remaining free
time. I walked into town and collared Dick Sheridan (my best friend and 42<sup>nd</sup>
cousin) so we could run my sea sled to White Crystal Beach for a day’s swim. We
walked down Bohemia Avenue, past Dr. Conrey’s mansion (now the Blue Max), and
down Ferry Slip Road to Stone Bridge where I had my boat and motor pulled up on
the shore.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> We got to White Crystal in no time, took a long, cool swim,
and then went up to the small boardwalk where kids were dancing to juke box
music. We watched for a while and then I saw, in the midst of the dancers, a
girl so pretty that I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was about 5’5” with
short, light brown hair and a thin, well-formed body. And her eyes . . . how
can I tell you about her eyes—those eyes that were so sparkling and playful and
full of life? She and another girl were jitterbugging to Bill Haley and the
Comets’ “Rock Around the Clock.” She wore a pure-white terry cloth blouse that
was open at the throat and trimmed in navy blue. Her shorts were terry cloth
trimmed in navy blue also. She . . . was . . . <i>beautiful!</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Well, I knew that if I didn’t meet her and dance with her I
wouldn’t be able to live with myself. Just then, as if Cupid planned it, the
perfect song started playing: Jo Stafford’s “You Belong to Me.” Could it be,
musical reader, that you might remember that magical tune? Surprisingly, she
agreed to dance with me, so there I was actually holding that rare beauty and
swaying to the beat of my favorite song. When I pulled her gently closer and
she put her damp hair against my cheek I could tell she’d been swimming.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And
then something unusual happened that surprised me. Coming, I thought, from her
terry cloth blouse was a faintly sour scent—not disagreeable but distinctive,
uniquely and paradoxically pleasant. The graceful-moving closeness of her body
was wonderful, and the image of her white and blue terry cloth attire combined
with that ever-so-slight tartness embedded the encounter securely in my mind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">For
those few minutes we were one body swaying in tender motion to the mesmerizing
music. When the song ended we walked to the railing and looked across the bay
at Turkey Point, and there, as if emerging fresh from the foliage especially
for us, was the Turkey Point Light House, its pure whiteness breathtaking in
contrast to the surrounding panorama of darkening sky, dark green foliage, and dark
emerald water.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But
then, just as she squeezed my hand to enhance the scene’s splendor, the spell
was broken by a startling flash of lightening and an immediate, deafening clap
of thunder. Suddenly I felt Dick yank me away as he yelled, “Let’s get out of
here!” Lunging backwards as he pulled, I got a glimpse of Terry Cloth’s eyes
and saw that she was as distraught as I was. We hadn’t even exchanged names! I
thought, “My God, I’ll never see her again.”<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Dick
and I dashed to the shore, pushed the boat in and, surging through the high
breakers and drenched by the driving rain, we somehow made it back to Chesapeake
City’s Basin. Something told me that I’d never see the girl again. And I never
did, though I returned to White Crystal Beach several times until school
started. She probably had been there for a few days from some Pennsylvania town
. . . so we were never to meet again. But it’s funny how strong that memory of
sour sweetness is, even now, years after that tender encounter in 1952 on the
boardwalk of White Crystal Beach. Yet I knew then that I’d never forget her—her
beauty, her grace, and her beguiling fragrance.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Back
at the farmhouse Uncle Ernest was fully alert and ready for his nightly
escapades. He mentioned a redheaded girlfriend he’d once had. “You won’t
believe how gorgeous she was, Moose the Goose.” “Yeah,” I thought, “but she’d
never match the beauty of the girlfriend I almost had.” Still, I know that
readers will be anxious to hear about Unk’s redhead in my next week’s story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But
no, wait! Geez, I almost forgot to tell you something. That same year, in the
fall of 1952 when school had been back in session for a few days, something
magical occurred. I was behind the wheel of Pop’s ’48 Ford, parked next to a
line of buses and waiting for Dick come out. I was watching students boarding a
bus when a girl with sparkling, playful eyes and short, light brown hair made
me lunge forward against the windshield. It was the terry cloth girl! She was
just as stunning as ever, despite the fancy school clothes. And, sure, alert
reader, you knew all along. You weren’t fooled by my deception.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">You
knew that no love god worthy of his bow and arrow would ever let me lose her.
She lived on Chesapeake City’s North Side and I had somehow missed her
throughout school. So I rushed over, held her hands, and looked into those
playful eyes and watched as tears seeped in to flood and distort what once was
clear and bright. Then they overflowed their banks, releasing swollen pearls
that migrated leisurely down her cheek. They picked up speed towards her chin,
hesitated, and then plopped with abrupt invisibility to her blouse until I held
her close.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">As
you might expect, we started dating regularly and, after a while, one night as
we embraced she murmured with soft, musical tones, “You belong to me.” And <i>durn!</i> I did. And I <i>have</i> belonged to her, but only for the last 61 years. And sometimes,
after the kids have gone and on rare occasions when we have some leftover
energy, we’ll dance gently to Jo Stafford’s tune and eyeball our painting of
Turkey Point. And it’s only because that White Crystal memory is languishing in
some remote crevice in my brain that I can just barely detect the faint scent
of tainted terry cloth.</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-14470250204377666802013-06-18T09:44:00.000-07:002013-06-18T09:44:22.078-07:00The Whizzer Motorbike, and Uncle Ernest’s Beauty, 1950<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The
Whizzer Motorbike, and Uncle Ernest’s Beauty, 1950</span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVW8m_l-o-BrUxbpbiIkjJIXrKt7iiuFk1gmA7MYwKpPrDtRWWvijFNvf6w-FelpUQXno5QKVS6wUOjy5RkVuc8_Lq_oH2wZ_7lESmBb30k0XXp-Zq2euZ36sB33_RSElvUe0GoYJvuAE/s1600/Foards+Hardware.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVW8m_l-o-BrUxbpbiIkjJIXrKt7iiuFk1gmA7MYwKpPrDtRWWvijFNvf6w-FelpUQXno5QKVS6wUOjy5RkVuc8_Lq_oH2wZ_7lESmBb30k0XXp-Zq2euZ36sB33_RSElvUe0GoYJvuAE/s1600/Foards+Hardware.jpg" height="198" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Foard Brothers’ Hardware Store, circa
1950 (now R. T. Foard Funeral Home). Note <i>Good
Shepherd</i> steeple at left.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg22MIXX5ha4Z2ACYIcD1XCVJntxHXeWr_q1JsdaQDQLCWRpY-Jae8AUImvaFL2FpX_BAqJ9lIuHYq3m5FFAMJERsh-2K26mK6Xyvo1kCEjiwhJomTKR17d6hGYVCXSVBvODXqmCWL3HPs/s1600/Corps+Wharf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg22MIXX5ha4Z2ACYIcD1XCVJntxHXeWr_q1JsdaQDQLCWRpY-Jae8AUImvaFL2FpX_BAqJ9lIuHYq3m5FFAMJERsh-2K26mK6Xyvo1kCEjiwhJomTKR17d6hGYVCXSVBvODXqmCWL3HPs/s1600/Corps+Wharf.jpg" height="171" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The C&D Canal, east view, with the
Corps of Engineers’ wharf at middle and pump house at right. <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Note</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on"><i>State</i></st1:placetype></st1:place><i> of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Baltimore</st1:place></st1:city>
</i>steamer and <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Canal Street</st1:address></st1:street>
at left, circa 1940.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">How
can I tell you about a certain northern sky in one of September’s warm, sedated
early evenings? Maybe you’ve even seen one similar to mine, mine with a skyline
border of trees of uneven heights, and hues of green so varied that in contrast
the beauty of the powder-blue sky above doesn’t even enter the eyes. Instead,
its splendor seeps directly into the chest and then flutters into the spine
with chills that make you catch your breath, chills that trigger your eyes to
finally widen with wonder. Oh sure, you know what it’s like to have stretched
out above you a massive horizontal sheet of colored paper, bordered at the
bottom by the tops of linked trees so jagged that if you tried to ride your
bike across them you’d be jostled out of your senses. I’d never seen a sky of
such clear light blue—unblemished and pure as a child’s hug.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">But
a sky was just a sky back in 1950, because my 14-year-old mind was obsessed
with owning a Whizzer motorbike. You may remember the old Whizzer; it was a
regular-sized bicycle with a gasoline engine mounted under the top bar. At that
time I worked at Foard Brothers’ Hardware Store on George Street (now the R.T. Foard
Funeral Home).<b> </b>I heard that Richard Callahan
had his Whizzer for sale, and I just had to have that beauty or bust. Not
making nearly enough money at Foards’, I had to make it some other way, so I
decided to start selling old man McNolt’s sweet corn on the streets of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">South</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Chesapeake</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Local
farmer, Dave McNatt, planted the corn in our fields, and I felt bad about
stealing it until I learned that he paid Pop nothing to till our farm; I
figured he owed us a few dozen ears, so for several days in early September I picked
the short, worm-imbedded ears, hauled them into town and at a dollar a dozen
made a few bucks. I had some regular customers who always bought that sorry
corn. On <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">George Street</st1:address></st1:street>
they were Miss Jenny Whiteoak and Mrs. Ed Sheridan, the Captain’s wife. Mrs.
Ebbie Cooling, Mrs. Mason, and Mrs. <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Ireland</st1:place></st1:country-region>, all on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Bohemia Avenue</st1:address></st1:street>, always bought them. And by
the time I got to Bennett’s Feed Store I had sold every ear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Well,
I made some of the needed money and, with Pop adding the rest, I bought the
$70.00 Whizzer. And, for that year and the next, I had a thousand dollars worth
of fun with it. But on one of those steamy afternoons I gave the bike a rest so
I could talk to my Uncle Ernest. I jumped onto the porch swing and swung so high
that it started crashing against the porch column and the house. That roused Unk,
who was resting his eyes on the couch after arriving at dawn from Dolph’s
Tavern. He came out, grabbed the chain to slow it down, and then reclined next
to me with the exaggerated delicacy of the infirm. He always came intending to
help Pop with the farming, but somehow more important things came up. He once
told me: “Hard work never killed anybody . . . but I’m not taking any chances!”
Anyway, sitting next to me, caressing his refreshed glass as if he held a
day-old baby, and after my pleading, he resumed the story he had started on his
last visit. You remember, thoughtful reader; it was about his adventure in that
exotic country across the sea.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Oh
yeah, Moose the Goose, you remember how I sailed to that backward land, that
land of crocodiles, four-sided, pointed, stone towers, and an enormous stone
lion with the head of a person? Well, that’s where I saw all those slaves
dragging boulders and those whip-wielding slave drivers flailing them. And
that’s where I fell in love with Patti, a gorgeous brunette with milk-chocolate
skin and alluring dark eyes. And when she stepped down from that crude sled
(they hadn’t invented the wheel, remember?), I took her hand as she gazed
lovingly into my eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Then,
as we smiled at each other, she winked at me so I kissed her dainty fingertips
and told her that she was cuter than a frog’s ear. And so, I guess because of
my handsomeness and clever manner, she hugged me and asked if I would be her
steady boyfriend. ‘Absolutely,’ I said, ‘and along with that I’m going to make
this sorry country a better place.’ And so, I got to work by using the skills I
had learned in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Chesapeake</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place>. First I told the
leaders how to make wheels so that their travel and work would be a lot easier.
I made a horse-drawn buggy for my new girl friend; we called it the Patti
wagon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Next,
I showed them how to stuff the bodies of their dead leaders by using my
taxidermy skills. Then I sculpted Patti’s face onto the head of that giant
stone lion, which made her whimper and hug and kiss me until I couldn’t catch
my breath . . . Oh, it was hard on me, Moose! But the best thing I did over
there was to free those thousands of slaves. We had a secret union meeting
where I told them to meet me the next day on the shore of a river they called
the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Crimson</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Sea</st1:placetype></st1:place>. I had a plan about how to get them
across to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Freedom</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Land</st1:placetype></st1:place> on the other side,
the land of beer and pizza.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“I
made a guy named Marty, a natural leader, the shop steward. He was a
foundling—discovered as a baby floating in the bulrushes of a swamp. He grew up
to become a magician, because a fellow told me that he once struck a desert
rock with his staff and out spouted a barrel of water. I think that’s
stretching things but, anyway, he assembled the whole tribe of those slaves and
had them all singing in unison. Yeah, it was sure touching to see him conducting
with his staff and hear that multitude singing <i>We Shall Come Over.</i> It brought tears to my eyes, Moose. And do you
know that it didn’t bother me at all that the ones singing the loudest were
tone deaf, because I knew that the lungs that bellowed out those croaking sour
notes were yearning to breath free.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“After
four verses of enjoying that uplifting hymn I got to work. Using what I had
learned from a drinking buddy from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Wilmington</st1:place></st1:city>
named Al DuPont, I made three sticks of dynamite. So, when the horde was poised
at the shore and ready to sprint (like the runners at the start of the Boston
Marathon), I tossed that dynamite out to the middle and the explosion parted
the water long enough for them to scamper through to freedom. Freeing them was
a great feeling, even though Patti’s father, King Tootanhanna, was furious.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“But
he soon got over it and even gave permission for Patti and me to marry. So you
see, Moose, I would have become the king when Tootie died, and I would still be
there if it hadn’t been for the tragedy, the awful thing that happened to
Patti. One evening, as she fed her pet snake, Aspi, he bit her. So sad . . .
she lasted only a few minutes. But I made the best of it: I pickled her nicely
and entombed her in the largest of those pointed towers, where she’ll rest
undisturbed forever. I was so upset that I returned here to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Chesapeake</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place>
to be with my kin folks.” “That’s awfully sad,” I said, as Uncle Ernest slid
off the swing and lumbered back to the couch.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">Oh,
I </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large; text-indent: 0.5in;">was</i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> sad, but not sad enough to keep
me from hopping on my Whizzer for a ride to the Corps of Engineers’ wharf to
try to catch some catfish lurking near the pilings. And I know you’re saddened
also, concerned reader, but you’ll be sure to brighten up when you read my next
week’s story.</span></div>
R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-59649808271810030602013-06-11T15:12:00.000-07:002013-06-11T15:12:08.088-07:00Double Dating and the Gallant Uncle Ernest—Autumn, 1950<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Double
Dating and the Gallant Uncle Ernest—Autumn, 1950<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTWcyiE5DTuTECXqrjOorvHfGOc2M0-IiLKXMFHepTDBJVLvMc_UtU1L47rnExgKAFxnFUByuAaqBFE3nC9fhicqr1u36QZbN_e427JWBOUjNXq2u1AQopO8Tcbh2KtHRS2_EFvxPv5bE/s1600/Ches+City+School.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTWcyiE5DTuTECXqrjOorvHfGOc2M0-IiLKXMFHepTDBJVLvMc_UtU1L47rnExgKAFxnFUByuAaqBFE3nC9fhicqr1u36QZbN_e427JWBOUjNXq2u1AQopO8Tcbh2KtHRS2_EFvxPv5bE/s1600/Ches+City+School.jpg" height="165" width="320" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Chesapeake</span></st1:placename><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> <st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">School</st1:placetype></span></st1:place><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">, K thru 12—Late Fifties.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb3lkR0c8B7qaDNOViz1PgCde8UdkBJaqMnDHXiIVTeQTYSMnY6zNKoYdfBtPcs5jdPh-irbgGemAW0t6UfFChVwEzzqLryggghOpLVUzT02aqy-g5Snt43EzGhb3ll1YrFdNUP12BA08/s1600/Foard+Store_Gas+pump.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb3lkR0c8B7qaDNOViz1PgCde8UdkBJaqMnDHXiIVTeQTYSMnY6zNKoYdfBtPcs5jdPh-irbgGemAW0t6UfFChVwEzzqLryggghOpLVUzT02aqy-g5Snt43EzGhb3ll1YrFdNUP12BA08/s1600/Foard+Store_Gas+pump.jpg" height="320" width="251" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Mr. Bob Foard’s general store and post
office at Churchtown (<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">St. Augustine</st1:place></st1:city>).
Photo was taken just before renovation in the late fifties. Mr. Foard operated
the store into the early fifties. Note gravity gas pump at right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">You know how it is on an early October day,
when the morning chill makes you think you're two months into December, and
makes you pull April's sweatshirt over your shoulders and hug yourself for
warmth. But then, by early afternoon, before you have time to think about it,
cosmic batteries charge the eastern floodlight, so that beams of magic radiance
warm the earth, taking you back two months into August and making you chuck
that sweatshirt and fling open your arms with delight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It was one of those days that Saturday, that
Saturday in 1950, so many years ago. Let me take you back to that day, that day
filled with youthful bewilderment and uneasy anticipation. I promise to return
you to the present, and leave you tainted only temporarily by the tender
turbulence of those teenage times. It all started in our eighth grade science
class. Temple Smith and I were pretty good buddies at that time, and he and I
were fooling around—talking and having fun with Libby Jean Powell and Betty
Fasbenner, trying to sweet-talk them, I guess, if we had the knack or even the
inclination to sweet-talk at that age.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Now, wistful reader, think back to your early
high school years and, whether you lived in Cecil County or Seattle, think of
how those adolescent yearnings were especially active, sort of in a
jitterbugging frenzy throughout your body. Well, that was our condition that
day as he and I bantered with those pretty girls. Anyway, it was Friday, near the
end of class, and at one point during the interplay, either Libby or Betty
said, "Hey, why don't you two come out to see us tomorrow? We can have
more fun together away from school."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Well, we talked it up and decided that Temple
and I would meet Libby and Betty at Churchtown, just past Mr. Foard's big brick
general store on the corner and near the historic Saint Augustine Church, not
far from where the girls lived. It was settled: we'd meet at 1 p.m. the next
day, Saturday. I was to meet Temple at his Uncle Sam Caldwell’s farm, which was
on the way to Churchtown. From there we’d cycle to meet the girls. I pedaled
home from school that afternoon with all kinds of thoughts swirling through my
mind: "Should I bother to go? Did Temple like Libby or Betty? Where would
we go when we got there? What would we <i>do,</i>
anyway? I always make fun of girls. What's going on here?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Saturday morning I got up before dawn to hunt
ducks along Long Creek, up above the Marine Construction Company (where the <i>Delaware Responder</i> is now at Capt.
Dan’s). But my heart wasn't in it. I was turning over in my head what that
double date was going to be like, and whether I was bold enough to even ride
out there. So I tied off my boat at Borger’s Wharf (now the Chesapeake Inn) and
trudged on home the back way: up Mount Nebo, past Mallory Toy’s fish pond, and
through the woods to our farm. As I approached the house I started jogging
because there sprawled out on our wooden lawn chair was Uncle Ernest, with a
crooked smile on his face, the result, I knew, of many glasses of liquid
entertainment.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">After a while I was able to persuade him to
tell me another story about his magic submarine. I had plenty of time before my
double date so I sat back and listened. Interrupted only by trips to the house
for refills, he told me his tale. “Yeah, Moose, this time I boarded the sub at
the wharf next to the Hole-in-the-Wall, and pretty soon it transported me up a
long river, one much wider than our canal. Every so often I saw a crocodile
emerge from the muddy water so I made sure I didn’t fall in. Soon I stepped
ashore onto an exotic but dusty land.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“I looked around me and saw some amazing
sights: a large, stone body of a lion with a person’s head, three huge,
four-sided stone structures coming to a point at the top, and several
slave-drivers brandishing whips and yelling at hundreds of near-naked slaves as
they dragged enormous boulders for another pointed tower. I guess that’s why we
call that the Stone Age Period; they hadn’t even invented the wheel yet. My but
they were a backward people. I’ve never seen anything like it, Moose, not even
in the western wilds of Cecil County. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“And so, just as I was about to clobber those
slave drivers and take their whips, a guy with a crazy hat and a long black
beard pulled up in a big sled pulled by four black horses. ‘Are you the boss?’
I asked. <i>‘Boss!’</i> he yelled. ‘I’m
Tootanhanna, the king of this land. And this is my royal daughter, Princess
Patti.’ At this point a young woman unwrapped herself from a sheet that had
protected her from the sun and dust. When I saw her face and figure I almost collapsed
into the sand. She was an outstanding beauty, blessed with pure, milk-chocolate
skin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">She had lustrous black hair and dark,
alluring eyes, and her curvaceous form, standing above me, was accentuated by a
skin-tight dress woven of pure gold. Her fully-formed, chocolate legs emerged
from the gold and terminated in a pair of black, velvet slippers, matching
perfectly her gleaming hair. I was to fall in love with her, the prettiest girl
I’d ever seen. Some time I’ll tell you all about it.” With that, he tramped into
the house to prepare for a night of partying. I followed him in to check the
clock and sure enough I had almost enough time to get to my double date.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So I got on my bike, pedaled around McNatt's
corner, and labored up that long, steep hill to Temple's farm. But I didn't
pedal with much enthusiasm, sort of meandered along. I rolled into Temple's
lane and up to his big farmhouse—nobody in sight. I went out to the
barn—nothing but cows. I rode my bike around the house several times and made a
few circles out in the road. Then I said, "Aw, what the heck!" and
headed out to Churchtown. But nobody was <i>there,</i>
not even old Mr. Foard. I spun over by the graveyard, rode out a little towards
Cayots Corner—<i>nobody,</i> not even any
cars went by. Why did I think I might see Libby or Betty in the distance,
waving with happy excitement to see me? But it was the quietest, most deserted
area I had ever seen. And so, relieved and disappointed at the same time, I
sped on back home, glancing over at Temple's deserted farm on my way past.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And do you know that in school the next Monday
none of us said a word about the previously planned date? It was as if that
Friday conversation never took place. To this day I don't know what went on
that afternoon. Could it have been that, because I was late, Temple had the
company of <i>both</i> girls that day? Geez,
I hope not! More than likely, I'll bet that Libby Jean, Betty, and Temple don't
remember even the slightest thing about it. I thought of Uncle Ernest’s reality
story and how beautiful girls found him irresistible, and here I was not even
able to get girls to meet with me to <i>talk.</i>
Oh, I was to have some nice double dates when I grew older, but none as
memorable as the one I had with <i>myself</i>
on that special October Saturday in 1950.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-83550994531821267502013-06-04T08:36:00.000-07:002013-06-04T08:36:43.380-07:00Chesapeake City’s First Little League Team, Martin Poore (1920-1977), Manager<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Chesapeake City’s First Little
League Team, Martin Poore (1920-1977), Manager</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The team posing at the North Side field (now <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Titter</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>) - a 1951 Photo</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Front:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> Bobby Biggs, Freddie Craig, Ronnie Poore, Lucky Lloyd, Jim Crawford, Marty Poore, Jr.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Back:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> Martin Poore (Manager), Hyland Vaughan, Bill Karbonic, Lane Ginn, Wayne Peaper, Jim Peaper (Assistant Manager), Ray Stevens.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFLUJOMC2Dsz3XSVUeJi_b6MefqRoXC1FWRTap-rhjnF1azsAuVE9nL8_IO7pOjNDc6xEMYXvmfIy8QGGS3OGpvWF-MWcNZ3Kqe-tVhbWmhu0SgHf9HyXFtdaPfDpG-LWsv69Z985iLig/s1600/L+League+Photo+1952.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFLUJOMC2Dsz3XSVUeJi_b6MefqRoXC1FWRTap-rhjnF1azsAuVE9nL8_IO7pOjNDc6xEMYXvmfIy8QGGS3OGpvWF-MWcNZ3Kqe-tVhbWmhu0SgHf9HyXFtdaPfDpG-LWsv69Z985iLig/s1600/L+League+Photo+1952.jpg" height="248" width="320" /></a></div>
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Members of the first team, circa 1952</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">With
the baseball and softball season in full swing, I’m reminded of what an
excellent little league system we have here in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Chesapeake</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
We didn’t have a little league team when I was a boy, but in 1951 Martin Poore
got the town boys together and started one. Many <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Chesapeake</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place>
residents remember Martin and how hard he worked not only to organize the team,
but how diligently he taught baseball fundamentals to young boys in the area.
Marty’s son, Martin, Jr., remembers that first season with his dad as manager:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> “Dad always wanted to be a
ballplayer, but couldn’t because of some physical problems and because, being
raised on a farm, he had to quit school early to go to work. So, I guess he
lived his dream through my brother, Ronnie, and me as well as the other kids.
He lived baseball and always made sacrifices for us.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> Ray Stevens has some vivid memories:
“Oh yes, I played on that first team. Martin Poore was the manager and Jim
Peaper was the coach. I was the third baseman and Wayne Peaper was the pitcher.
I remember most of the players. Marty was a nice man. He tried to instill the
game of baseball in our minds — the right way to play it. But, oh, we had fun,
although Marty was all business when it came to baseball.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> Bill Karbonic, the team’s catcher, has fond
memories also: “We didn’t even have uniforms that first year; we wore red hats,
tee shirts, and blue jeans. The following year the Lions’ Club donated
uniforms. Marty really did a lot for the community. My goodness, when we
started the whole town would come out; even the businesses would close for the
game. It was something special!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> “Martin never got enough credit,”
explains outfielder Hyland Vaughan. “He was a real founding force for our
Little League program.” Wayne Peaper, the team’s first pitcher, remembers how
much Martin was dedicated and enthusiastic: “I recall one time when the field
was covered with water. Well, he actually went out and threw gasoline into the
water to burn it off so we could play that evening. Another time he loaded the
whole team into his car for a game at Cecilton. Wow, were we packed in there!
That’s just two examples—he was really into it. Also, he was always upbeat,
never negative.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> A
coach, of course, is a teacher, and teachers impart more than the particular
skills of their expertise. As his students have just indicated, Marty’s
influence as a teacher was extensive. He expected excellence not aggression. He
made learning fun not arduous. He provided opportunities for the youth of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Chesapeake</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place>, many of whom, as we’ve seen, have
clear memories of his teaching skills, his dependability, his enthusiasm, his
gentle leadership, and his love for the game. They remember and appreciate
their first coach, even after over sixty years.</span>R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-15009158876892634382013-05-28T08:56:00.000-07:002013-05-28T08:56:31.475-07:00<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Making
Maryland Biscuits—A Family’s Holiday Tradition</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Dolores Hazel and Pat Lum beating the
dough<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Lum family. L–R: Mary, Melvin,
Franklin, Pat, and Jack<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Several
weeks ago, when Jack Lum, my neighbor and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Chesapeake</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place>
teammate, invited my girlfriend and me to his house for coffee and a special
surprise snack, I wasn’t sure what to expect. When his wife, Barbara, let us in
I heard almost at once a loud thumping and banging coming from the basement.
So, concerned, I started down the basement steps, looked down and saw Jack and
his brother, Pat, flailing away with the back head of heavy axes at a snake
that had snuck in somehow. I mean, they were making his soon to be extinguished
life miserable. But wait. I was wrong. No, it wasn’t a snake at all, and when I
stepped farther down I saw that what they were violating was nothing but an
innocent slab of white dough about 12 inches wide, 18 inches long, and an inch
and a half thick. <b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">It
turned out that they were preparing that mysterious snack that we were invited
down to eat and wash down with coffee. They were making <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Maryland</st1:place></st1:state> beaten biscuits, employing the
world’s most physically violent kind of activity that any recipe would call
for. “Geez, Jack,” I said. “You’re sweating! What is this, some kind of weird
therapy I’ve never heard of?” “<i>Hush</i>,”
he hissed. So, wide-eyed with amazement, I hushed and descended the stairs. After
a while they stopped, wiped their brows, and panted with exhaustion. “Sorry,
Bob,” he gasped, “I couldn’t talk because we’d lose count. We have to bash this
dough a thousand times apiece. And, no,
it’s not therapy; it’s what’ll make these biscuits taste so good.”<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Eventually,
after the punishment, the dough was processed further. Jack’s brother,
Franklin, rolled up the dough, put it into a tub, kneaded it a bit, and rolled
up pieces into golf ball-sized spheres.<b> </b>And
then, after Jack baked them in the oven and let them cool a bit, we all,
finally, with mouth-watering anticipation, sat around the table for the biscuit
feast. “The reason we beat them so much is to work the lard into the flour,
which turns the dough pure white,” brother Frank pointed out. “Yeah, the
process for making these is pretty simple,” Jack explained. “And after they’re
baked and sit for a while you can throw them right through that wall over
there.” “You’re right,” Brother Pat piped up, “and you can also play 18 holes
of golf with just one of them.” “You bet you can,” Barbara said, “but they
don’t last very long around here.”<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> Then we all sliced open our warm biscuits and
saturated them with butter. On the table also were various jams, jellies, and
even liverwurst. I chose the homemade strawberry jam, preserved from the
berries grown in Jack’s large garden. And, do you know that, as good as that
unique afternoon treat was, it wasn’t the best thing about the gathering. No,
the best thing was the family’s conversation that enhanced it: an interplay of
memories about old Chesapeake City and its historic canal.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Around
the table were Jack, his three brothers (Melvin, Franklin, and Pat) and his
sister, Mary. Also enjoying the fun were Jack’s wife, Barbara, Pat’s wife,
Sharon, and Jack’s cousin, Charles. And they all expressed their own special
memories. Melvin, the eldest brother, remembered the most: “Making these biscuits
started with our great grandparents, Mary and Charles Carty. They lived on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Biddle Street</st1:address></st1:street> and I
remember it well as a little boy. Mary used to feed the men who worked on the
ferry, the pilot and the deck hands. In fact, she ran a boarding house for some
of them. This would have been from 1943 until the bridge was opened for service
in 1949.”<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">“That
<st1:place w:st="on"><i>Gotham</i></st1:place>
ferry replaced the lift bridge that was destroyed in 1942,” <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Franklin</st1:place></st1:city> pointed out. “I have good memories
of the old ferry, even though I was only in the first or second grade. I rode
it to school and would always go up to the room at the top. The pilots knew my
grandfather, so sometimes they'd let me in the pilothouse with them. In fact, I
got to know some of the pilots boarding at Grandmom’s house pretty well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> “Oh yes, I remember the ferry also,
Barbara said. “Sometimes, after school, I would have to go to the post office,
and I would be late and have to catch what we called the second ferry. That was
when the post office was on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">First
Street</st1:address></st1:street>, right across from Mewhiter's drug store.
Upstairs on the ferry was a big, open room, and there were metal poles down the
middle of it. We kids used to play up there, swinging around those poles.” “Besides
that,” Jack said, “I even remember getting on that little passenger ferry. It
was the year I started school, 1942. I was six years' old and I recall the dock
and how we used to get on it. On this South Side of town it would come in at
City Dock, there where Capt. Hazel keeps his boat.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">“You
know,” Melvin explained, “I’m old enough to have vivid memories of when our
lift bridge was demolished by that tanker, the <i>Franz Klassen</i>.” I was on the South Side at Postell's at the time. I
used to deliver papers for Luther Postell. It was such a heck of a commotion.
Old Luther came out of his store and said, ‘Goldarn, ain't this hail!’ And, my dad
was in Elkton and they brought him down to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Chesapeake</st1:place></st1:city> because I was missing—they didn't
know where I was. The family didn't have a telephone in those days, so
Schaefer's people brought him across the canal to the South Side in one of
their pilot boats. They came up to Postell's and found me. I also recall when
the new bridge opened in 1949, how some people threw pennies at <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Governor Lane</st1:address></st1:street>
because he put on the <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Maryland</st1:place></st1:state>
sales tax. Lane was there to cut the ribbon that officially opened the bridge
for traffic.” “I don’t remember that,” Mary said. “But I do recall that Mom
walked me over that just-completed bridge to register for school when I was
five years old.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">After
a while, family members gave their hugs and said their goodbyes. And I remember
being disappointed . . . because I could
have listened to those dazzling stories all night long. So these were just a
few that were told that special morning, and just before we left with a bag of
biscuits for home, as I sat there laughing with the laughter, I thought about
the richness of that holiday tradition: a family gathering beginning with the
physical exertion of creating the biscuits and ending with the enjoyment of
eating them just out of the oven and, most importantly, the joy of telling once
again the age-old stories of certain indelible events, events embellished by
the sometimes hilarious antics of long-gone Chesapeake City characters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Especially
touching for me were the reminiscences, punctuated with laughter (always
laughter), smiling faces, and body language that expressed not only their joy
of being together but their genuine love for one another, highlighted by and
permeated with an aura made especially meaningful because of the magical
holiday season. And so, it turned out that my response when I first saw that
biscuit beating was accurate. It <i>was</i>
therapy, after all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><i>Editor’s note: Not long after this
family gathering, Pat Lum, 64, passed away in the </i><st1:place style="font-style: italic;" w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Christiana</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype></st1:place><i>.
Pat will be greatly missed by his wife, Sharon, as well as his other loving
family members. Since he especially looked forward to reading this piece about
his family, </i>This story is dedicated </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><i>to his memory. (Patrick Iler Lum — 1944-2009.)<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-75594940735012709652013-05-20T10:22:00.000-07:002013-05-20T10:22:08.236-07:00The Daredevil of City Dock<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">The
Daredevil of City Dock<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">South Chesapeake City, with Rees’
Granary at far left, circa 1950<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Aerial view of the Chesapeake Boat
Company, circa 1955<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> I was a happy boy that day back in
the early forties because I knew that Uncle Ernest would be at the farm with us
for a few days. And, alert reader, I’m sure you remember the story he promised
to tell me about his magic submarine and his girlfriend, Helen. But he arrived
late that first day so he only had time to mention the story before he had to leave
the house for what he called his “rejuvenating night of liquid entertainment.” So,
that next morning, excited, I got up early just in time to see him sort of
wobble through our screen door and collapse on our living room couch. Well, I
knew he’d feel better later, so after breakfast I crossed the field and headed
for City Dock to take a swim in the canal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> Most of the time I swam there at the
pier next to Ralph Rees’ granary, a monstrous, dilapidated shell of what it
once was. I’d dive down and grab mud off the ten-foot bottom, bring it up and
treading water heave it at one of my buddies, who usually saw it coming and
ducked under in time. But our water skills were child’s play compared to a
crazy and doomed fellow we called Gibby. Gibby was a marvel. He’d climb to the rooftop
of that 30-foot granary, almost falling through the rusted tin roof, and stand
there with his coal-black hair waving in the air, a human weather vane. Now,
Gibby had occasional seizures—fits we called them—and when he had one he was
like a wild man. I recall hearing about the last one he suffered in town.
Bystanders reported that his uncontrollable frenzy culminated in his heaving a
brick through Charles Tatman’s grocery store window. And so, he was sent to a
special asylum in Cambridge, never to be seen and marveled at again by us local
teenaged ruffians.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> But Gibby is still there in my
mind’s eye, there atop that long-gone granary (its rotting pilings can still be
seen at low tide. They’re just beyond the Canal Creamery that stands in its
place). Oh sure, he’s still there, waving his arms histrionically for a few
minutes before his swan dive into five feet of water. At which point he’d disappear
and be under for a long time, maybe three minutes, and one of us would say, “My
God, he’s had a fit under there!” But then, just when we were ready to panic,
one of us would shout, “There he is!” And we’d all see his head bobbing
somewhere way out in the canal. Or, maybe he’d emerge across the basin near the
Corps’ Mindy Building.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">As
we watched he’d disappear again and emerge again at a spot where we’d not be
looking, far from where he first was, like a crippled duck you’re chasing and
trying to shoot before he dives again. Then down he’d go again, and maybe pop
up out toward Schaefer’s wharf or maybe toward the North Side Ferry Slip.
Strangely enough, I don’t recall that he ever returned to shore to mingle with
the pedestrian antics of us amateurs assembled at City Dock. And if I didn’t
know better—know about Cambridge—I’d think that he was still out there
somewhere, ducking under and bobbing up just where you’d least expect him to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> All of a sudden something clicked in
my brain for I remembered that Uncle Ernest was at our house. So I ran on home,
even taking the shortcut across the north field. And, sure enough, there was
Unk relaxing on our porch swing. That ancient swing still hovers on the front
porch today, serving our grandkids, just as it did when Pop first hung it up
back in the thirties. Cousin John Sager had one just like it. He told me that
they were sold by the Chesapeake Boat Company when Townsend Johnson owned it.
The site is under water now, having been dredged out in the sixties when the
canal was widened and deepened.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Anyway,
Townsend Johnson was T.H. Johnson’s dad, and T.H. was my first Sunday school
teacher. That’s right, I was five and he was six when he schooled me in how to
fight with my feet, elbows, and knees. Somehow we had both crawled under a table
where his lesson was indoctrinated with authority. Oh yeah, our raucous interplay
caused quite a disturbance until Helen Foard separated us. So it was concerned
reader that at five years old I figured that if this was what religion was
about, then . . . I not only was going to like it, I was going to make the most
of it. And sure, his sermon was well-presented, there on the floor amongst the
dust bunnies of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Trinity</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Methodist</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Church</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
T.H. made sure I wouldn’t forget the lesson, even after 70 years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">So,
as I was saying before T.H. interrupted, I saw Uncle Ernest on the swing, and
when I flopped next to him he began telling me his promised tale. We swung
gently in the quiet beauty of the afternoon as he told his story, interrupted
only by his trips to the inside of the house to freshen his ice cubes. And here
for your enjoyment is the true story he related to me:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">“Yeah,
Moose the Goose, that magic submarine carried me halfway around the world to a
place called Troytown. When I got there I tied off the sub and started walking
toward mid-town. Soon I came upon a horse-drawn chariot beside the road, and
inside was the prettiest blonde I’d ever seen, even prettier than these
beauties in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Chesapeake</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place>. But, Geez, Moose,
she was crying her eyes out. So I stepped in to console her and she told me
that the guy in front watering the horse was <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Paris</st1:place></st1:city>, and that he had kidnapped her, had
abducted her from her home and boyfriend across the bay. Her home was Spartaberg
and she was homesick.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">“And
of course you know what I had to do: when the scoundrel stepped into the
chariot I clobbered him. Then I took Helen to the sub and asked her if she
wanted to be my girlfriend and come back with me to one of the greatest towns
in the world, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Chesapeake</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place>. But, plastering me
with a big kiss right on the lips, she cooed a while before saying with intermittent
sobs of sorrow that she’d love to stay with me, her hero, but that she had to
return to her boyfriend, Mendy, who was the president of her country and that
she was to become his First Lady. And so, Moose, I took her back, and on the
way I gazed into those light blue eyes and told her that she had the face that
could launch a thousand ships. And, wow! I was glad I made up that line because
I got quite a hug in return.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">“When
we arrived, Mendy thanked me with bows and handshakes. He said that I saved him
a lot of trouble because he with his army and navy were all ready to invade
Troytown to get Helen back. He said that all the ships in the entire country
were stocked and ready to set sail. So then, Moose, my deed was done, and after
a few more kisses and hugs I came on back to Schaefer’s Wharf.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> And that was all for that day, because he had to get
ready for another night on the town. I’ll tell you, I really admired Uncle
Ernest. Here I was, a 9-year-old boy from a small town, with a true hero kin like
Unk. I was mighty proud of his bravery and his irresistible ways with the
ladies. The next afternoon he left, saying that the ponies at Delaware Park
were calling him, whatever that meant. So, sadly, I would have to cool my heels
until his next visit, just as you’ll have to cool yours, patient reader, until my
next posting.</span>R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-7105280537009166772013-05-14T08:30:00.001-07:002013-05-14T08:30:39.675-07:00Bill’s Babe and the Return of Uncle Ernest<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Bill’s
Babe and the Return of Uncle Ernest<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHfB_vePv4CYD5sPaRHMnJ0p6sYO6ZqqKrgG7_mUxuszaT51gZNvimBV2uHlsyUTfeI1DDUPByaj85fzRc_r7awQ4vVrQp1DygV1I-3AAAUQiBFBK4m8KX0iByzneNuR6wIofpYuBPahA/s1600/Nichols+Rest..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHfB_vePv4CYD5sPaRHMnJ0p6sYO6ZqqKrgG7_mUxuszaT51gZNvimBV2uHlsyUTfeI1DDUPByaj85fzRc_r7awQ4vVrQp1DygV1I-3AAAUQiBFBK4m8KX0iByzneNuR6wIofpYuBPahA/s1600/Nichols+Rest..jpg" height="188" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Nichol’s Restaurant, looking north
towards City Dock, circa 1950</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh2OSR1VJ8ODrfkZ40X0buPPa7B46mCsxZ2cq4XmkBUsyz7kTGt-Y5cfnHF6dZJ7Oy7Q7DGM2yNSvCb0M2oa86EIXORL5ESoMCHsPijYRfNsqsMc4jNRh24l00sFNHeFbvDBesviMbrt8/s1600/Schaefers+Bar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh2OSR1VJ8ODrfkZ40X0buPPa7B46mCsxZ2cq4XmkBUsyz7kTGt-Y5cfnHF6dZJ7Oy7Q7DGM2yNSvCb0M2oa86EIXORL5ESoMCHsPijYRfNsqsMc4jNRh24l00sFNHeFbvDBesviMbrt8/s1600/Schaefers+Bar.jpg" height="236" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Schaefer’s Bar, One of Uncle Ernest’s
favorites. L to R: Freddy Mivis, Monica Breeza, Bill Reynolds, and Beanie
Beaston, circa 1940. Inset: Schaefer’s original Coaster.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">When Uncle Ernest visited us for the second
time, I wasn’t home at the farm. Oh sure, observant reader, you remember my
Uncle Ernest. He’s the one who told me how he was swallowed by that catfish and
taken to Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. I know that Unk would never try to trick his
young cousin by exaggerating his adventures. And so, I always listened
carefully so I could remember them and hash them over in my mind when I
couldn’t sleep at night.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> But that day when he arrived I had
gone into town to dive off City Dock into the canal. That’s where Pell Gardens
is now, but in the mid-forties instead of a garden it was occupied by apartment
buildings and Nichols’ Restaurant. The most popular form of recreation for us
Chesapeake City kids was diving off the north side of the dock and even off the
east side where the ferry surged past every half hour. Grason Stubbs, who lived
there in one of the apartments, used to race it in as far as the first piling. He
swam so close to it that we all thought he’d be sucked under its hull.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">He never beat it in, but churning water with
thrashing arms and legs, he gave it a good run. Our Cecil Sisyphus, he always
labored to reach his goal. In Grason’s case it was to reach the finish line
first, that first ferry slip piling. So, never giving up, his triumph was in
the attempt. For me he’ll always be striving alongside that ferry, his red head
bobbing along with the furious water.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> But, as I started to tell you before
Grason interrupted, I wasn’t home when Uncle Ernest arrived via outstretched
thumb. Not knowing he was there, I had stopped off across the road from our
farm to see old man Bill Herman. What made me stop to see him was a cracking,
thudding sound coming from the road right next to his garden. Old Bill was in
his tomato patch searching for trespassing box turtles. And when he found one
he’d heave it up over the fence onto the macadam road where its shell would
land with a sickening crunch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Anyway, I stopped in and he came up to me
cussing the turtles and the occasional car that sped over them. He’d look at me
with his one good eye and say about the drivers, “Goldurn fools; they’ve got
more money than brains—not worth the gun power it would take to blow them to
Hades.” No, wait. He didn’t say Hades . . .
something close to it. So there he was looking down at me with that
one-eyed, arrogant stare—tall, erect, peering down his hooked beak at me, with
his one eye, for that’s all he had, his sightless eye sunken under ravaged,
brown-wrinkled skin. “Well booooyeeee!” he wheezed, extending the vowels with a
high-rising pitch and turning his head to spit out a lavish brown stream of
tobacco juice. “You entertain Babe for a minute; I’ll be right back.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> And so, waving his hand backwards in disgust,
he limped over towards his orchard. So I ran over to watch Babe, Bill’s work
horse, as she grazed. When I talked to her she trotted over to me and I saw
that she was tormented by a swarm of buzzing, frenetic flies and gnats. Then,
suddenly, the father of all horse flies appeared with supreme political
authority. About two inches long and about the size of a man’s thumb, he
established residence on Babe’s shank. Babe snorted and shivered, rippling her
skin just where that ugly fly was on her body. The shiver did no good so she
swished her tail with a quick slash that knocked the bugger off. If you think
that swat discouraged the monster you’d be mistaken, because he landed on her
again, forward, just out of the tail’s reach. Babe shivered several more times,
with each shiver stronger that the one before until the last one which was
almost an audible shutter. Then she stomped her hooves hard a few times . . .
no good. That repulsive fly had dug in, had clung tight and snug, had buried
its life-sucking head into Babes hide.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Mad and disgusted, I slid under the fence
rail, ran over and smacked the sucker as hard as I could. Babe barged ahead a
few feet and I saw the mangled fly embedded into her coat. Then I looked at my
hand. My palm was laved with rich, bright blood—sticky and glistening radiantly
in the sun—an oozing mess slowly congealing even in between my fingers. Momentarily
astonished yet soon smirking with success, I just went over and wiped the mess
off into the grass of Bill’s lawn, which was already alive and resplendent with
expectorated tobacco juice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> Then Babe gave a shrill whinny of
gratitude and came over to the fence. Pushing her shoulder up against the top
rail, she thrust her head as far as it would reach. Then she swiveled and
twitched her ears and whinnied louder, sputtering her distended lips in a razz
that kids do for scorn but horses do for fun. I scratched the white patch on
her forehead, patted her broad, flat cheeks, and ran my hand up and down her
ears, which trembled, rolled, and collapsed in response to my touch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Bill soon returned with a large over-ripe
apple. He handed it to me and gestured towards Babe. So, holding it in the palm
of my hand, I offered it to her. She sniffed with her huge, quivering nostrils
and enveloped it with groping, rubbery lips, which tickled the daylights out of
my hand until finally she lifted it, exposing large, yellow teeth that scraped
my fingers in the process. All of a sudden I heard Granny calling me for supper
with that high-pitched screech of hers. So I took off for home and just about
half-way up the lane I stopped and said, “Yes!” I was one lucky kid, because swaying
softly on the swing of our front porch was old Uncle Ernest. He was back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> After supper, and just before Unk left
for a full night of partying at the numerous taverns in and around Chesapeake
City, he told me that tomorrow he had a story to tell me about a girlfriend he
once dated . . . said her name was
Helen, and that he’d met her in Troytown, a city even older than ours. He added
that if she wasn’t the prettiest blonde he’d ever seen she was right in there
amongst them. When he saw my eyes widen and my open mouth, he explained that
back in the thirties a friendly witch led him to a magic submarine that was
docked at Schaefer’s Wharf. Well, when he got aboard, it submerged and took him
all the way across the seas to Troytown. And that’s when his romance with Helen
began. Now, you know, I was too old to cry although I wanted to, because
tomorrow was a long time to wait to hear about that adventure—a blonde beauty
and a magic sub? So, I got no sleep that night with those images swirling
through my head. And, patient reader, I sure hope that you’ll be able to sleep
until you hear about it in a future posting.</span><i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-27681719905858417562013-05-07T08:35:00.000-07:002013-05-07T08:35:23.444-07:00Merryland Magic—A Love Story<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Merryland
Magic—A Love Story<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The Merryland Roller Rink as viewed from
Route 40, near Glascow, DE - circa 1960</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Merryland main skating floor, with
skaters preparing for the “Couples Dance.” - 1952<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Roller skating at the Merryland Roller Rink
was a joy for me as a teenager in the early fifties. The Merryland was
extremely popular at that time, and my pal, Junior Digirolamo, and I would get
access to a car somehow and motor up just past the Delaware line to the big,
glass-fronted building. When we started we went there sometimes on Saturday
afternoons, when the program was mostly “All Skate,” which meant everybody—adults
alone and in pairs, senior citizens, and kids of all sizes and shapes. For the
first few months Junior and I were rough, really rough. We would tear around at
full speed, fall down, hit the sides of the rink, and sometimes bump into
people. Soon, after many bruises and stares of derision, we started going into
the two small side rooms to practice, where the noise of clashing skates and
kids yelling with excitement was deafening. But there, in what we called the
bull pens, we could practice turning corners and maneuvering backwards without
taking out the accomplished skaters on the main floor.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> After
a while we got good enough to zip around that main floor with confidence. We
began attending every Saturday, bought our own skates, and worked on backward
skating with only occasional spills. I even skated some in the middle of the
floor where the good skaters practiced their dance routines of graceful spins
and gestures. It was soon after this that roller skating at Merryland would
never be the same. We were to be transformed from awkward, unkempt ruffians to
civilized, well-dressed, debonair gliders whom, we hoped, girls would find
irresistible. That’s right, observant reader, we prepared well for our skating
event, because we now went on Saturday nights when skating became much more
than skating. The event became a night of magic.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I even took a shower before the big night,
brushed my teeth with vigor, and massaged gobs of a terrific substance called
“wave set” into my hair. The stuff would render my wave rigid, with a petrified
crust that lasted until the next day. I’d examine the mirror—lamenting the
proliferating pimples staring back at me—comb my hair straight back, and use my
forefinger to sculpt a classy wave into what was then an abundance of
full-bodied hair. I’d dress with popular sport shirts and trousers of that era,
borrow the car and a couple of dollars from Pop, and I’d be ready for a great
Saturday night at the rink.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">One reason why those Saturday nights were
magical was that the organ music was live. Gary Tatman played the organ, and he
played those ballads, waltzes, polkas, and tangos brilliantly. The most
enchanting part was when Gary announced the last dance of the evening:
“Couples.” That was when you would hustle to find a girl to ask to skate with
you. And then, if successful, you would roll smoothly onto the floor with her
on your arm. Gradually, almost subliminally, the lights were lowered and
changed to a soft, romantic blue, an almost religious experience. You were
immersed in glorious organ music combined with the mesmerism of soft, blue
colors. Then you would glide around the oval rink with a beautiful girl at your
side and think that you’d found Heaven. Readers who may have skated at
Merryland will remember the richness of that evening’s delightful last dance.
Then, of course, the night’s reverie would end—back to earth again with the
drudgery of school and work.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I recall one particular Saturday evening
before the couples finale. I was in the middle of the rink trying my backward
spin when I bumped into a sweet-looking gal in a skating skirt. She was an
elegant skater, who, I found out later, had taken lessons at an early age, one
who could skate rings around me, literally. She wore custom, calf-high, white
skates and a frivolous outfit that, try as it might, failed to disguise the natural
beauty of its contents. I had collided with her fairly hard but she barely took
notice as she continued to practice her dance routine. I stopped dead still and
watched her determined, intent face. And I thought, of all the girls who come
here, this would be the one beauty who would <i>never</i> consent to skate with me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And yet, I couldn’t forget her, especially in
those moments before sleep when I’d be thinking good thoughts to help me doze
off. Finally, with feelings of certain failure, I convinced myself to be brave
enough to ask her to skate couples with me. And, sure enough, that next Saturday
when I asked her, she shook her head and said, “No, I don’t think so. I need to
practice tonight.” Well, that answer gave me confidence, because she didn’t say
“No way, beat it” as I expected. Yet why, I thought, would she even consider
skating the most important dance of the evening with me, whose skating was
sometimes an awkward misadventure? But, playing tricks with me, my mind
interpreted her equivocal “I don’t think so” as an encouraging sign.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">But the next Saturday night she refused again
and, depressed, I cooled my heels and went home early to lick my wounds. The
following Saturday night I found out that she was from my hometown, Chesapeake
City. <i>Yes!</i> I had an in. So, keeping my
eye on her, and summoning up my courage once more, I asked her yet again.
“Well, sure . . . OK,” she said. Ahh, so there I was, floating around the floor
with her, with my right arm around her waist and my left hand actually holding
the left hand of this beauty as we skated the magnificent last dance of the
evening. The lights were lowered to a subdued bluish hue as the organ played a
velvety waltz. For me the aura enhanced our sense of intimacy, causing within
me such a feeling of delight that shouldn’t have been permissible for a goofy
teenaged boy recently evolved from Chesapeake City’s canal.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">For many subsequent Saturday nights the
Merryland magic belonged to us, and after a while I finally asked her to go out
with me on a date. She agreed, so we set it up for the following Friday night.
For sure, the date wasn’t to the Merryland but to another fine establishment, the
Elkton Drive-in Theater; our entertainment would be in the seclusion of our own
car. We certainly enjoyed those movies but, as time went on, we gradually
became more interested in other, more pleasant, diversions, until eventually
the features playing on those nights held our interest about as much as if we
were watching the wind blow. There our skating disparity didn’t matter; what
mattered was that we most certainly enjoyed that drive-in theater . . . because we attended the Merryland less
and less and, although together for many years now, we still prefer the more
pleasing entertainment that movies can never provide.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Just the other day I talked to her about it. “How come
you agreed to skate with me that first time? And why did you go on that first
date, anyway? I’ll bet it was because I was so handsome with that big, stylish
wave in my hair.” “No <i>way,”</i> she
said.” I was just tired of you pestering me.” “Well,” I asked, “what was it you
liked about me then that made you keep dating me, and then, by golly, continue to
stay with me for all these 60 years?” At that she looked at me, smiled, and
said, “I liked the way you watched those movies at the drive-in.”</span></span>R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2263728743720245062.post-65467295657880233302013-04-30T13:47:00.000-07:002013-04-30T13:47:19.811-07:00Never Eat a Relative or an Old Groundhog<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Never
Eat a Relative or an Old Groundhog<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6hi190o7YK3XdR9qTKv6v-wKD8XaGZ56TrhHkQbYuG-0unhiK6onn5b5cB5ViDN2xKAygz7NVLSTC8dSbPEeUizxgeYaRFbOUCaX7YRilPpX0sOJVIRR7-b78G_OoCKJNqh1quQ_Ir4U/s1600/Wiggsey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6hi190o7YK3XdR9qTKv6v-wKD8XaGZ56TrhHkQbYuG-0unhiK6onn5b5cB5ViDN2xKAygz7NVLSTC8dSbPEeUizxgeYaRFbOUCaX7YRilPpX0sOJVIRR7-b78G_OoCKJNqh1quQ_Ir4U/s1600/Wiggsey.jpg" height="232" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Wiggsey, a dog for all seasons, with friend</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg30dUbIloYrE0acUxKxivzSOzf2Xlp0NYRVLuPT59rhEBsPMRuOVOLE0YQXxWEA94uMCqMTvDc44K3wVp0YrTRl91N5B1n8Zuj3XpU9Nh1fk_lIvAK7Pys1tL51b9DZLpuzQPKA6i4QRY/s1600/GHog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg30dUbIloYrE0acUxKxivzSOzf2Xlp0NYRVLuPT59rhEBsPMRuOVOLE0YQXxWEA94uMCqMTvDc44K3wVp0YrTRl91N5B1n8Zuj3XpU9Nh1fk_lIvAK7Pys1tL51b9DZLpuzQPKA6i4QRY/s1600/GHog.jpg" height="307" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">An old<b> </b>Groundhog, quite a fighter - but don't add him to the menu<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">No
matter how old a guy gets, he never forgets his boyhood dog. Mine was Wiggsey,
a big, gentle Chesapeake Bay retriever. That was back in the mid forties when,
at suppertime, Wiggsey would always be under our table, thumping the chair legs
and ours with the wag of his anticipating tail. He was on the alert for scraps
that I’d toss under to him as I bent over to see him catch them with a snap of
his jaws before they hit the floor. Near supper’s end he’d lick my offered
plate so clean that (as my ten-year-old mind imagined) it made less work for
Granny since she could place it right back on the shelf, clean as a whistle.
Wiggsey had other fine under-table advantages; he was a handy, thick-coated
portable napkin that I could reach down to wipe my hands on whenever we had
ribs or fried chicken.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Besides
being a domestic marvel, he was a terrific fighter. Let me take you back to a
day just after Hitler and Tojo’s war, when Wiggsey executed a battle that dog
owners dream about even today. I had mounted my bike from behind with a leap
that would have made Tom Mix envious, and sped so fast through the garden path
that the chicken house and corn crib were peripheral blurs. I entered the woods
near our ancestral dump and burned weeds and grass as I slid to a stop. But
even at full speed I trailed Wiggsey, who had beaten me to the deep woods. So,
winded, I sat there for a while looking up at our hickory tree, just soaking up
the sounds and smells of the woods. Then I saw him, a large squirrel,
scampering from one branch to another. And there I was without my shotgun.
Squirrel stew—Granny’s specialty—was a treat in those glory days of youth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Surprisingly,
he hadn’t seen me yet, so he flicked his tail and darted his head back and
forth with quick, twitching movements. Then he descended head first and jumped
effortlessly ahead thirty feet into the brush. He leaped up onto a sapling and
started spinning around sideways, a gray blur of fur. He stopped and scratched
his side ritualistically with his hind foot, and crouched absolutely motionless
for a while, with his tail curled up like a question mark and his mid-section
bent double.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">When
I moved my handlebars, snapping a twig, he jumped to another tree and skittered
up into the leaves like a bullet. He leapt from high branch to high branch in
his retreat and every time the branch would sag with his weight and spring back
as he bounded off. The result was a frenzy of tremulous leaves, as he withdrew
deeper and deeper into the woods until he disappeared from view. Even if
Wiggsey could climb trees he’d never catch that beauty.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> Then I entered the deep woods and
came upon a Wiggsey I hadn’t seen before. He was weaving back and forth with
his tail in the air and emitting a ferocious growl that told me he meant
business. Then I saw why. He had a huge, menacing groundhog up against the
trunk of a dead chestnut tree. Then the battle began, with Wiggsey lunging in and
the hog standing his ground with bared, snapping teeth and raking claws. The
savage sounds of battle startled my senses—the hissing, snapping and grunting
of the hog combined with Wiggsey’s snarling, growling and battering. I had no
idea how violently my gentle, under-table napkin could fight. It was a long,
furious encounter and I was amazed that a groundhog, considerably outweighed,
could fight so valiantly, not giving in until Wiggsey pounced to deliver a
crunching shake of death.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> A bloody yet jubilant Wiggsey,
delighted with his conquest, circled and snapped at the dead warrior as, with
effort, I lugged the carcass up to the house. And do you know that after
skinning, gutting, and cutting him up, and after pleading my heart out with
Granny, she finally agreed to bake him for dinner. And yet, regretfully, I must
tell you gastronomically astute readers that I do not recommend the flesh of a
large groundhog; if it’s ever offered to you, pass it by because, if my pallet
is any judge, It’s the strongest taste of any wild game by far. We fed the
remains of the meal to Wiggsey who, employing the practice of certain primitive
tribes of ingesting the flesh of their defeated yet formidable enemies in order
to take on their combative traits, ate gleefully the portions that we doled out
to him over the next few days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> Besides the woods themselves, I
loved to play in the streams that crisscrossed through them. There were frogs
aplenty living in the water and I had great fun trying to catch them. I’d sneak
up to the stream and hear a sudden <i>plop</i>,
and I’d know that I’d scared one of them from the bank or shore line. I’d watch
the circle widen where he had entered and knew that he’d come up somewhere on
the other side. And, sure enough, after a while when he ran out of air, if I
looked closely I’d see those frog eyes and that frog nose emerge just where the
water met the shore. Then, if I was quiet and quick enough, I could catch him,
play with him for a while, and then let him leap off my palm back into the
stream.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> One time, in one of the dammed-up
areas of the stream, I caught an enormous bullfrog, one whose legs I knew would
make good eating. But I must tell you to brace yourself for what happened when
Granny placed the dressed legs into the sizzling lard of the frying pan. Well,
those legs started quivering and twitching to beat the band, and within just a
few seconds they hopped out onto the kitchen floor, one after the other. And as
they hopped around Granny and I hopped after them. I had never seen Granny hop
like that before, so, distracted by the spectacle, my heart really wasn’t into
the chase. Pretty soon those legs found an open window and vaulted out through
it, side by side. Granny and I looked at each other and then dashed out through
the door after them. But do you know that we never <i>did</i> find those clever legs. Till this day I don’t know where they
went, and if any of you concerned readers who might understand frogs could help
me solve the mystery, I’d be extremely grateful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> But you should know that I’ve learned
to live with the distress of being outsmarted by that pair of disembodied legs,
and recently I was telling my sister-in-law about eating squirrels, groundhogs,
frog legs, and other exotic dishes. She listened with interest as I finished by
making a remark about monkeys. And then, sensitive reader, she replied with a
quip that I know you’d never make to a family member. In fact, my ears <i>still</i> smart from the audacity of her
retort, one that reduced me to a sad and humble guy. What I said was: “I’d eat almost
any animal but never a monkey because it would be like eating a relative.” Her
reply was as quick as the twitch of a squirrel’s tail: “That’s right,” she
said. <i>“Yours!” </i><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
R. Harper Hazelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00245024736818725986noreply@blogger.com0