REALLY What A time Book IX

REALLY SO WHAT
What A Time


THE GREAT WEST


Now boardwalks are everywhere and you can’t get near the
geyser

Even if you’d heard the Jim Bridges stories in the 1800’s and
now seen the reality it would be difficult to believe. Over the
years everyone who visited took pictures and drew paintings of
these natural wonders.

We hadn’t much choice where to camp because of the famous
Fishing Bridge. Fishing from it was free. From the bridge you
could see into the clear waters and the magnified fish. There
were so many, and all looked to be three or more feet long.
All rainbow, or lake trout. It was a dream, and Joe couldn’t
wait to go out on the bridge and join the hundreds catching
fish.

We never took any pictures of the bridge, but as I remember it
anglers were packed side by side from one end to the other on
both sides.
Joe fished every day we didn’t go site seeing. He,
unfortunately must not have had the right lure, as he only
caught one fish. It unfortunately wasn’t a trout. Some bums
had tossed a carp or two into the water, and they were
multiplying. Joe caught one, a ‘sucker’.

Meanwhile back at camp I had been wandering around making
friends with all the other campers. Few campers could resist a
cheerful curly headed blond 6 year old. Many campers had
caught fish and some strung them on lines between the trees.





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That’s not a good idea as bears love fish, and would come
right into camp.

One camp had a long string of fish and they took a liking to
me.

I came back to our site with a gift from them. Three beautiful
rainbow trout. My mother stopped me as I arrived with my
catch. She took them from me and said one thing
‘Richard, don’t say one word to your brother about his fish.’

I heeded her warning.
We did lots of site seeing. The Yellowstone Plateau averages
8,000 feet above sea level, and on the way to Old Faithful we
crossed the continental divide twice. The Yellowstone River
eventually flows into the Atlantic and the Snake River on the
other side, into the Pacific.

One day we followed the river until it came to the Gorge and
falls. This was another of the ‘can’t miss’ tourist attractions in
the park. The river drops a hundred feet, into a deep ravine
with steep sides. Like my ravine at home only many times
deeper. It’s really steep and dangerous, just to look over. I
stayed away from the edge. We walked and climbed along the
far side of this valley until we came to a pinnacle that jutted
out over the gorge. It has since been named Picture Point.
For good reason, as thousands of painting and photos have
been made from it.







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There were lots of wild animals. We stopped on the Madison
River to watch some swans. Eagles flew over Fishing Bridge
looking for a quick meal. Elk, and deer were in the mountains,
and buffalo were in the middle of the road. But the bears were
something else.

We would be backed up along the road because of the bears.
No one seemed to mind the blocked traffic. And, the bears
loved it. They didn’t need to forage for ants or beetles.
I held a cookie out of the window and it put it’s paws on the
sill and took it out of my hand. Wow! Everyone did it.

Every night campers would go to the dump to see the bears
clean the place out of food that had been dumped there during
the day. The national park approved of this activity, and had
built bleachers for the tourists to watch. We went a couple of
times to watch them.
There are lots of pictures of bears feeding habits during this
period of time. None that we took survived.

Yellowstone is a remarkable place. It has weathered years of
economic poverty, forest fires and abuse. Yet it is without a
doubt the finest and most interesting National Park in North
America.










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WYOMING: The Grand Teton National Park:

It was time for us to pack up and move out of the park.
Although only a day’s drive away, we headed down past the
Snake River to the Grand Teton’s National Park.


















We settled at Jenny Lake in a field for campers. The Tetons
were so much different than Yellowstone. People in
Yellowstone were happy to be there, they enjoyed the day.
Here it seemed as if everyone was busy, getting ready for
something else. It seemed so much more organized. Maybe,








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Because there wasn’t so much to do, or see.

Our car had broken down. Pop and Joe had taken it into
Jackson Hole, the local town, to get it fixed. There was
something wrong with the rear axle.
































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Jackson Hole is named because of the natural fault that runs
along the mountain range. The Teton peaks are 13,000 feet
high. They drop off at a very steep rate, without any foot hills
some 7,000 feet to the valley floor creating Jenny Lake, and a
ridge that’s 40 to 50 feet high. Below that drop is the town of
Jackson Hole. It’s a fine place for fishing, climbing mountains,
and for us to prepare to go elsewhere toward home.

The only excitement came while they were gone. Mom had
gone to visit a neighbor and I was asleep in the tent, when a
bear wandered into camp. Mom saw it first. She was afraid
I’d wake up and the bear would scare me; or worst. She
picked up the neighbors broom and started running toward
the bear, yelling and swinging the broom.
Like all mothers, whoa to the poor interloper. The bear
turned and ran off with his tail between his legs. Mom, on his
heels chased him all the way down to the lake. A couple of
campers picked up the call and ran after them throwing stones.

By the time Pop got back Mom was the talk of the camp, how
brave and fierce she was.
Almost every day was filled with sun, bright blue days and
puffy clouds. On those days I’d be out and around the camp,
unless we were going somewhere. Those few days that had










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rain, or snow flurries I’d spend in either the car or tent reading
comic books or playing games at the picnic table, under the
tarp. I mostly wore pull over shirts, Tee’s and polo’s, but also
had a couple of flannel shirts and a coat. I always wore long
corduroys pants. My best pants were woolen. I hated them,
as they scratched. I complained about them so much that
even now at 6 Mom didn’t pack them. My best shoes were
U.S. Keds, black high tops. Occasionally, these clothes would
be washed. Here in the Tetons it was one of those
opportunities.

Before we left Jenny Lake we took a boat ride around the lake.
The mountain drops steeply to the lake side, and then
continues under water. It’s really deep, and crystal clear. We
could see the bottom 20 feet or more. Along the sides I could
see tree trunks, smaller creek sized rocks, no fish. Despite
their claim, it was not like Fishing Bridge. Further from the
shore the water turned bluish-green reflecting the sky. It was
really great. The boat dock was at the southern end of the
lake. We toured the lake, and went up the river to the north.

Our boat was a luxury craft. A speed boat, like a Cris-Craft,
long wooden Mahoney, with red leather seats for 8 passengers.
Behind us was the twin engine compartment. Once you hear
one of these boats, it’s low rumble you would never forget.
They sounded better than any 1940’s hot rod.


This was our farewell adventure in the West as we broke camp
a few days later, and headed homeward.




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The ZIMMERMAN’S:





























Grandpa Michael Zimmerman, liked to fish, and often caught
fish you could eat. Yet, here’s another photo near their lodge
in the Pocono’s. That’s a 3” bass. Notice how calm and
collected he was in the middle of the stream smoking a pipe.





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We would visit Grandpa, Grandma, and Uncle Paul in
Allentown, Pa. every year. They, lived at the end of a row of 3
story townhouses with sunlight coming onto the porch so
strongly.




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That the shades were pulled, summer and winter. In back they
had an ally with garages for each townhouse and a little garden.
All socializing was in the backyard.

My Uncle Paul loved fishing and was an award winning fly
fisherman. He could cast a fly into a ring 50 feet away, time
after time. I still have several of his bamboo rods, fishing
basket and flies. Crippled, he and his wife had separated.

My aunt Lavina, his wife, also lived in a town house. We
would visit her infrequently. She wasn’t that friendly, and as
the years went by she stole everything my Uncle owned.

Allentown was never a fun place to visit. It seemed as if we,
Joe and I never fit into their adult world. They didn’t know
what to do with us. I suppose their family relationship was a
problem that as they grew older became worst.
I developed some pretty bad habits during our visits. Grandpa
Zimmerman, as you could see in the photo smoked. He kept a
box full of pipes. I had found them by the time I was 8 and it
wasn’t far to the corner store for pipe tobacco. That was the
beginning. A couple of houses down was a spinster who liked
me. She didn’t mind having company, and I could smoke
there. So I visited often.

When my Grandfather got ill Mom would go to Allentown
and take care of him. After he died Lavina took the house,
and Grandma Zimmerman came to live with us in
Fairlington,Va. They were all buried in the Zimmerman
cemetery plot in Allentown.




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I would never understand how my father lost everything his
family owned to Uncle Paul’s wife Lavina. He also took on
the care and expense of his mother. He probably shouldn’t
have. Mom on the other hand would give a hand to anyone,
and she helped nurse Pop’s family for years.
Grandma had no money after it was taken away, and Mom and
Pop really had no alternative. However, the combination of
two teen agers, I was on the cusp, a grumpy old lady who
hadn’t had any children around for hundreds of years, and my
poor parents trying to sort it all out was a bit much. I
remember it as the hardest next 5 years of my life. I would
always resent her impact on my family.





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The WILLIAMS:

Meet Grandpa and Grandma Williams. This was a different
side of my family. Although it seems as senior citizens,


































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My grandparents, being much older, had less patience with
kids. I don’t recall ever having a talk with either grandfathers.
Maybe I was too young, or maybe my Grandmother Anna
Dewing Williams being a second wife who had no children.
Never the less there were plenty of kids around, and we were a
hand full.

On one occasion Grandma had made a cherry pie. I loved
cherry pies. She had put it in the large sink to cool. When I
came into the kitchen Mom told me to wash my hands in the
sink. I only got so far as turning on the water before grandma
brought the house down. Oh! My! She was upset. It was
terrible. Why wasn’t it an apple pie?
Despite all of us, we always had a good time. It was their farm
with a barn, a cow, pig, chickens with a chicken coop, pasture,
apple orchard and a big garden. Mom was born and grew up
here.

Potterville, was a typical small farm town with a general store
whose floor boards creaked, yet sold everything, including gas
for tractors and auto’s, candy in jars to fish out with your
hand. It had a small church whose minister rotated services
preaching there once every 6 weeks. Houses lined alongside
the road. Each house had their farm land behind the house,
out back.
It worked well, in those years when getting to the house from
the road was important. In New England the homes were
attached to the barn. You could go from one to the other





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without going outside. In the middle States it was similar, yet
you went outside to get to the barn.

The last several miles into Potterville were on back roads.
They were often bumpy and reminded me of what the horse
and buggy days were like. They had ‘Thank-you-moms’ in the
road which had never been straighten since the horses. There
were several of them. We would hit a rise in the road and
then flatten out. Suspending us in the air, floating for a
moment. Like being in an elevator as it drops. ‘Whoopee’, I
loved them, even when I hit my head on the ceiling.
They were resting places for horses as they traveled the roads.
When hard top roads were introduced they just covered the
older dirt, leaving the ‘Thank-You- Moms’ in place.

Children in Potterville came in waves. I was pretty lucky as
there were several kids my age. We used to do things together
like going to Cook’s Pond and just hanging out.
Cook’s Pond was the local swimming hole. Although it had
snapping turtles and blood suckers that attached to your skin
we never let that stop us. Blood suckers were a nuisance. You
couldn’t just pull them off but with a little patience you could
slide them away.

Here’s a photo of Cooks Pond. Ponds were created by
damning a creek, and cutting the trees. Usually at the bottom
of a small valley The tree stumps were left as you can see. We
swam here, with mud squishing between our toes. It looks like
an unsavory place, but generations swam and fished there.




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Depending on the time of summer we would go berrying for
raspberries, blackberries, and huckleberries. Huckleberries are
wild blue berries, only much smaller. Cherry picking was done
as a full scale family outing. The red tart ones were best, and
although there were cherry pitters, you would pick and pit
before tossing the cherry into a bottomless bucket.
We also smoked. One boy, Jerry Corban would pick up a pack
at his father’s the General Store and we would head out
towards the creek. Under the bridge we could smoke without
being detected. If there were any cigarettes left we’d store
them under the rocks on the bank.

During the summer the creek only had a trickle in it. Not
enough for fish, but there were crawfish. They would hide
under the rocks. We’d turn the rocks over and if one appeared
chase it down saving it for the next fishing trip, using it for
bait.




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Some days I’d go up past the barn through the hay field to the
pasture. There the only cow would be glad to see me. If I
ventured into the pasture it was at my own risk. Being from
the city, I’d not had that much to do with cows. From my
point of view the cow was really big, and getting closer to it
made it even bigger. Often I’d take to a tree until the cow was
bored with me and would wander off. Sometimes I was close
enough to the fence and I’d scramble over it. I always felt the
cow was out to get me.
Grandma was a slight woman, but tough. Each day she began
her chores by hiking up thru the pasture to milk the cow.
From time to time I’d follow; along the narrow path through
the hay to the pasture gate. Along the way she would call to
the cow to meet her at the gate. ‘Come Boss’ she’d call only it
sounded like ‘Caaa Bossss, Caaa Bosss’. She’d yell several
times. The cow would be waiting for her by the time we got
there. She carried a pail from the house, probably made of tin
and at the barn she picked-up a one legged stool. The stool
was surprisingly neat. She’d put it down beside the cow, sit on
it and tilt forward. On the tilted stool, with her head resting
on the side of the cow she would milk away.

Summer seemed to be a time to come back to Potterville and
visit. Throughout the years all of Moms brothers and sisters
visited at one time or another while we were there. Therewere
13 in all. Every one of them had left Potterville, except one,
Eleanor.



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When they visited they always took time with Joe and me.
Uncle Philip would drive over from Chicago in his yellow
Packard, and talk to Joe about fishing. Aunt Ester from
Illinois would take us for fast hair raising rides over the hills,
while baseball games would blast from her radio. She scared
us to death and we loved it.

Uncle Jenkin, and Aunt Virginia lived in Sayre N.Y.. He
would take Joe fishing, and let me tag along. He was a retired
Merchant Marine, a gruff guy, who had no children. He took a
liking to us and every year asked Mom to bring us over to visit.
A man of few words, we would usually pay attention when he
spoke. 75 years later I have, and treasure his brass sexton and
leather bound 2 foot long spy glass. Items he used when
sailing the seven seas.

Aunt Eleanor lived over the hill from Potterville, in Rome.
She and Uncle Howard ran a farm for his father. They would
later own it and after that my cousin Robert. They had four
children, three of which we grew up with. Cousins Patty,
Manley, and Robert, the fourth was Phil, born much later.
Here’s a photo of all of us in Potterville; Joe, Pat, Manley,
Robert, and me. Behind us was our old Pontiac, and the
garage. Neither the garage, nor barn were ever painted. The
house waited until the late 1950’s.







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The place looked terrible. How it stayed in one piece I’ll never
know. Just imagine a dozen kids grew up in it and for years
was an emergency hospital of sorts for Grandpa. There was
no grass in the front yard, because of two huge pine trees and
one large maple tree.
Mom would fix it up after Grandma and Grandpa died, cutting
down the pines and painting the house. The garage and barn
teetered but never fell nor were they ever painted.

My Grand Parents would be buried in the Williams plot in
Neath. It’s such a beautiful cemetery, on the hillside of a bowl
shaped valley. Surrounded by pastures and trees, with a small
church over looking it. For years it was my first choice for a
burial plot. Many of Mom’s brothers and sisters are



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buried there, with grandpa and grandma. The cemetery
unfortunately is full and has been for years.

















Mom used to walk to high school, 8 miles over the hills, half
way to Orwell Hill, another small town, without a gas station.

To get to school she would go up behind the barn, through
the pasture and forest to the road and follow it to the school.
Never once did I ever try doing it myself. If I got as far as the
pasture; where the cow would chase me.

Beyond Orwell was the longest hill, over a mile. It wasn’t so
steep, but just kept rolling. Road ways weren’t cleared of
snowwhen she was young. She would hike over to the hill
along with other kids and slide down it.






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Now, I liked sliding and running around Fairlington but it
never was so many miles. Even in the cold I wouldn’t have
gone down that hill without a ride back.

There wasn’t any skiing, but lots of sledding during the winter.
Up behind the barn the snow would build up covering the
doors to the hay loft and rise onto the roof. All the kids in
Potterville would gather to come down the hill, ‘Rocky Hill’
below the pasture, and across the hay field. Sleds would get
enough steam to climb up onto the barn roof and fly off the
other side into the frozen garden near the house.
Here is a picture of the barn. Look how high the snow must
have been, and the drop into the garden. It must have been a
lot of snow. I never saw it like that. Really. That’s quite a
drop. Maybe Mom’s imagination got away from her here.

After listening to these stories, I wonder if I had some of her
blood in me. Blended DNA so to speak. She was a tough
lady and a pure ‘Tom Boy’ as a child.
When we visited, usually in the summer, we’d stay for a week
or two. I want to describe the house as it was a relic of the
depression years and of a poor community in north central
Pennsylvania. Yet the countryside had and has a lot of spirit
and good will.










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Electricity and plumbing was installed during the 1930’s. The
telephone was a large box hanging on the wall. It rang like
Morris Code. A combination of Short and Long rings.




















People would answer to their code ring, except when it was
Grandpa’s then everyone answered to hear what was
happening.

The sewing machine had a treadle, which by four I was able to
coordinate, but didn’t do much sewing. It was a rugged
machine. Years later I’d used it to sew several canvas pieces
including a sail cover for our 29 foot sailboat.






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The house had a big green pump that we drew water from
near the side door. The water pump stood the test of time.
Although I can remember Mom telling stories about climbing
down into it to clean out the grime and rebuild the stones.

To Start the water, you had to pump up and down many times
before water would run cold, clear and tasty.

Here’s a picture of me with my sailor suit in 1940 getting the
hang of it. I’m not wearing sandals, but colored socks to
match my outfit.


























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The coal shed had a treasure of National Geographic
Magazines. Every year from 1919 to 1950 and later years.
They were cool to look at and had the only naked pictures of
people I’d ever seen.

The septic tank was on the other side of the house near the
sun room. In between there was a coal shed, kitchen, the
bathroom and sun room off to the side, dining room, with a
pantry with stairs down into the earthen cellar, living room and
bedroom. The pantry held food stuffs, and Grandpa’s medical
supplies. The cellar was for canning storage, and the milk
separator. That’s where Uncle Banatyne knocked himself out
when he slipped going down the stairs. The stairs treads, all
over the house were very narrow, and dangerous.
Upstairs there was a single long room with a couple of
dividers. At the top of the very steep stairs, were two bed
rooms, neither had doors. Mom and Pop slept in the more
separated one. The one with more privacy.

Both of those rooms had flooring. For Joe and me there was a
double bed at the end of this unfinished long room. There
were a couple of wooden slats that we’d walk down to get to
the bed. We never stepped off the slats. Had we, we would
have ended up falling through the ceiling into the kitchen. The
bed had a straw mattress and a horse hair blanket. It had a
permanent scoop to it, from the dozen children that grew up
sleeping in it.






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There was no insulation in the room. In the summer it would
be pretty warm so we’d leave the two windows open. It was a
different story in the winter. The heavy Horse Hair Blanket
was welcome. When it snowed we’d get a steady sifting of
snow through the roof onto the bed. It never pilled too high.

After Mom inherited her homestead she refurbished the inside
and outside finishing it with aluminum siding, new windows
and replaced the leaky metal roof.



























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COUSINS


The Wilmont’s were our cousins. They lived in Rome about
15 miles away. In the 1940’s they had a large white house with
a wrap-around porch with banisters and columns. In back
above the garage was a chicken coop, and a long garden.
Behind the garden was a creek.

The creek ran along over some rapids and made a bend
creating a deep hole, over my head. As we learned to swim
that became a great spot for us.
Up on the farm, Uncle Howard had an orange Ford tractor,
that we used to ride on the fenders as he worked the fields.
He would also let us ride on the hay wagon. Hay was raked
and then freely collected onto the hay wagon. Today hay is cut
and rolled into large tight bales, then wrapped in plastic.
Sometimes wrapped together looking like a white worm laying
in the field. Barns are not used so much today to store hay.

If we were lucky he would let us ride on the manure spreader.
Not everyone was able to do that. Joe especially liked it, as he
got to work the levers that spread it. For years, even into
college he wanted to be a farmer. It wasn’t until Uncle
Raymond pointed out that it would take a million dollars or
more to buy a farm. He finally gave it up and became a
Ceramic Engineer. This switch served him well as the
Electronics industry was just beginning, in the late 1950’s and
Ceramics played a large roll in it’s success.
The coolest fun was in the barn. After the hay was cut and
stored we could play in it.





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Like the model barn Pop built. The upper deck held the hay.
We would climb the ladder to the deck and scramble up into
the hay. From there we would slide down though the hay
making troughs so we could slide faster.






















If the hay wagon was in the barn we could slide over the deck
and drop 15 feet down into the wagon full of hay. It was great
and we all loved doing it.
Meanwhile, Uncle Howard would be milking the cows. Joe
would have gone into the pasture on the hill to round them
up. Sometimes he would help feed them. The milk would be




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collected in pails and then poured into large milk cans which
were stored in cold water vaults until picked up by the diary. I
could never lift a full milk can.

This is a later picture of the barn, Hay on the upper deck is no
longer raised by hand. The conveyor belt loads the deck with
rectangular bails of hay. They are then stacked neatly. When
we were sliding and playing in the hay mounds it was never
bailed, but stored loosly.
All of these procedures and process’s would be replaced by the
1950’s. Manure would be automatically carried out of the Barn
on a conveyor belt to the spreader. Milk from the automatic
milker’s would be transported over stainless tubes to stainless
steel containers in a refrigerator to wait for the dairy truck to
siphon them empty.

Being on the farm was great fun.
But, what was so foreign to me was having so many people
around that knew you. Grandpa had served the entire
community. Everyone, knew everyone else. One day I’d gone
to the General Store in Rome. On my way out I ran through
the screen door and knocked down some lady. I didn’t stop,
and kept running back down the street. I was in a hurry
because we had a family picnic that afternoon.

At home in Potterville tables were being set with paper
napkins, plates and utensils. Picnics were a big deal. And
there were lots of them during the summer. We usually were
there for at least one. Blocks of Ice would be dug out of the




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saw dust mound beside the lumber mill in Rome. They would
stay frozen all summer in the saw dust mound.

Aunt Eleanor would make real lemonade. She’d fill a milk can
full of the very best lemonade you ever drank. Everyone
would bring a dish. Macaroni, potato salads, green salads,
hams, beef roasts, hot dogs, and deserts, cakes, pies, puddings
and jello molds with vegetables.

I never knew everyone that came to these picnics, but the one
lady I’d knocked down was there. She was a cousin and I got a
chance to apologize to her. I’ll never forget that, nor that I
might run into a cousin anywhere within 50 miles of
Potterville.

My summers in Potterville were always great fun, and I
enjoyed them during these years as well as all the time since. I
continue to return to visit with my cousin Patty. Robert now
owns their family farm.

















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DEEP SEA FISHING


NEW JERSEY: Atlantic City

In 1949 we went to Atlantic City, New Jersey. It was long
before they built casinos, but here we were at the most famous
city in the world. We walked up and down ‘Atlantic
Boulevard’ to ‘St James Place’, Pennsylvania Avenue, and
Vermont Avenue.

This was the reality, the place I’d spent so many hours, no,
years hunched over the board in my living room with hands
filled with colored cash. ‘Board Walk’, Wow! It was a real
place.

We walked up and down the long wooden boardwalk, staring
out at the waves breaking on shore. Pop had told us time and
again that there was a strong undertow and dangerous to swim
in the water. I wasn’t sure what that was, but had the idea the
waves would sweep you out to sea.
We bought candy cotton at the Steel Pier, and watched a crazy
horse jump off the end of the pier into the ocean. I wasn’t
impressed, but years later I was surprised how we treated our
animals, particularly horses in movies. Action scenes in John
Wayne movies made in the 1930’s regularly road horses off
cliffs into rivers, or filmed horses at full speed doubling up on
the trail.










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We went to see ‘Johnny Ray’ a blind entertainer. His popular
song at the time was called ‘Cry’. There were lots of ‘Bobbie
Socks’ in the crowd to scream and cheer him. I loved it.

Joe did too, but because he recognized it was just show
business. That the girls were paid to cheer. He wouldn’t let
up, telling me that Perry Como had paid ladies swooning while
he crooned. He didn’t have a favorite singer, but kept telling
me how good that crazy guy Elvis Presley was.
You couldn’t leave Atlantic City without buying enough
Saltwater Taffy for everyone at home. Everyone got a box.
We had plenty ourselves.

It was neat watching them string it out on rollers, buckling it
over and over, adding just a little color for stripes, red or
green, blue or orange until it was long stringy and ready to be
cut into small size bites. We had enough to pick favorites. I
didn’t like Coffee, or the Yellow Banana, but the Green
Spearmint, Vanilla, and Coconut were good. I would however
eat any of them.
A few miles south of Atlantic City is Ocean City. We went
down there so Pop could take us ‘Deep Sea’ fishing. We
boarded a 30 foot open boat. It looked like a large row boat,
without any cover. It was much different than I thought or
had seen in the news reels with large poles and even larger fish.
Like Sail Fish or Tuna. We may not have been going fishing
for exactly that size fish.






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DEEP SEA FISHING


Here Joe and I are on the beach with some sea weed. We’ve
grown a lot in 10 years.

























We left the harbor with about 15 people, moving further and
further away from the shore. Finally, miles out of site of land
we slowed and threw out anchor. We were on a shallow knoll
beyond the sight of land. This was our deep sea fishing
expedition.





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DEEP SEA FISHING


The sky was blue, with a few puffy clouds. There was no sign
of bad weather. Our boat rocked and rolled gently in the
ocean waves as we tossed our lines over the side of the boat.

Joe got a little ‘woosy’ from the rolling boat. He caught a
couple of ‘Rock Bass’ before he quit. When you are in a small
boat off shore it’s difficult to help yourself recover from the
‘woosyies’. He didn’t get worst, but…..

Pop, wasn’t feeling so good either. The swaying of the boat
had gotten him down. Later he told Mom that he was
managing, but would have felt even better had he tossed me
overboard.

I hadn’t noticed, that they were both sick. Otherwise I
wouldn’t have antagonized them. Not being such a fisherman
I visited with the others, cheerfully moving from one side and
end of the boat to the other. Rocking back and forth had no
bearing on me. I also had my choice for lunch. There were
several sandwiches, tuna fish and mayonnaise, tomato and
mayonnaise, greasy potato chips and coke cola. I gobbled
everything down and continued to be cheerful.
Our fishing experiences were always trying, especially for Joe,
The good news is that both Pop and Joe survived. Pop never
left the sight of land again, and I was introduced to the sea,
where for years I’d sail in every kind of sailboat from 14’ Sail
Fish, to a 30 foot sloop.







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REALLY.WHAT A TIME

































It’s the end of a decade and in 1949 I’m all dressed up and
ready for more.





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REALLY.WHAT A TIME


Do these years, these 10 special years, set the path for life, as
an evolutionary process or for our 100 years? I suppose they
do. Did they give me a happy disposition like my mother, or a
lack of patience like my father? Did I learn to be independent,
to seldom join other groups, and infrequently have any interest
in leadership? Did my brothers interests and hobbies, his
teaching skills have an effect on me and help me? Was this the
foundation of my analytic skills, and tenacious attitude towards
the right thing to do?

Maybe; for it was a wonderful combination of ingredients.
The apartments, the woods, school, movies and fantasies,
imagination and heroes, individual activities, and sports, the
children with varied backgrounds, and my parents all added
up.
My parents most of all brought me into the world, and
nurtured me, for all these years. The older I got the more
difficult it must have been. I’m in hopes that it was nearly as
rewarding for them as it was for me.

Had they not chosen to move to Washington, and of course to
Virginia, and to Fairlington, my experiences would have been
different. My sense of community would have been
different. Where would I have experienced so many other
children my own age, and families that had similar interests.
Interests that because of the world they were a part of, and
kept changing. That they embraced change, and it helped me
embrace it also. Possibly long before the rest of our country,
and world did.



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I might say that change was the magic potion that wove my
early years together, and with the end of World War II our
entire country was influenced by it.




REALLY………WHAT A TIME



IT WAS MY TIME.







































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REALLY SO WHAT
What A Time


REALLY.WHAT A TIME


I might say that change was the magic potion that wove my
early years together, and with the end of World War II our
entire country was influenced by it.




REALLY………WHAT A TIME



IT WAS MY TIME.







































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