Celebrating Independence Day

 

Our teenage grandson is visiting us for a couple of weeks this summer and it makes me realize how different the world we inhabited as children in the 1950s and 1960s is from the fast-paced, highly connected world of 2025.

Of course, this is not a stunning insight!

I have the gift of my grandfather's writing to tell me of his childhood.

From 1958, when I was seven years old ...

I'm saving my nickels in my second childhood for celebrating the Fourth of July as I used to save pennies in my first. But there's a difference –

Over at Whitesville in childhood No. 1, I used to go to Landlord Jones' ice house, and dig and dig until I could find a piece of ice buried deep in sawdust. Then I dickered if the ice was a five- or 10- or 15-cent piece.

Mother had prepared the milk, eggs, flavoring – and what it takes. Then came the breaking the ice and packing it around the freezer can in the wooden tub, and turn and turn and turn!

The resulting ice cream - at last was satisfying of course – wonderful!

In childhood No. 2 –

Step in almost any store and buy the stuff, but it takes nickels rather than pennies and – 'taint half as good.

Advertising of Fourth of July celebrations –  One could count on a mammoth spread eagle and sure to be found were such expressions as 100 Guns at Sunrise, Music by Martial Band and Cornet Band, Grand Parade, Fantastic Parade, Patriotic Speech, Square Dance, Excursion Rates on All Railroads, Ox Roast, Spectacular Fireworks Display - or it might be called Pyrotechnical Extravaganza.

Times change – 

No longer do we drive Old Dobbin to town and tie her in the church sheds.

There ain't no Old Dobbin and there ain't no church sheds.  There ain't no pink lemonade –

There ain't even no peanut roaster with a little tin whistle so shrill it could be heard a long way off.

There ain't no fantastic parade. There ain't no greased pole to climb with a big two dollar on top!

Fourth of July – bah! If you should look for me that day, I can be found at Folly in the Nine Mile, seated in the shade by that dinky lake, maybe listening to the birds, or half asleep, dreaming of Fourth of July celebrations that were celebrations in childhood No. 1, or maybe listening to a ball game over the little portable radio.

If I get burns on my fingers, they will not come from firecrackers but may come from broiling a steak over a charcoal fire. Wistful thinking - look at the price of steaks! More likely I'll bust a bun and insert a wiener.

Here on Crandall Hill we shot off a few fireworks after sunset to celebrate the 249th birthday of our country.

I would have to bet that this custom (shared in my grandfather's column in 1968) wasn't part of anyone's Pyrotechnical Extravaganza in 2025!

"Shooting anvils" was a Fourth of July feature at celebrations when I was a small boy. We wonder if any reader of this column can remember such noise makers!

Just for your information we'll tell you how the trick was done. An anvil was placed on the ground well away from homes. On top of it was placed a piece of metal with a hole in it that would hold perhaps a quarter of a pound of gunpowder. On this was carefully balanced a second anvil.

Nearby was a wood fire that kept the end of a small steel rod red hot. The shooter touched a trail of gunpowder on the lower anvil, igniting the explosive. The top anvil may have gone 20 feet in the air. The explosion rocked the hills.

Loading the anvil and keeping fire to heat the rod was quite a task so the blasts did not come very close together.

That was how the trick was done some 80 years ago.

Update: It turns out I was not correct as I surmised anvil shooting was a thing of the past. Check out this report from July 4, 2025. 

175 Years!

 Our community celebrated the 175th anniversary of our fine public library yesterday on a sweltering summer afternoon. Teri Tingley McDowell, coincidentally marking the 10th anniversary of her tenure as Library Director, took the opportunity to use her considerable research and writing skills to craft a history which was shared with folks gathered at the Coudersport Golf Club.

But the celebration of this accomplishment isn't over yet as we hope to put together the history into a booklet as well as other activities to share this proud heritage. You will also have the opportunity to put in writing all the library means to you and I envision a huge outpouring of love that we'll put on display for all to enjoy!

As current President of the Board of Trustees, I had the opportunity to share my personal reminiscences of 70+ years of library use.

Thank you for coming today to celebrate a most impressive history. Your ongoing use and support of this important community resource is vital as we ensure the Coudersport Public Library will continue to build relationships that last a lifetime.

Indulge me as I describe one of those relationships - my own.

As a child, growing up here in the 1950s, I found the library a special place. That little out-of-the way doorway, tucked around the corner of an imposing brick building on Main Street, opened into a world with its own particular smell, people speaking in hushed tones and the shelves of books reaching to the ceiling, accessed by a ladder that rolled alongside on a track.

 I don’t remember when I first got my library card, but I still remember my number - 2019 - written neatly on the top of the succession of cards, for every book checked out was dutifully recorded on one’s library card. I remember being instructed to wash my hands before handing my library books. I remember Miss Niles behind the massive cherry desk and having to stand on tiptoes to put my books on the counter.

Summers were my special time to read. I visited the library once or twice each week, each time taking home a stack of eight or nine books. I could walk or ride my bike to the library - once I got a bicycle basket to hold the books.

Children were directed to the special section off in the corner to the right of the check-in desk, past the wide steps with the black treads leading to the second floor where the mysterious research books were shelved.

One summer, I decided I would start with authors beginning with A and work my way through the alphabet. Along the way I discovered Louisa May Alcott, Enid Blyton, Betty Cavanaugh, Anne Emery, Carolyn Keene, L.M. Montgomery. 

Late in the summer I came to Margaret Sutton. Her book, the Vanishing Shadow, seemed vaguely familiar.  It seemed almost the the story of the big flood in Austin. Could Roulsville Be Austin? Was Farringdon Couersport? Mrs. Lehman was the librarian then and one day I dared to ask her. She laughed in that deep voice then related that Mrs. Sutton had used this area as a setting because she was from Coudersport.

Mrs. Lehman made a special effort to get a copy of each of the new Judy Bolton mysteries as soon as they were published and I was first on the list to read them!

It was a proud day for me when Mrs. Lehman asked me if I wanted to be her “high school girl” - the one who came in for an hour or two after school. I shelved books, did a little dusting, and when she needed to go to the bank or be away from the library for a minute, I could actually check books in and out - using the little date stamp on the end of the pencil.

I went away to college and came back to Coudersport in the mid 1970s, around the time the decision had been made to move the library to its current location. I knew that spot in Mitchell Park as the community building and skating rink and I couldn’t see how it could become a library. I just couldn’t imagine the library anywhere else but the Main Street location I knew and loved.

We all know that change is difficult but I soon realized the move was the right thing to do, more space, better lighting, fewer architectural barriers.

And so began another relationship with the Library as my children arrived and were old enough to go to Mrs. Brown’s Story Hour.  My husband often tapped the resources of the library to support his efforts to introduce quality children’s literature to his elementary school students.

Nowadays, I access many books and magazines on my Kindle through my library access to Libby - though the best way to read is still holding a book in my hands. 

I am sure you all have your own stories and we hope you will share them. And as you listen to the history of our fine library - compiled so lovingly by our Library Director Teri McDowell  - you will see evidence of the unwavering support of the concept of  a PUBLIC library - available to all ages - free of charge. Through war, floods, fires, The Great Depression, the library has remained a vital and vibrant force for good.

Thank you for carrying on this fine legacy to ensure our Library will be celebrating anniversaries for many years to come.

A Work Of Art?

Memories of my grandparents' homes seem to come more often these days as I journey through my own grandparenthood. For my grandchildren, Grandpa and Grandma's farm is a once-in-a-while visiting spot but I was in and out of both of my grandparents' places often.

That's why I remember this print that hung in the living room of my Fish grandparents' home. It was not as vivid as this rendering, but faded and murky in an old-fashioned thin scrollwork frame. I didn't particularly care for it but when my mother was disposing of furnishings in their North Main Street foursquare, I claimed it, thinking it might be valuable.

But alas, as I learned on Wikipedia this week, "Daybreak" by Maxfield Parrish is considered the most popular art print of the 20th Century, based on the number of prints made - one for every four households!

But another art print in my grandfather's collection is the subject of this snippet from his Golly column.

He writes in 1968:

September Morn – It was a beautiful painting of a nude girl in the water up to her knees, about to take a dip in the chill morning air, and equally chilly water. The picture dates back to more than 50 years. We cannot recall the artist.

Way back in his bachelorhood days Golly purchased a copy and had it framed. We think of that picture on these September mornings when it is a big foggy, but –

That picture disappeared soon after Golly became a benedict. The frame was holding some other picture. We never asked what became of it – period.

Matinee de Septembre

 

From Wikipedia:

September Morn,, oil painting on canvas completed in 1911 by the French artist Paul Émile Chabas. Painted over several summers, it depicts a nude girl or young woman standing in the shallow water of a lake, prominently lit by the morning sun. The original hangs in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

It seems my grandmother was not the only person who didn't appreciate this painting.

From a newspaper report in 1913

1914

This article from 1957 tells the story.

Joan Crawford In Coudersport

I grew up hearing about the time Joan Crawford came through Coudersport and ate at Mackey's Restaurant.

This from 1941 ... 

That article was written by Enterprise advertising salesman and later editor  Walter Taylor. My grandfather, his boss, penned the following in his newspaper column:

Joan Crawford, the glamour girl of the movies, dined in town Tuesday evening, and she didn't even let me know she was here. Well, by golly, she is the loser.

We might have shown her a copy of this paper and this particular column, and then, if she had said something complimentary, we might have made her a present of a three-month subscirption, value 50 cents.

But no, she would take up with "Bubbles," our advertising man, and dine with him!

Just for that we're giving her little space in this column, and no free subscription, not even one copy.

Bet she'll be all busted up.

Wondering what the actress was up to in 1941, I discovered this: First,  information about "A Woman's Face" from MGM, told in flashback from the vantage point of a murder trial. The story concerns a female criminal whose face is disfigured by a hideous scar. The plastic surgery removal of this disfigurement has profound repercussions, both positive and tragically negative. The film's subplots converge when the surgeon, Joan's lover, is murdered.

And in her tumultuous personal life, Ms. Crawford had adopted an infant, Marcus Gary Kulberg in June of 1941, renaming him Christopher Crawford. But in November, Joan and baby broker Alice Hough, return baby Kulberg to his mother. 

So perhaps Joan Crawford was grabbing a little solitude in the Pennsylvania Wilds - though we don't know where she stayed and who accompanied her.

Mackey's Restaurant capitalized on her visit and advertised:

I remember Mackey's on East Second Street across from the courthouse but it was rare for my family to eat meals in a restaurant. An advertisement in The Potter Leader-Enterprise in December 1967 made the announcement of its closing.

 

Reflecting On Change

"For time and the world do not stand still. Change is the law of life."

John F. Kennedy

My Grandfather wrote often about change in his weekly "Golly" newspaper column. I think he would appreciate this quote, though he wasn't a big fan of President Kennedy or most any Democrat!

Some of Golly's observations:

From 1952:

How times change!

Not so many years ago the agricultural crops of Potter County were pretty much limited to potatoes, oats, buckwheat and the like.

Within the last few years, hundreds of acres of peas and snap beans have been grown for canning concerns and frozen food companies.

Now broiler chicks are being reared in great numbers.

But there seems to be no end of the change. This year hundreds of acres will be planted to cucumbers. It has been found that this fruit of the vine yields tons to the acre on the higher lands of the county and will prove a profitable crop.

Indications are that we can all get pickles or pickled plenty.

And strawberries – Yeah, Golly is told that this is natural soil to produce that delicious fruit. There will no doubt be large strawberry acreage within a season or two.

Up to now no one has appeared to recommend a crop of grapefruit and oranges. 

This diversified crop plan seems like a good one. If all your eggs are in one basket and you stub your toes – Oh well!

From 1957:

Times change – and how!

When Golly was a kid – long, long time ago – a haircut at the barber shop cost 15 cents. Fifteen cents was real money.

There was a fellow employed in the livery barn, a good-hearted guy, who would use the horse clippers and peel the hair off a boy's pate for free.

Along about the arrival of summer, we were saving our pennies - and an occasional nickel - for firecrackers and ice cream on the Fourth. Money saved on a haircut was a big boost in the horde.

Way back then men had to pay 15 cents for a haircut and 10 cents more for a shave.

Who could imagine the time would come in 1957 when a shave would be a big dollar and a haircut another whole dollar.

Yeah, times change.

From 1965:

Sounds – even they change with the years

I have commented on the difference of the rather pleasing sound of the hand lawn mower and the raucous noise of the power machine.

Woodsmen years ago used a crosscut saw, and it produced rhythm and melody, but now it's a gasoline machine –  one that whines and roars so loudly it may be heard a long distances.

Time was when horse drawn vehicles, heavily loaded, passed quietly along roads but now the sound of a big truck climbing a heavy grade, and the false explosions of some of them on down grade.

Styles – even of noise – change.

From 1963:

How times change –

Golly recalls sixty years ago investing in a hand numbering machine while publishing the Cross Fork News. That small bit of equipment cost $14 and mind you, that was real money in my small printing office.

The thrill of such a machine in that day was greater than the recent purchase of a paper cutter by the Enterprise, even though the new machine to cut paper cost over $3,000.

That seems to be the difference between 1903 and 1963.

Wonder what sixy years more – 2023 – will be like!

   

Newsprint

The blog post (posted on my blog here) began like this:

This morning, on Facebook - today's substandard substitute for a morning newspaper on your doorstep - these words appeared on a glowing screen, such a far cry from the crackling newsprint of old.

"Smile on, good friends, smile on in spite of it all, for your smile is a sign to others, a life not beaten down, a hope still resilient, a love at work, your smile speaks all that and more, so smile on, in your courage and conviction, smile today that others may smile tomorrow." -- from the writing of Bishop Steven Charleston

But then, my months of writing practice took me here:

Newsprint - does anyone even know about newsprint anymore?

Newsprint, not quite white, not tan, more on the yellowy side, the color of the wood from whence it came. I wonder if there's a Sherwin Williams color swatch named newsprint?

Newsprint, hefty enough to accept ink on both sides but flimsy too. 

Olfactory like so many memories, it's dry, dusty, absorbing not just the ink but the smokiness of the print shop. Cigarette smoke, the lead pots, and the gritty stuff that sat next to the sink to clean inkstained hands.

Newsprint in heavy rolls arrived in the alley that ran next to rambling old newspaper building on a big truck, likely from Hammermill or International Paper, but all who could remember that are gone now.

Those days the newspaper was printed in house, the huge machine taking up much of that rambling building. When there wasn't enough paper on the roll to handle the press run, the end rolls were pulled off and used for other purposes.

Of course, in a print shop, every scrap of paper was used in some way. It was recycling before it was a thing. Trimmings from printing jobs made into notepads, sold at the counter for a dime. Jobs that were mis-printed still had one good side for copy paper or in-house notepads.

And so it was with the newsprint end rolls, cut into 8 1/2 x 11 size for copy paper, used by the reporters who fed it into trusty Underwood typewriters on their scarred desktops.

Cut to size for the proof press - for those long strips delivered to the proofreader to read and mark up for correction.

End rolls were also offered up for sale, popular with churches for table coverings, and with Scout leaders for paper crafts. Sometimes our bulky Christmas gifts were wrapped in newsprint. 

And the old man who sat at the big rolltop desk wrote copy in his distinctive script with a thick-leaded pencil on newsprint.

Some of those pages, brittle, yellowed, some chewed by silverfish or mice, are with me now. And I've set my computer to the typewriter font  - Courier - as words, his words, glow on the screen.

 

 

Loose Boards

This morning, on Facebook - today's substandard substitute for a morning newspaper on your doorstep - these words appeared on a glowing screen, such a far cry from the crackling newsprint of old.

"Smile on, good friends, smile on in spite of it all, for your smile is a sign to others, a life not beaten down, a hope still resilient, a love at work, your smile speaks all that and more, so smile on, in your courage and conviction, smile today that others may smile tomorrow."* 

And there it was again, what wise writer friend Jeannette Buck described as the loose board of grief. Cue Bugs Bunny warning his fellow Looney Tunes compatriots of that board only to make one mis-step - SMACK!!!

I miss her.

Above is the post I intended to write - the post that came to mind when I read Steven Charleston's morning inspiration, celebrating the smile that defined my mother. 

And I began and finished but here's where my wild mind took off - that writing mind that I've been training in years (gulp!!) of writing practice.

This morning, on Facebook - today's substandard substitute for a morning newspaper on your doorstep - these words appeared on a glowing screen, such a far cry from the crackling newsprint of old.

Newsprint - does anyone even know about newsprint anymore?

.... you're going to have to wait a bit to read where my wild mind went!