Freewrite For An Urgent Time

A Sunbeam, A Sunbeam

Jesus Wants Me For A Sunbeam

A sunbeam, a sunbeam

I'll be a sunbeam for Him

I interrupt my regularly scheduled program to bring you this piece below, started this week in an online writing practice group "Freewrites For Urgent Times - a space to write through the anger and grief of these times." 

That day I chose to let 'er rip,  no good, no bad, no comment, no filter. It came from a place of deep grief and fear and anger after watching the President of the United States speeching the most hateful, spiteful untruths on the world stage. I turned it off, walked out on the back porch in my fuzzy bathrobe and stood in the cold stillness, watching the birds at the feeder and breathed in the cold, cold air. Air so cold it hurt, a physical pain to muffle the crashing waves of fear.

I've experienced that particular kind of gut-punch fear before, a fear borne of realizing you, a sole human being, have no control over what's happening. Of course, I've lived long enough to know there is little control in most of life but my first awareness was what history calls the Cuban Missile Crisis. I remember lying in my bed that night with the thought that there was a very real possibility that the dread mushroom cloud would appear over Consistory Hill. I was physically ill, the aforementioned gut-punch that sent me down the hall to the bathroom in secret.

And now, this woman, removed by many years from that little girl on North East Street, greeted the faces in the Zoom boxes, earnest and stalwart. There was a poem to get us started as often happens. And though I didn't write down the name of the poet nor did I copy the poem in its entirety, here are the words of another upon which I composed this essay.

"I pick flowers for my dead father when I'm sad..."

The Father, The Son, The Holy Ghost - but these days I prefer to think Source, Word, Spirit. But it was the Father who was the God I was instructed to worship in many years of Sunday School at the Presbyterian Church. God Of Our Fathers, Holy, Holy, Holy, A Mighty Fortress.

Sunday School, every year the gift of a little bar to hang from the second year wreath that circled the pin presented that first year of Sunday School. The little girl with her toothpick legs sticking out from underneath the full skirt plumped with some kind of stiff crinoline fabric. Wearing a Sunday dress created by my mother on her old treadle Singer sewing machine, sometimes trimmed with lace carefully salvaged from clothing that had been someone else's.

White Jesus with the flowing brown hair, the Sunday School Jesus who loves me, who wants me for a sunbeam. Listen to the echoes of our feet tromping to the basement, down those winding stairs to the concrete floor in the space that always smelled a little musty except when it was steamy from the cooking for congregational dinners, those elaborate meals served on the plates that still rest in the cupboards down there - at least one hundred of them.

The father - that God enlisted as a battering ram these days. Much like the battering rams employed against the outraged in Minneapolis. The battering rams and guns used against the humans, the Christians and Jews and Muslins and Agnostics and Atheists standing against the masked thugs sent by our government - a government supposed to be of the people, by the people, for the people.

Much like the battering rams carried by the thugs who waved the Appeal To Heaven flag on January 6. That same flag that hangs outside Mike Johnson's office and flaps in the breeze at Samuel Alito's beach house.  This God , they tell me, has chosen this man, this Donald J. Trump. And Donald J. Trump - the golden idol  from the top of his golden hair to his gold burnished skin, sitting in a gilded office, shitting in a golden toilet, building a golden temple onto the people's house. That god is a dead father.

The dead father commanding that the males are in charge. With the women waiting for them, and on them, following their bidding, offering up their little girls to pleasure them, plumping their breasts and their lips to command attention. Their lips like machine guns, he says.  All in the name of their dead father.

I am so sad, so very sad but there are no flowers for the dead father in this cold, lonely, desolate, hopeless winter.

Quadrupeds

Tamias Striatus in the Nine Mile Valley.

Recorded in the summer of 2022, and perhaps a descendant of Golly's long ago furry friends

My brother Steven J. Heimel, commented on a recent post in which I featured our grandfather's musings about mice in his Nine Mile camp. Steve writes:. "It is worthy to note that Golly spent much time enjoying the chipmunks that lived in the woodpile. I am sure he wrote about them. A really cool thing about chipmunks is that if you hold very still they will run right on you sometimes. I think he would try to feed them by hand."

Here's a selection of chipmunk posts from the Golly column.

1943

Chipmunks! For a long time just one frisked about the shack in the wilds. A second one appeared. He - or she - was very welcome, but ...

Holy Moses, last weekend we counted five at one time feasting on the surplus pancakes and the corn from the garden that grew too big for green corn.

Last spring we planted plenty of sunflowers in the corn patch intending to take the large seed heads to the wilds for the chipmunks and squirrels and birds, but we must exercise some care and judgment else we build a Frankenstein monster.

1944

After roaming the woods for years and years, what we DO NOT know of the flora and fauna of Potter County would make a tremendous volume if all assembled in one huge book. If we could live to be one thousand years of age, and we were studious all the time, we would know something, sometime.

We have only recently learned that the scientific name of our Nine Mile chipmunk is "tamias striatus." (You pronounce it – we stutter).

The western section of the U.S.A. has a larger 'munk and his handle is "etamias minimus."

1951

The Golly guy took to the deep woods and communed with the birds and animals. Chipmunks frisked about the woodpile and dined on the waste popcorn material from Popcorn Joe's stand in the theatre building. They loved the stuff. They ate it up.

1958

A couple of bushels of black walnuts for the chipmunks! Golly assumes authority to speak for the inarticulate denizens of the picturesque Nine Mile Valley and to express most profuse thanks for the contribution. Betcha it will mean nice rounded bellies and sleek smooth fur for Golly's wards, along with sweet dreams when Old Mother Nature turns off the gas and sends the winds howling through the valley and over the mountains.

September 1964

When Golly built Folly in the Nine Mile Valley – long time ago, 1930 – there were plenty of chipmunks in the vicinity. By giving them a variety of food – bread, sunflower and other seeds – they became very tame. They were more than welcome.

It was a pleasure to watch them take the seeds from a large sunflower head hung in a nearby tree. There was a boss in the group. He would get to the source of supply and take his time, shelling the seeds and filling his pouches. When he could hold no more he had to go to his cache to make a deposit.

Then the rank and file made for the head and they did no shucking. They filled their pouches as quickly as possible and woe to the tardy ones when the big boss appeared.

For a long time the cute little striped fellows furnished amusement. Then something happened but we could never understand it. The flock became small for a year or two and then no chipmunks at all.

For a long time Golly has mourned the loss of those pleasing little quadrupeds but no matter how tempting the offered food there are no chipmunks at Golly's Folly.

By the summer of 1965, Golly's Folly had been sold and, with advancing age, he was content to make the acquaintance of chipmunks on North Main Street.

From 1968 

Golly played a lot of baseball Saturday while sitting on the patio. It is a question which was more interesting - the ball games or the antics of our pet chipmunk. Golly gives his vote to the little quadruped. He carried away scores of peanuts and hickory nuts.

This was the first time this summer we have had so much time to observe the little pet so closely. He must have a big cache of food hidden away.

It was interesting to watch the chipmunk wrestle with a large ear of corn twice as big as the ground squirrel. He had to work hard to loosen even one kernel. Then we would give him a helping hand and do some shelling. The little fellow would fill both pouches and make off only to gather more kernels.

Before the close of the second afternoon we became better acquainted. Dozens of times he ran over Golly's feet.

Later that summer –

Golly's pet chipmunk, Bright Eyes, made the mistake of grabbing this scribe's finger instead of a peanut. The cute little fellow climbed on Golly's lap for the nut. It was a small nut and the small creature made a mistake in his haste. The tiny but sharp teeth started a bit of blood.

Golly was more at fault than Bright Eyes as he was hanging to the nut and the little fellow was anxious to win the nut.

No stitches were required to close the wound.

A Candidate For The Nut Factory?

 

The softer side of "Golly" from 1943.

The writer has a sense of guilt. He has had that feeling since along in the fall.

Maybe, when you have read the "why," you will think he is really possessed of a sense of justice, or maybe you will think him a well-qualified candidate for a nut factory. Judge him as you see fit.

Last fall - probably in November - we made a trip to the shack in the Nine Mile. Sort of a farewell trip until such time as the snow and ice melt and the buds begin to swell.

A cupboard door was slightly open, enough so mice could get inside. When the door was opened wide, down came a shower of black cherry pits.

The pits were scraped out (fully three quarts of them) and dumped in the fireplace. Never had we seen such a store of pits although we had often seen the halves of the pits scattered around

Later we were thinking about the family of white footed mice or deer mice. It was then we were troubled - still are.

Here was a family that had worked long and faithfully to lay aside a food store for winter. How many hundred trips had been made from the black cherry trees just outside to the storehouse, one could not even guess, but many hours must have been spent in the work.

No doubt the White Foots were proud of their labors and felt secure against the time when snow and ice would hide what pits might still be left on the ground, when food of any kind would be hard to find.

Suddenly, when the family was dreaming of peace and plenty for the long winter months, along comes a giant – a monster – an ogre. He scrapes up all that food and destroys it, almost in the twinkling of an eye. The more we thought of that act of thoughtlessness the more it has troubled us.

Suppose for a moment we had made a garden and worked hard to plant, to cultivate and harvest the food crops. Suppose we had stored the potatoes and turnips, and canned the beets and beans and corn. Suppose suddenly a giant appears, scoops the whole supply and wantonly destroys it!

To our mind the cases are parallel. We regret deeply having robbed so insignificant a living creature as a tiny white foot mouse.

No trial do we ask. We plead guilty and throw ourselves on the mercy of the court.

Little Mechanical Bandits

National Public Radio had a piece on the air over the weekend about parking meters and it reminded me of these snippets I've collected from my grandfather's "Golly" column over the years.

January 1947, Week One:

Parking meters in Coudersport  – horse feathers!
Now let's build a subway for two or three blocks!

January 1947, Week Two:

Paying $79.50 for a parking meter worth at the most only $14.50 is the height of damphoolishness. If you buy 125 of the pesky things that would make a grand total of $8,125 thrown down the sewer.  

P.T. Barnum was right when he said there was one born every minute

.January 1947, Week Three:

Think of it – $10,000 worth of meters! The Council proposes to have 125 (approximately) of the meters installed. The cost is $79.50 each.
The meter consists of a little machine, less complicated than a cheap alarm clock, a piece of iron pipe four or five feet long and a box of cement on the lower end. The whole cost of supplying and installing should not be over $14.50.
But the price is $79.50 each.
Why $65 profit for the meter concern on each machine – even if the blooming things were needed at all which we seriously doubt.

It just doesn't make sense regardless of how many cities and towns have been suckers.

The fact that so many municipalities have installed meters is evidence of quantity production and makes the outlandish price just that much more ridiculous.

May 1947

The parking meters are working in Coudersport. They were particularly conspicuous Monday morning. The town looked like a deserted village, but there were plenty of parking meters visible.

Later May 1947

The meters are installed and operating. Most people cuss 'em. Occasionally a ticket is handed out by Officer Paul Richert. One of the first tickets went to Street Commissioner Chilson. He had gathered up the collected coins and was making a count. The meter at the stall where his car was parked showed red. He received a ticket.

Officer Richert is off to the right start. If Coudersport is to have meters – and i sure does have them – the regulations should be enforced to all alike.

There must be no favoritism shown to a borough employee or any official regardless of his rank.

January 1948

Parking meters exit from Coudersport. Golly is glad the borough council has acted and settled the matter. It has been a controversial subject for some eight months. That's long enough!

February 1948

The heads of the parking meters have been removed. You no longer have to pay for parking a car in Coudersport. As soon as the weather condition permit, the iron pipes that held the meters will be removed and parking meters in Coudersport will be only a memory.
Golly cannot have sympathy for those who champion those little mechanical bandits.

August 1952

Like 'em or not, looks like the borough council is going to stuff parking meters down the throats of the public even though 78 percent have indicated they do not want them.
Who says this is a glorious country where the majority rules?
Of all the nerve! Pure unadulterated nerve! Members of Coudersport's borough council have it.
In face of the fact that 78 percent of the people in and near Coudersport are opposed to parking meters, the council voted to install them.

It takes guts to do a trick like that. It should also be remembered that parking meters were installed here some years ago on a trial basis and, after a few weeks, the public arose in righteous indignation, attended a council meeting and demanded the meters be removed.

THEY WERE REMOVED.

How can men in the right minds, servants of the public go so strongly against the wishes of the people who had sufficient confidence in their honesty to elect them to office, act as the council members acted Tuesday evening.
Can you answer that question? We cannot.

April 1953

Parking meters! That troublesome old subject keeps popping up to give a headache to at least 75 percent of the people of Coudersport and vicinity.
Right now some 60 businessmen have signed a petition protesting the installation of the pesky things. It will be presented to borough council at its next meeting.
Something like a year ago the Enterprise carried a survey with coupons published in this paper. The returns were 78 to 22 percent opposed to meters.
A parking meter salesman  stated to this writer: "Coudersport has no parking problem and does not need meters. However, if the town wants them, I'll be glad to sell them."
In the face of all this the old problem keeps showing its ugly head. It should also be remembered that meters were installed here at one time and when the trial period expired they were taken out.

The people do not want them. Why must we be plagued with the same old problem?

July 1954

Had to laugh a little at a Genesee man who had his troubles with parking meters Monday. He deposited a dime. Nothing happened. He produced another with the same result.
The man was worried. He did not want to violate the law.
At long last he found the meters work only with pennies or nickels. he could put dimes in the pesky things all day and they would be like water in a sieve.

And finally, this published in December 1956

Golly fought parking meters in Coudersport . They came after a while and Golly later made up his mnd that he had been wrong – as usual.

You see, our own people were at fault for their being installed. Merchant, clerks and office workers all had to park their cars on the main business streets. They left no space for shoppers.
The meters came. All those business people, clerks and what have you, could then find parking space in side streets or back of their places of business.
Now there is room for shoppers and strangers. The parking cost is negligible.

I fed a a quarter into a mechanical bandit in downtown Coudersport and smiled!

The Apple Doesn't Fall Far ...

Anyone who knew my mother might recognize her voice from this piece written by her father "Golly" when he was in his late 80s.

What a disposition Golly has!

He bought an electric blanket. The card to be mailed to the manufacturer to make good the two-year guaranty, riled his disposition.

"What called this blanket to your attention?
"From whom did you buy it?"
"Where?"
"Do you have any other automatic blankets?"
"Single or double control?"
"What did you pay for it?"

    Etc., etc., etc.

Golly had to give his life history – how many children he had and do they go to school? Probably he should have told the firm that he burns natural gas and he is not delinquent on taxes.

The next purchase we make will not be from that manufacturer!

 

 

Good Morning

More happy, charming writing from another age - post World War II America.

"Good morning."

How differently different people say those two words!

Good morning from
Crandall Hill
January 11, 2026

There's the person who puts sunshine in a voice regardless of how dreary or stormy the weather, and there's a crab who emits the words as though he might be in agony and wants all mankind to suffer the bitter depths of despondency.

Between these two there are all accents and shades of voice including the bored person who speaks with an effort and the one who tries to be pleasant with no very marked degree of success.

Some accent the first word, "GOOD morning," and some the last, "Good MORNING," and others both words, "GOOD MORNING."

How do you say Good Morning?

-- written by W.D. Fish for his "Golly" column, circa 1945

His "Cheesy" Memory

I need something charming to take my mind away from the dark place it's been this year - this 2026 when we're instructed not to believe our eyes.  This piece, written by my grandfather in 1947 (when he was 71), fits the bill. 

A few days ago the Golly guy munched fresh, crisp crackers and some excellent snappy cheese. Nothing very strange about that.

The point was that it brought back over the years a memory – an exciting experience – exciting for a country boy of nine or ten years of age.

This little lad resided where there was no railroad and even the thought of a train of cars made his blood tingle. He was invited by a neighboring farmer to journey to a town nine miles distant, the trip to be made on a load of hemlock bark being hauled to a tannery. That tannery passed from the industrial scene long ago.

The lad's mother gave her consent and early the next morning Calvin Jones said Giddap to "Kit" and "Ned" and the adventure began, the boy stocked with coin of the realm to the amount of one thin but precious dime.

The trip up through the long winding Hazletine Gully, over the rolling farm highlands and down Quigg Hollow, took hours that seemed almost interminable. The roads were all of earth, well seasoned with sand and cobble stones of various sizes.

Farmer Jones entertained with stories and commented on the crops of oats, corn and potatoes, and at one point along the way by an orchard there was a box mounted on the fence. It bore the legend "Hungry Box – Help Yourself."

Harvest apples, Golden Sweets and Red Astercans* The last variety may not be spelled correctly but that how it sounded to the boy. The apples were ripe, mellow and delicious. They helped to pass the dragging time as the heavily loaded wagon jolted over the long miles.

At last the village of Andover (N.Y.) could be seen in the distance with its several church spires pointing toward the zenith.

A thrill surely!

 

But down the valley as far as could be seen there was smoke. It was appearing great back puffs and then – a train of cars!

It was a long freight train. A locomotive headed the train, and as it neared, a pusher could be seen at the rear laboring mightily up the grade.

Farmer Jones explained that pushers were stationed at Wellsville to help the heavy trains over Tip Top Summit four miles east of Andover.

At long last our heavy load arrived at the tannery and the boy was on his own for the period of time required to unload the bark. Timidly he wended his way toward the railroad station. nearing that destination he heard an approaching train, and he ran with all the speed he could muster to be at the depot when the train arrived to get a close view of the smoke-belching iron monster and cars that it hauled down the western grade.

To his later regret he was winner of the race and was on the station platform when the locomotive came thundering along, followed by that great string of clattering cars. The noise and din were frightening. The youngster crouched against the locked door of the freight room terrified. He would gladly have given up that thin dime he treasured in the pocket of his knee pants to have been elsewhere – anywhere.

After what seemed like hours to the frightened lad, the train passed and faded into the distance, much to his relief. After he had recovered from his fright he realized he was hungry and he must find a place to make a purchase of crackers and cheese. A kindly grocer by the name of Beebe must have been generous in serving his small and timid ten-cent customer as the paper bag was well filled, and later munched to the entire satisfaction of the customer.

The memory of that repast lingers even to this day. Never does the Golly scribe nibble crackers and cheese but he thinks of that distant day of boyhood. 

The long homeward ride on the jolting lumber wagon is not so well remembered but home was reached just at nightfall after a day that was exciting and eventful. That night a tired kid drifted quickly to sleep to dream of iron monsters, snorting black smoke and white steam, while he feasted in his dreams on ripe red apples and crackers and cheese in huge quantities.

It is a delightful memory to this day.

*Red Astrachan (a Russian variety) made its way to North American via Sweden and England and arrived in North America in 1835, soon recognized for hardiness, vigor, quality and early bearing. Because of its short season and keeping qualities, it is not widely grown today.