100 Hundred Guns At Sunrise

Today is the 250th birthday of the United States Of America! And as is fitting for a nation's birthday observance,  Americans have been putting together celebrations for all these many years.

Memories from his childhood in Allegany County, N.Y. were particularly vivid for my grandfather as he often shared his charming recollections through the years of his newspaper career.

From 1943 –

We'll soon celebrate the National Birthday – 147 years of freedom. Maybe we'll recite the Preamble to the Constitution:

"We, the people of the United States – "

On second thought, maybe we'd better not – takes too much space – or maybe memory might let us down.

Memory is good, however, on how we used to save pennies and nickels for weeks and weeks, when a youngster, so we could buy firecrackers, punk, torpedoes, a bag of candy and maybe a banana, on the Fourth of July.

And when there was a celebration in the country village it opened with "100 Guns at Sunrise."

This was proclaimed by huge posters in bright red and blue ink, with a screaming eagle clasping in its talons, banner inscribed "E Pluribus Unum."

There was a stirring patriotic address by the noted Mr. Somebody, a fantastic parade, dancing all day, a greased pig to catch and a greased pole to climb, ball game, sack race and three-legged race and a pie-eating contest!

Picture a bunch of boys voraciously devouring blackberry pie with copious quantities of sticky juice running down over their chins.

Fireworks in the evening was the culminating event of the day. That was something else again.

But the day came to an end – as all good things must end. Dogged tired and with singed eyebrows, hands blistered here and there, we went wearily to bed, the day done but the memory to live on and on!

Do boys of today get as much pleasure from anticipation and the same joy of realization of the Fourth of July, and will the event remain green in memory's storehouse – we wonder – we hope so.

He wrote this one in 1967, those long-ago childhood memories still vivid in his early 90s.

An old time Fourth of July celebration poster – 

Ever see one printed in red and blue ink on white stock? Probably not unless you are an antique biped or there may be one in the vast collection of ancient relics in the archives of the County Historical Society, and that is unlikely.

This scribe remembers such sheets. As a matter of fact, he had a part in printing some of them.

To this day he can picture them with a huge screaming spread eagle and in large type "One Hundred Guns At Sunrise!"

Some of the attractions and contests were: Fantastic parade, music by cornet band, martial band, bicycle races, foot races, sack races, three-leg races; catching a greased pig with the pig the prize; climbing greased pole, with five dollar bill at the top for the prize; square dancing.

There was pink lemonade and peanuts, and usually a tight rope walker. For a big celebration there was usually a balloon ascension. And remember "excursion rates on all railroads." After all of these attractions and probably others this old timer may have forgotten, there was a "spectacular pyrotechnical display."

Even then there was dancing until dawn with fiddles supplying the rhythm and caller crying "salute your partner, balance all and grand right and left."

Of course these were descriptions of celebrations when Golly was a boy, and that was a long time ago –

It was before the advent of the gas buggy, when railroads transported people or horses hauled them about or –

They walked.

Maybe the younger set of today may think life was dull 75 years ago but they are just as wrong as though they had burned their shirt tails. 

Fourth Of July Victory Celebration!

In the year 1946, Coudersport planned a huge celebration for the July 4 holiday. With the long World War II just ended, there were even more reasons to celebrate. The newspaper headline related: 

Plan For Crowd of 7,000 At Fourth Of July
Victory Celebration; Arrangements Complete

The newspaper story on June 27 went on to describe all the preparations: 

High school bands, American Legion units and firemen from ten nearby towns are expected to compete for $150 in cash prizes at the Fourth of July Victory Celebration here.

With arrangements nearly complete, the celebration committee devoted itself Monday to combing a list of eligibles for workers to staff stands and ticket booths. It is expected that 150 men and women will volunteer for four- and six-hour shifts.

Athletic events for children will be directed by Harold B. VonNieda, a local merchant and former high school coach. Cash prizes will be awarded winners.

Edward D. Fisher is general chairman of the event.

With more than 1,000 veterans back in civilian clothes in Potter County and ready for a long-deferred good time on native soil, sie of the crowd has at no time been a question mark. The big 'if' has been in the corraling of enought wieners, sugar, rolls and bead, soft drinks, ham, butter and other hard-to-get foodstuffs to meet the anticipated demand. Nearly one half ton of frankfurters has bee contracted for. hundreds of cases of soda pop are already warehoused here with more arriving almost daily. Receipts of candy, crackerjack and chewing gum for the celebration already exceed the limit set by the committee.

Prizes purchased for distribution at the affair total nearly $2,500. Given away at night will be an electric washer, electric mixer, toaster, butter, cartridges, nylon hosiery and two bicycles. According to present plans, more than 250 pairs of nylons will be distributed.

A troupe of performing monkeys is expected to be an outstanding attraction. 

Are you wondering how it went, that big celebration 80 summers ago in Mitchell Park? Here's how it was reported the next week:

A record throng, observing the first peacetime Independence Day  infive years last Thursday, attended the victory celebration at Coudersport.

Held under the auspices of the Coudersport Community Association Inc., the celebration marked not only the independence of the nation, but a big stride toward the civic group's declared goal  sufficient funds to erect a recreation hall and pavilion for the use of Potter Countians.*

Ideal weather helped attract the crowd which by early afternoon overflowed the park. Those who came later found queues at the refreshment stands and at the three rides. Food ran low as the day wore on. Cold cuts were served in hot dog buns after the supply of wieners was exhausted. But these troubles did not dampen the enthusiasum of the celebrants.

Winners of the various contests and prizes were detailed here:

* The Coudersport Community Association was successful in its fund raising goal though it took several more years to raise the $15,000 necessary to construct the Coudersport Community Building which opened in 1950. That building continues to serve the community as the Coudersport Public Library.

R-O-T-A-R-Y, That Spells Rotary!

This photograph was in my mother's collection, slightly yellowed and no writing on the back to tell the story. I recognized my grandfather on the right, and it's noticeable that he's wearing a hat that says Coudersport. Was it taken at a Consistory Reunion? Or perhaps one of the Newspaper Publishing Association conventions? 

I filed it away in the thick blue file where I have saved other photos of this man - this W.D. Fish - father of my mother.

When Coudersport Rotary celebrated its centennial in 2024, I came across a personal history my grandfather wrote to tell the story of the local club's founding. That story was written in 1967 when he was 91 and while he was an honored guest at the Rotary meeting when his story was told, he tapped family friend, Rev. Robert Merten, himself a Rotarian, to read it to the group.

Hidden in that newspaper account, came the clue I needed to solve the mystery behind this photo!

And today I was the one who had the privilege of sharing my grandfather's story with the Coudersport Rotary Club, still going strong 102 years later!

Here's a portion of his story: 

A Rotary seed found fertile soil in Coudersport in the summer of 1923. It fell but did not germinate until early in 1924. It then took root and quickly became a healthy plant, become more sturdy all the 43 years since. It has produced many splendid blossoms and much valuable fruit, and it is still in production to this day. 

The Yellow Bowl Tea Room stood on Main Street (where Citizens and Northern Bank is today).  This writer visited the tea room for lunch on a Thursday noon, publication day for the Enterprise. A stranger was seated at a table. 

A copy of the Potter Enterprise, hot off the printing press, was handed to the man and it resulted in a conversation. Always ready to give the town a bit of a boost, I told, among other interesting points, that the town was famous for its prominence in Masonic fraternal circles over a very wide area.

My newly-found friend stated he was not a Mason but he was a Rotarian. Never having heard of such an organization, I asked questions. He told of what Rotary did, especially for crippled children and I was much impressed.

Asked if a town of 3,000, like Coudersport, could have such a club, he admitted he did not know but the information would be available from the secretary of Rotary International in Chicago. A letter was written to Chicago and quickly came a reply with printed information, and a promise I would hear soon from Rock Boyce, secretary of the Wellsville Rotary Club, within 32 miles of Coudersport.

Action came quickly. Within two or three days in breezed a bright, keen young man with the announcement, “I am Rock Boyce, secretary of the Wellsville Rotary Club.”

It was reported in the newspaper under the headline “A Live Wire Visitor”

Rock Boyce of the Boyce Hardware Company of Wellsville was a business visitor in town Tuesday. Rock is not only a live wire in his business but he finds time to boost all projects that benefit his town and community. For instance, he is secretary of the Wellsville Rotary Club and while in Coudersport, he scattered a quantity of Rotary Germs that may mean such an institution for Coudersport.

There was a winter slack in progress but by the last of March, 1924, with the Rotary year then ending April 1, the Wellsville Rotary Officers were anxious to form the new club during their term of office. A dozen or more members of the club came to Coudersport and Coudersport Club was established on the last day of March. But what a trip that was! The hard-surfaced road from Wellsville came only as far as Stannards and the macadam from Coudersport extended only four miles north. The 25 miles between was a sea of mud. 

The convention of Rotary International was held in Toronto that year, 1924. Probably because of my activity in the organization in the local club, I was selected delegate. I joined the Wellsville delegation at Toronto. The charter for the Coudersport Club had just been granted and this made me the delegate youngest among the thousands.

The official photographer captured a picture of the oldest and the youngest delegates. The picture appeared in The Rotarian Magazine, giving Coudersport considerable publicity.

There's the answer behind this photo of my jaunty-looking grandfather! Today, thanks to the miracle of the internet, I was able to locate a digital copy of the August 1924 Rotarian with this very picture and explanation.

Blooming and Burning

The world is both burning and blooming. That was part of the prompt for a recent session of Voices Rising, an online community where I gather with a small group to explore with my words the anger, grief and fire of these urgent times. In those 12 minutes, I composed much of this and later refined my thoughts as a Baltimore oriole perched on a dead branch at the top of the birch tree, catching the sun and sending his song out into the world.

The world is on fire and I feel chilled. That kind of chill that brings shivers from deep within, I struggle to find warmth. The world is on fire and I'm cold. Freezing cold, chilled to the bone, cold in my soul, cold to my community, cold to myself.

They call it dissociation, those wise people who can sometimes help the rest of us find our way. Defined as experiencing a loss of connection between thoughts, memories, feelings, surroundings, behavior, identity - that's dissociation.

Dissociation – closing my eyes and ears and singing "La, la, la, la" at the top of my lungs. But still I can't wish it away. Dissociation – the world is on fire and we avoid the fire, avoid learning of the latest assault on humanity unleashed by that sad excuse for a human who was handed the Presidency through a well-planned and executed campaign of lies, deceit and fraud. And then, it happened again, the campaign for the hearts and minds of Americans even more carefully planned and executed so he could grab and amass even more power, in ever more sinister and corrupt ways.

The man who called President Biden "Sleepy Joe" now nods off soon after his ample rear end is lowered thunderously into the gilded chair in the gilded office. Surrounded by his yes-men, and yes-women who court favor by praising his name (like some evangelical Christians praising the name of Jesus). Those people opening their mouths to repeat the best-selling, well-rehearsed talking points. It's at a point where it would be a comedy skit if it weren't frighteningly and chillingly real.

The man who called into question President Biden's mental acuity, himself not able to put together a coherent string of thoughts. Instead of focusing on how he can govern and lead the country with its three branches of government, he instead focuses on revenge and retribution. He's said he doesn't care about inflation, about the prices we all have to pay to fund his wars - but didn't he promise no more wars? Meanwhile, his family coffers grow and grow as nations and corporations and the worst among us "pay to play" with Donny and his blood-sucking minions.

The world is on fire and we're coerced into joining the celebration of this corpse of a human's birthday. What a celebration - watching people beating one another to pulp in a bizarre structure erected amid the marble and granite memorials in our nation's capital expressly to remind us of the accomplishments and sacrifices of the best of us. This man, this President, is the worst of us.

The United States of America is our nation, belonging to each of us, we were told as schoolchildren. We, the bright-eyed youngsters, dressed in our new clothes for the first day of school, pledging allegiance to the flag for the first time in first grade, so proud? And the lucky kid who held the flag as we said those words, turning to reverently replace it on the little hook at the corner of the blackboard.

I wasn't chilly then. Then, looking up to the office of President. "I Like Ike" we said and my people did like Ike, especially my father who flew bombing missions as a tailgunner in World War II. And later, my people voted for Nixon, though I wonder if my mother quietly filled in the square next to the name of John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Looking up to and trusting the rest of the Presidents who came later, some good, some bad, some who earned our votes and others who did not. But, in my lifetime, none like this man elected on the strength of hate, grabbing power by manipulating emotions.

I need more reminders of the blooming, not the burning. I see the oriole in the tree, and images of my faraway grandchildren exploring their 21st century worlds with delight, and this morning the sound of Arthur singing and playing the piano downstairs. And with those reminders, I can believe there will be an end to this man's madness, his cruelty, his utter lack of regard for anything that is true and good. And I can believe that once more, we will claim that truth and goodness.

The World Is Both Burning and Blooming

by Karen Salmonsohn

You get the bad news

and the sunrise in the same day.

You cry over the headlines,

then you laugh at a baby

wearing a hat shaped like a bear.

This is the dual citizenship

of being alive.

Rage and reverence,

Grief and grace.

You are allowed to feel both.

You are allowed to scream,

and still notice how good the soup is.

You don’t have to choose.

Let it all in.

Founder's Day

It was in 1876 on this date that a baby was born in Coudersport who would change the fortune of Potter County for generations to come. He was Charles Cole, benefactor of the fine hospital that still bears a shadow of his name, today known UPMC Cole.

My newspaperman grandfather wrote of his friend and contemporary Mr. Cole: "Charlie Cole, a Coudersport boy not so many years ago, made a fabulous fortune. He left it to the town and county where he first saw the light of day. Golly is delighted that Charles Cole hung onto his pennies, nickels and dimes until at the time of his passing, his fortune was maybe ten million dollars. He had seen much in his life but always he loved his home town and county. He proved it when he left his great wealth to restore health and preserve the lives of Potter Countians."

There are many stories told about this Potter County hero - Charles Cole. He made his fortune at IBM and accumulated enough wealth to retire back to Potter County in the 1920s, still a young man.

Mary Domaleski wrote in a biography of Mr. Cole, published in The Potter Enterprise for the new hospital's dedication: "Charles Cole was a retiring man, a mystery man, reluctant to reveal to the public his many philanthropic deeds to indigent friends or strangers. He loved to fish and to hunt and spent any hours in his camp near the Wingerter farm at Cross Fork. He named it Daniel Boone Camp for it was presumed that it was constructed on a trail that Daniel Boone once traveled. It was on his many trips through the Potter County countryside that he became keenly aware of the destitute, the desolate, andt he distance they had to travel for medical aid and comfort. He felt this neglect must be overcome." 

Mr. Cole's will made provisions for the bulk of his estate (some estimates say as much as $9 million) to fund the construction of a hospital upon the death of his widow. Mrs. Cole was persuaded that the community deserved the hospital her husband had endowed sooner rather than later and the fine, sprawling Charles Cole Memorial Hospital opened in the fall of 1967.

Mrs. Cole remarked during the dedication: "It is a joy seeing the fulfillment of the dream of my late husband. Today Charlie's dream is a reality, a reality that demonstrates one man's concern for the welfare of his brothers, and is a reminder of those words of grace, 'May God bless us and make us mindful of the needs of others'." 

A former co-worker at Charles Cole Memorial Hospital messaged me this morning to remind me that today is the day we annually celebrated as Founder's Day. Mr. Cole's birthday celebration included refreshments, prepared by the Hospital's Dietary Department and served by volunteers from the active Hospital Auxiliary. Mr. Cole's widow, Edith Pinney Cole Leonard Irwin, would be front and center as special guest, greeted by Hospital Administrators and staff and the community.

I stopped by UPMC Cole this afternoon, wondering if perhaps I would happen upon a Founder's Day celebration in progress but the only sign of Charles Cole was a large oil portrait hanging in the lobby of the hospital and its predecessor, a smaller version of the painting, unearthed a few years ago, and hung in the hallway where donors are recognized. And this plaque, hung during my time as Public Relations Director at our fine community hospital. 

The Golly's Folly Sign

Writing practice - a la Natalie Goldberg - harnesses stream of consciousness and when in practice, I'm letting my brain travel where it will, finding the words and then moving them through the mechanics of handwriting onto the notebook page. It's then I remember some random snippets from a long-ago childhood. And such it is with "Snuffy" Smith and the Shirey family and the Golly's Folly sign.

It's at the top of mind this month because Mrs. Shirey (I simply cannot bring myself to call her by her first name - Edith or even Edie) is soon to be celebrating her 100th birthday and the family is planning a card shower as part of the celebration. It's the Shireys' oldest son, Thomas Tucker Shirey, who went all through school with me and just a few years ago sat on my back porch and reminisced about all things childhood - as we tend to do when celebrating the 55 years since high school graduation.

Tommy Shirey could spin a good story, a story good enough to keep his classmates entertained and enthralled. Even the teachers were tolerant of his storytelling. Tommy's stories were long and sometimes convoluted and often involved tales of his little brother, Herbie, and someone called Snuffy Smith. 

For the longest time, I thought Tom's Snuffy was the person, the cartoon character on the comics page of my parents' Buffalo Evening News. But it turns out that "Snuffy" was the nickname of Mr. Shirey's childhood chum and he and his family were frequent visitors to the Shirey home.

But it all became somewhat more clear to me when this sign appeared on the back porch of our family camp. To this eight-year-old, it was bright and cheerful hanging over the flagstone porch, painted by "Snuffy" Smith.

From an article in The Potter Enterprise, September 1958

Bill Smith ("Snuffy), Freedom, Pa., paid a call to Golly Saturday afternoon. He was accompanied by his brother, Jack, and Bob Butcher, Conway, Pa. The trio was guided by "Buzz" Shirey.

What a quartet that made!

"Snuffy" is an Enterprise reader and a Golly fan. And what do you know –

He brought to Golly a sign to be erected at Folly in the Nine Mile. It is a work of art!

Now he has Golly away out in deep water. How is Golly going to even scores? The answer to that one is going to cause this old timer to do some thinking – and doing.

Golly tried in his feeble way to express to "Snuffy" his thanks. Since the donor had never even seen Folly, we took a run over to get a quick look at the little woods abode, a glance at the tiny lake and a snort from the gushing spring of pure cold water, regretful that time was so limited. "Snuffy" pointed to the exact spot where the splendid sign should be erected and that is where it will be.

Wonder what better we could do than broil a thick juicy steak over charcoal and serve plenty of good coffee brewed in an old tin can, to "Snuffy!" –

And his brother, his friend and even to "Buzz" Shirey. 

From 1959 - 

"Snuffy" Smith of Freedom, Pa., accompanied by our own Buzz Shirey - they were boyhood friends – invaded the Nine Mile wilds Friday to extend a greeting.

"Snuffy" is an artist in the making of signs, and late last summer he brought a unique sign to be erected at Golly's Folly. We were so choice of it that we waited until this summer to erect it. That saved a long hard winter's toll of rain, sleet, snow and ice. He may have been checking up to learn if it was erected in the proper place and was plumb, level and square – or words to that effect.

However, we like to think he came to extend a friendly greeting, and right welcome were both callers.

The hired girl served coffee and Golly served sparkling spring water without sulphur flavor, and as a trio, we smoked the pipe of peace on the cottage porch.

That's the story of the Golly's Folly sign as I know it. Here's a printed piece of paper I unearthed from among my mother's things. That's my grandfather on the back porch, watching over the antics of two boys at the pond. I assume they're my cousins, Bill Fish III and Fred for it was likely a photo taken by Uncle Bill Fish but look closely to observe the sign in its "proper place."

A Shelter In The Woods

I've come across so many, many evocative stories my grandfather told about his 'shack in the woods' along the Nine Mile in Potter County. It was this piece, written in 1965 just after the camp had been sold, that sent me, again last week to that spot he so loved. And he sent me a couple of messengers to welcome my arrival on that sunny Sunday afternoon - two little chipmunks scampered in front of me as I made my way down the path, a special something tucked under my arm. (Read about his chipmunks here.)

Golly's Folly, aged 35 years, passed away Saturday. During its existence there were many joyous events, many happy gatherings of family and friends, some petty annoyances and one tragic conflagration that destroyed the original hideaway in the Nine Mile woodland, too the lives of two keen young men, and seriously burned two others. The fire occurred April 15, 1954.

Golly has striven for 11 years to erase that sad tragedy from his mind and Time has mercifully given its assistance.

The date of the lease of the land on which the original building was erected was April 23, 1930. That was a joyous day and every hour that could be spent away from duties of producing the Enterprise each week, was spent in clearing a spot in the woods, near a marvelous gushing spring of pure and almost ice-cold water, to erect a shelter.

Money was lacking to hire help and it was a case of do-it-yourself. There was the cutting of trees and the digging stumps with pickaxe, shovel and crowbar to clear a spot for the 16 x 24 camp.

A foundation was dug for a fireplace. When eventually a stone mason appeared to build the fireplace he hesitated about erecting one on a foundation he had not built, fearful it might not sustain the tons and tons of stone and brick. It stands today, true and level.

The brick for the chimney was from paving brick. It was at the time of Coudersport building a new bridge over the river on Second Street. The brick pavement was torn up 200 feet or more on either side of the new bridge and there was so much brick the borough did not know what to do with it. It was given away.

Golly paid only for hauling the brick to the cabin site and there it is still in service. It was surely a lucky break and it held down costs.

Lumber, much less expensive than at present, came from the mill of the Gray Chemical Company at Roulette. The late Monta C. Burt headed that industry. He was a good friend of Golly and made prices as low as possible. Cherry lumber was priced the same as hemlock.

Roofing and nails came from Taubert's Hardware, and the late James R. Taubert, another good friend, made prices reasonable as well as extending credit.

It was necessary to hire a carpenter to build door and window frames, but outside of this and mason work, it was amateur building all through.

How happy we were, before winter, to have the place enclosed and useable, and cheering flames heating and lighting it!

Having worked on a close budget, estimated at $500, we were again happy that we had exceeded that amount by only about $20. However for years there was the work of grading the grounds and seeding, planting evergreen trees – that deer destroyed – and scores of other jobs.

There were scores of parties – some mixed and some for men only – all happy gatherings.

Finally came a time when we envisioned a miniature lake. It was but a dream at first, but the dream eventually came true. It adds to the joy of living in the woods, to observc a wood duck or a beaver there, or a deer walking daintily to the small body of water for a drink, or to watch a kingfisher dive for a minnow or listen to a chorus of spring peepers trilling their mating song. The lake cost money and hours and hours of labor but is has been worth all of it.

When that sad day in April 1954 came, much was destroyed but the big chimney marked the spot, the lake was still there, and the wonderful spring was sending forth its ever-flowing cold water.

Golly pondered.

The small insurance was promptly paid but was only a pittance toward erecting a new building. The debris left was an awesome mess and building costs had doubled since 1930.

It was decided to rebuild, and with willing helpers of the family, the work was finally completed. It cost plenty but a much better building resulted.

But old relentless time has taken its toll and Golly is no longer able to spend time at Folly. It was decided to sell.

Saturday the deal was completed. There is no longer a Golly's Folly. Just as we had no further use for the sign, "Golly's Folly," it disappeared. A vandal evidently wanted it to add to his other tokens of thievery.

It was not easy to hand over the key in exchange for the good-sized check, but it was done. Now Golly must be content with the memories – wonderful memories – of 35 years of his folly in building a shelter in the woods.

It was the sign story that caught my eye for whether it was taken by a well-meaning family member or friend or indeed by a thief who had second thoughts about being such a scoundrel, I have no idea. I only know that it's in my possession now, given to me by my brother Tim who had been charged with its safekeeping. The paint's faded and chipping but I carried it with me to the Nine Mile on Sunday afternoon, and for just a brief moment, it rested there on the back porch, just below the spot where it hung for so many years.

And speaking of the sign, I have the story of the sign to tell in a future blog post.

Adams Confectionery

 

Have you ever looked up at the three-story building in the middle of the Main Street block between Second and Third Streets? There in letters long faded by decades of sun and rain, you can read "Adams Confectionery."

A friend who has stood on Main Street in recent weeks holding signs for the various demonstrations against the atrocities being visited upon our nation by the Trump administration. asked me, a long time Couderean, if it had been a candy factory. And so began the quest.

The story begins with one John Adams who is listed here in this story from 1916 as being from the "Greek-American Store."

Here's more about Mr. Adams' Greek-American Store in an advertisement from 1917. And notice the location at the corner of Main and First Streets. I am thinking that would put it at the site of the present-day Coudersport Pharmacy.

Later in the same year, Mr. Adams was adding a metropolitan appearance to his Greek-American store.

In 1923, we're introduced to a new location for the Palace of Sweets.

And finally, here is Adams' Confectionery (late 1923)

Mr. Adams' success was short-lived, however as the following notice appeared in early 1924.

It didn't take long for someone else to re-open Candyland but after this article in 1924, the trail goes cold.

And as for Mr. Adams, here's a mention of him from 1936 though it seems the reporter was not sure if it was the same John P. Adams?

How Small We Are!

Miss Green was my fifth grade teacher. I cried on the summer afternoon my mother came home from work as a linotype operator at The Potter Enterprise with the news that my name appeared on the list of students assigned to Miss Green. I had been holding out hope that Mr. Anderson would be my teacher and that Debbie Beier and I would be in the same room. I was bitterly disappointed.

I settled in to Miss Green's classroom on the second floor of the downtown school that fall and learned her rhythms and also learned not to snicker at her singing voice for she made me stand in front of the class one fateful day. "Janie Heimel, if you think you can sing so well, come up here and sing a solo." It still brings a flush of shame.

my artist brother Steve doctored this
magazine cover to imply Shepard was
looking at a playboy model.

It was the miracle of space flight that captured Miss Green's attention that winter of 1962. She told us about Mercury program, with its lofty goals of manned spaceflight. She told us of the bravery of Alan Shepard as he rode into space in Freedom 7 the previous spring, setting the stage as excitement for John Glenn's trip around our planet built that winter.  Friendship 7, a fitting name for his spaceship, and I can still hear the inflection of excitement in her low-pitched voice as she shared that bug-eyed look that commanded our attention and captured my imagination. 

It was Miss Green who made sure we took our turns in the auditorium as the drama of John Glenn's daring trip around the earth played out on the lone television on the auditorium stage. Others may correct me, but I remember cheering as he was cleared for the third of three orbits and the splashdown in the Atlantic Ocean, all narrated by that most trusted of our generation's icons, Walter Cronkite of CBS News.

Who can forget those moments of silence as communications ceased when the capsule plummeted toward earth? And finally the voice of John Glenn, our All-American hero, "Boy, that was a real fireball!"

I was a teenager, watching the report on the console television in Susan Frederick's comfortable living room when the Apollo 1 rocket blew up in a fireball on the launch pad at Cape Kennedy, killing the three astronauts aboard. That was 1967.

It was 1969, just after I graduated from high school that the trio of Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins set off for the moon. Cronkite's trusted voice told us of touchdown on that warm summer night. "Man on the moon, oh boy," he said as he moved the familiar glasses from his face to wipe his eyes, much like he had in announcing the death of JFK just five years earlier.

NASA's recent Artemis II mission to the moon unfolded for me mostly on the internet - something Miss Green likely never imagined. The old excitement - and apprehension - all came flooding back to this baby boomer. The delight of the four brave space travelers - Reid Wiseman, Victor Glover, Christina Koch and Jeremy Hansen - the sharing of spectacular image after image, the seriousness of their mission and our collective breath-holding as they made their way back around from the dark side of the moon and then, finally to the splashdown, this one in the Pacific.

Since then, the Artemis II astronauts have been making the rounds of talk shows and podcasts telling their story - NASA's story. 

My fifth grade self could likely have been one of the children asking questions of the astronauts in this episode the The Daily by the New York Times.

Questions like: "Why did you go on this mission when it was super duper, duper, duper risky?" and "Can you drink soda in space?" and "What is it like to go to the bathroom in space?" and finally, "who farts the most in space?"

And then there was this: "My question for the Artemis crew is, how do you think people will look back at this mission in 50 years?" That's a question Miss Green might have posed, perhaps thinking of us eager fifth-graders who would still be on this planet 50 years hence.

This one, the red-faced solo singer, writes here, 64 years later,  looking back, looking forward, still marveling, still in awe of all things space.

Gleamite

Living in the same town (such a small town!) where I grew up, nearly every day a long-forgotten memory surfaces and demands I give it attention. Such it was with Gleamite.

My childhood chum - still a chum today - lived on North West Street in a big foursquare that was shingled in the palest shade of pink - perhaps it was salmon. And her father owned a rambling building that was tucked up against the hillside just a couple of houses down on First Street. The Gleamite building she called it.

I stored that word away in the back of my brain until Monday when, after thumbing through the 1981 Potter Enterprise newspapers upstairs at the Potter County Historical Society, I wandered over to take a look at the old post office boxes. And there it was!

And next to that jug, this advertising piece was propped.

Old newspapers tell me "Gleamite Sold Now in 41 States" according to the 1931 headline.
"The demand for Gleamite is rapidly growing. It is a floor cleaner and more, and more big concerns are learning its value. It is now sold in 41 states and has the endorsement of five of the leading floor manufacturers... the growth of this industry leads the Enterprise to the opinion that a few smaller businesses might be developed right here in Coudersport, rather than to bring in larger industries. Every man can make his own opportunities at his own door step."

Gleamite ads like this one began to appear in the local newspaper in the 1940s.

 

And this one, also from 1940.

There was a fire at the Gleamite plant in 1946.

And as the newspaper reports, Gleamite soon was back in business.

from the Cleveland Plain Dealer

Gleamite was sold to Howard Lincoln & A.R. Thompson in 1951 and was listed in Mr. Lincoln's obituary in 1973 as one of the companies he owned.

My chum doesn't recall when her father purchased the building. "The building was empty and out of commission. Dad stored appliances and stuff in there." She goes on, "I loved climbing around on the crumbling porch and deck in the back. I don't think I ever went inside."

From there the trail goes cold. How did yesterday's housewives ever give up their friendship with Gleamite?

Spring Ritual

 

Nine Mile Leeks

The leeks were calling this afternoon as the skies cleared. Leeks - known as ramps in West Virginia - grow in the wet areas of Potter County's woods.

It's a bit of a family tradition, gathering leeks in the spring. They are plentiful adjacent to the camp that my family owned through the early 1960s and that's where we harvested enough to make a leek dip to share with friends this evening. (I wrote here about Potter County leeks a couple of years ago.) 

Harvesting leeks was a tradition in Arthur's family too. Often we took trips to the Knox Lot, the family's woodlot on Fishing Creek Road where they grow in hollows where rivulets spring up in the spring. 

The Metzgers were among those stalwarts that served hundreds of folks for leek dinners at the nearby Hebron Grange Hall in the 1950s, continuing through the early 1960s.

Here's how my grandfather told the tale in his weekly "Golly" column.

Almost time once more for leek dinners but –

The old original event of the kind, the one that started the whole leek dinner idea, will not be peddling leeks this year.

The project was started by Hebron Grange a dozen or more years ago to augment the bank account of the organization. It went over to the public with such success that each year more and more came to dine on the odoriferous greens, plus other splendid foods, and the project became a burden.

A dozen or more Grange families might be assigned the duty of combing the woods, each digging a bushel of leeks, cleaning and washing them. It was not a small task. Each year the crowds increased.

Finally the Grangers decided to resign from leek gathering. Other organizations and public eating establishments went into the business and there are plenty of places where a leek supper may be enjoyed but –

Not served by the famous Hebron Grange.

Here's a post about the Hebron Leek Dinners that I wrote for our farm blog. 

Hippiedom

Sixteen-year-old Rowan posed the question, "Grandma, were you a hippie?" This was after he accepted my offer to put a patch on his dungarees, and after I had kidded his little sister about the long tear in her baggy blue jeans. "They're torn jeans," she told me. "They came that way." 

I heard my mother's voice in my head, "who would buy jeans with holes in them" as I took those same jeans out of the dryer and folded them.

I've always been a little uneasy about wearing the hippie badge but when Rowan asked, I said yes without a pause. My daughter was there for this exchange and I wondered exactly how she processed that answer. Our firstborn whose diapers I proudly hung on the backyard clothesline to dry in the cold Potter County sunshine, the little girl whose homemade whole wheat teething biscuits were stored in a canister labeled "Kate's cookies." That still brings a chuckle from my friend and fellow hippie, Louise. Those days of "grow your own," and homesteading and food co-ops.

The view of hippies from this generation - Gen Whatever - has none of the nuance of that time we lived. It seems there's a narrow definition of the word that marks hippies of this generation - the kids who adopt the fashions of the 60s - bell bottoms, tie dye and Indian cotton.

I was reminded as I watched to a documentary about the "The Farm" in Tennessee, hippie comes the word hip - up to date and in the know. Much like woke today, it means different things to different people.

I thought for a time during my late teenage years that I wanted to live communally - that is in a commune, much like the legendary "Farm. " Introduced to everything hippie by my elder brother and his wife, we once took refuge in a commune where I unrolled my sleeping bag on a splintery wooden floor in a second-story bedroom in an old farmhouse with no plumbing. We ate food prepared in a kitchen of sorts, an outbuilding with a giant woodstove in the middle. It was on that trip, I had my first taste of yogurt - Dutch Apple from Dannon, purchased in a food co-op in the village Woodstock, New York.

And it felt idyllic, the countryside, the garden with its whimsical artistic touches amid the long rows of  beans and kale and okra, the easels of the artists in the backyard. It was a quick visit, just overnight, and it was a long time ago.Those memories are misty, colored by the retelling from that time and that place. A stone from the driveway where Bob Dylan lived and chocolate ice cream with the clear, sweet orzata syrup.

Later on that same trip, my sister-in-law took me shopping for clothing to accompany me to college. And I bought a long, green trench coat that dragged on the ground and a very short plaid dress with a long pointed color, paired with brightly colored tights. Neither choice fit in with the starched white world of the nursing school I had chosen. And from that environment I fled back home for a time and put in motion the steps that brought me today to my daughter's home in the mountains of Arizona with the tall Ponderosa pines in the backyard and that tall young man facing his own future, asking me about hippies.

And so, yes, I was - we were, Arthur and me - hippies of a sort. And we still are I guess, my hair long and gray, and Arthur with his pony tail. We still grow a big vegetable garden and our bookshelves still hold those hippie tomes - The Owner Built House, The Tassajara Bread Book, the original hand lettered Moosewood Cookbook.

And you know, Rowan, your grandmother did go to Woodstock. 

A Few Words About Fishing

A delight this morning to look out my attic office window and see a fat-breasted robin in the scraggly white birch tree, lately populated by chickadees, juncos and starlings. Spring! Not so delightful is the thought that he/she might be eyeing the porch as a nesting site. 

Seems like I'm channeling my grandfather's writing style this morning, the first day of fishing season in Pennsylvania. Fishing season was celebrated annually in his Golly column as he enticed newspaper readers to return to the streams and rivers of his beloved Potter County.

My angler grandfather, likely in the early 1900s.
That dog, whose name is lost in history, appears in several old photographs.

From 1950:

Now that fishin' season is nearing and the question of trout limits during the years often arises, Golly may tell you that previous to 1901 there was no limit on trout in Pennsylvania – except one's ability to catch them.

In 1901 the limit was set at 50.

That was the law until 1909 when a cut to 40 was made. In 1917 another reduction was made and 25 was the legal take.

This lasted until 1933 when it was made 20, and two years later the limit was reduced to 15.

It was 11 years ago – 1939 – that the limit was dropped to 10 and there it remains at the present time.

And Golly might remark that ten six-inch trout will overfeed a large family.

FYI: Fast forward to 2026,  anglers are allowed to keep up to five fish daily as long as they are seven inches or longer.

 From 1954 – 

Opening day of fishing season will see hundreds – yes, thousands – of fishermen along the trout streams of Penn's Woods, and the 700 miles of uncontaminated brooks, creeks and rivers of Potter County will have their full share.

Woodland camps, at remote locations away back in the wilds, will be occupied once more, having been deserted since the close of the hunting season or even longer. Smoke will pour forth from many chimneys and in some instances tents will indicate that fishermen are along the streams of the vicinity.

If your sense of smell is at all acute, the olfactory cell will tell you at a distance that coffee is brewing and bacon is sizzling in the pan over the open fire.

Life can be grand.

Life can be wonderful.

And this from 1959 

Betcha all the fishermen have their rods limbered up and ready for trout fishing next week!

Fine!

Betcha there are a lot of big fat speckled trout lurking in sequestered pools, just aching to grab a lure, worm or fly or other bait – and eventually squirm in a well buttered frying pan just to make you happy.

Great sport is trout fishing.

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