It is interesting that Bob capitalized Romance....
This may surprise you, my children and grandchildren that I lived (grew up) in the age of romance and was part of it too.
Yes, I was a romantic fellow. I knew all the love ballads of the 30's and 40's. After that time, songs changed and lost some of the tenderness and sweetness that marked those songs of my youth.
I grew up in an atmosphere of the boy-girl relationships. Being the youngest of six children, four of which were girls who bought sheet music of all the latest love songs. We had no radio but we did have a piano. The words and music were soon learned by every child and teenager. Movies had several songs written for their production even though they were not musicals themselves. Many such songs became hits. Later they were put on records and sold so that everyone knew them.
Operetta were part of high school experience even grade schools had their own productions. (I was in several)
My sisters worked during summer vacation at Russel's Point as waitresses. Russel's Point was then advertised as Ohio's playground located on Indian Lake just five mile from Huntsville Ohio. It had two dance pavilions, hotels etc. It was one of the stops for all the big name dance bands of that time. As a small boy, I was there when Rudy Vallee and his band was on tour. My sisters sent their washing home each week and my mother did it up and we returned it generally on Saturday night. Sometime was spent taking it all in.
Later at about 11 I and friends occasionally found our way to Indian Lake and soaked in the glamour and glitter of the sights and sounds of the middle 30's. At eighteen and until I married at 25 my Saturday nights were often spent (there).
Friday, July 10, 2015
When I was young.
In the year of 1947, three friends of mine, John McCleary, Ward McDuffee and Frank Hammond and myself took a trip to California and other points westward.
We were all single yet. John, Ward and I graduated from high-school together. Frank from the next town east of Huntsville. We were of ages 24-26 and ready to see the sights. Live it up, you know.
Ward bought a new Chevy sedan, fresh off the post way assembly line. One of the first. We chipped in for gas and oil etc. while Ward furnished the car.
We were all single yet. John, Ward and I graduated from high-school together. Frank from the next town east of Huntsville. We were of ages 24-26 and ready to see the sights. Live it up, you know.
Ward bought a new Chevy sedan, fresh off the post way assembly line. One of the first. We chipped in for gas and oil etc. while Ward furnished the car.
Thursday, July 9, 2015
Nov. 19, 1996 Erin's ten today.
Just ten years ago today, our second granddaughter was born. Her dad, Aron, was working nights so Mom and I spent the day with Marie just in case a quick trip to the hospital (Blanchard Valley at Findlay, Ohio) would be necessary.
Sure enough, all signs said go. Mom stayed with the boys and I drove Marie to the hospital. Little Erin didn't wait long in making her arrival. She was back to her home in Arlington, Ohio within 24 hours.
She was alert and pretty little girl checking out the family faces almost the instant she arrived.
Where to the years go and who so fast? Erin remains today the calm and sweet girl that impressed me when I first saw her that November night, ten years ago.
Another entry added on below the original:
October 12, 2003
Sunday at church, Cornerstone Baptist
Mom and I, Aron, Marie, Levi, Jonah, Mike and Erin , a beautiful, sweet sixteen. All in church together.
I'm proud of them all and still active at 80 years.
Sure enough, all signs said go. Mom stayed with the boys and I drove Marie to the hospital. Little Erin didn't wait long in making her arrival. She was back to her home in Arlington, Ohio within 24 hours.
She was alert and pretty little girl checking out the family faces almost the instant she arrived.
Where to the years go and who so fast? Erin remains today the calm and sweet girl that impressed me when I first saw her that November night, ten years ago.
Another entry added on below the original:
October 12, 2003
Sunday at church, Cornerstone Baptist
Mom and I, Aron, Marie, Levi, Jonah, Mike and Erin , a beautiful, sweet sixteen. All in church together.
I'm proud of them all and still active at 80 years.
Choosing a name. A name that might please everyone (including the named)
We named our three sons Bran, Aron, Brian. Short handles for the long family name, but not to be common. Something new and different, we hoped.
Brad was easy, but Aron was a last minute choice just to get him out of the hospital. My parents had a real fit on this choice of a name. No one in the family tree had this name and they mentioned the treasonable Aaron Burr of US history and I suspect they knew of a person bearing that name that they did not like.
The single A in Aron's name eased their grief somewhat so they struggled to make Aron sound different than Aaron when spoken (difficult).
We thought Brian had a pleasant sound to it, but we called him Bill to get away from the B and R of his older brothers. These names of our sons kind of bled together in a way, that to this day causes me trouble in correctly fitting the right name to the right son on first try. (Brian didn't like Bill so he made us discard it.) (He probably didn't like a person called Bill.) Brian's middle name is William.
As is typical of all new and emerging generations, fashions, lifestyles and also names must change. Old things put aside.
Now I am of the old generation and I value traditions and old ways and morals. I want to preserve something of the past to hold on and build family traditions, including names. (What goes around, comes around, doesn't it?)
A new arrival to the Schlumbohm clan was soon to make it's arrival. Modern science declared it to be a male child some wee
ks before the event. Names were suggested. The parents, being of now the new generation seemed to settle on a name I did not particularly like. (Not in the family tree of the Schlumbohms.) It seemed to fit a different religion and nationality than mine. Turn to an ancestral name I implored. Roberts and Richards were plentiful grandparents on both sides plus other old fashioned names.
And so I wrote a poem (to no avail) and sent it to Aron and Marie Schlumbohm
Brad was easy, but Aron was a last minute choice just to get him out of the hospital. My parents had a real fit on this choice of a name. No one in the family tree had this name and they mentioned the treasonable Aaron Burr of US history and I suspect they knew of a person bearing that name that they did not like.
The single A in Aron's name eased their grief somewhat so they struggled to make Aron sound different than Aaron when spoken (difficult).
We thought Brian had a pleasant sound to it, but we called him Bill to get away from the B and R of his older brothers. These names of our sons kind of bled together in a way, that to this day causes me trouble in correctly fitting the right name to the right son on first try. (Brian didn't like Bill so he made us discard it.) (He probably didn't like a person called Bill.) Brian's middle name is William.
As is typical of all new and emerging generations, fashions, lifestyles and also names must change. Old things put aside.
Now I am of the old generation and I value traditions and old ways and morals. I want to preserve something of the past to hold on and build family traditions, including names. (What goes around, comes around, doesn't it?)
A new arrival to the Schlumbohm clan was soon to make it's arrival. Modern science declared it to be a male child some wee
ks before the event. Names were suggested. The parents, being of now the new generation seemed to settle on a name I did not particularly like. (Not in the family tree of the Schlumbohms.) It seemed to fit a different religion and nationality than mine. Turn to an ancestral name I implored. Roberts and Richards were plentiful grandparents on both sides plus other old fashioned names.
And so I wrote a poem (to no avail) and sent it to Aron and Marie Schlumbohm
To Name a Grandson
I'll soon count the years of three score and ten
While memory bids childhood relived, not and then.
Life seemed more easy some sixty years back
and kids had simple names like Tom, Dick and Jack.
My wife and I, our wits strained with try'n
Came up with our boys' names of Brad, Aron and Brian.
To be different and be modern was thrust of the game
When it came to the searching and finding the right name.
Who thinks of tradition or ancestor remembrance,
Strike a new course, declare independence,
Make it short and impressive, we strove for that angle
What resulted there of was a tongue twisty tangle.
It didn't end there with those particular persona.
Now it's Tad and it's Chad, Coy, Levi and Jonah
Though short and impressive I tangle them still.
O, for a common name as John, Fred or Bill.
(to Aron and Marie)
To tag him to please me may put strain on your will
If not Robert or Richard, maybe John, Fred or Bill.
These names are of ancestors, present and past,
Names to remember, names that should last.
Seriously now, let's give this new member
a handle so common that I can remember.
For I'll soon round that year of three score and ten
When memory bids childhood relived, now and then.
Grandpa Bob.
(They named him Mike)
Oyster Stew (few oysters, lots of milk)
I just finished a bowl. Seems no one else in my family will touch oyster soup. Except the oldest of my children, Brad, who has eaten about everything edible and non-edible. Strangely enough, he refuses anything that contains a raisin. This leaves this unfortunate man bereft of the pleasures of some German bake goods handed down from my side of the house. Mince meat pie, Lepkucken, to name a couple items that's become a Christmas tradition continued. Still, he is only 1/2 German and so excused. The other half Scotch/Irish/hill-billy from his mother's lineage (cornbread people.)
About oysters-
I learned about oysters as a child when oysters were cheap. At least oyster soup was cheap, being mostly milk which every farmer had his own. Oysters were no more expensive than salmon which was at 15 cents a can. Salmon patties was a favorite meal and I still like them.
Once a year, in season, an oyster supper was served at our schoolhouse. Seemed everyone came, or so it seemed to me. Just soup and those little round crackers that I saw at no other time. No one ate raw oysters in a farm community. I only ate the broth myself (from the soup) Took me a few years to risk those flabby little bivalves cooked. Raw, nay. A brother of my army buddy (1945) reportedly at 12 dozen on the half shell (raw) at an oyster bar at one sitting. I'll go with the soup. Oysters are becoming scarce. Tastes are changing. Traditional food will be burger and fires, in time.
About oysters-
I learned about oysters as a child when oysters were cheap. At least oyster soup was cheap, being mostly milk which every farmer had his own. Oysters were no more expensive than salmon which was at 15 cents a can. Salmon patties was a favorite meal and I still like them.
Once a year, in season, an oyster supper was served at our schoolhouse. Seemed everyone came, or so it seemed to me. Just soup and those little round crackers that I saw at no other time. No one ate raw oysters in a farm community. I only ate the broth myself (from the soup) Took me a few years to risk those flabby little bivalves cooked. Raw, nay. A brother of my army buddy (1945) reportedly at 12 dozen on the half shell (raw) at an oyster bar at one sitting. I'll go with the soup. Oysters are becoming scarce. Tastes are changing. Traditional food will be burger and fires, in time.
Lickings
A lick'en could mean a switch'en (with a switch), paddling with a thin board designed for that purpose, with holes said to enhance the pain or the flat of the hand all applied to the buttocks. Mostly to boys.
I received my share. Once, when about three or four years of age, my mother declared that I needed a spanking (milder form of a licking). I can't recall what I did to deserve it, but I decided to escape by running out of the house. And so I ran. No parent can allow such behavior. Such defiance of authority and so my mother ran after me. Mom was a little overweight and had never ran much in her life anyway. We circled the yard a few times, did several figure eights and my mother got to laughing at how the whole scene
must look to a neighbor who might be passing by on the road. We were both about run out when she finally caught me, but was in too good of humor to apply more than a couple of mild swats.
Pop gave me a few. Down the lane from the barn was his best field planted to corn. the crop was knee-high and looking good. Beyond this field was a wood lot and pasture. Some years the milk cows could be taken to and from pasture and barn through his field via a temporary lane. The lane fence had been taken down and the cows were to be driven around the field and to the barn by another route. Cows are creatures of habit. The didn't want to go the unfamiliar way and so I opened the gate expecting them to follow the old way to the barn.
Not so. Green corn has a wonderful odor. I like the smell of it. Cows like it even more. The scattered like kids in a candy shop. Grabbing mouthfuls of green stuff here and there while tearing around. Pop was soon on the scene of what he believed was the ruination of his best corn crop in years. The cows were soon gotten out as they were headed to the barn and it was milking time. Didn't last, but ten minutes of what seemed like mass destruction.
I got a good licking.
That field was one of his best corn crops in years. (in spite of the cow run through).
I remember that Pop had a melon patch in this same field that year. Good watermelons. Big ones. This field of corn was cut by hand that fall and shocked. This same field was hand cut with a corn knife and shocked. Pop hired a young man to work on the cutting and shocking for $1.00 a day and a good dinner.
I received my share. Once, when about three or four years of age, my mother declared that I needed a spanking (milder form of a licking). I can't recall what I did to deserve it, but I decided to escape by running out of the house. And so I ran. No parent can allow such behavior. Such defiance of authority and so my mother ran after me. Mom was a little overweight and had never ran much in her life anyway. We circled the yard a few times, did several figure eights and my mother got to laughing at how the whole scene
Pop gave me a few. Down the lane from the barn was his best field planted to corn. the crop was knee-high and looking good. Beyond this field was a wood lot and pasture. Some years the milk cows could be taken to and from pasture and barn through his field via a temporary lane. The lane fence had been taken down and the cows were to be driven around the field and to the barn by another route. Cows are creatures of habit. The didn't want to go the unfamiliar way and so I opened the gate expecting them to follow the old way to the barn.
Not so. Green corn has a wonderful odor. I like the smell of it. Cows like it even more. The scattered like kids in a candy shop. Grabbing mouthfuls of green stuff here and there while tearing around. Pop was soon on the scene of what he believed was the ruination of his best corn crop in years. The cows were soon gotten out as they were headed to the barn and it was milking time. Didn't last, but ten minutes of what seemed like mass destruction.
I got a good licking.
That field was one of his best corn crops in years. (in spite of the cow run through).
I remember that Pop had a melon patch in this same field that year. Good watermelons. Big ones. This field of corn was cut by hand that fall and shocked. This same field was hand cut with a corn knife and shocked. Pop hired a young man to work on the cutting and shocking for $1.00 a day and a good dinner.
People from my past.
Bob Austine (Austien?)
Bob Austien lived all his life in Huntsville Ohio. My earliest remembrance of him was as janitor of our church. The Huntsville Methodist Episcopal (it said this above the front door.)
Bob Austien sat at the back of the church's sanctuary on a chair ready to care for the furnace and other duties. As far as I know, he received no salary (wage) for this. He did this on Sundays as well as other days when something was going on in church. This was his support of the church. He might have given money also for he was a bachelor and ran a local plumbing business. He lived with an old maid sister in the house that his parents owned when they were yet alive.
This sister worked all her life in the local telephone company, Bellefontaine office and when she died, she left the little Methodist Church one hundred thousand dollars. I guess she lived so simply that she had money to put into company stock. Which she did all her working years. I don't ever remember her attending church. Perhaps she did as a young girl.
Bob always chewed gum in church and at work. He always passed me a stick if I was in the back pew and he on his chair just beyond and tipped back against the rear wall.
Bob was a first World War veteran and had spent time in France though I never had heard him tell of those years.
Bob and his father were known as pump men, not as plumbers. They took care of windmills and hand operated pumps. Electric motor pumps were not common in those times. I remember the Austines working on our windmill when repairs were needed. They arrived at our farm in a Model T Ford truck with the necessary tools to pull a well pipe or drill a new one and fix the workings of the gears at the top of the wind mill towers.
After Bob's father died, Bob ran the business for the next 50 years. Always by himself. He did hire Gene Eggleston to drill a well in Huntsville in the nineteen 50's. By hand with a combination rope, pulleys and driver weight. Gene lifted the weight with rope and pulley and dropped it repeatedly on the pipe until water strata was reached-about 18 feet down in the town of Huntsville.
Bob also ran a cider mill in Huntsville during the apple season. I never got to see his operation. He high school boys would go down from our school and get cider but I was too young at the time. I do remember Pop taking our Model T car loaded with grain sacks of apples to the cider mill. Most of these apples were from one huge apple tree. I recall this car (model T) had a fold-down top (a convertible no less) and we pilled it full of apples. Pop got back with a full barrel of cider. Can't remember how we got it off the model T and down in the cellar. About forty years after this we had another barrel of cider from the Amish to sell in our pork market.
After that, cider began to turn "hard". Several of our occasional elderly customers became regulars until we finished off that cider.
Speaking of trucks, after the first Model T truck that the Austiens had, Bob used a 1934 pickup to haul his tools about. His next ruck was about a 1949 pickup and I believe that was the last one he owned.
When Cissie and I finally had our own house, the one that I paid $1.00 for, one that we moved across fields and set on our $750.00 lot (3/4 acre). This lot had an abandoned house on it that was no longer inhabitable and the owners wanted it destroyed. (I still have some parts of that old house). It did have a good 70' deep well on the lot. Bob Austien put a pump down (a submersible) did the plumbing work for the kitchen and bathroom and gave us a bill for $29. He just smiled when he looked with unbelief at our bill for his labor and many parts that he furnished. This was 1960.
Some years later while living in Hancock County but still operating the farm at Huntsville, I was talking to one of the men who owned and operated the Huntsville Grain Elevator and who knew Bob Austien, as everybody in that community did. He said that Bob once asked him if he knew how much money could be stuffed into a two inch pipe? He said that he had no idea. Bob said that he knew how much a two inch pope would hold- didn't say anything more.
Bob died a few years ago and there might just be a two inch pipe stuffed full of greenbacks and driven straight down about eighteen feet.
Bob didn't believe in giving the government money. He didn't believe in charging much because he didn't need much.
there was an Austien Mill, a water powered gristmill . It was located on Cherokee Creek but gone before my time. It was probably one of Bob's ancestors who owned it.
Cherokee was once a very small village with a stage coach stop and tavern in the early 1800's. It lost out to Huntsville when a railroad was put through a mile away. The name Cherokee was given because (probably) a Cherokee Indian lived there even though that tribe of Indians were located hundreds of mile to the southeast. There was also a Cherokee Creek that flows just below our house that we moved eventually ends in Indian Lake.
a branch of Cherokee Creek was named Cherokee Mans Dry Run. That name sounds as though Indians named it. the dry 'run' so named because it ran dry every summer but would flow enough in the spring season that sucker fish would swim upstream to spawn. As a child, I could occasionally corner fish in shallow water and catch them. I attempted to use a bent straight pin fastened on a string to catch suckers. No luck. These fish would congregate in the only deep water on that creek and it was barely three foot deep. My equipment was not up to the task of catching even a sucker.
This branch of the Cherokee was about 3/4 mile from the farmhouse where I was born and lived for 12 1/2 years. It flowed through that first farm that my parents owned when they moved from Defiance County, Ohio to Logan County and promptly lost to the Huntsville Bank when the price of alfalfa hay went from $40 a ton (Chicago price) to $15 (local).
Bob Austien could tell you just how deep my well was in that town of Huntsville and all the farms for miles around. He and his father had worked on all of them.
A lifetime as a pump man.
The Cherokee main creek flowed just below the house that Cissie and I had moved on our $750 lot.
I have since learned that there was a tribe of Cherokees located there.
Bob Austien lived all his life in Huntsville Ohio. My earliest remembrance of him was as janitor of our church. The Huntsville Methodist Episcopal (it said this above the front door.)
Bob Austien sat at the back of the church's sanctuary on a chair ready to care for the furnace and other duties. As far as I know, he received no salary (wage) for this. He did this on Sundays as well as other days when something was going on in church. This was his support of the church. He might have given money also for he was a bachelor and ran a local plumbing business. He lived with an old maid sister in the house that his parents owned when they were yet alive.
This sister worked all her life in the local telephone company, Bellefontaine office and when she died, she left the little Methodist Church one hundred thousand dollars. I guess she lived so simply that she had money to put into company stock. Which she did all her working years. I don't ever remember her attending church. Perhaps she did as a young girl.
Bob always chewed gum in church and at work. He always passed me a stick if I was in the back pew and he on his chair just beyond and tipped back against the rear wall.
Bob was a first World War veteran and had spent time in France though I never had heard him tell of those years.
Bob and his father were known as pump men, not as plumbers. They took care of windmills and hand operated pumps. Electric motor pumps were not common in those times. I remember the Austines working on our windmill when repairs were needed. They arrived at our farm in a Model T Ford truck with the necessary tools to pull a well pipe or drill a new one and fix the workings of the gears at the top of the wind mill towers.
After Bob's father died, Bob ran the business for the next 50 years. Always by himself. He did hire Gene Eggleston to drill a well in Huntsville in the nineteen 50's. By hand with a combination rope, pulleys and driver weight. Gene lifted the weight with rope and pulley and dropped it repeatedly on the pipe until water strata was reached-about 18 feet down in the town of Huntsville.
Bob also ran a cider mill in Huntsville during the apple season. I never got to see his operation. He high school boys would go down from our school and get cider but I was too young at the time. I do remember Pop taking our Model T car loaded with grain sacks of apples to the cider mill. Most of these apples were from one huge apple tree. I recall this car (model T) had a fold-down top (a convertible no less) and we pilled it full of apples. Pop got back with a full barrel of cider. Can't remember how we got it off the model T and down in the cellar. About forty years after this we had another barrel of cider from the Amish to sell in our pork market.
After that, cider began to turn "hard". Several of our occasional elderly customers became regulars until we finished off that cider.
Speaking of trucks, after the first Model T truck that the Austiens had, Bob used a 1934 pickup to haul his tools about. His next ruck was about a 1949 pickup and I believe that was the last one he owned.
When Cissie and I finally had our own house, the one that I paid $1.00 for, one that we moved across fields and set on our $750.00 lot (3/4 acre). This lot had an abandoned house on it that was no longer inhabitable and the owners wanted it destroyed. (I still have some parts of that old house). It did have a good 70' deep well on the lot. Bob Austien put a pump down (a submersible) did the plumbing work for the kitchen and bathroom and gave us a bill for $29. He just smiled when he looked with unbelief at our bill for his labor and many parts that he furnished. This was 1960.
Some years later while living in Hancock County but still operating the farm at Huntsville, I was talking to one of the men who owned and operated the Huntsville Grain Elevator and who knew Bob Austien, as everybody in that community did. He said that Bob once asked him if he knew how much money could be stuffed into a two inch pipe? He said that he had no idea. Bob said that he knew how much a two inch pope would hold- didn't say anything more.
Bob died a few years ago and there might just be a two inch pipe stuffed full of greenbacks and driven straight down about eighteen feet.
Bob didn't believe in giving the government money. He didn't believe in charging much because he didn't need much.
there was an Austien Mill, a water powered gristmill . It was located on Cherokee Creek but gone before my time. It was probably one of Bob's ancestors who owned it.
Cherokee was once a very small village with a stage coach stop and tavern in the early 1800's. It lost out to Huntsville when a railroad was put through a mile away. The name Cherokee was given because (probably) a Cherokee Indian lived there even though that tribe of Indians were located hundreds of mile to the southeast. There was also a Cherokee Creek that flows just below our house that we moved eventually ends in Indian Lake.
a branch of Cherokee Creek was named Cherokee Mans Dry Run. That name sounds as though Indians named it. the dry 'run' so named because it ran dry every summer but would flow enough in the spring season that sucker fish would swim upstream to spawn. As a child, I could occasionally corner fish in shallow water and catch them. I attempted to use a bent straight pin fastened on a string to catch suckers. No luck. These fish would congregate in the only deep water on that creek and it was barely three foot deep. My equipment was not up to the task of catching even a sucker.
This branch of the Cherokee was about 3/4 mile from the farmhouse where I was born and lived for 12 1/2 years. It flowed through that first farm that my parents owned when they moved from Defiance County, Ohio to Logan County and promptly lost to the Huntsville Bank when the price of alfalfa hay went from $40 a ton (Chicago price) to $15 (local).
Bob Austien could tell you just how deep my well was in that town of Huntsville and all the farms for miles around. He and his father had worked on all of them.
A lifetime as a pump man.
The Cherokee main creek flowed just below the house that Cissie and I had moved on our $750 lot.
I have since learned that there was a tribe of Cherokees located there.
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