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.
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
Get out of the house. On the farm 1950
Early in my married life, my father admonished me to "get of of the house." It was not so much an order as instruction. There might have been something that needed attention that was worrying him but I believe not. There was a larger and more profound reason for saying this and one he could not explain very clearly on that particular day. He was not a man to spend much time explaining the why's and the where for's of anything. I learned by observation. He expected this and in later years, it came to me that I learned about everything I knew from observation. This even caused me ill feelings directed at me by several shop foreman where I worked on occasions. I saw how the work was done then ignored this young newly made bosses and did the work. No questions, just do it. Bosses like to boss. I have never needed anyone to see that I got to work and kept at it. My shop experience was never a bright spot in my life. For me or the bosses.
Pop meant that mans work was somewhere out in the world. A goal, a dream not overly tied to home and hearth but separately and different from that of woman's. And so it is. Present social ills, I believe, comes from men and women, as parents in particular and members of society in general, not playing their natural roles. (In 1993 this is not acceptable philosophy.)
Pop meant that mans work was somewhere out in the world. A goal, a dream not overly tied to home and hearth but separately and different from that of woman's. And so it is. Present social ills, I believe, comes from men and women, as parents in particular and members of society in general, not playing their natural roles. (In 1993 this is not acceptable philosophy.)
Shinny
Shinny is a game somewhat related, I guess, to field hockey. I know nothing about field hockey except it seems to be played by girls at prestigious high schools and colleges.
Shinny is (was) not played by girls and was just a crude imitation of field hockey, very crude the way I played it.
My father described the game to me when I was in the fourth grade, 1933. He and his friends played shinny as kids on Kelly's Island where he grew up in the late 1800's. They used their hockey (ice) sticks and a rag ball, kind of summer training for the winter sport of ice hockey on Lake Erie. The idea of a new game for me and my friends in central Ohio seemed like fun.
I introduced this game of shinny to my buddies (no girls allowed). Sex discrimination was not a problem in those days. Such discrimination was held as a correct and honorable code of ethics.
This game turned out to be injury prone the way we played it. We managed to have great fun through two seasons before a teacher decided that it was too dangerous. We were about to ready for softball anyway.
The equipment we gathered for this game was simple and very inexpensive. Sticks were just sticks and the puck started out as a tin can. We either attempted to make a facsimile of a hockey club or found a club or stick that would work. My old buddy had one ha called the sheep-foot (it kind of looked like one). Mine was crafted from an old buggy top bow ( a natural curve you know) another kid called his the "switch". Mate it our of a hickory sprout. He would fan the ground attempting to hit the can, three licks to my one. Another boy had the "club" which it was. The puck or ball (whatever) originated as a bean can (small size) and after 2 recesses it became a fairly round metal projectile capable of blood letting which it frequently let. Cracked shins and knuckles and various metal cuts kept this game exclusively ours alone. It seemed great sport to us.
Shinny. A name I suppose, meaning shins were vulnerable.
I suspect others thought it not worth the damage to skin and limb. A well hit call made a nice buzz over our heads, although it was no longer a can but was a small ball of tin and you had better duck or you wished you had.
We made our game rules to be few and simple not really knowing much about the real structure of shinny for that matter, ice hockey.
We soon learned how the game got its name. The one rule that seemed most appropriate was that as you drove toward the goal line, flailing away at the can, you were supposed to stay on the left side of the can. If anyone, striking at the can on the wrong side he was screamed at the "shinny on your own side" and you were allowed to thrash his legs unmercifully, although it was supposed to be accidental of course. Shins took a beating.
My old buddy, John Steele McCeary was the proud owner of the "sheep foot." Leo Hurley favored the "Club." Bernard Maytz fancied the "switch." Others I have lost the names but we all named and bragged up our own clubs.
And so the game of shinny blossomed and faded at the Huntsville
Ohio Elementary school 1933-1934 never heard from again.
Shinny was mentioned in a short story by author Finley Peter Dunne in a book titled American Wit and Humor which I recently read. So it did have a past and my father revived its existence during his boyhood days. I revived it. Briefly.
Shinny is (was) not played by girls and was just a crude imitation of field hockey, very crude the way I played it.
My father described the game to me when I was in the fourth grade, 1933. He and his friends played shinny as kids on Kelly's Island where he grew up in the late 1800's. They used their hockey (ice) sticks and a rag ball, kind of summer training for the winter sport of ice hockey on Lake Erie. The idea of a new game for me and my friends in central Ohio seemed like fun.
I introduced this game of shinny to my buddies (no girls allowed). Sex discrimination was not a problem in those days. Such discrimination was held as a correct and honorable code of ethics.
This game turned out to be injury prone the way we played it. We managed to have great fun through two seasons before a teacher decided that it was too dangerous. We were about to ready for softball anyway.
The equipment we gathered for this game was simple and very inexpensive. Sticks were just sticks and the puck started out as a tin can. We either attempted to make a facsimile of a hockey club or found a club or stick that would work. My old buddy had one ha called the sheep-foot (it kind of looked like one). Mine was crafted from an old buggy top bow ( a natural curve you know) another kid called his the "switch". Mate it our of a hickory sprout. He would fan the ground attempting to hit the can, three licks to my one. Another boy had the "club" which it was. The puck or ball (whatever) originated as a bean can (small size) and after 2 recesses it became a fairly round metal projectile capable of blood letting which it frequently let. Cracked shins and knuckles and various metal cuts kept this game exclusively ours alone. It seemed great sport to us.
Shinny. A name I suppose, meaning shins were vulnerable.
I suspect others thought it not worth the damage to skin and limb. A well hit call made a nice buzz over our heads, although it was no longer a can but was a small ball of tin and you had better duck or you wished you had.
We made our game rules to be few and simple not really knowing much about the real structure of shinny for that matter, ice hockey.
We soon learned how the game got its name. The one rule that seemed most appropriate was that as you drove toward the goal line, flailing away at the can, you were supposed to stay on the left side of the can. If anyone, striking at the can on the wrong side he was screamed at the "shinny on your own side" and you were allowed to thrash his legs unmercifully, although it was supposed to be accidental of course. Shins took a beating.
My old buddy, John Steele McCeary was the proud owner of the "sheep foot." Leo Hurley favored the "Club." Bernard Maytz fancied the "switch." Others I have lost the names but we all named and bragged up our own clubs.
And so the game of shinny blossomed and faded at the Huntsville
Shinny was mentioned in a short story by author Finley Peter Dunne in a book titled American Wit and Humor which I recently read. So it did have a past and my father revived its existence during his boyhood days. I revived it. Briefly.
1991 Transferred from another notebook. Where We Stand
Where we stand. Mom and I.
The last five years has forced us to look for income in ways that we never expected. (to)
Mom in owning and managing a group home and I, in part-time work of all kind plus some business adventures. Mom, especially, has had to deal with people. She has proven to herself that she can compete in the business world and that she has the head for it. A different challenge from the past for sure, but she finds it enjoyable (most of the time.)
I still gravitate toward things agriculture, in business and part-time, and everyone knows there is little money to be made 'down on the farm'. But I'm a stubborn man and not too smart.
We know that we will always have work so we try to enjoy.
The last five years has forced us to look for income in ways that we never expected. (to)
Mom in owning and managing a group home and I, in part-time work of all kind plus some business adventures. Mom, especially, has had to deal with people. She has proven to herself that she can compete in the business world and that she has the head for it. A different challenge from the past for sure, but she finds it enjoyable (most of the time.)
I still gravitate toward things agriculture, in business and part-time, and everyone knows there is little money to be made 'down on the farm'. But I'm a stubborn man and not too smart.
We know that we will always have work so we try to enjoy.
9-11-1995 Bob's Birthday
72 years. Going fairly strong yet-hurt a little more, perhaps. Good appetite (better than the digestion).
This year of 1995 has been busy. I work at building fences around town (Findlay) and neighboring cities. All kinds of yard fences. Picket of wood and vinyl, chain link, board, rail, aluminum and others.
The work is vigorous (hard). The weather was hot all summer, 90's and near 100 degrees. I sweat much. More seating than I ever did before.
Had grandsons helping. Chad and Coy. Tried to show them the honor of hard labor. Don't know if they got the lesson. Probably encouraged them to get an education (college). So be it. I hope to find something easier in '96. I think of Colorado at times and wonder what might be available. Perhaps a care taker job up in the mountains. I have to remind myself that although I feel ready to go (farm or ranching) others see me as I am. Old. I resist and deny the fact that I just might be too old to cut the mustard.
Then Bob wrote at the bottom of this entry years later:
Feb. 22, 2002
78 1/2 years old.
Surprisingly I find I'm still able
to cut the mustard.
This year of 1995 has been busy. I work at building fences around town (Findlay) and neighboring cities. All kinds of yard fences. Picket of wood and vinyl, chain link, board, rail, aluminum and others.
The work is vigorous (hard). The weather was hot all summer, 90's and near 100 degrees. I sweat much. More seating than I ever did before.
Had grandsons helping. Chad and Coy. Tried to show them the honor of hard labor. Don't know if they got the lesson. Probably encouraged them to get an education (college). So be it. I hope to find something easier in '96. I think of Colorado at times and wonder what might be available. Perhaps a care taker job up in the mountains. I have to remind myself that although I feel ready to go (farm or ranching) others see me as I am. Old. I resist and deny the fact that I just might be too old to cut the mustard.
Then Bob wrote at the bottom of this entry years later:
Feb. 22, 2002
78 1/2 years old.
Surprisingly I find I'm still able
Well, there she goes.
My youngest son, Brian, a sober and contemplative boy
of almost five, must have seen his mother as one who, at any time, might disappear and never be seen again. This, I believe, is a rather common fear of young children. Brian had never expressed this fear in words or tears. he was no great talker but obviously a deep thinker for one not yet five.
One day it so happened that he was riding on the hay wagon with me while his mother and I were baling hay. She was driving the tractor that pulled the baler onto which was hitched the wagon that received the hay bales from the baler. I stacked the bales. Brian observed and rode along atop the load.
This old baler made a fair racket as it hammered hay into bales. The field was rough, we rolled along at a good clip and the hitch pin humped out leaving the wagon, me and Brian behind. I yelled and yelled to alert Mom, to no avail. She had her thoughts elsewhere, singing a song, looking afar off. As she disappeared over a rise, Brian with a quiet and resigned expression said, "Well, there she goes."
One day it so happened that he was riding on the hay wagon with me while his mother and I were baling hay. She was driving the tractor that pulled the baler onto which was hitched the wagon that received the hay bales from the baler. I stacked the bales. Brian observed and rode along atop the load.
This old baler made a fair racket as it hammered hay into bales. The field was rough, we rolled along at a good clip and the hitch pin humped out leaving the wagon, me and Brian behind. I yelled and yelled to alert Mom, to no avail. She had her thoughts elsewhere, singing a song, looking afar off. As she disappeared over a rise, Brian with a quiet and resigned expression said, "Well, there she goes."
The Story (in condensed form)
Born September, eleven, nineteen twenty three in the old brick house on the "People's Place" (name of owners), a mile and one half southeast of Huntsville, Ohio in Logan County, Ohio. Farms were often called after an original owner until a new owner lived there for a generation or so then the farm took on the new owner's name.
My father was a tenant farmer at the time of my birth. The last of his six children. He was not a wealthy man and it's the truth that the doctor at my delivery needed some hay for his cow. Doctors were not wealthy in those days either. The agreement was Pop should deliver approximately one ton of hay to the doctor's cow shed in Huntsville. This was loose hay (not baled), hauled to town by team and wagon. That tone of hay was, probably, worth around $15-$20 delivered.
Not much to tell about my early childhood. Coal oil lamps and wood stoves. A kitchen that served as the family gathering place. Where the gossip of school and community was passed about. I, being the youngest had little to offer so I listened. There is no doubt that I know much more about my family, about each sister and brother than they know about me. I went through my maturing years pretty much alone as the others scattered soon after high school.
Even though I was the youngest, which might indicate being sheltered and spoiled, I became independent and perhaps even a loner. I liked to explore the countryside by myself as a teenager. Sunday afternoons found me on a four-five mile circle around the home farm. (The name of Schlumbohm finally attached to the 325 acres north of Huntsville in 1945). This farm was held by the Schlumbohms until 1978 when it was sold to a neighbor. This sale drove a rift, a division within the Schlumbohm family. Perhaps it is better said that I was the one split off. Better said that I split myself off. The effects of this farm sale changed my life in a negative way. For reasons that I couldn't overcome, it seems to have effected my life even now.
Moved to Findlay, Ohio early fall of "65". at age 42 with wife and 4 children. A falling out with my father over his refusal to allow me to start buying in on the farm at Huntsville which had been my goal.
Wold War II seemed to have disrupted my life as it did many other young men. I graduated from high school in 1941, the year the U.S. became actively involved. Intending to enter college and find out what I should become, profession wise, I had to abandon that plan. There was no choice but to enter the armed forces or stay home and produce food for America and the allies. I became a farmer along with father and brother. We worked hard to produce the needed crops and livestock. Many friends and acquaintances went off to war and it became a burden to see them go while I stayed home. I worked harder to alleviate some quilt that I and others felt, especially when news came about the death of someone you knew, while serving in the armed forces. Five died in service from our small rural community.
The hard work on our large farm had an effect on my that was surprising. I saw it as a macho challenge of some sort. The technical advancement in agriculture was intensified because of the war effort. This began to spark an interest, for me to become a farmer though I did not yet realize it and it did not come to the surface until several years later.
Meantime, I decided it was time to go to war for me. I became a G.I. in 1945. (the year the family got its name on some land.) My service time only lasted one year. I enjoyed it. Nothing to hard for this farm kid. ( I was 23 years old, hardly a kid). That same year, Japan surrendered then Germany did likewise. I was slated to hit the beaches of Japan as a telephone wire layer. A dangerous job we were told. Get a line up to the advance out-post from the rear command while everyone else was dug in. No radio communication to be interrupted.
Until then, I worked for the Schlumbohm family. No wages. Pocket money and the family car at my disposal. The war ended.
I was let out of the army on a hardship separation. (I was my father's only helper and he was in poor health) (bad back).
Too late for college. Pop couldn't pay for the farm himself. I was stuck. I really decided at the time that I like the farm life. Changes in equipment came fast. Advancement in all areas of crop and livestock production was rapid. The challenge was there and I accepted it.
I became the pusher in production and modernization of the Schlumbohm farm. Many changes were made in the next 15 years. I threw myself into development of a livestock and crop enterprise. Wanting to become a big operator and I became one although I was limited to what a 50 horsepower tractor could do. At least I went as high as I could go.
One thing was missing. I had no land or a promise that I could ever own the home farm. I modernized the farm. Built it's reputation but was denied the chance to own it. I almost had it in my name some years later but Pop's sudden death closed the book,
My father was a tenant farmer at the time of my birth. The last of his six children. He was not a wealthy man and it's the truth that the doctor at my delivery needed some hay for his cow. Doctors were not wealthy in those days either. The agreement was Pop should deliver approximately one ton of hay to the doctor's cow shed in Huntsville. This was loose hay (not baled), hauled to town by team and wagon. That tone of hay was, probably, worth around $15-$20 delivered.
Not much to tell about my early childhood. Coal oil lamps and wood stoves. A kitchen that served as the family gathering place. Where the gossip of school and community was passed about. I, being the youngest had little to offer so I listened. There is no doubt that I know much more about my family, about each sister and brother than they know about me. I went through my maturing years pretty much alone as the others scattered soon after high school.
Even though I was the youngest, which might indicate being sheltered and spoiled, I became independent and perhaps even a loner. I liked to explore the countryside by myself as a teenager. Sunday afternoons found me on a four-five mile circle around the home farm. (The name of Schlumbohm finally attached to the 325 acres north of Huntsville in 1945). This farm was held by the Schlumbohms until 1978 when it was sold to a neighbor. This sale drove a rift, a division within the Schlumbohm family. Perhaps it is better said that I was the one split off. Better said that I split myself off. The effects of this farm sale changed my life in a negative way. For reasons that I couldn't overcome, it seems to have effected my life even now.
Moved to Findlay, Ohio early fall of "65". at age 42 with wife and 4 children. A falling out with my father over his refusal to allow me to start buying in on the farm at Huntsville which had been my goal.
Wold War II seemed to have disrupted my life as it did many other young men. I graduated from high school in 1941, the year the U.S. became actively involved. Intending to enter college and find out what I should become, profession wise, I had to abandon that plan. There was no choice but to enter the armed forces or stay home and produce food for America and the allies. I became a farmer along with father and brother. We worked hard to produce the needed crops and livestock. Many friends and acquaintances went off to war and it became a burden to see them go while I stayed home. I worked harder to alleviate some quilt that I and others felt, especially when news came about the death of someone you knew, while serving in the armed forces. Five died in service from our small rural community.
The hard work on our large farm had an effect on my that was surprising. I saw it as a macho challenge of some sort. The technical advancement in agriculture was intensified because of the war effort. This began to spark an interest, for me to become a farmer though I did not yet realize it and it did not come to the surface until several years later.
Meantime, I decided it was time to go to war for me. I became a G.I. in 1945. (the year the family got its name on some land.) My service time only lasted one year. I enjoyed it. Nothing to hard for this farm kid. ( I was 23 years old, hardly a kid). That same year, Japan surrendered then Germany did likewise. I was slated to hit the beaches of Japan as a telephone wire layer. A dangerous job we were told. Get a line up to the advance out-post from the rear command while everyone else was dug in. No radio communication to be interrupted.
Until then, I worked for the Schlumbohm family. No wages. Pocket money and the family car at my disposal. The war ended.
I was let out of the army on a hardship separation. (I was my father's only helper and he was in poor health) (bad back).
Too late for college. Pop couldn't pay for the farm himself. I was stuck. I really decided at the time that I like the farm life. Changes in equipment came fast. Advancement in all areas of crop and livestock production was rapid. The challenge was there and I accepted it.
I became the pusher in production and modernization of the Schlumbohm farm. Many changes were made in the next 15 years. I threw myself into development of a livestock and crop enterprise. Wanting to become a big operator and I became one although I was limited to what a 50 horsepower tractor could do. At least I went as high as I could go.
One thing was missing. I had no land or a promise that I could ever own the home farm. I modernized the farm. Built it's reputation but was denied the chance to own it. I almost had it in my name some years later but Pop's sudden death closed the book,
On Attaining a Goal
with during my most productive years. We never used it then (the word focus.) In farming we spoke of general farming a opposed to specialization. General meant you had hogs, chickens, sheep, perhaps some dairy cows and field crops of corn, wheat, beans, sugar beets, hay and oats.
Specialization became the way to go about the time I was quitting. You were a dairy farmer with most of your effort in that direction or else a crop farmer with no livestock etc. etc.
I held to the general or rather diversified with outside income from custom farm services (bulldozing, spray service, pest control, factory work, etc.) taking a lot of my time and energy.
I was indeed unfocused. I never meant it to be an interference on my goal of being a farmer and owning a farm. I look back and see that it was.
Had I marched directly toward my goal I believe I would have succeeded without the outside income. My interest was too wide even though I was proud to be able to do anything and do it well. Times and circumstances played their part but I seemed to have failed all around. Unfocused I guess.
And so the lesson was learned too late in life that focusing on the goal with all your skill and determination and especially with patience will get your where you want to be. Usually.
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
1993 This Book Reflections and Recollections
I seem to have followed a varied and crooked course but always not far from agriculture. Within this book will be the incidents and thoughts that I claim as my record of having passed this way. From childhood during the Great Depression, to that day, that is coming when I shall go to my long home in heaven.
I've had an interesting life. A good one, by my standards at least. I didn't accomplish near what I wanted to or what I thought I was capable of. Best who has made their mark to the degree that at one time, seemed so very possible? Some have. Most haven't. I shall try a few more things I suspect. There is possibility that I can still find special satisfaction in attaining a measure of the original dream.
James Whitcomb Riley's verse in one of his poems. " He said, when he rounded his three-score-and ten, I've the hang of it now and can do it again."
Hang on to that thought I tell myself. I passed seventy years this fall. I guess I'm old now but don't yet believe it. Anyhow, I hope to get older.
I've had an interesting life. A good one, by my standards at least. I didn't accomplish near what I wanted to or what I thought I was capable of. Best who has made their mark to the degree that at one time, seemed so very possible? Some have. Most haven't. I shall try a few more things I suspect. There is possibility that I can still find special satisfaction in attaining a measure of the original dream.
James Whitcomb Riley's verse in one of his poems. " He said, when he rounded his three-score-and ten, I've the hang of it now and can do it again."
Hang on to that thought I tell myself. I passed seventy years this fall. I guess I'm old now but don't yet believe it. Anyhow, I hope to get older.
Robert William Schlumbohm,
In October of 1993, Brian and I gave Bob a blank book. Bob was always writing on any paper he could
find. He was also philosophical in his
stories and I enjoyed listening to them.
I think that’s why he loved me. I
was reintroduced to the blank book we got him today. We told him to write his stories in it so
that someday he’d have a collection of them for his grand-kids. This was two years before Brian and I had our
first child Sara. Over the years, he
wrote some. I think I’ll try to take the
time to type them and post them for all to read because older people are so
good with stories. We can all learn from
their wisdom.
So here you go, in the order they were written in his book.
This man, Robert William Schlumbohm age 70, 1993
Who am I? This is a
question that young people ask themselves in those rare moments when they stop
and contemplate life.
The question often hangs around into the middle age
unanswered.
At some time, when hair is white and tooth is long, we dare
to be honest with ourselves and some truths; both positive and negative are
admitted. The characteristics that we
are made of both physical and otherwise (mental, emotional) will be passed on
to those that follow. I “see” in myself
some of my father and grandfather (mother’s side). Interesting.
And so I describe myself as best I can.
For better or worse.
Who I am.
Independent, private, sticker (hate to give up),
self-assured. Preferred the field to the
desk. The physical over the mental but
yet a thinker. A goal setter, short and
long range but always within and about farming.
Having never attained the goal over a lifetime of effort, I must allow
that I am a bullhead with no real sense of business but willing and eager to
accept a challenge, try new ways, improvise on the go. Farming suited me because of the varied work
and the hope of success that each new planting season offered. Not a patient man with myself or others. Those who follow many understand.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)