I was an only child, born after my parents had been married for over nine years. Because I had polio three months prior to my fourth birthday and spent nearly a year recuperating at Riley Hospital in Indianapolis, many aspects of my early childhood development were delayed, including the making of close friendships with the neighborhood children in the “East End” of Elnora where we lived. As I grew a bit older and it became easier for me to walk, I played with the kids who lived nearby, but when it was time to go in for the evening, I was alone except for my parents or grandparents depending upon where I was sleeping that night.
Since I didn’t have a brother or sister, I wanted a pet badly, one that I could call my own. My dad had a beagle named “Rowdy” that he kept tethered to a chain out near the old “pigeon house,” but I was strictly warned that Rowdy was a hunting dog. According to my father, Emerson Johnson, if I played with Rowdy, it would ruin him as a hunter. I never understood why, but I didn’t dare go against my dad’s instructions. So, Rowdy ate outside, slept in his doghouse outside, and was never allowed in the house.
My grandparents had an old gray female cat that they simply called “Mother” and she was always getting pregnant (or should I say “having babies” since “pregnant” was a no-no word in our house in the fifties). I never knew what happened to “Mother’s” babies because they always seemed to disappear shortly after they were born. Maybe the “whey ditch” behind my grandparents’ house knew the secret of the missing kittens, but it wasn’t telling.
Then the unthinkable happened; one day a couple of friends and I were in the smoke house on my grandparents’ property and there was “Mother” in the process of giving birth. About the same time, my grandmother appeared and you’d think that we did something horribly wrong. She made us leave immediately rather than stay and watch.
I was so naïve, I wasn’t real sure what was happening, but my friends gave me the details. A few days later when “Mother” was nursing her babies, I saw that one of them was calico-colored, and I begged my parents for the kitten. To my surprise, they let me have it and “Calico” and I soon became pretty good friends, or at least as much as you can be friends with an independent cat.
My parents even let Calico sleep on my bed. Then, after a year or so, my dad came in one morning before he left for work and told me Calico had been hit by a car and killed. I was naturally upset, knowing my first and only pet had been taken while Rowdy was still enjoying the good life on his chain outside.
To make up for the loss of Calico, I was given another kitten which we named “Boots.” He was a black cat with four white feet and a white splotch on his face, but we soon found out that he was even more independent than Calico. He apparently ingested some rat poison that a neighbor had placed around her home, and began to die a horrible, painful death. His wailing and suffering became so terrible that my dad had to “take care of the situation.”
So, once again, I was alone with no pet of my own. Then, one Sunday afternoon as I was lying on my stomach on the floor watching TV, my Aunt Audrey & Uncle Kewp from McCordsville came in through the back door. Engrossed in my program, I barely paid attention to them until I felt something quivering by my side. I looked down and saw a small black dog lying beside me. He was extremely nervous, and my aunt told me that he was nine months old, was a full-blooded Dachshund, and had been abused by his former owners.
My aunt and uncle sold registered dachshunds as a “hobby” and they had sold him to a family who couldn’t take good care of him and treated him poorly. My aunt reclaimed him and decided to give him to me. The dog already had a name, but they said I could rename him if I wanted, so I called him Willie. He and I were two broken boys who soon knew we needed each other.
It took a long time for Willie to lose his nervousness, but when he did, Willie was certainly “my” dog. He and I played together, took walks together, and slept together. Although he had those short little legs, he was quite an athlete and could catch just about any ball I’d throw to him.
When I went to college, Willie was always there waiting for me when I returned and it was like I had never left. We were buddies all over again. I took a class at the “Purdue extension” in Indianapolis during the summer of 1962 and stayed with my other aunt and uncle, Bill & Kathryn. They also had a dachshund, so one week Willie accompanied me so the two dogs could play while I was in class.
At the week’s end, Willie and I headed home in my old ’56 Dodge with him in his favorite spot on the back seat. As we left Spencer on State Road 67 and neared the town of Freedom, Willie began to whine. I assured him we’d be home soon and tried to calm him, but Willie wasn’t homesick, he had a more personal problem that became all too apparent just north of Freedom. I detected a foul odor and when I positioned the rear-view mirror to see into the back seat, I realized that Willie had done what all dogs do, but you hope they do it outside.
I pulled the car over at the first opportunity, into a little roadside rest area that had a picnic table and a trash barrel nearby. I held my nose, put Willie’s leash on him, and tied him to the picnic table. Luckily, I had an old blanket in the car which I used to clean out the back seat the best I could and threw the entire soiled mess into the barrel. I made Willie ride the rest of the way home with me on the floor of the front passenger area. It was a warm day, so I was able to keep all four car windows down the rest of the way to Elnora.
I had a “Fingerhut” catalogue at home, and since the internet was at least thirty years in the future, I placed a mail order for a set of green and white nylon seat covers to hide the disgusting spot on the back seat. The odor was gone, but the stain wouldn’t come totally clean, no matter how much I scrubbed. Where’s the OxyClean when you need it? Needless to say, that was Willie’s last trip to Indianapolis.
Beginning with that unforgettable day in 1962, and every time I drive that stretch of Highway 67, I would always laughingly point out the spot that will forever be known to me, my wife, and our kids as the place where “Willie pooped.”
My father died of lung cancer in February, 1963. I came home for the funeral, but had to return to classes at Purdue as soon as I could. Luckily, in addition to her Elnora friends, my mother also had Willie there with her for comfort when she was alone.
Near the end of the spring semester in 1963, I came home for the weekend to see my mom and Willie, and also to get some laundry done. Before I left to return to Lafayette, I decided to wash my car. I pulled it into the yard on the south side of the house, a friend and I got out the hose, and we started washing the old Dodge. When we finished the job and put everything away, I loaded my suitcase into the trunk, kissed my mother goodbye, and told my friend I’d drop him off at his house on the way out of town.
In my haste, I had forgotten all about Willie. It was a sunny and warm spring day, so he had curled up under the front of my car to take a nap. When we got into the car to leave and I turned the ignition, before I ever put the car into reverse to back out of the yard, Willie was startled by the sound of the engine, jumped up, hit his head on something under the car, and ran to the yard just south of our house.
Our neighbor, Stanley Stout, was outside when Willie ran over there, and just as quickly as Willie ran, he immediately dropped to the ground. Stanley examined him and tried to do what he could to revive him, but it was too late. Willie was dead of an apparent heart attack. There wasn’t a mark on him. Willie was only five years old.
My mother and I were both devastated, she to the point of almost being inconsolable. She had lost my father a few months earlier and now Willie was gone, too. It was all I could do to make myself go back to Purdue, but I knew I had to. Stanley said he’d take care of burying Willie. A few weeks later, Aunt Audrey presented Mother with a little female dachshund puppy which my mom named “Greta.” She kept Greta for eleven years until my mother’s death in 1974. They were as inseparable as Willie and I had been.
I’ve had many dogs since Willie, and I’ll admit that I’ve loved at least two of them as much as I loved Willie, but like your first kiss, you just don’t forget your first dog, especially if it meant as much to you as Willie did to me. We may have been broken early in life, but with each other’s help, we persevered.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
That Night At Mud Pike
They say confession is good for the soul. I hope so, because I’d like to try and purge mine of a demon that’s been hounding me for over forty years.
A lot of fine people attended the Mud Pike EUB Church from its birth in 1876 to its 1966 merger with the Elnora Methodist Church. I think of Mud Pike often, not just because it’s the church my father, Emerson Johnson, and his family attended while he was growing up, but also because so many other Elnora townsfolk knew that venerable old building as their spiritual home.
My first article in the Post was about my part in the “Great Watermelon Caper.” As bad as I felt about the smashed watermelons in the streets of Elnora, an incident at Mud Pike a few summers later has haunted me ever since.
It was a hot Saturday night, probably during 1965. I was home from Purdue, hanging around with the gang at Dick Davis’ filling station located on Highway 57, across from the Midway Café. Suddenly, a car roared into the station’s parking area and the driver, visibly shaken (or putting on a good act), said he and his girlfriend had been “parked” out at Mud Pike when the church bell started ringing for no apparent reason. Scared, they raced into town to tell their story.
I was informed that only a few weeks prior, Mud Pike had ceased having Sunday services and the members had begun attending church “in town.” So, some thought it would be fun to go ghost hunting, but others were apprehensive of checking out the phantom bell ringer. Then, one brave young man said something to the effect that, “I ain’t afraid! Someone drive me out there and I’ll be the first to go in.”
That gave us an idea. Two friends and I decided to go out to Mud Pike first and “get set up” to scare the pants off of the brave young volunteer in question. We shared our plan with a third friend who said he’d drive the boy out later after we’d had a chance to get there.
I rode in my buddy’s new, black, SS396 Chevelle, and another friend drove his T-Bird. We parked out of sight behind the church, tried the back door, and to our surprise, it was unlocked. The three of us went inside, and the church looked like it was ready for Sunday services the next day. The pews were still there and so was the piano.
I even asked if they were sure that the church had been vacated, and my two friends assured me it had been. So, we put our plan into action. I got down behind the piano, and my buddy covered himself with a white blanket that he had in the car. Friend #2 was going to shine a big 3-cell flashlight under the blanket in hopes of creating a ghostly aura as the unsuspecting young man approached the church.
We waited a few minutes, and then we couldn’t believe our eyes. Rather than one or two cars, there was a huge caravan of perhaps 15 – 20 vehicles snaking their way toward us. As the cars parked on the grass in the front of the building, the brave young man stepped out of the car in which he was riding and approached the door of the church.
Then, my buddy who was covered with the blanket raised his outstretched arms, and our other friend switched on the flashlight. At the same time, I started banging on the piano and the “brave one” outside was absolutely scared to death. When everyone realized it was a joke, they all came into the church, laughing and enjoying the moment.
About that time, the church bell began ringing. We were stunned! Some of the guys headed to the belfry and found what we now call a “homeless man” who had taken up residence in the church. He had rung the bell to have some fun of his own, so we laughed all over again, the original mystery having been solved.
Then things all went horribly wrong! In his exuberance, somebody turned over a pew, then another, and another. Someone else threw a chair at one of the big windows, and I can’t remember if the window shattered or not. My two friends and I yelled to try and get them to stop, but they wouldn’t.
About that same time, we saw the unmistakable red lights and heard the siren of a police car as it was screaming toward the church. We all scattered to our cars, me hobbling along as fast as my leg braces and crutches would allow. Because we were the first to park behind the church, we were also the last ones out.
We sped out of the lot and down the dusty, gravel road with the red lights close behind. No matter where we went, the chase wore on. We continued over near Odon and still he came. Because of the dust the Chevelle was kicking up behind, we finally lost sight of the police car in the rear view mirror. My friend then drove to Bloomfield to the “spray it yourself” car wash and after several quarters, we felt the car was clean enough to go home.
By this time, it was nearly midnight and as we arrived back to Elnora so I could pick up my 1956 Dodge and get to my house, there were only two cars parked at the gas station, mine and a state police cruiser.
As I was exiting the passenger’s side of the SS396, the policeman approached my friend and commented on his clean car. They held a brief conversation, but because the officer had apparently not gotten close enough to read the Chevelle’s license plate number, he reluctantly sent us on our way.
I never found out how much damage was done that night at Mud Pike. I’ve prayed to God countless times since, requesting His forgiveness for any part I had in that mess. Now I ask the good citizens of Elnora, past & present, to do the same. I am truly sorry.
A lot of fine people attended the Mud Pike EUB Church from its birth in 1876 to its 1966 merger with the Elnora Methodist Church. I think of Mud Pike often, not just because it’s the church my father, Emerson Johnson, and his family attended while he was growing up, but also because so many other Elnora townsfolk knew that venerable old building as their spiritual home.
My first article in the Post was about my part in the “Great Watermelon Caper.” As bad as I felt about the smashed watermelons in the streets of Elnora, an incident at Mud Pike a few summers later has haunted me ever since.
It was a hot Saturday night, probably during 1965. I was home from Purdue, hanging around with the gang at Dick Davis’ filling station located on Highway 57, across from the Midway Café. Suddenly, a car roared into the station’s parking area and the driver, visibly shaken (or putting on a good act), said he and his girlfriend had been “parked” out at Mud Pike when the church bell started ringing for no apparent reason. Scared, they raced into town to tell their story.
I was informed that only a few weeks prior, Mud Pike had ceased having Sunday services and the members had begun attending church “in town.” So, some thought it would be fun to go ghost hunting, but others were apprehensive of checking out the phantom bell ringer. Then, one brave young man said something to the effect that, “I ain’t afraid! Someone drive me out there and I’ll be the first to go in.”
That gave us an idea. Two friends and I decided to go out to Mud Pike first and “get set up” to scare the pants off of the brave young volunteer in question. We shared our plan with a third friend who said he’d drive the boy out later after we’d had a chance to get there.
I rode in my buddy’s new, black, SS396 Chevelle, and another friend drove his T-Bird. We parked out of sight behind the church, tried the back door, and to our surprise, it was unlocked. The three of us went inside, and the church looked like it was ready for Sunday services the next day. The pews were still there and so was the piano.
I even asked if they were sure that the church had been vacated, and my two friends assured me it had been. So, we put our plan into action. I got down behind the piano, and my buddy covered himself with a white blanket that he had in the car. Friend #2 was going to shine a big 3-cell flashlight under the blanket in hopes of creating a ghostly aura as the unsuspecting young man approached the church.
We waited a few minutes, and then we couldn’t believe our eyes. Rather than one or two cars, there was a huge caravan of perhaps 15 – 20 vehicles snaking their way toward us. As the cars parked on the grass in the front of the building, the brave young man stepped out of the car in which he was riding and approached the door of the church.
Then, my buddy who was covered with the blanket raised his outstretched arms, and our other friend switched on the flashlight. At the same time, I started banging on the piano and the “brave one” outside was absolutely scared to death. When everyone realized it was a joke, they all came into the church, laughing and enjoying the moment.
About that time, the church bell began ringing. We were stunned! Some of the guys headed to the belfry and found what we now call a “homeless man” who had taken up residence in the church. He had rung the bell to have some fun of his own, so we laughed all over again, the original mystery having been solved.
Then things all went horribly wrong! In his exuberance, somebody turned over a pew, then another, and another. Someone else threw a chair at one of the big windows, and I can’t remember if the window shattered or not. My two friends and I yelled to try and get them to stop, but they wouldn’t.
About that same time, we saw the unmistakable red lights and heard the siren of a police car as it was screaming toward the church. We all scattered to our cars, me hobbling along as fast as my leg braces and crutches would allow. Because we were the first to park behind the church, we were also the last ones out.
We sped out of the lot and down the dusty, gravel road with the red lights close behind. No matter where we went, the chase wore on. We continued over near Odon and still he came. Because of the dust the Chevelle was kicking up behind, we finally lost sight of the police car in the rear view mirror. My friend then drove to Bloomfield to the “spray it yourself” car wash and after several quarters, we felt the car was clean enough to go home.
By this time, it was nearly midnight and as we arrived back to Elnora so I could pick up my 1956 Dodge and get to my house, there were only two cars parked at the gas station, mine and a state police cruiser.
As I was exiting the passenger’s side of the SS396, the policeman approached my friend and commented on his clean car. They held a brief conversation, but because the officer had apparently not gotten close enough to read the Chevelle’s license plate number, he reluctantly sent us on our way.
I never found out how much damage was done that night at Mud Pike. I’ve prayed to God countless times since, requesting His forgiveness for any part I had in that mess. Now I ask the good citizens of Elnora, past & present, to do the same. I am truly sorry.
Friday, November 20, 2009
William Hannah, Elnora Pioneer
Next year, in 2010, the town that I will always be proud to call home will celebrate its 125th anniversary of being named “Elnora.” Prior to that, as many of those familiar with Elnora’s history are aware, it was once known as “Owl Town.” Many of my ancestors, the Johnsons, Renchs, and especially the Hannahs, played major parts in the formation of our wonderful little piece of God’s Country, and I’d like to share a portion of this heritage with the readers of the Elnora Post.
Perhaps the most well-known of my Elnora ancestors was William Hannah (1846 – 1940), my great grandfather who died four years before I was born. He was a major figure in the town’s history, and was well respected by everyone who knew him. Below is the reprint of an article that originally appeared in the old Elnora Tribune and was reprinted in the Washington Democrat in 1938:
William Hannah Relates Many Happenings of Long Ago in Daviess County
By Frank Quilliam
The following story appeared in a recent issue of the Elnora Tribune. The story dates back almost a century and reads as follows:
There are yet a few nonagenarians living in Daviess County, and William Hannah is one of them. He was born in the broad White River bottom, west of Elnora, in 1846. His parents came to Indiana in an early day and settled in Elmore Township. His father was a native of “sunny” Tennessee, while his mother was born in “the famous bluegrass state,” Kentucky.
For many years he was a venerable merchant of Elnora. He retired from the grocery business about five years ago. His sunset days are being spent with his daughter, Mrs. James (Alice Hannah) Rench of southwestern Elmore Township.
“Back in 1840 and for many years thereafter, Elnora was called Owl Town. This small settlement was situated on the Owl Prairie and contained about a half a dozen log cabins. This vast prairie stretched out in all directions and consisted of several thousand acres of rich marsh land, which was low and swampy. This prairie was said to have derived its name from the Indiana Chief Owl, who frequented the place. The whole country was covered with timber and deer and many other wild animals roamed in the forest.”
“Ace Helphenstine was the first postmaster of the little village and James Stalcup was the first mail carrier. Citizens of Owl Town received mail twice a week. It was carried on the back of a horse. Later when the (Wabash and) Erie Canal was dug, the mail was routed over the canal. This was almost a half century before the E. & I. Railroad was built. The railroad today is known as the Big Four.”
“The coldest weather ever recorded in Indiana was New Year’s Day, 1864. It was 30 degrees below zero. Early settlers often call it the ‘cold Saturday’ as New Year’s Day fell on Saturday that year. The weather, prior to the Arctic blizzard, was warm and the drop in temperature was very sudden.”
Mr. Hannah vividly recalls this severe cold wave and said that on New Year’s night, Andrew Baker froze to death while enroute to a lighted cabin. Neighbors went to search for him the next morning. Following his tracks in the snow, they came upon his lifeless body, frozen to death. Today Andrew Baker’s ashes sleep in the Weaver Cemetery in Elmore Township.
Elnora Editor Note – When we came here in 1893 to give Elnora their first Tribune, “Uncle Bill” Hannah was one of Elnora’s staunch business men and one of our first subscribers and advertisers. Someday, we will write a more detailed story of his life to add to this fine story written by Mr. Quilliam.
Footnote: Mr. Hannah died two years later at the age of 94 years, and the follow-up article was never written.
Perhaps the most well-known of my Elnora ancestors was William Hannah (1846 – 1940), my great grandfather who died four years before I was born. He was a major figure in the town’s history, and was well respected by everyone who knew him. Below is the reprint of an article that originally appeared in the old Elnora Tribune and was reprinted in the Washington Democrat in 1938:
William Hannah Relates Many Happenings of Long Ago in Daviess County
By Frank Quilliam
The following story appeared in a recent issue of the Elnora Tribune. The story dates back almost a century and reads as follows:
There are yet a few nonagenarians living in Daviess County, and William Hannah is one of them. He was born in the broad White River bottom, west of Elnora, in 1846. His parents came to Indiana in an early day and settled in Elmore Township. His father was a native of “sunny” Tennessee, while his mother was born in “the famous bluegrass state,” Kentucky.
For many years he was a venerable merchant of Elnora. He retired from the grocery business about five years ago. His sunset days are being spent with his daughter, Mrs. James (Alice Hannah) Rench of southwestern Elmore Township.
“Back in 1840 and for many years thereafter, Elnora was called Owl Town. This small settlement was situated on the Owl Prairie and contained about a half a dozen log cabins. This vast prairie stretched out in all directions and consisted of several thousand acres of rich marsh land, which was low and swampy. This prairie was said to have derived its name from the Indiana Chief Owl, who frequented the place. The whole country was covered with timber and deer and many other wild animals roamed in the forest.”
“Ace Helphenstine was the first postmaster of the little village and James Stalcup was the first mail carrier. Citizens of Owl Town received mail twice a week. It was carried on the back of a horse. Later when the (Wabash and) Erie Canal was dug, the mail was routed over the canal. This was almost a half century before the E. & I. Railroad was built. The railroad today is known as the Big Four.”
“The coldest weather ever recorded in Indiana was New Year’s Day, 1864. It was 30 degrees below zero. Early settlers often call it the ‘cold Saturday’ as New Year’s Day fell on Saturday that year. The weather, prior to the Arctic blizzard, was warm and the drop in temperature was very sudden.”
Mr. Hannah vividly recalls this severe cold wave and said that on New Year’s night, Andrew Baker froze to death while enroute to a lighted cabin. Neighbors went to search for him the next morning. Following his tracks in the snow, they came upon his lifeless body, frozen to death. Today Andrew Baker’s ashes sleep in the Weaver Cemetery in Elmore Township.
Elnora Editor Note – When we came here in 1893 to give Elnora their first Tribune, “Uncle Bill” Hannah was one of Elnora’s staunch business men and one of our first subscribers and advertisers. Someday, we will write a more detailed story of his life to add to this fine story written by Mr. Quilliam.
Footnote: Mr. Hannah died two years later at the age of 94 years, and the follow-up article was never written.
Friday, November 6, 2009
For Want of a Nail
An old proverb that’s been around since 1640 goes like this: “For want of a nail the shoe was lost. For want of a shoe the horse was lost. For want of a horse the rider was lost. For want of a rider the battle was lost. For want of a battle the kingdom was lost, and all for the want of a horseshoe nail.”
In January, 1968, two years following my graduation from Purdue University, my wife, Carol, completed her own work toward a degree from that venerable institution. Since we were no longer students, university rules dictated that we must vacate the married student housing where we had lived since our marriage on June 1, 1966, and seek residence elsewhere.
So, we moved ourselves, our infant son, Scott, and our meager belongings into our first “real” apartment at a complex known as Lorene Place on the outskirts of Lafayette. Little did we know when we took up residence in that small, one bedroom apartment in January, 1968, that the coming year would become one of the most volatile in the history of our country.
The year, 1968, saw the Memphis assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. on April 4. Just two months later, on June 5, Robert Kennedy was also shot to death following a presidential campaign speech in San Francisco. Then, in August, demonstrations at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago turned violent with over 100 protestors who had been beaten by police being sent to various hospital emergency rooms. The Viet Nam war was also at a high point in 1968, with the TET offensive and the Battle of Khe Sanh.
On a much lighter note, on November 17, 1968, one of the most famous football games in history was played. The New York Jets went against the Oakland Raiders in the infamous “Heidi” game which would ultimately change TV broadcast schedules forever. The Jets were leading 32-29 with only 65 seconds left in the game. NBC, in its infinite wisdom, abruptly switched to a new “made for TV” version of the movie, Heidi, at its regularly scheduled time at the “top of the hour,” leaving millions of football fans thinking the Jets would win the game. In fact, the Raiders scored 14 points in the last minute to win 43-32. No fan in American saw the ending live on TV. Following that game, most sporting events on national television have been shown in their entirety to prevent a debacle of that nature ever again.
With all of the events occurring in 1968, the little southern Indiana town of Elnora had its own major story during that year. It wouldn’t come close to making national headlines, but it was (or could have been) extremely important to the town of Elnora, and especially to our family.
Carol, Scott, and I were eating dinner one evening when the telephone rang. My mother, Elizabeth Johnson, was calling from her home in Elnora. She was as excited as I could ever remember and said that she and her brother, William (Bill) Rench, were finalizing plans to “develop Elnora” as she put it. My Uncle Bill and his wife, the former Kathryn Summerville, had both grown up in Elnora and were currently living in Indianapolis.
Mother and Uncle Bill were preparing to announce their formation of the Johnson-Rench Development Corporation. Most of the project would include the 10 acres from the Rench family home place located at the east end of Main Street, extending north to the current Basiloid property in Elnora. My grandparents, James and Alice Hannah Rench, had died more than a decade prior. My parents became sole owners when they purchased the two other one-third shares from Uncle Bill and my mother’s sister, Audrey Rench Wilkin, who lived in McCordsville, just northeast of Indianapolis.
My mother and father had rented out the Rench family house and land for several years. However, since the death of my father, Emerson Johnson, in 1963, the house had fallen into disrepair and was no longer suitable for occupancy. Mother’s meager income would not allow her to make the necessary repairs, so this news was a welcome ray of sunshine on that cold winter day.
The new development was supposed to include single-family homes, an apartment complex, and a shopping center. Pending the start of construction, Uncle Bill also had contacted manufacturers who were considering building facilities in Elnora to provide jobs so that local residents could afford to purchase the new homes and live in the new apartments.
It took a few more months, but the plans were formally announced in May, 1968. The corporation opened an office in downtown Elnora and also built a new, “state of the art” model home on the east side of East Street, just across from my mother’s tiny house. The residential portion of the development was to be named “Beverly Acres” in honor of Uncle Bill’s & Aunt Kathryn’s daughter, Beverly Ann Rench, who died nearly twenty years prior at the young age of fourteen.
Midwest Gas was constructing a new gas pipeline into Elnora from the Plainville gas field. That project was completed in July, 1968 and on September 19 of that year many prominent businessmen formed a Chamber of Commerce. This action made Elnora unique in the fact that it was the smallest town in Indiana to have its own Chamber of Commerce.
Just when it appeared the plans would become a reality, serious obstacles began to arise. Some landowners were reluctant to sell land for the project “to an outsider from the Big City.” And, when it was also determined that Elnora needed its own sewer system to support a development of that scope, the project failed almost as fast as it began. By the following year, the corporation was out of business, my mother had lost her ten acres, my uncle had lost his model home, and everyone was very disheartened. I don’t think my mother ever recovered from the devastating financial and emotional loss of the family homestead. Her health began to decline, and she died a few years later in 1974.
Uncle Bill, having been a bar owner, stockbroker, and successful businessman, persevered through many bouts with cancer for several years following the failure of the corporation. He had been a Greyhound bus driver during the 1940s, so when throat cancer robbed him of his voice in 1970, he refused to give up and became an independent truck driver until his health forced him to retire in the mid-1980s. He and Aunt Kathryn left Indianapolis and returned home to Elnora, living in a house at the southwest edge of town until their deaths in 1987 & 1988.
Elnora finally considered formal plans for a sewer system on March 3, 1973. Following the approval of a loan from the Farmers Home Administration to help finance the project, the system was completed on June 17, 1977, nearly ten years too late for what might have been.
My 500 shares of worthless stock in the Johnson-Rench Development Corporation now occupy a prominent place in the family album. I rarely go to Elnora in person these days, but I visit it in my mind almost daily. The Elnora of my youth is gone and it makes me sad. It reminds me of myself, an old-timer whose best days are now long gone. I will always wonder what would have happened if that nail hadn’t been lost. So should the town.
In January, 1968, two years following my graduation from Purdue University, my wife, Carol, completed her own work toward a degree from that venerable institution. Since we were no longer students, university rules dictated that we must vacate the married student housing where we had lived since our marriage on June 1, 1966, and seek residence elsewhere.
So, we moved ourselves, our infant son, Scott, and our meager belongings into our first “real” apartment at a complex known as Lorene Place on the outskirts of Lafayette. Little did we know when we took up residence in that small, one bedroom apartment in January, 1968, that the coming year would become one of the most volatile in the history of our country.
The year, 1968, saw the Memphis assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. on April 4. Just two months later, on June 5, Robert Kennedy was also shot to death following a presidential campaign speech in San Francisco. Then, in August, demonstrations at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago turned violent with over 100 protestors who had been beaten by police being sent to various hospital emergency rooms. The Viet Nam war was also at a high point in 1968, with the TET offensive and the Battle of Khe Sanh.
On a much lighter note, on November 17, 1968, one of the most famous football games in history was played. The New York Jets went against the Oakland Raiders in the infamous “Heidi” game which would ultimately change TV broadcast schedules forever. The Jets were leading 32-29 with only 65 seconds left in the game. NBC, in its infinite wisdom, abruptly switched to a new “made for TV” version of the movie, Heidi, at its regularly scheduled time at the “top of the hour,” leaving millions of football fans thinking the Jets would win the game. In fact, the Raiders scored 14 points in the last minute to win 43-32. No fan in American saw the ending live on TV. Following that game, most sporting events on national television have been shown in their entirety to prevent a debacle of that nature ever again.
With all of the events occurring in 1968, the little southern Indiana town of Elnora had its own major story during that year. It wouldn’t come close to making national headlines, but it was (or could have been) extremely important to the town of Elnora, and especially to our family.
Carol, Scott, and I were eating dinner one evening when the telephone rang. My mother, Elizabeth Johnson, was calling from her home in Elnora. She was as excited as I could ever remember and said that she and her brother, William (Bill) Rench, were finalizing plans to “develop Elnora” as she put it. My Uncle Bill and his wife, the former Kathryn Summerville, had both grown up in Elnora and were currently living in Indianapolis.
Mother and Uncle Bill were preparing to announce their formation of the Johnson-Rench Development Corporation. Most of the project would include the 10 acres from the Rench family home place located at the east end of Main Street, extending north to the current Basiloid property in Elnora. My grandparents, James and Alice Hannah Rench, had died more than a decade prior. My parents became sole owners when they purchased the two other one-third shares from Uncle Bill and my mother’s sister, Audrey Rench Wilkin, who lived in McCordsville, just northeast of Indianapolis.
My mother and father had rented out the Rench family house and land for several years. However, since the death of my father, Emerson Johnson, in 1963, the house had fallen into disrepair and was no longer suitable for occupancy. Mother’s meager income would not allow her to make the necessary repairs, so this news was a welcome ray of sunshine on that cold winter day.
The new development was supposed to include single-family homes, an apartment complex, and a shopping center. Pending the start of construction, Uncle Bill also had contacted manufacturers who were considering building facilities in Elnora to provide jobs so that local residents could afford to purchase the new homes and live in the new apartments.
It took a few more months, but the plans were formally announced in May, 1968. The corporation opened an office in downtown Elnora and also built a new, “state of the art” model home on the east side of East Street, just across from my mother’s tiny house. The residential portion of the development was to be named “Beverly Acres” in honor of Uncle Bill’s & Aunt Kathryn’s daughter, Beverly Ann Rench, who died nearly twenty years prior at the young age of fourteen.
Midwest Gas was constructing a new gas pipeline into Elnora from the Plainville gas field. That project was completed in July, 1968 and on September 19 of that year many prominent businessmen formed a Chamber of Commerce. This action made Elnora unique in the fact that it was the smallest town in Indiana to have its own Chamber of Commerce.
Just when it appeared the plans would become a reality, serious obstacles began to arise. Some landowners were reluctant to sell land for the project “to an outsider from the Big City.” And, when it was also determined that Elnora needed its own sewer system to support a development of that scope, the project failed almost as fast as it began. By the following year, the corporation was out of business, my mother had lost her ten acres, my uncle had lost his model home, and everyone was very disheartened. I don’t think my mother ever recovered from the devastating financial and emotional loss of the family homestead. Her health began to decline, and she died a few years later in 1974.
Uncle Bill, having been a bar owner, stockbroker, and successful businessman, persevered through many bouts with cancer for several years following the failure of the corporation. He had been a Greyhound bus driver during the 1940s, so when throat cancer robbed him of his voice in 1970, he refused to give up and became an independent truck driver until his health forced him to retire in the mid-1980s. He and Aunt Kathryn left Indianapolis and returned home to Elnora, living in a house at the southwest edge of town until their deaths in 1987 & 1988.
Elnora finally considered formal plans for a sewer system on March 3, 1973. Following the approval of a loan from the Farmers Home Administration to help finance the project, the system was completed on June 17, 1977, nearly ten years too late for what might have been.
My 500 shares of worthless stock in the Johnson-Rench Development Corporation now occupy a prominent place in the family album. I rarely go to Elnora in person these days, but I visit it in my mind almost daily. The Elnora of my youth is gone and it makes me sad. It reminds me of myself, an old-timer whose best days are now long gone. I will always wonder what would have happened if that nail hadn’t been lost. So should the town.
Friday, September 18, 2009
We Never Know Who Is Watching
My four-year-old granddaughter, Isabella, is the only one of my eight grandchildren who has never seen me walk on my leg braces and crutches. The other day she asked me for the umpteenth time, “Grandpa, why did you get so sick?” I know it bothers her that I am now confined to a wheelchair, the result of having polio when I was just about her age. Although I’ve tried to explain many times that the medicine (vaccine) she has taken will prevent her from contracting the devastating illness, I know she periodically worries that the same thing may happen to her someday.
Izzy’s observations just go to prove that little kids see everything, even if some aren’t always as quick to verbalize their emotions as she is. Since I see Izzy almost every day, I’m not at all surprised that she pays attention to nearly everything I do when she’s in our home.
Several weeks ago I received an e-mail “out of the blue” from a former Elnora resident who has kept her thoughts of me silent for over forty years. The subject line on the message was titled, “To a Hero from Elnora” and was sent by Jan Brewer whom I remember as a cute little blond, Janice Burdsall, during my school days.
Jan was in the seventh grade when I was a senior in high school, and I had no idea she was watching my every move. You see, Jan has a condition known as achondroplasia dwarfism which restricted her height. According to Wikipedia, females affected by achondroplasia grow to an average of only four feet, one-half inch. After reading Jan’s e-mails and talking to her later on the phone, she may be short in stature, but she is a giant in spirit.
Jan said she first started observing me when she was a sixth grader in Fern Johnson’s class. I was a junior and after lunch which was served in the basement cafeteria, I had a science or math class on the second floor (top floor) of the old Elnora school building. This necessitated that I ascend several flights of stairs, pulling myself up by the handrail with my right hand while using one crutch and holding the other in my left hand. Wearing my heavy leg braces, it was an excruciatingly slow process.
At the same time, Miss Fern was also leading her sixth grade class back up to their room on the second floor. Most days, they were behind me. Miss Fern would have her students line up single file to walk up the stairs according to height, with the shortest student first. Of course, that was always Jan. I never thought about it before, but we must have been quite a sight, me lumbering slowly up the stairs holding my spare crutch and Jan right behind me climbing the steep staircase as efficiently as her short legs would allow.
Jan also mentioned the Junior Class Play in which I played “Uncle Clyde” who was “confined” to a hospital bed for the entire play. She thought it was great that Mrs. Humbaugh selected a play that fit in perfectly with my disability long before the age of government mandated accessibility. She said she and her older sister, Rosemary, discussed this one simple act of kindness many times while Rose was dying of colon cancer in 2008. As Jan said, “Little did America know that Elnora had been promoting accessibility all along without having to have laws to do it.”
A few weeks following her initial contact and several e-mails later, Jan telephoned me and we had a wonderful conversation, discussing the old days in Elnora. Then she got sentimental and told me what a great influence I had been on her life. She said, “You were with me when I graduated from high school, you were with me all through college, and you were even there when I walked down the aisle.” I was dumbfounded. I never knew she felt that way, probably never having said much more to her than, “Hi,” on the few occasions when we may have met in the hallway in school.
Jan has spent much of her career teaching and working with adults afflicted with cerebral palsy. She said I was the inspiration that gave her the “can do” attitude to accomplish anything she sets her mind to. That’s quite a totally unexpected compliment. I had no idea she was watching all those years ago.
The last time I saw Jan Burdsall was sometime during the mid-1960s following Sunday services at the Elnora Christian Church. She was climbing into the driver’s seat of her car and I noticed the pedal extensions allowing her legs to reach them and the booster seat enabling her to see over the steering wheel. Needing to use special hand controls to drive my own car, I thought to myself how neat it was that she could enjoy that freedom for herself as well. I guess we’re all watching someone.
Hopefully, we’re also conducting our lives in a manner that merits other people watching us.
Izzy’s observations just go to prove that little kids see everything, even if some aren’t always as quick to verbalize their emotions as she is. Since I see Izzy almost every day, I’m not at all surprised that she pays attention to nearly everything I do when she’s in our home.
Several weeks ago I received an e-mail “out of the blue” from a former Elnora resident who has kept her thoughts of me silent for over forty years. The subject line on the message was titled, “To a Hero from Elnora” and was sent by Jan Brewer whom I remember as a cute little blond, Janice Burdsall, during my school days.
Jan was in the seventh grade when I was a senior in high school, and I had no idea she was watching my every move. You see, Jan has a condition known as achondroplasia dwarfism which restricted her height. According to Wikipedia, females affected by achondroplasia grow to an average of only four feet, one-half inch. After reading Jan’s e-mails and talking to her later on the phone, she may be short in stature, but she is a giant in spirit.
Jan said she first started observing me when she was a sixth grader in Fern Johnson’s class. I was a junior and after lunch which was served in the basement cafeteria, I had a science or math class on the second floor (top floor) of the old Elnora school building. This necessitated that I ascend several flights of stairs, pulling myself up by the handrail with my right hand while using one crutch and holding the other in my left hand. Wearing my heavy leg braces, it was an excruciatingly slow process.
At the same time, Miss Fern was also leading her sixth grade class back up to their room on the second floor. Most days, they were behind me. Miss Fern would have her students line up single file to walk up the stairs according to height, with the shortest student first. Of course, that was always Jan. I never thought about it before, but we must have been quite a sight, me lumbering slowly up the stairs holding my spare crutch and Jan right behind me climbing the steep staircase as efficiently as her short legs would allow.
Jan also mentioned the Junior Class Play in which I played “Uncle Clyde” who was “confined” to a hospital bed for the entire play. She thought it was great that Mrs. Humbaugh selected a play that fit in perfectly with my disability long before the age of government mandated accessibility. She said she and her older sister, Rosemary, discussed this one simple act of kindness many times while Rose was dying of colon cancer in 2008. As Jan said, “Little did America know that Elnora had been promoting accessibility all along without having to have laws to do it.”
A few weeks following her initial contact and several e-mails later, Jan telephoned me and we had a wonderful conversation, discussing the old days in Elnora. Then she got sentimental and told me what a great influence I had been on her life. She said, “You were with me when I graduated from high school, you were with me all through college, and you were even there when I walked down the aisle.” I was dumbfounded. I never knew she felt that way, probably never having said much more to her than, “Hi,” on the few occasions when we may have met in the hallway in school.
Jan has spent much of her career teaching and working with adults afflicted with cerebral palsy. She said I was the inspiration that gave her the “can do” attitude to accomplish anything she sets her mind to. That’s quite a totally unexpected compliment. I had no idea she was watching all those years ago.
The last time I saw Jan Burdsall was sometime during the mid-1960s following Sunday services at the Elnora Christian Church. She was climbing into the driver’s seat of her car and I noticed the pedal extensions allowing her legs to reach them and the booster seat enabling her to see over the steering wheel. Needing to use special hand controls to drive my own car, I thought to myself how neat it was that she could enjoy that freedom for herself as well. I guess we’re all watching someone.
Hopefully, we’re also conducting our lives in a manner that merits other people watching us.
Friday, July 31, 2009
My Elnora Christian Church Home
I guess I’m at the age when nostalgia for a simpler place and time seems to occupy more and more of my thoughts. During these moments of miscellaneous reflection, my mind invariably wanders back to my youth and my wonderful home town of Elnora. Lately, I’ve been thinking about “growing up” in the Elnora Christian Church and the great memories the experience provided.
As a direct descendant of the Hannah family who helped found the settlement of Owl Prairie which later became the town of Elnora, my great-grandfather, William Hannah, was a charter member of the Elnora Christian Church and one of the four original trustees. Organized on September 28, 1890 (exactly 54 years to the day before I was born), the church had forty charter members.
Although I had been to church several times before, my earliest recollection of attending the Elnora Christian Church proved to be somewhat inauspicious, even though I didn’t realize it at the time. I was about five years old and after the service began and communion was being passed, I thought it was “refreshment time.” So, I took a handful of the bread and reached for the small cup of wine just as my mother, Elizabeth Johnson, stopped me with a stern, “No, James Emerson!” Not understanding the significance of communion, I was devastated, seeing everybody else eating and drinking while I just had to sit and watch. Of course, my mother later explained the significance to me.
When I was about twelve years old, I made the decision to accept Christ and become a full-fledged member of the church. As I remember, there was a week-long revival which culminated in several people confessing their faith and being immersed in Christian baptism. Because of my crutches and full leg braces, it was apparent that I could not be baptized like everyone else. As a result, I was the last person to be immersed that evening.
To prepare for baptism, I had to remove my braces and then our minister, Bob Brock, and my father, Emerson Johnson, carried me down the steps into the baptistery on a wooden chair. Following my confession of faith, the two of them tipped me back into the water, completely immersing me and the chair. It was a humbling experience which I will never forget.
Reverend Brock and I became great friends. Every Saturday I would go to the church and help him print the bulletins for the Sunday service, using the smelly old 1950’s mimeograph machine. I became very active in the youth group and attended many district meetings riding with Bob in his old VW Beetle. And, it was Bob Brock who encouraged me to go to “Church Camp” each summer at Bedford Christian Camp. Because of my physical problems, I was always apprehensive when meeting new people and going places I hadn’t been before. Bob Brock really helped me conquer those fears.
One Sunday of each year was designated as “Youth Sunday” at the Elnora Christian Church. On that day, the youth of the church pretty much conducted the entire service, including the sermon. It was my great honor to be chosen to give the message on one of those occasions when I was in my teens. Reverend Brock assisted me with the preparation, but when Sunday came, I was on my own. I’m sure I was very nervous, but I got through it and remember that it was one of the few times that my father was seated in the congregation. It was a very special day.
By the late 1950’s, the multi-level white-frame Elnora Christian Church was really beginning to show its age. So, on Sunday, May 7, 1961, ground was broken for the first section of the new building. It was only four days before I graduated from high school, and I was one of eleven church members privileged to participate in the ceremony. I was especially proud, knowing that seventy years prior, my great-grandfather had been part of a similar ceremony.
I started classes at Purdue University later that year, and my “string” of thirteen straight years of never missing Sunday services neglectfully came to an end. When I was home on weekends and on vacation, I attended church, but as the years passed I slowly began to drift away.
My wife, Carol, was raised in the Baptist Church in Salem, Indiana, and we have gone to several churches over the years. Since moving to Indianapolis in 1972, we have been members of three different Christian churches, including our current church home, Indian Creek Christian Church, which is very near our current house on the southeast side of town.
When we began attending “The Creek” on a regular basis about a year ago, we knew it was where we belonged. Like many churches in the area, it is very large with a congregation of nearly 4,000 attending the three Sunday services. Although it dwarfs the church I grew up in, everyone seems to be very friendly and we are so happy that we placed our membership there.
However, as much as I love “The Creek” with its full band, modern Christian music, and extraordinary minister, when I close my eyes and think back to my youth in Elnora, I can still hear Roy Quilliam’s booming voice, slightly off-key, at the back of the congregation singing “The Old Rugged Cross.”
I can still see people such as Owen Rader, Ray Humerickhouse, Wayne Ketchem, Boots Blocksom, Marie Nugent, Reed Rader, Vera Stites, Johnny Mize, Berniece Osmon, Roy Moulden and the other great folks that meant so much to me and to the church. Most of all, I see Bob Brock delivering the Sunday message to the congregation. And I miss them.
As a direct descendant of the Hannah family who helped found the settlement of Owl Prairie which later became the town of Elnora, my great-grandfather, William Hannah, was a charter member of the Elnora Christian Church and one of the four original trustees. Organized on September 28, 1890 (exactly 54 years to the day before I was born), the church had forty charter members.
Although I had been to church several times before, my earliest recollection of attending the Elnora Christian Church proved to be somewhat inauspicious, even though I didn’t realize it at the time. I was about five years old and after the service began and communion was being passed, I thought it was “refreshment time.” So, I took a handful of the bread and reached for the small cup of wine just as my mother, Elizabeth Johnson, stopped me with a stern, “No, James Emerson!” Not understanding the significance of communion, I was devastated, seeing everybody else eating and drinking while I just had to sit and watch. Of course, my mother later explained the significance to me.
When I was about twelve years old, I made the decision to accept Christ and become a full-fledged member of the church. As I remember, there was a week-long revival which culminated in several people confessing their faith and being immersed in Christian baptism. Because of my crutches and full leg braces, it was apparent that I could not be baptized like everyone else. As a result, I was the last person to be immersed that evening.
To prepare for baptism, I had to remove my braces and then our minister, Bob Brock, and my father, Emerson Johnson, carried me down the steps into the baptistery on a wooden chair. Following my confession of faith, the two of them tipped me back into the water, completely immersing me and the chair. It was a humbling experience which I will never forget.
Reverend Brock and I became great friends. Every Saturday I would go to the church and help him print the bulletins for the Sunday service, using the smelly old 1950’s mimeograph machine. I became very active in the youth group and attended many district meetings riding with Bob in his old VW Beetle. And, it was Bob Brock who encouraged me to go to “Church Camp” each summer at Bedford Christian Camp. Because of my physical problems, I was always apprehensive when meeting new people and going places I hadn’t been before. Bob Brock really helped me conquer those fears.
One Sunday of each year was designated as “Youth Sunday” at the Elnora Christian Church. On that day, the youth of the church pretty much conducted the entire service, including the sermon. It was my great honor to be chosen to give the message on one of those occasions when I was in my teens. Reverend Brock assisted me with the preparation, but when Sunday came, I was on my own. I’m sure I was very nervous, but I got through it and remember that it was one of the few times that my father was seated in the congregation. It was a very special day.
By the late 1950’s, the multi-level white-frame Elnora Christian Church was really beginning to show its age. So, on Sunday, May 7, 1961, ground was broken for the first section of the new building. It was only four days before I graduated from high school, and I was one of eleven church members privileged to participate in the ceremony. I was especially proud, knowing that seventy years prior, my great-grandfather had been part of a similar ceremony.
I started classes at Purdue University later that year, and my “string” of thirteen straight years of never missing Sunday services neglectfully came to an end. When I was home on weekends and on vacation, I attended church, but as the years passed I slowly began to drift away.
My wife, Carol, was raised in the Baptist Church in Salem, Indiana, and we have gone to several churches over the years. Since moving to Indianapolis in 1972, we have been members of three different Christian churches, including our current church home, Indian Creek Christian Church, which is very near our current house on the southeast side of town.
When we began attending “The Creek” on a regular basis about a year ago, we knew it was where we belonged. Like many churches in the area, it is very large with a congregation of nearly 4,000 attending the three Sunday services. Although it dwarfs the church I grew up in, everyone seems to be very friendly and we are so happy that we placed our membership there.
However, as much as I love “The Creek” with its full band, modern Christian music, and extraordinary minister, when I close my eyes and think back to my youth in Elnora, I can still hear Roy Quilliam’s booming voice, slightly off-key, at the back of the congregation singing “The Old Rugged Cross.”
I can still see people such as Owen Rader, Ray Humerickhouse, Wayne Ketchem, Boots Blocksom, Marie Nugent, Reed Rader, Vera Stites, Johnny Mize, Berniece Osmon, Roy Moulden and the other great folks that meant so much to me and to the church. Most of all, I see Bob Brock delivering the Sunday message to the congregation. And I miss them.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Memories of "Dad"
As I write this article, it’s the Monday following the third Sunday of June, 2009. Carol and I are fortunate to have our three children and their families living close enough that we see them on a regular basis. This Fathers’ Day was no exception. We had our traditional family cook-out and, as the “guest of honor,” I received several nice cards and gifts.
My youngest son gave me something different this year, a “fill in the blanks” book titled “A Father’s Legacy: Your Life Story in Your Own Words.” He explained that this was a present for both of us so he and his family would have a keepsake to pass down through the generations. Completing the information in the book appears to be a daunting task, considering it contains nearly 200 pages. However, it’s a job I’m looking forward to because I wish I had one like it from my parents or grandparents.
After everyone departed yesterday, and the pool cover was closed, and the last dish was washed, I began reflecting on my childhood back in Elnora. Being Fathers’ Day, I especially thought about my own Grandfather, Jim Rench, and how much he meant to me. My Grandfather Marion Johnson died in 1930, fourteen years before I was born. He apparently was a fine, religious family man, well known in the area, and quite a successful farmer in his younger days. I’m sorry I never got to meet him.
Although I have special memories of my father, it was my maternal grandparents with whom I spent the most time when I was very young and in the developmental stage of my life. After having polio when I was nearly four years old and being confined to Riley Hospital for over nine months, upon returning home, I stayed with my grandparents, Jim and Alice (Hannah) Rench, every day and night while my parents worked long hours in their restaurant.
My grandmother read stories to me and taught me to read before I was six years old, setting the academic tone and whetting my thirst for knowledge that formed the foundation for the rest of my life. But it was my grandfather who taught me so many things that a boy should know and, during my time with him, he was more of a parent to me than my own father.
James Harrison Rench was born in Waverly, Indiana on August 14, 1877 and apparently moved to Elnora at a very early age. He married my grandmother, Sarah Etta Alice Hannah, in 1902. They had three children who survived, Audrey, Elizabeth (my mother), and William (Bill). I was an only child, and after my cousin, Beverly Ann Rench, passed away at the age of 14, I was also the only grandchild.
My earliest memory of “Dad” (as I called my grandfather) was when I was three years old and he put me down into a post hole he had just finished digging. He walked away from me for a joke, but when he saw I was terrified, he quickly came back and “rescued” me. Thank God he never did anything like that again.
Dad was a farmer most of his life, but he also spent some time working on the railroad. Perhaps it was his railroad stories that led to my love of trains today. I have been a subscriber of Model Railroader magazine for as long as I can remember. Dad used to sit in his favorite chair after supper each night, and in between spitting Beech-Nut tobacco juice in the coffee can near the pot-bellied stove, he would file his big toenail with a wood rasp, an action necessitated by him dropping a railroad “rail” on his foot years earlier. He would tell me about his life on the railroad when he was a member of a “Section Gang” with Lyman Haverstock as his boss.
While I was still learning to walk with my braces and crutches, Dad would pull me downtown nearly every day in my little red wagon to see my parents at the restaurant, and then he would pull me back to his house. One day, rather than going straight home, he took me to one of the two railroad depots in town, loaded the wagon and me into the cab of a big steam engine waiting there, and we rode from the depot to the cheese factory where the engineer stopped the train, and then Dad pulled me home from there. That short train trip remains one of the fondest memories of my childhood.
Dad also contributed to my still current love of music. He would sit on the front porch and sing gospel songs and country music and encourage me to join him. We weren’t very good, but we sure were loud, especially when we sang train songs such as “Casey Jones” and “The Wabash Cannonball.”
And, it was that same front porch that contributed to the final memory of my grandfather. August 23, 1955 was one of the hottest days of the year. Dad wasn’t feeling well, and he spent most of the day lying on the chaise lounge on the porch. The flies were thick as thieves that afternoon, and they were giving him fits. I went into the house and brought out the fly swatter to keep those pesky critters away from him (I hope PETA doesn’t read this), killing several in the process. As it got later in the day, my parents came home from work, having sold their restaurant years before, and said I could go home and watch our new TV.
About an hour later, my father came over to our house and broke the news to me that Dad had just died. He said, “James Emerson, I think he just waited until you left so you wouldn’t be there.” Now I just have my memories, a few pictures, and very little written information.
I’ve been writing my own autobiography for years. With that plus the newspaper articles I’ve penned for the Post, and now the “Legacy” book, my grandkids will have some written reminders to supplement their “real” memories. It would be nice if everyone reading this article could do the same. Family members live and die, but memories last forever. Elnora is the source of many of mine. I’m just glad we don’t have to swat flies that much these days.
My youngest son gave me something different this year, a “fill in the blanks” book titled “A Father’s Legacy: Your Life Story in Your Own Words.” He explained that this was a present for both of us so he and his family would have a keepsake to pass down through the generations. Completing the information in the book appears to be a daunting task, considering it contains nearly 200 pages. However, it’s a job I’m looking forward to because I wish I had one like it from my parents or grandparents.
After everyone departed yesterday, and the pool cover was closed, and the last dish was washed, I began reflecting on my childhood back in Elnora. Being Fathers’ Day, I especially thought about my own Grandfather, Jim Rench, and how much he meant to me. My Grandfather Marion Johnson died in 1930, fourteen years before I was born. He apparently was a fine, religious family man, well known in the area, and quite a successful farmer in his younger days. I’m sorry I never got to meet him.
Although I have special memories of my father, it was my maternal grandparents with whom I spent the most time when I was very young and in the developmental stage of my life. After having polio when I was nearly four years old and being confined to Riley Hospital for over nine months, upon returning home, I stayed with my grandparents, Jim and Alice (Hannah) Rench, every day and night while my parents worked long hours in their restaurant.
My grandmother read stories to me and taught me to read before I was six years old, setting the academic tone and whetting my thirst for knowledge that formed the foundation for the rest of my life. But it was my grandfather who taught me so many things that a boy should know and, during my time with him, he was more of a parent to me than my own father.
James Harrison Rench was born in Waverly, Indiana on August 14, 1877 and apparently moved to Elnora at a very early age. He married my grandmother, Sarah Etta Alice Hannah, in 1902. They had three children who survived, Audrey, Elizabeth (my mother), and William (Bill). I was an only child, and after my cousin, Beverly Ann Rench, passed away at the age of 14, I was also the only grandchild.
My earliest memory of “Dad” (as I called my grandfather) was when I was three years old and he put me down into a post hole he had just finished digging. He walked away from me for a joke, but when he saw I was terrified, he quickly came back and “rescued” me. Thank God he never did anything like that again.
Dad was a farmer most of his life, but he also spent some time working on the railroad. Perhaps it was his railroad stories that led to my love of trains today. I have been a subscriber of Model Railroader magazine for as long as I can remember. Dad used to sit in his favorite chair after supper each night, and in between spitting Beech-Nut tobacco juice in the coffee can near the pot-bellied stove, he would file his big toenail with a wood rasp, an action necessitated by him dropping a railroad “rail” on his foot years earlier. He would tell me about his life on the railroad when he was a member of a “Section Gang” with Lyman Haverstock as his boss.
While I was still learning to walk with my braces and crutches, Dad would pull me downtown nearly every day in my little red wagon to see my parents at the restaurant, and then he would pull me back to his house. One day, rather than going straight home, he took me to one of the two railroad depots in town, loaded the wagon and me into the cab of a big steam engine waiting there, and we rode from the depot to the cheese factory where the engineer stopped the train, and then Dad pulled me home from there. That short train trip remains one of the fondest memories of my childhood.
Dad also contributed to my still current love of music. He would sit on the front porch and sing gospel songs and country music and encourage me to join him. We weren’t very good, but we sure were loud, especially when we sang train songs such as “Casey Jones” and “The Wabash Cannonball.”
And, it was that same front porch that contributed to the final memory of my grandfather. August 23, 1955 was one of the hottest days of the year. Dad wasn’t feeling well, and he spent most of the day lying on the chaise lounge on the porch. The flies were thick as thieves that afternoon, and they were giving him fits. I went into the house and brought out the fly swatter to keep those pesky critters away from him (I hope PETA doesn’t read this), killing several in the process. As it got later in the day, my parents came home from work, having sold their restaurant years before, and said I could go home and watch our new TV.
About an hour later, my father came over to our house and broke the news to me that Dad had just died. He said, “James Emerson, I think he just waited until you left so you wouldn’t be there.” Now I just have my memories, a few pictures, and very little written information.
I’ve been writing my own autobiography for years. With that plus the newspaper articles I’ve penned for the Post, and now the “Legacy” book, my grandkids will have some written reminders to supplement their “real” memories. It would be nice if everyone reading this article could do the same. Family members live and die, but memories last forever. Elnora is the source of many of mine. I’m just glad we don’t have to swat flies that much these days.
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