Carrol Vertrees, My Inspiration

Originally Written 06/16/2014

Elnora recently lost a great son with the death of former resident, Carrol Vertrees.  His writings were loved by many, and he served as the inspiration for my futile attempts at trying to emulate his success and style.

I learned of his passing a few days ago as I was getting my daily “Facebook fix” on-line.  I scrolled down the page and read the shocking headline: “Post-Tribune columnist Carrol Vertrees dead at 92.”  His lengthy obituary spoke of his career as a journalist for newspapers in northern Indiana as well as the Odon Journal.  He remained active to the end, having a new column published in the Journal just two days after he died.  My initial reaction was one of shock, but when I started thinking about the overall tone of the last several of his “Vertrees Comments,” I feel that he may have had a premonition he would soon be moving from his earthly home to his celestial one.

In 1976, author Alex Haley published Roots: The Saga of an American Family, a novel based on his family’s history.  It became a best seller and one of the most watched TV miniseries of all time.  I speculate that Carrol Vertrees (CV, as he signed his e-mails to me) began sculpting stories of his Elnora roots long before Haley’s book.

Carrol Vertrees was 23 years my senior, but we had at least two things in common; we both loved our little home town, and we both moved away at an early age.  History has shown that as many Elnora residents reach young adult status, they scatter hither and yon like brown, brittle leaves on a windy autumn day.  CV and I were alike in that regard.

In fact, I should mention that although he knew of me as a small child, I never met Carrol Vertrees face-to-face during my adult life.  I became familiar with him through his newspaper columns and later through the magic of e-mail and Facebook.  He knew my family and has shared memories of my father, Emerson, and my mother, Elizabeth (he called her “Libby”), and remembered that the Johnson clan attended Mud Pike Church along with the Vertrees family all those years ago.  He also extolled the culinary virtues of the food at my parents’ restaurant and raved about my mom’s excellent chili.  He mentioned her recently in a Facebook entry after I had posted some pictures of her for Mothers’ Day.

When the now-defunct Elnora Post began its operation in 2008, I decided to try my hand at submitting some of my own Elnora memories and hoped I could become half the writer CV was.  I have had fun trying, but I truly think what I consider my best work can’t hold the proverbial candle to anything I ever read of his.  Most of my stories recount specific vignettes of my life growing up in our little hometown.  CV could write about anything, but before you knew it, he’d sneak in that little Elnora reference.  He was a master at that.

I have saved all of my stories that have been printed in the Post and now in the Journal. I’ve also kept several of CV’s.  One of my favorites was his recollection of how Elnora celebrated Christmas during his younger days.  It was a true masterpiece.  One year ago this week in the June 19, 2013 edition of the Odon Journal, he wrote a letter to the “From Our Mailbag” column titled “Remembering Elnora.”  In it, he compared our memories of that little piece of Daviess County Heaven that we call home.  He explained that we come from different generations and that our memories are linked to three different towns, his Elnora, my Elnora, and the modern Elnora, a shell of its former self, but still a treasure of memories.

I’d like to quote a portion of that letter: “I salute folks like Jim Johnson who knew painful adversity from an early age and felt the love of people who cared.  Like me, he feels that memories, even painful ones, help us understand who we are and where we have been.  Little towns like Elnora that are only shells of their former vibrant lives still seem real -- a permanent part of us.  Jim Johnson has reminded us of that important truth.”

On the contrary, I feel Carrol Vertrees reminded us of that better than I ever could have.  One of those painful memories is now knowing that his wit, insight, and eloquence have been silenced forever.  CV, I salute you and hope that one day we can sit down on the “other side” and swap a few stories.  Till then, I will miss you.

That Day in Dallas

Originally Written 11/23/2013

I tried to pen these thoughts a week ago, but the words just wouldn’t come.

It’s often been said that “bad things come in threes.”  The year, 1963, may not have proven that theory, but for me it came awfully close.  On February 13, 1963, one day before the celebration of St. Valentine, my father died from a long bout with lung cancer.  Three months later, death claimed my faithful dog, Willie.

During that summer, I worked at the Crane Naval Ammunition Depot as it was known in those days.  Many weeks I’d put in sixty hours or more so that I would have enough money to return to Purdue in the fall and help ease the financial burden on my widowed mother.  I had a scholarship that paid for my tuition and books, but we still had to pony up for room, board, and “spending money.”  So, with a heavy heart I returned to Boilermaker country in September, leaving Mother home with her new dachshund, Greta.

Friday, November 22, 1963, dawned pretty much like any other day.  I worked part-time in the dorm cafeteria.  That morning I was in the serving line dipping up the scrambled eggs, bacon, and other breakfast foods before heading to campus.  Unlike most colleges, Purdue started classes on the “half-hour” rather than at the top of the hour.  And, in 1963, Purdue was on Central Standard Time, the same as Dallas, Texas.

I had a 1:30 economics class at Stanley Coulter Hall and always drove to class early to seek one of the elusive open parking spaces.  That afternoon I got lucky and found one right away.  I was listening to music in my old ‘56 Dodge when a DJ interrupted, saying that President Kennedy had been shot and we should stay tuned for further details.  Not realizing how serious this truly was, I turned off the radio and entered the building.  After ascending the monstrous Stanley Coulter main staircase, I saw a note on the classroom door stating that all Friday and Saturday classes at Purdue had been cancelled.  Only then did I know the worst, bad things do come in threes.

The next day, Saturday, was sunny, warm, and beautiful.  The annual Purdue/IU Old Oaken Bucket football game was scheduled in Bloomington, but like nearly every game throughout the land, it was postponed a week until the Saturday after Thanksgiving.  I had planned to drive to Elnora, pick up my mom, and take her to her first college football game, but we would now have to wait a week for a cold, snowy day to see Purdue recapture the Bucket.

But, on the “Kennedy” weekend, I worked in the cafeteria, did my own “gig” as a DJ on the Purdue Residence Network, studied very little, and watched the constant news evolving on TV.   On Sunday, 15-20 of us sat in the basement TV room and lost even more innocence as we witnessed the assassination of Lee Harvey Oswald by Jack Ruby live in black and white.

I was just 19 years old and had already learned the life lessons of impermanence.  By then I had been afflicted by polio, had lost my grandparents, my father, my dog, and now the nation had lost its President.  Healing takes time and comes in different forms for different people.  The recent TV specials about “that day in Dallas” brought back so many memories, and I realize I’m still grieved by those events of over fifty years ago.

Coach Keith Youngen

Mark Twain once said, “The worst loneliness is not to be comfortable with yourself.”  People who know me might find it difficult to believe that I once lacked confidence and its faithful companion, self-esteem.  During our most recent class reunion (the milestone 50^th for the Class of 1961), we were asked to talk about our most inspirational teacher.  Like most, I said that I would have to include Paul Earles (math, science, and school Principal) and Leila Pate (English), but tears came to my eyes and it took a while for me to continue when I mentioned Coach Keith Youngen.  Here’s why: 

Although I had a few friends among the kids in my neighborhood in Elnora, having had polio before I was four years old, being sheltered by my parents and other adults, and relying on a private tutor at home for the first six grades of elementary school all contributed to my fears, insecurity, and lack of social skills.  Finally heading into the school building on the first day of seventh grade, I could feel the eyes on me as I walked stiff-legged to the Study Hall on my forearm crutches and full-length leg braces. 

Because I was so self-conscious, I didn’t realize that some of the students were genuinely being nice to me and were accepting me for who I was.  In my naivety, I assumed those kids were ‘putting on a show’ and were really more like the others who (in my mind) were avoiding me like the plague.  Things got better as the years progressed, but I still seemed to have very few close friends.  Little did I know that was not unusual, even for most kids. 

Calvin Keith Youngen was the high school basketball coach for only three seasons, leaving after my junior year at Elnora.  He turned a losing program into a winning one in just that short time.  However, I will always remember him for something much more important that affected my life forever.  Before the start of basketball practice during my sophomore year, he approached me and asked if I’d like to be a Student Manager.  This would involve getting equipment ready for practice and games plus travelling with the team to away games and tournaments.  It also meant that I would have more interaction with the team, the fans, and most importantly, the other students.  That simple request which I eagerly accepted did more to bring me out of my shell and accept myself for who I am than any one thing that had happened prior. 

During the next two years I spent a lot of time with him and was devastated when Mr. Youngen left Elnora.  The last time I saw him was at our 25^th class reunion.  Although he apparently came to some others, I didn’t attend any more until the 50^th.  Someone said he was invited but couldn’t come due to another commitment. 

Recently, it was announced that Bobby ‘Slick’ Leonard, legendary basketball star, Indiana Pacers coach, and long-time Pacers announcer will be the subject of an upcoming documentary about his life.  He met with three basketball buddies at his old Terre Haute Gerstmeyer High School Gym for a photo which included twins Arley and Harley Andrews and Keith Youngen.  Like an old Elvis song, “Memories, pressed between the pages of my mind…”  I just celebrated my 69^th birthday still full of confidence, self-esteem, and with a ton of memories.

Little House on the Corner

I may have been conceived in Jacksonville, Florida and I was definitely born in Louisville, Kentucky where I lived a grand total of five weeks (that’s weeks, not months or years), but I will always call Elnora, Indiana my home town. My parents were born & raised in that little piece of Daviess County Heaven and, by the grace of God, I got my chance to grow up there as well.

However, unlike Laura Ingalls Wilder, my parents’ little house was not somewhere out on the prairie, but on the southwest corner of East & Mable Streets on the far eastside of town. It began life in the mid-1940s and was built by Stanley Stout, who later constructed a home for himself and his wife immediately south of us.

Our tiny house started out not much bigger than Abe Lincoln’s cabin. It was a two room cracker box with each room being thirteen feet square, making the house 13’ by 26’. By the time my parents purchased it in 1946, Mr. Stout had added a kitchen behind the living room and a second bedroom behind the first one. And, thankfully, it also had a full bathroom with walk-in closet making it a “modern home” as houses with all the necessary plumbing facilities were called in those days.

Our total property consisted of three lots. The house occupied the corner lot, our large garden took up the entire lot directly west, and the lot south of our house contained several fruit and shade trees to serve as a buffer between our home & the Stouts. We also had a “coal house” and a “pigeon house” on our property. The pigeon house must have been used by Mr. Stout at one time, but when my parents bought the property, it was used mainly for a storage shed.

Unfortunately, our house lacked two very important items, especially after I was stricken with polio in 1948 shortly before my 4th birthday. There were no “real” steps up to the front door or back door, just some clumsily placed concrete blocks. So, whenever I would stay at my parents’ house rather than at my grandparents’ home a block to the south, my mother or father would have to carry me up the “steps” and into the house. As I grew older, this became very embarrassing and by the time I was about eight years old, my mother (Elizabeth) could no longer easily lift me, so my father (Emerson) and his nephew, Kenny Johnson, finally poured proper concrete steps at the back door so I could manage them by myself. There was a sturdy steel railing for me to use and a landing at the top. Then, about two years later, they also poured a nice patio with steps up to the front door, making our little house finally complete.

Years before adding the finished steps to our house, my parents decided they needed more space, so about 1950, my dad agreed to dig a basement in his “spare time.” With Kenny’s help, they excavated the entire basement by hand and then hauled the dirt out in coal buckets. It was a long, tedious, and fascinating project to watch. I still marvel at how they were able to put a full basement where only a crawl space had been, doing all of the work themselves. They constructed new walls and used a small concrete mixer to pour the floor. At some point, my dad dragged the old concrete piers that had supported the center of the house down to the apple tree at the corner of our yard. When laid on their sides, they became seats for my friends and me to use while playing with our toys in the dirt around the tree. Other times they were a Wild West fort or whatever else our imaginations could conceive.

I guess I knew the house was small, but I never really thought much about it. I had everything I needed in that small space, especially after the basement was added. I could listen to Elvis, Buddy Holly and Connie Francis on my little white 4-tube Philco radio. My Lionel train, my ping-pong table and other games and toys were in the basement. And, I had my friends.

The Hobson girls, Patty, Pam, and Polly, lived across the street to the north. Steve and Lonnie Green resided to the west just past our garden, and Mike, Phil and Donnie Baker were less than a block away as were the Manning brothers, Marvin and Verlin, who were somewhat older. Other kids lived nearby and as I grew older and finally got to go to public school, I made many more friends before heading to Purdue following graduation.

We always found something to do and trouble to get into. We shot our BB guns and bows & arrows at targets and sometimes at each other, practiced throwing knives & hatchets at trees or the side of my grandpa’s old barn, and many times came close to getting seriously injured due to our own stupidity. We even wore chemistry goggles to protect our eyes when our games got out of hand.

My dad died long “before his time” in February, 1963 when I was only 18 years old. In my vivid memory, I can still see him carrying those coal buckets full of dirt out of the basement and sitting on the concrete block steps to smoke a cigarette when he got tired. I can see my mom in her plaid house dress carrying iced tea (or beer) out to “Daddy” and Kenny when the work got too hot. I can see Pam Hobson doing tricks on her back-yard trapeze and I can also see her falling off and getting hurt. I can see the arrow that I shot straight up into the air coming down and barely missing the top of David Taylor’s head, and I can see my crutch slipping on the wet grass and me hitting my own head on one of the concrete piers down by that apple tree prompting an 8:00PM trip to Doc Rohrer’s for stitches to my left eyebrow. A half inch lower and I would have likely lost that eye.

With much sadness, I sold the little house on the corner in 1974 following the death of my mother. Since then, the owners have upgraded the siding, added a new roof, and closed in the outside entrance to the basement. The fruit trees are gone, the coal shed has been torn down, and the pigeon house has been replaced by a garage. The rusty old TV tower remains standing as does my mother’s clothesline. She had a washer and dryer in the basement, but still loved her clothesline.

Funny the things you don’t forget, like the “rut” Mother made in the hardwood floors when dragging the heavy plaster cast she needed on her leg for months following an auto accident, the old aluminum Christmas tree lit by a slowly spinning color wheel, the silly way the front door opened into in my bedroom rather than into the living room where it belonged, and the tiny kitchen with barely enough room for a table.

Many people, places, and things make indelible impressions on us as we travel through this thing called life. Thanks to the Elnora Post and this blog, I’ve had the chance to share a few of those impressions. As we get older, the most important things we have are our abundant love of family and our many memories. I’ve been blessed with both.

Did "Fast Eddie" Start This Way?

In the Robert Burns poem, “To a Mouse,” he famously states “the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.” That’s how it was with Carol and me and our plans to attend the grand 125th anniversary celebration of the town of Elnora. Because we were unable to be there in person, I will have to not only be content with reading the articles and viewing the pictures in the Elnora Post, but also with comments and pictures that my Elnora “Facebook Friends” posted on their electronic “walls.” Most of all, I will forever cherish my own indelible personal memories of my beloved little hometown.

When Carrol Vertrees posed the question in a recent Elnora Post article as to whether Elnora had a pool hall, I could have easily answered with a resounding, “Yes!” One of my most vivid recollections concerns that little “den of iniquity” as my mother once labeled it.

My teenage years in Elnora during the late 1950’s included a summer daily routine which almost always consisted of me taking a half mile walk from our home on the easternmost edge of town to the bustling business district where all the action was. Sheldon Eubanks' barber shop and Bob Foster’s pharmacy were both on the west side of Odon Street, just north of Main. I’d go into Sheldon’s place, read a comic book or two, and then head over to Mr. Foster’s to purchase some kind of treat before trekking back home.

I always walked home down the west side of Odon Street before turning on Main because Puckett’s Tavern and Harley Wesner’s pool hall were both on the east side of the street and my mother had specifically told me to avoid walking near those businesses. She was overly protective since I wore leg braces and walked with crutches and was concerned that “some drunk” might stumble out of the tavern and bump into me, knocking me to the ground.

However, one day, for whatever reason, I crossed over to the east side of the street after leaving Foster’s and found myself peering into the open front door of the Elnora pool hall. A man, presumably Harley Wesner, asked me if I wanted to come in and “roll the balls around” since the place was empty and he had no other customers. He said he wouldn’t charge me anything, but because I was so young (probably 13 or 14) he couldn’t let me use a pool cue because that would be against the rules.

I thought it sounded like fun, so I accepted his offer. Upon entering, I saw two or three pool tables with green felt tops, leather braided pockets, and horizontal wires extended high over the tops of each table with abacus-like beads strung on the wires for the purpose of keeping score. Mr. Wesner explained that players would slide the beads along the wires with their pool sticks whenever they “made a shot.” I stayed in the place for probably not more than 15-20 minutes and realized that playing pool without a stick wasn’t that much fun, so I thanked Mr. Wesner and left for home.

That evening, after my parents returned from work, the conversation turned to what I had done for the day. As I outlined my activities, I concluded by telling them about my little visit to the pool hall. Wow! You would have thought I had committed some kind of mortal sin. My dad flew out of the house and went directly downtown to confront Mr. Wesner and explain to him in very specific language that I was never to enter that lowly establishment again. And, I never did.

Following my graduation from Elnora High, I began my freshman year at Purdue in the fall of 1961. Much to my surprise, as I was touring the Student Union Building for the first time, I saw a “sunken” room with a staircase leading down to probably two dozen very modern pool and billiard tables with students playing at nearly every one of them. I was shocked to see the game being played in such a brightly-lit atmosphere by clean-cut young people who probably weren’t scared their parents would learn of their “immoral” activities. Heck, I even played there a few times myself during my college days.

It was also during 1961 that “The Hustler” premiered starring Paul Newman as Fast Eddie Felson and Jackie Gleason as Minnesota Fats. Fast Eddie was a drunken pool shark who finally beat Fats near the end of the movie. I saw the film at the New Moon Art Theater in Lafayette which played movies geared toward “adult” audiences. Some of the dimly-lit pool halls depicted in the film reminded me very much of Harley Wesner’s place in Elnora.

Many years later, a friend of mine at work told a group of us how Paul Newman randomly stopped at his wife’s two widowed aunts’ house in another state to ask for directions. Somehow, I doubt if he was searching for the Elnora pool hall, but THAT would have made a great story.

Two Broken Boys

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Goodbye "Halo Light," Hello HD

Someone once said that the more things change, the more they remain the same. I don’t think he was talking about technology when he made that statement. In my nearly 65 years that the Lord has allowed me to reside in this wonderful country of ours, I have seen more advancements in science and technology than my parents did in their relatively short lives. My wife never knew my father, Emerson Johnson, since he died about a year before Carol and I met while attending Purdue. However, she has often remarked how my mother, Elizabeth, would be amazed at the thought of personal computers, the internet, cell phones and many of the other innovations that we now take for granted.

Growing up in Elnora as a very young child in the late 1940’s and early 50’s, television was just beginning to come into existence. However, we were not one of the fortunate families to be first on the block with the “boob tube,” so I had to make do by listening to my grandmother’s small white Philco radio. On special occasions, I would go across the street to the Hobson girls’ house and watch some afterschool children’s shows.

Then, one day in 1954, when I was 10 years old my dad said, “Come on James Emerson, let’s go for a ride.” He wouldn’t tell me where we were going, saying it was a “surprise.” We drove from Elnora, went through Odon and then turned north at the Farlen General Store. After we ignored the turnoff leading to the Crane Gate, I was totally lost. We continued on and wound up in the tiny town of Scotland, Indiana. I had never been there and didn’t know what to expect.

I don’t remember the kind of store it was (a hardware store, maybe), but I waited in the car while my dad and mom went inside and a few minutes later came out with a beautiful new Sylvania “Halo Light” television. It was a 21” black and white console TV which is very small by today’s standards, but to me it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The halo light was a gimmick that was short-lived and was advertised to ease the eyestrain associated with watching television.

While researching some information about our old TV, I found an article on the tvlamps.net website which reads in part: “Always looking for a leg up in the technology wars, the television manufacturers were sure to tackle the eyestrain issue themselves. And so it went as the 1950s saw the advent of the Sylvania Halo Light television. This nifty bit of ingenuity consisted of a fluorescent bulb that cast a “halo” of light around the screen, surrounding the picture with ambient light. The Halo Light ads, usually featuring a lovely lass in a golden dress made it clear this new discovery was a must-have. Pictures framed in exciting HALOLIGHT appear larger, sharper and clearer.”

Since TV cable wasn’t even a gleam in its father’s eye in those days, everyone who watched television had to put up an “aerial” which we now call an antenna. So, my dad and my cousin, Kenny Johnson, mounted a long vertical pipe at the south end of our house tall enough to clear the peak of the roof and using a big ladder, placed the huge aerial on top of it. Using “twin-lead” TV wire, one end was secured to the aerial and the other end went into the living room through the window and was screwed to the back of the TV. Since we didn’t have a motor to rotate the aerial, Kenny stayed outside and turned it by hand to get the best signal for the three stations available at the time until my dad told him to stop. Kenny clamped everything down to keep the wind from turning it and we were all set.

As I remember, channel 4 in Bloomington carried the long-defunct DuMont network, channel 7 in Evansville was ABC, and channel 10 in Terre Haute was CBS. The closest NBC station was in Indianapolis, too far for our rudimentary equipment to “pull in.” That didn’t matter. I was in Heaven, finally having a TV like most of our neighbors, even if we were a few years late. Soon, channel 2 in Terre Haute began broadcasting NBC programming and my father also installed a “rotator” on the “aerial” so we could receive the stations more clearly, including one or two from Louisville on nights when the atmospheric conditions were right.

Now we’ve fast forwarded fifty-five years and are entering the all-digital era. Today, June 12, 2009, all of the old-style “analog” televisions have become obsolete unless hooked up to cable, converter boxes, etc. Now it’s the age of high-definition television, known more simply as HDTV. I’m lucky enough to be a bit ahead of the game, having bought my first high-def Sony about four years ago and added a new 46” Samsung HDTV last year. I just wish my dad could have watched the old Friday Night Fights on one of these bad boys.

From Elnora to Orlando: Thanks, Lloyd

My wife and I recently returned from an exciting and fun trip to Disney World. It was only my second visit to that vacation Mecca, the first occurring in 1979 when our kids were very young. By the end of the day, I was exhausted from walking around the Magic Kingdom on my leg braces and crutches. Little thought had been given to making the rides handicapped accessible in those days, and I usually waited on a bench in the shade while the rest of the family had all of the fun.

My, how things have changed since that first trip thirty years ago! Although my mobility has declined to the point I must now use a power wheelchair, Disney has modified/designed many of their rides to make them accessible to nearly everyone. Even the Disney bus fleet is 100% accessible with wheelchair lifts on every vehicle. We spent three days in the Magic Kingdom, Epcot, and Animal Kingdom and I was able to ride right along with Carol, our daughter, Kathy, and her two girls. I felt like a kid again, enjoying the attractions and dodging the hundreds of other wheelchairs, scooters, and mobility vehicles zipping around the park.

Things were much different as I grew up with the residual effects of polio in 1950s Elnora. The Americans with Disabilities Act wouldn’t take effect for another four decades. Although I had the advantage of youth on my side and was actually pretty mobile, there were still many things I couldn’t do and many places I couldn’t go.

My biggest problem was with steps and staircases. From schools to business buildings, long staircases with many steps were the rule rather than the exception. Many multi-level buildings didn’t have elevators, and wheelchair cutouts at street curbs were nearly non-existent except maybe near a hospital. I can still remember my mother or father having to carry me up steps in long, narrow stairwells because of the absence of railings for me to be able to help myself.

Even the hallowed halls of learning at Purdue University were anything but accessible. I was extremely fortunate to be mobile enough when I was young not to have to worry too much about such things. However, had I been in a wheelchair in 1961, life would have turned out very differently for me because college would not have been an option.

Fortunately, though, there are dreamers, planners, and people who want to do the right thing to make the world a better place for everyone even if it is just one step at a time. Elnora had a man like that.

Lloyd Hobson lived directly across the street from us on the northeast end of Elnora. He and his wife, LeeAnna, raised three beautiful daughters, Patty, Pam, and Polly. Pam was a year younger than me, Patty a couple of years older, and Polly was about three years younger than Pam. We were all close enough in age that we played together and were all good friends. Before my parents owned a television, I would often go over to the Hobson’s to watch Captain Video and his Video Rangers and other children’s programming.

From as long as I can remember, Lloyd Hobson had a small machine shop in his back yard which later evolved into Basiloid Products. He would sometimes invite me over to see his new tools, once even letting me test out his new wood lathe, patiently showing me how it worked and guiding me through the process of “turning” a shapeless piece of wood into something useful. Once, following his return from a business trip to Los Angeles, he brought me back a genuine Hohner Harmonica which I cherished for years.

Each year, the Daviess County Fair Board gave away a Schwinn bicycle to a lucky boy and girl. Ironically, I won the boy’s bike one summer and since I couldn’t ride it like other kids my age, Lloyd built a stationary stand for it so that I could use it as an exercise bike without fear of toppling over.

However, even with all of these little “random acts of kindness,” the thing I remember most about Lloyd Hobson is the playground equipment he constructed for his girls. He built a huge industrial strength swing set, complete with trapeze. The “slippery-slide” was big enough to be used in a city park. And then there was the tree house.

Built in a big, old mulberry tree in their back yard, the tree house was big enough to hold half the kids in Elnora. As I watched him construct it, I just knew I wouldn’t be able to get up into it and I was very sad at the thought of all the kids up there while I was still down on the ground. However, it’s like Lloyd read my mind, because he asked me if he modified the ladder if I thought I could get up into it.

Because my leg braces locked at the knee and I had to walk “stiff-legged,” Lloyd knew that a regular ladder would be too narrow and the rungs too far apart for me to swing my legs into place. So he built the ladder much wider than normal with rungs close together just for me. When the time came to test it out, I slowly climbed that ladder and made it up into the tree house with very little problem. I think my mom nearly had a heart attack when she saw me.

Unfortunately, I didn’t go up into the tree house as much as I would have liked because although the ladder itself worked perfectly, I had a hard time getting back onto it for the trip down to earth once I was up there. However, in this case, it truly was the thought that counted.

As my family and I waited in the long lines at Disney World a couple of weeks ago, I couldn’t help but think how far the nation has come in making life a little easier for those of us unlucky enough to face serious physical challenges. I also pictured that old tree house and how Lloyd Hobson and his extraordinary vision did his best to help me be “one of the gang.”

Patty Whitaker, Pam Sellers, and Polly Hobson Duros have every right to be proud.