NOTE--To see an on-line version of this newsletter, copy this link and paste it into your web browser: http://www.reminisce.com/rd.asp?id=326&firstname=$$firstname$$&emailaddress=$$email$$&refurl=$$refurl-link$$ If you would like to change or edit your email preferences, please visit your Personal Preferences page. http://www.reminisce.com/RD.asp?ID=327&pmcode=$$refurl-link$$ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ REMINISCE Newsletter - February 2008 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Dear $$firstname$$, We hope you enjoy this month’s collection of stories, poetry, pictures and trivia as you wait out the coming of spring. If you’re enjoying your extra bit of Reminisce each month, why not share it with a friend by forwarding this e-mail to them. Then they, too, can enjoy a monthly sampling of nostalgia by signing up for the Reminisce Newsletter at the link below. http://www.reminisce.com/RD.asp?ID=330&pmcode=$$refurl-link$$ After you clue in a friend about us, sit back and enjoy the good old days yourself with this latest edition of the Reminisce newsletter. —The Folks at Reminisce ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In this issue: --> In the Doghouse --> When Coal Was King --> Mother’s Chickens --> Poem: Keepsakes --> Over the Back Fence --> Time Capsule Trivia --> A Thought to Remember ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In the Doghouse ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ By Don Riddle Coraopolis, Pennsylvania Hunting was a special part of my growing-up years in the late 1940s and early ‘50s. My dad, brother, uncles and cousins and I spent many memorable days chasing rabbits and pheasants. Actually, the beagle dogs we owned did the chasing. Uncle Frank worked with and enjoyed his dogs. He always kept a pair, so when he came into possession of a third dog, “Queenie,” he began looking for a home for her. Having recently married, I was not only looking forward to starting a family but also owning my very own beagle. I quickly accepted Uncle Frank’s offer to take Queenie, who was almost 2 years old at the time. The first order of business was to build a kennel area for her. The enclosed breezeway between the garage and the house would be the perfect spot. I went to the building supply store and purchased lumber and fencing for the project. I built what I thought was a terrific area, 20 by 20 feet of fenced-in yard connected to the breezeway for shelter. I eagerly brought Queenie to her new home. She smelled and walked her way around and, one jump later, was over the top and on the outside! Back I went to the supply store, returning with more fencing. My 3-foot-high fence was now 6 feet high. It took Queenie a couple of days to figure out the added height, but she did, and this time she was gone for 4 days. When we got her back, she had a hole in her neck that required medical attention, and we later found out she was pregnant. Back to the supply store I went for more fencing. This time, I strung it over the top to prevent her from jumping out. My strategy worked well with one exception. Queenie decided if she couldn’t jump over the fence, she would dig under it, and dig she did. My good-intentioned and much-needed kennel project was turning into a fence nightmare with many filled-in holes—my effort to stay ahead of Queenie’s escape attempts. My dad would frequently stop on his way to or from his hunting camp. On one such trip, he asked my wife (I was at work) what that monstrosity was out back connected to the breezeway. When she told him, he didn’t say another word but walked around looking at it and left. About a month later, he pulled into the driveway with his pickup truck loaded down. I was at work again, so with my wife’s help, they unloaded the material that consisted of a mostly put-together, off-the-ground, fenced kennel with a swinging-door doghouse. The only instructions Dad left with my wife as he pulled out of the driveway was, “Tell him to get rid of that junk cluttering up your breezeway!” In 1968, the author’s daughter, Loreen, stood near “Queenie,” who was well contained in her grandfather’s new and improved kennel—not the easy-escape model her dad built. View Image: http://www.reminisce.com/RD.asp?ID=328&pmcode=$$refurl-link$$ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ When Coal Was King ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ By Chuck Beckett Florissant, Missouri During my early years, in the 1940s, the primary means of heating homes in the city was coal. At the side of most of the houses, flats and apartments in St. Louis, Missouri were coal chutes--covered, when not in use, by a heavy, hinged iron door. Coal would be delivered by the coal companies to the customer’s residence and dumped curbside. From there, it was moved manually to a coal chute and dumped through the chute’s open door into a waiting basement coal bin. In one of the 1940 photos, taken by my father, Forest Beckett, I can be seen standing in the background, watching a neighbor boy playing on a coal pile in front of our family’s tar-roofed flat. Little did I suspect at the time that 6 years later, I would no longer be a “watcher” but would become a “doer.” In July 1944, my family moved into a two-story frame house. Two years later, the month I turned 14, I inherited from my father the job of moving our annual three tons of coal from curb to coal bin. If the coal company delivered the coal from the street to the coal bin, the cost was $4 a ton. If the customer performed this task, the charge was only $3 a ton. Money being scarce at the time, a savings of $3 was not to be looked upon lightly. Performing my unpleasant transportation chore involved filling an iron wheelbarrow with coal and wheeling it up our slightly terraced front yard over a long, narrow wooden plank. Since a good portion of the coal consisted of large chunks, it was not practical to pick much of it up with a shovel. So I had to stack each chunk, one piece at a time, carefully in the barrow. Then, using all the strength of my 135-pound body, I pushed the single-wheeled vehicle up the plank and across the flat grassy side of the front yard. Next, I turned the barrow to face the coal chute, lifted the wooden handles skyward and, exhaling mightily, heaved my black cargo into the chute, watching it cascade noisily and dustily downward into the coal bin in the basement below. This routine was repeated countless times before the mountain at the curb became just a black spot on the street. Anyone familiar with St. Louis, where the summer humidity occasionally reaches 100 percent, can appreciate what a formidable, hot task this was. As to be expected during this operation, I removed my shirt to take advantage of whatever tepid breeze might favor me. And as a result, I collected a coating of coal dust on my jeans, and on my perspiring upper body, face and hair. But, in all fairness, I really couldn’t complain too much, as I was receiving an allowance of 50¢ a week! View Image 1: http://www.reminisce.com/RD.asp?ID=329&pmcode=$$refurl-link$$ View Image 2: http://www.reminisce.com/RD.asp?ID=335&pmcode=$$refurl-link$$ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Mother’s Chickens ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ By Robert Ahrens Belmont, California I grew up on a farm 8 miles northwest of a small town called Osgood, Ohio. We raised corn, wheat and hay, along with hogs, milk cows and several horses. My mother’s special interest was raising white leghorn, egg-laying chickens to help supplement our income. She fed the chickens and collected the eggs daily. She cleaned and washed the eggs, then packed them into egg crates. They were stored in our cool basement for the egg man, who came once a week in a large cooler truck. Mother bought the chickens when they were half grown; these are called pullets. They began to lay eggs after they turned about 1 year old. When they stopped laying eggs and went into molt, they were culled and sold and replaced with more pullets. We had one building set aside as a brooder house. It had large glass windows facing south. Inside there was a large square, metal hood that hung a few inches above the straw-covered floor. In the center of that, there was a kerosene stove to keep a constant temperature by raising or lowering the hood. In early spring, Mother would order 125 to 150 baby leghorn chicks, 1 to 2 days old, from a chicken hatchery. The order was for roosters to be raised for market weight and sold as fryers. We could tell the roosters after a few weeks by their red combs. But there was always at least a half dozen chicks that turned out to be hens (showing a small pink ridge on their heads), which she moved to the large chicken house. Mom was the only one to care for and feed these chicks as they grew. The hens adopted my mother as their mother and, when they saw her in the yard, would cluck and run to her and scratch at the ground near her feet. She could pick up any one of them anytime, and they would softly cluck. When Mother finished her gardening and returned to the house, the chickens followed her to the door, for she always found special treats for them, such as some table scraps or bread crusts. I left the farm when I was 18 years old for higher learning and a stint in the Army Air Forces during World War II. Later, my wife and I chose city life over farming. But whenever there’s a county fair in our area, we make sure to visit the poultry barn and talk to the chickens, just like Mom used to do. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Poem: Keepsakes ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ By Marie Geer Cottage Grove, Oregon I’m trying to sort over my keepsakes today But each little treasure my fingers do stay. A small faded flower, old letters so dear, A picture of friends who used to live near. A wee valentine of paper and glue, Bearing sweet message, “Mom, I love you.” An invitation to a concert lies there, I listened, with love, to a granddaughter fair. A felt music note? Oh yes, I remember, A golden anniversary in a far-off December. A tiny ring given by a sweetheart’s hand Later replaced by a gold wedding band. Newspapers clippings, death notices here Of some of my loved ones so precious, so dear. A ribbon? The fair! The color is blue. There are the others—all winners, too. It’s hard to discard these bits of my life, When I was a daughter, mother and wife. But now these keepsakes are of the past, It’s time to part with them at long last. So I’ll throw them away, but the memories I’ll hold Of the dear olden days more precious than gold. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Over the Back Fence ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A guy walked into a bar and ordered a beer. The bartender handed it to him and pushed over a bowl of nuts. The man was having a sip of his beer when he heard a tiny voice say, “Nice tie.” The man looked around but saw no one. He took another sip when he heard, Nice hat, too.” The patron quickly put down his beer, saw no one else around and asked the bartender, “I keep hearing a tiny voice saying nice things. What’s going on?” The bartender nodded knowingly and said, “Oh, it’s the nuts. They’re complimentary.” —Donald Brockman Milwaukee, Wisconsin ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Time Capsule Trivia ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ From the decades spanning the 1920s to the 1960s, try to guess what year these historic events took place. The answer is given below, but no peeking! The Presidential campaign offers voters a choice between the Quaker Herbert Hoover, who calls Prohibition an “experiment noble in motive, and Alfred E. Smith, a Roman Catholic who favors repealing the 18th Amendment. During the Summer Olympics, in Amsterdam, Netherlands, swimmer Johnny Weissmuller wins two gold medals. He will continue swimming later as Tarzan on the silver screen. The Academy Awards are given out for the first time and include movies from two years, but the actual awards ceremony is not held until the following year. Movies this year include Walt Disney’s Steamboat Willie, the first cartoon to feature sound. Hit songs include Makin’ Whoopee, I’ll Get By, Button Up Your Overcoat and I Can’t Give You Anything But Love. Click below for the answer to Time Capsule Trivia. http://www.reminisce.com/RD.asp?ID=334&pmcode=$$refurl-link$$ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A Thought to Remember ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In America, anyone can become President. That's one of the risks you take. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This email was sent to: $$email$$ HAVE A FRIEND who enjoys the good old days? Feel free to forward this newsletter! If this newsletter was forwarded to you, please use this link to sign up for yourself. http://www.reminisce.com/RD.asp?ID=330&pmcode=$$refurl-link$$ If you do not want to receive further editions of this Newsletter, please use this link to unsubscribe. http://www.reminisce.com/RD.asp?ID=331&email=$$email$$&pmcode=$$refurl-link$$&OptID=63 To learn more about Reiman Media Group’s use of personal information, please read our Privacy Policy. http://www.reminisce.com/RD.asp?ID=332&pmcode=$$refurl-link$$ Copyright 2008 Reiman Media Group, Inc. All rights reserved. 5400 S. 60th St., P.O. Box 991, Greendale WI 53129-0991 1-800/344-6913