The Good Old Days (A Clear Path to the Outhouse)

A post, based on one from five years ago, to mark the beginning of this blog’s sixth year. Most early posts, in my opinion, were quite dreadful.

Were the “good old days” really that good? There were fewer creature comforts. No one had air-conditioning. Half the town had outdoor plumbing.

Imagine the joys of trotting to the outhouse on cold, snowy, winter nights.  Summers were worse, with flies, stinging insects, and the horrible stench.  You became accustomed to the sounds of mud daubers building their nests; knew not to disturb them.

Nobody knew any different. Somehow we survived. Keeping perspective–gasoline was 20 cents per gallon, unless there were gas wars. A sack of candy could be had for a quarter. Consumer goods were cheaper.  Wages were considerably less than today.

Would I want to go back? The answer would be a resounding, NO! I like my creature comforts too much. There is no way I’d want to revisit years of teenage angst.  I wouldn’t want to restart this blog–either.

I would like, however, to recover time wasted worrying over things, I now know weren’t important. That, and a renewed appreciation for the things I have–that could be taken away should times take a bad turn.

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Across Thy Prairies Verdant Growing…

Clear-channel 50,000 watts of all-night radio, broadcasted across the vast Midwestern prairie and beyond.

John McCormick, “the man who walked and talked at midnight,” was there for our listening pleasure; with the best music and conversation to keep us company.

McCormick had a deep-timbered voice, that either soothed, or lulled listeners to sleep.  That was his job, I supposed.  I would have preferred raspy-voiced Wolfman Jack.

“We’re gonna’ play more music for you–all night long!  Can you dig It?”  Interspersed with a few Wolfman howls and I’d stay wide-awake.  Dad wouldn’t dig any of it.

My job was to assist with loading and deliveries.  More importantly, to keep my father awake on his all-night delivery route through four Illinois counties.

It seemed odd to me then, dad being such a firm disciplinarian, to see him kibitzing with  guys at the full-service, Standard Oil station, on a busy corner in Springfield, Illinois.  He was obviously a regular visitor.  It was around eleven, the station brightly wrapped in neon–topped with trademarked red torch.

An experience, not unlike seeing one of your teachers, away from school.  Refueled, candy bars and coffees in hand, off to the second, and most important stop.

The blue and white Chevrolet, faithful beast of burden, loaded past midnight; after the State-Journal Register’s press run.  There’d been a delay–probably a late-breaking story that couldn’t be left out.

Worried my father would fall asleep at the wheel, thus killing us both in a tragic accident, I kept talking.  Awkward talking–so awkward, it was more like an interview than normal father-son conversation.

“How many miles does this truck have on it?”  I asked.  “It’s got 127,000 miles right now,” Dad answered.

“That’s an awful lot of miles.”  I surmised.  “It’s all highway miles,” Dad answered.  “That makes a difference.  This route covers 200 miles per night–give or take.”

“What were the worst weather conditions you’ve encountered?”  I asked–not in exactly those words.

“Ice and snow–I’ve had to drop off on the shoulder to gain adequate traction.  There was more traction on the grass and gravel, than on the road; but, I made it home safely.  It was almost noon–barely time for a nap before starting out again.”

The next question was risky, but I went for it, anyway.  “What were some of your biggest boneheaded mistakes?”

“I missed some stops and had to go back.  Then, one night I accidently threw a delivery right through an unopened screen door.”

Route 66, blue highways, towns that railroads, interstates forgot, passed by all night long.

That night may have been the source of dad’s war story about a ride to Chicago, cruising at 80 mph on Rt. 66, in a Chrysler Airflow–after hitching a ride.  That struck me as daring–even though it happened before I was born.

Winter sun rose as we arrived home, just in time for a bite of breakfast, light conversation with mom, then straight to bed.  It had been a good night, we’d arrived well before noon.

 

Image, Standard Oil Indiana, from blogsite: PleasantFamilyShopping–

 

 

 

Pardon us: Your Age Is Showing

The attention grabbing headline implied–anyone still using certain  words was hopelessly out of date.  Of course, in the digital age, the world turns with ever-increasing speed.

Expressions, words, used by parents, grandparents, people from childhood, live on in my mind.  Some have proven useful–especially in counteracting teen-speak.

  • Window light–pane of glass
  • Looking glass–mirror
  • Pocketbook–purse or wallet
  • Spud–potato
  • Fetch–fetch me those potatoes (spuds)
  • Mimeograph–antique copying machine
  • Carbon paper–archaic method of making copies
  • Dungarees–same as blue jeans
  • Smokehouse–used for smoking meats
  • Ice box–same as refrigerator
  • Much obliged–thank you for your help, I am grateful
  • Drawers–underwear; also union suit, BVD’s
  • Filling station–full service gas station
  • Fiddlesticks–exclamation of disappointment or disgust: “Oh fiddlesticks, the drain’s clogged again.”
  • Front room–parlor, or living room
  • Chum or Pal–a close friend
  • Lick, Licking–a good thrashing, or beat down.  Lick and a prayer: temporary action instead of permanent repair.  Can pertain to light housecleaning.
  • Coquette–flirtatious woman; a tease
  • Trifle, Trifling:  to waste time, to flirt with wrong intentions
  • Roughhouse–boisterous play
  • Goldbricking–goofing off on boss’s time
  • Dilly-dallying–lagging behind, or inattention
  • Reap hook/Sling blade–small, cutting scythe with curved blade

Farmer Waves

Simple raised palms

Arms out pickup windows

Two fingers raised from

Truck steering wheels

Subtle, friendly gestures

One farmer to another

Techniques not important

Tanned arms hung out

Driver’s side windows

Hands, with palms down

Lowered to approaching

Farmers–meant short

Friendly conversations

Patience requested

They’d stop, talk awhile

Then, move on