Life On The Farm

Although I was born in Manheim, Pa. on February 27, 1929, my earliest memories are of the village of Sporting Hill, atop a hill two miles northwest of Manheim on the Mount Joy Road. When I was about two and a half years old, my father lost his job at the Stehli Silk Mill in Manheim, and since new jobs were hard to find during the Great Depression, we lost our home.

My father went to live with his parents in Lititz, and later to the farm at Peach Bottom; my mother found jobs wherever she could in Manheim, Mount Joy or Florin; and I went to live with my maternal grandparents on their small farm at Sporting Hill. Since my grandfather Kauffman was almost sixty years old at that time, I cannot give him enough credit for taking in a child of that age.

Sporting Hill is the largest village in Rapho Township. Spread out along a mile of the east-west Manheim to Mount Joy Road, it is bisected by Colebrook Road. Most of the dwellings were located along the highway east of the intersection, although there were also a few within a few hundred feet to the north and south of the intersection along Colebrook Road. My grandparents lived in the last home on the north.

Until about 1800 Sporting Hill was known as "Cassel Town" in honor of David Cassel, the first pioneer in the village some one hundred years earlier. It was renamed because of three or four "old sports" who often met at the local hotel.

Another version of how it got its name was given by my grandfather. According to him, a local distiller set up a keg of whiskey at the top of the hill leading into the village, and hung a tin cup beside it so that wagon drivers passing through on the main highway from Ephrata, Lititz and Manheim to Columbia and Harrisburg could stop and refresh themselves. Some of the wagon drivers did more refreshing than driving, and supposedly the town was named in their honor. Regardless of how the name originated, it must have been a lively place in the early 1800s.

In 1883 the village contained a hotel, a store, a post-office, a two-story brick schoolhouse, two blacksmith shops, a carriage manufacturer, a wagon maker, a cigar factory, a tobacco warehouse, and other shops such as tailors and shoemakers.¹

In 1933 the population was practically unchanged from the figure of 200 reported in 1883, but all the businesses were gone except the store. The school had been replaced by a new one in 1890, and the only other establishments were a wholesale egg business, an auto repair shop and two taverns. Before I left in 1940, one of the taverns was gone, and as I write this in 1997, all the other businesses have long since disappeared. The school which I attended was replaced by a new one in 1951, and a new auto repair shop is located in the old school building.

When I was there, a few of the residents owned or were employed on farms in the area, but most of the breadwinners worked in Manheim or Lancaster. Since that time there has been an influx of new residents, and the village is even more of a "bedroom" community than ever before. I believe that most of the present residents live there because of the quiet and peaceful nature of the area.

In early days a distillery was located at the foot of the hill on the Manheim side of the village. This was owned and operated by Henry Kauffman, my great great grandfather, and before him by his father, Jacob Kauffman. Supposedly it was the oldest in the county, having been in business as early as the Revolutionary War. It had been known as the Kauffman distillery for more than seventy-five years. While it was still there when my grandfather was a young man, I cannot recall that he ever mentioned it to me.

There is a covered bridge southeast of the village on the Sun Hill road which is still known as the Kauffman Distillery Bridge. The Kauffman family traveled once a month in a loop selling whiskey in Mount Joy, Elizabethtown, Hershey, Lebanon, Brickerville and Manheim. I do not know whether my grandfather was a part of this or not.

Only recently I realized the extent to which the Kauffman family was represented in Sporting Hill during the time I lived there. Of the approximately fifty families living there at that time, at least five were in the Kauffman blood line.

Most of the boys who lived on farms had numerous chores to do-I was an exception. For a while it was my job to collect the eggs from the chicken house, until one day the resident rooster decided he did not like my intrusion. Since he was almost as big as I was, he attacked me, knocked me down, and proceeded to peck me until the blood flowed. Hearing the commotion, Grandma thankfully came to my rescue. I did not have to collect the eggs after that.

I also had to bring the cow home from the meadow, which was my favorite place, and even though I messed up that chore, I continued with it for quite some time. See the menu on the left for more about the "cow" incident.

Outside of school, most of my time was mine. I was allowed to run pretty much on my own, and run I did, and that led to occasional problems as some of the following stories illustrate.

I loved playing in the small "woods", a grove of approximately a half acre in size, containing old trees, paths, and secret places which only I knew about (I thought).

The straw mow in the barn was another favorite play location. Groups of us would get together and build tunnels and hiding places using the bales of straw, then play variations on the ancient game of tag. We never minded how hot and dirty we got, but Grandma did, and told me so many times. And just as many times we would do it all over again a few days later.

Often while Grandpa was out with the team of mules he would lift me up on the lead mule and let me "drive" them. In thinking back, I am no longer sure that what I did had much effect on where we went, but I enjoyed it.

Winters were also fun, although I have since learned that I would rather be in a temperate climate all year round. On the north side of the farm were gentle hills that were perfect for sledding, and of course I enjoyed taking advantage of that opportunity. But the most fun of all was to come into the kitchen and prop my stockinged feet up in front of the open oven on the old coal stove. Talk about heaven!

Grandpa had accumulated a very nice though ancient set of hand tools, and had a big shop to go with them, so I spent a lot of time trying to make things out of the plentiful supply of old lumber which he kept on hand. Most of my projects were a little too ambitious for my resources and experience-I tried such things as an airplane, a motion picture camera, and a loom-but at least I learned to saw a straight cut and to hammer nails.

Since I had learned to read and do simple arithmetic at a very young age, I was allowed to start school at the age of five. I do not believe a child is allowed to do that today no matter how advanced he or she may be, but it never bothered me.

Grandma seemed to have an almost paranoid fear that wet feet caused colds or pneumonia or something, so at the least sign of wet weather she made me wear galoshes. I soon acquired the nickname of "Glenny Gumboots," which I didn't appreciate, although since I was out numbered by the entire school, there wasn't much I could do about it.

Evenings were usually spent reading or listening to the radio. Of course, I always listened to the children's shows which aired from about five to seven-Tom Mix, Little Orphan Annie -I loved my secret decoder ring-Jack Armstrong (the All American boy), and of course, three nights a week I got to hear The Lone Ranger. Ah, those thrilling days of yesteryear! To hear sound bites from all these shows, click hear the shows. After my shows came the family shows-Amos and Andy, Mister Keen (Tracer of Lost Persons), etc., which I also enjoyed.

During my last few years on the farm I did a lot of reading in the evenings; my father had supplied me with a small library of books filled with projects for young boys. In addition, I had a large "Erector" set, an "Electric Eye" set and other toys which kept me busy until bed time.

I remained on the farm until I was eleven years of age, at which time I moved to Manheim.

The Kauffman Distillery Covered Bridge (21K)

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The Great Depression¹

Since I shall frequently refer to the Great Depression in these stories, I feel I should give the reader some idea of the problems the United States faced during those trying times.

The only effect on me was that I went to live with my grandparents when my father lost his job. Their small farm provided most of the food we needed; for example, they had a cow, chickens, steers, hogs, an orchard, a vegetable garden, and also raised edible crops such as potatoes, sweet potatoes, sweet corn, and even peanuts at one time. My grandfather hung wallpaper and sold tobacco, so there was always enough money to buy whatever the land couldn't provide. This was not an unusual situation; there were millions of such small farms supporting extended families across the country. I read somewhere that the United States would probably not be able to survive another depression such as that because most of those family farms have been swallowed up by huge farming corporations.

The situation was unbelievably serious elsewhere. By 1929 the country had experienced an unparalleled period of prosperity. In his inaugural address in March, the new President Hoover proclaimed, In no nation are the fruits of accomplishment more secure.

Just seven months later the crash of the stock market shattered these illusions. By 1932 American industry was turning out less than half its 1929 volume and new investments had fallen from $10 billion to $1 billion. Blue chip stocks tumbled, General Motors from 73 to 8. As crop prices plunged downward, the farmer was driven to the wall. On a single day in April, 1932, one-fourth of the state of Mississippi fell under the auctioneer's hammer.

In three years national income was cut in half and the number of unemployed soared to some 15 million, almost 30% of the labor force. Thomas Wolfe wrote of the winter of 1930-1931 in New York: "I saw half naked wretches sitting on park benches at three in the morning in a freezing rain and sleet; often I saw a man and a woman huddled together with their arms around each other for warmth, and with sodden newspapers, rags, or anything they could find over their shoulders." At the end of 1931 a Philadelphia relief authority announced: "We have unemployment in every third house. It is almost like the visitation of death to the households of the Egyptians at the time of the escape of the Jews from Egypt."

The longer the depression persisted the more it threatened to engulf everyone. "Anybody sinks after a while," commented one jobless man. "Even you would have if God hadn't preserved without apparent rhyme or reason, your job and your income." Thousands of men spent months stealing rides on freight trains traveling to wherever they thought employment could be found.

Detroit's relief rolls, Mayor Frank Murphy told a Senate subcommittee, embraced doctors, lawyers, ministers, and "two families after whom streets are named."

By the spring of 1932 the country faced a relief crisis. New York City, with payrolls down more than $80 million a month, was spending only $4 million a month on relief and had 25,000 emergency cases on its relief waiting list. Chicago separated families and sent husbands and wives to different shelters. Houston announced: "Applications are not taken from unemployed Mexicans or colored families. They are being asked to shift for themselves."

The vice-chairman of the Mayor's Unemployment Commission of Detroit saw no possibility of preventing widespread hunger and slow starvation through it's own unaided resources.

In 1932 the nation elected Franklin D. Roosevelt by a landslide. During the four months between his election and his inauguration on March 4, 1933, the economy plunged downward and in the last three weeks of Hoover's term the financial crisis took a critical turn for the worse. In the previous three years more than 5,000 banks had collapsed, burying 9 million savings accounts in the debris. Now banks in every part of the country folded. On the morning of inauguration day, the president of the New York Stock Exchange made a momentous announcement: the Stock Exchange was closing down. By that time every state had closed its banks or permitted them to operate only on a restricted basis.

The new President quickly called Congress into special session, and in the historic first "Hundred Days" he sent fifteen messages to the Hill, and Congress enacted all fifteen of them. Because of the vast sense of crisis it was almost like a constitutional dictatorship. Before the year was over, Prohibition was repealed, and this signaled the return of a sense of national confidence and the end of the gloom of the Hoover years. The spirit of the country changed to the extent that one business journal noted: "the people aren't sure just where they are going, but anywhere seems better than where they have been. In the homes, on the streets, in the offices, there is a feeling of hope reborn."

Roosevelt created a vast alphabetic Federal bureaucracy to solve the nation's problems. Abbreviations such as the NIRA, AAA, PWA, WPA, and CCC proliferated. Many of his acts were struck down by the Supreme Court as unconstitutional, but he changed them slightly and had them passed again. Probably the most significant holdover of his "New Deal" was the Social Security Act of 1935, which created a national system of old age insurance, set up a federal-state program of unemployment insurance, and authorized federal aid to the states on a matching basis for the care of dependent mothers and children, the crippled, and the blind for public health services.

Yet for all the achievements of the New Deal, it failed to make much headway in its most important assignment: ending the depression. New Deal policies provided a quick spurt in the spring of 1933, but for the next two years little advance was made. Encouraging gains began in mid-1935, and by the spring of 1937 national production finally approached the levels of 1929. But in August, 1937, a sharp recession struck from which the country only painfully recovered. As late as 1939 some 10 million people were still unemployed. Recovery was not complete until the nation began preparation for World War II.

1. Most of this story is taken from The Columbia History of the World, Harper & Row, 1972.

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The Kauffman Family

The Kauffmans occupied the farm house on Colebrook Road in Sporting Hill from their wedding day on July 1, 1900, until Annie's death in 1956. During that time Milton and Annie raised four children; a fifth died in infancy.

Ross was born in 1900, Wayne was born in 1901 and died after one month, Ralph was born in 1902, Helen (my mother) in 1905, and Dorothy in 1915.

As in most farming families of that era, they were almost self-sufficient. In addition to running the farm, Milton worked as a painter and paper hanger, and although money was not plentiful, there was enough to live reasonably well. Annie made much of the clothing, often from feed bags, which were printed in colorful designs expressly for that purpose. My mother once said that she often went to school with XXXX across her behind on her underwear.

Ross was the dreamer of the family; my father once mentioned that he always had an idea for making a fortune, but it never worked. He had gone to business college, and was employed for many years as a cost accountant at the Hamilton Watch Company in Lancaster. He had an adopted daughter, Jorae, and I have no idea what became of her. The last I heard she was married to a disk jockey on a Philadelphia radio station, but that was 45 years ago.

My mother and father were married in 1925, and they lived in Manheim until the Great Depression. When my father lost his job she lived wherever she could find work until we all got back together again in 1940.

Uncle Ralph was the unorthodox one of the family. He lived at home until his death in 1951.

It was easy to tell that Aunt Dorothy was the baby of the family. She was quiet, shy, and was her mother's girl. When I first arrived on the farm I had to share the bed with her, and she would read me stories and help me with my prayers. She worked in Manheim at the Anchor Packing Co., later part of Raybestos-Manhattan, until her marriage in 1938.

Ross, Helen and Ralph Kauffman ca. 1910 (22K)

The Kauffman family never seemed to be able to get everyone together for a family picture.

The Kauffman Family In 1942 (31K)

The Kauffman Family In 1944 (24K)

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Grandpa Kauffman

Grandpa Kauffman was a large man; he was six feet tall and weighed 200+ pounds. He had grown through his hair so that only a fringe of white remained around his head.

He didn't get angry very often, in fact, I only saw his anger twice, but when he did it was awesome. I have written elsewhere of the occasion in which it was directed at me; the other time he was upset because his mules pulled him and the plow through a mud puddle. That time he held the mules back while beating them with the reins; when they started to bolt, he jerked them back and beat them some more. He was yelling words at them which I didn't hear again until I was in basic training in the Army.

During the period when I lived on the farm, he divided his time between working his small farm (10 acres) and hanging wallpaper. In his younger days he was a house painter, and (some say) a bootlegger.

He demonstrated to me how at one time he had also been an auto striper. When Henry Ford decided the public could have the Model T in any color as long as it was black, some of the buyers wanted something a little fancier, so Grandpa filled a niche. Although his hands shook most of the time, he took a small paint brush similar to a water color brush, and painted a white stripe freehanded as smoothly and as straight as if it had been done on a machine. People brought their black cars to him, and he decorated them with fancy colored stripes. I understand that he had performed the same service for those Pennsylvania Dutch people who wanted their buggies beautified.

When I was eleven years old, he decided that I should join the 4H club and raise corn. Actually, I never did anything with the corn-he did it all. When "my" corn won first prize in all of Lancaster County, and came in second in the state farm show at Harrisburg, he beamed. "My" corn and I got our picture in the newspaper, but Grandpa and I both knew who deserved the credit.

He had received his driver's license before examinations were required, and was of course "grand fathered" in every year after that. He was a terrible driver. One time after I had received my license, I was riding with him when he strayed across the center of the highway and side swiped a car going the opposite direction. He never even slowed down.

After the other car was out of sight, he asked me, "Was I out a mite far?"

"I think so." Neither one of us ever mentioned the incident again.

Saturday nights Grandma and Grandpa would drive to Manheim for the weekly grocery shopping. Grandpa usually spent the evening at Pippens Wotmyer's Washington House having a beer or two.

Every now and then I would drop in on him at the hotel, and he would always say, "Would you like to have an arange (orange soda)?"

Since I didn't care much for "arange," I would usually answer, "Could I have a cream soda instead?" and I always could.

He died in 1965 at the age of 93. I can still see him seated in the kitchen at the end of the day, reading the newspaper and enjoying a Philly cigar.

Milton, Annie and Ross Kauffman in 1901 (18K)

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Grandma Kauffman

She was short and plump, and always busy. There was never enough time to get everything done. One of the most inconvenient and time consuming problems was that there was no running water and no water heater. Water had to be pumped by hand and heated on the coal stove in the kitchen for everything from washing dishes to taking baths. In summer the water was heated on the "coal oil" stove in the summer kitchen. The teakettle was always on.

Monday was wash day. The huge, oblong, copper boiler had to be on the stove by 6:00 A.M. so that the water would be hot by 8:00, then it had to be carried by the bucketful to the porch and poured into the washer. That was a wooden washer with a hand fed wringer¹. The rinse tub was a large metal tub, filled with water and "bluing," placed next to the washer. Bluing was used to make the clothes whiter and brighter. Nowadays it's in the detergent. The detergent in those days was lye soap, which Grandma boiled in huge black kettles during the butchering season.

At least the washer was electric, although Grandma had to do the laundry by hand for 22 years before the house was wired for electricity. During that time she did laundry for a family of six. As each load of wash was finished, it had to be hung out to dry, either on outside lines in nice weather, or on lines strung across the inside of the shop on rainy days. As it dried, shirts and some dresses had to be starched and rolled up in damp towels for later ironing, while the rest had to be folded and put away.

Tuesday was spent ironing, and there usually wasn't any time for anything else.

Wednesday and Thursday were spent in doing the many other chores connected with a farm family; sewing dresses and other clothing, mending, working in the garden, etc. Seasonal chores such as canning fruits and vegetables, butchering of hogs and steers, and making soap were also done on those days.

Grandpa liked dessert with every meal, so Friday was spent baking enough cakes and pies for a week. I still imagine I can smell the wonderful odors coming from the oven on Fridays: apple, pumpkin, lemon, and shoofly pies, chocolate and crumb cakes, as well as all kinds of cookies. It was wonderful.

Saturday was cleaning day; linoleum was washed, rugs were beaten, carpets were vacuumed, windows were washed, and baths were taken. There was no bathtub; one used a wash basin and a teakettle of water. Although lye soap was used for laundry, dishes, and other household cleaning, it was too strong for the skin. Thank goodness she bought bath soap.

Saturday night the family drove to Manheim, where Grandma shopped for the groceries for the next week and talked with the other farm women who were in town for the same reason. It was a socializing time. Grandpa liked to spend the evening with his cronies and a glass or two of beer. I used to get a dime to spend however I wanted.

Sunday was usually a relaxing day. My grandparents were not especially religious, so we listened to the radio, read the funnies together, and often had family dinners when my parents or my uncle Ross and his family dropped in. The funnies were not in color the way they are today, but they were printed on pink paper so they would be easier for children to find.

While Grandma was performing all these chores, she also had her usual daily routine: gather the eggs, cook the meals, wash the dishes, and empty and wash the chamber buckets². Cooking was all done from scratch; there were no such things as dried mashed potatoes or canned soups. Grandma rolled out and cut her own noodles, dug her own vegetables out of the ground, and plucked her own chickens. Every meal consisted of meat and potatoes, two vegetables, something sour (perhaps a dandelion salad for which she hunted the dandelion), and cake and pie.

In addition to being Grandma, she also served as my mother while my parents were out of work during the great depression years. She did a wonderful job in both capacities.

She always gave me a little warning before it was time to really get out of bed. She would call up the stairs, "Glenn, it's time to start waking up."

"OK," I would answer, then turn over for a few more minutes.

Ten minutes later she would call again. "Glenn, now it's time to get up." With this call I would finally get out of bed. I greatly appreciated this routine on cold days. Since the house was unheated, I needed to psych myself up to leave the warm bed. It was sometimes so cold that when I was small, I could barely turn over because of all the covers.

Grandma was bothered by a bad back the entire time I knew her. Some days she could hardly bend over, and if she did she could barely straighten up. But she performed all her chores just the same.

I can't imagine the terrible heartache she must have felt when her three oldest children, Ross, Ralph and Helen, died within three years of each other-all with cancer, and all less than fifty years of age. The youngest, Dorothy, reached the age of fifty-two, although Grandma herself was gone by that time.

Grandma was also stricken with cancer in her 76th. year, and died in May, 1956. I still miss her.

1. The wringer consisted of a set of rollers that wrung excess water out of the clothing. The clothes were run through the wringer from the washer into the rinse tub, and again from the rinse tub to the wash basket for hanging on the clothes line.
2. Chamber buckets were porcelain buckets and lids which were kept under the beds in homes which did not have bathrooms. While not fun to use, they were much better than running out to the privy in the middle of a cold or rainy night.

Annie Kauffman in 1926 (18K)

Annie Kauffman in 1942 (25K)

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Uncle Ralph

"Wha'cha got in the can, Ralph?" Uncle Ralph laughed as he picked me up and rubbed my cheeks across the rough stubble on his.

"I don't know, I guess you'll have to look," he answered as I giggled uncontrollably. By the time I was four years old, this little welcome home routine had become a daily ritual.

The can was Uncle Ralph's rectangular, black metal lunch box with the domed top which held a thermos bottle. He always left a goody in the box for me, usually a piece of pie or cake. Thinking back, I suppose he and Grandma worked it out together. At 5'7" tall and 170 pounds, it was not Uncle Ralph's style to pass up a dessert, so my guess is she always put two desserts in the can.

As I got older, Uncle Ralph continued to spoil me. When I got my learner's driving permit, he taught me the fundamentals (my father didn't have a car), and loaned me his gray 1936 Ford coupe on Sunday afternoons so I could practice. He never bothered to go with me; he just trusted me to drive with care, and I always did. After I received my regular license, he also let me use his car whenever I wanted it.

He was the maverick in the family. He enjoyed things which were a little unusual for the Kauffmans; it was from him that I learned to appreciate such things as limburger cheese, horseradish, and hot peppers, and he spent most of his evenings in the local tavern. If he had lived a hundred years earlier, he could have been one of the "old sports" which supposedly gave Sporting Hill its name. It was there that he acquired the nickname "possum," because he would sit there apparently asleep, and at the same time never miss a word. He was always ready to voice his opinion; it was not unusual for him to come home with a black eye or a bloody nose.

He liked sex. Although he never married (rumor has it that he had been rudely jilted when he was younger), he kept girlie magazines in his room and pornographic books in the glove box of his car. I know because I found them.

Eventually he had an affair with a married woman. When I was in my late teens, he used to tell me in great detail about their liaisons. In the heat of passion he supposedly said, "Here's another little bastard for your husband to raise." I don't doubt that he said it, and he could have been correct since the only child she ever had was born while their affair was going on.

He was a molder in a foundry. He had to change careers when a ladle of molten metal was poured down the back of his pants. There was a rumor that it was no accident, and I don't doubt that either.

The healing took several months, and it was during his recovery that he was found to have diabetes. Thereafter, in addition to giving himself his insulin shots, he carefully weighed out the prescribed portions of food for himself, and always consulted his little book listing the sugar content of everything he ate. He never went back to the foundry, but instead got a job as a hospital orderly. He had some lurid stories about the things that went on there, some of which may have been true. He died of stomach cancer in 1951 at the age of 49.

I loved him.

Uncle Ralph and Friend ca.1936 (13K)

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Aunt Dorothy And The Power Of Prayer

When I was three years old, my father lost his job and his home because of the great depression. Subsequently I was sent to live with my grandparents, where I had to share a bed with my aunt Dorothy, who was seventeen.

Aunt Dorothy took it upon herself to teach me about praying. Although she died in 1967 at the age of 51, a simple prayer she taught me over 65 years ago still exerts a strong influence on me today, although not in the way she intended.

Of course, I had to learn the "Now I lay me down to sleep" prayer which I dutifully recited every night. One night I said to aunt Dorothy, "This 'if I should die before I wake' scares me. How can I be sure I won't die before I wake?"

Aunt Dorothy said, "Ask God to be sure to let you wake up in the morning." So I added that to my prayer.

Then I said, "What if the world ends tonight; then I'll die?" Aunt Dorothy said, "Ask God not to let the world end tonight." Another addition to the prayer.

One thing Aunt Dorothy always stressed is that you've got to believe that what you are praying for will really happen. When I asked how you do that, she said, "Just keep telling yourself that it will happen the way you asked."

To avoid having to keep telling myself that God will let me wake up in the morning, and he won't let the world end tonight, I shortened it to "He will, it won't." I went around all the time thinking, "He will, it won't, He will, it won't".. After all, I knew what I meant, and I was sure God would too.

I soon got to the point where I accented what I was thinking by matching my actions to the cadence of my thinking. For example, if I touched something with my left hand while thinking "He will," I then had to touch something with my right hand on the "It won't" half of my system.

I eventually outgrew this continual "He will, it won't" thinking, but I found that I didn't outgrow the doing things in pairs. If I even glanced out the corner of my left eye and saw my shoulder, I had to glance out of my right eye and catch a glimpse of my other shoulder. If I blinked once, I immediately had to blink again. I am sure many people thought I had a nervous tic, and they were right. Even today I catch myself doing it, and I have to believe other people sometimes wonder why I make such funny moves. I'm just trying to look out the other eye.

So you see why I believe in the power of prayer. It worked. I have always been able to wake up in the morning, at least so far. And the world hasn't come to an end. Oops, I just touched my face with my right hand. Excuse me while I touch it again with my left.

Aunt Dorothy ca. 1936 (28K)

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Sporting Hill School

Sporting Hill school was located approximately two miles west of Manheim, Pa., along the Mount Joy road. It was built in 1890, and was used until 1951, when a new school was built on Colebrook road. Still standing in 1997, the old building was later used by Weidman Brothers in their egg processing business, and was last used as an auto repair shop.

The building contained two classrooms, grades one through four on the "little" side, and grades five through eight on the "big" side. I attended from 1934 through the sixth grade in 1940, at which time I transferred to Stiegel Junior High School in Manheim. The accompanying picture was taken in the spring of 1937 when I was in the third grade. I am the fourth from the right in the second row. My first day at the school was not too satisfactory-I wet my pants. Refusing, however, to let this rather cool beginning dampen my spirits, I eventually grew to love the place.

The playground was very large, and although there was no playground equipment, we found lots of things to do. Marbles and jacks were popular, but the favorite game was "colly over." Teams were chosen, with one team going to the back of the school and the other to the front. One team (team A) had a rubber ball (the colly), and when the other team (team B) called "colly over," the ball was thrown over the building. If no one on team B caught the ball, they became the throwing team, however, if the ball were caught, the members of team B ran around the building and tried to capture the members of team A. "Capturing" meant to physically catch and hold a person until the team B member who had the ball could get there and tag him or her. The captured person then joined the capturing team for the next colly over. The winning team was the one who captured all the members of the other team.

For the student who paid attention to what was going on, the one or two room school had some definite advantages. When it was time for each grade to receive instruction, the students in that grade had to stand on a six inch platform at the front of the room. The teacher then lectured or asked questions or had the students in that grade perform exercises on the blackboard. Each student in the grades lower than the one performing had an opportunity to listen and learn the lessons of the higher grade.

The platform also performed another function-punishment. A student who couldn't behave was required to kneel on the edge of the platform so that his feet didn't touch the floor. After a short time his knees could get very sore. In today's climate such a punishment would mean an immediate lawsuit, but in those days most parents took the attitude that a child who got punished in school probably deserved it, and that student would also receive punishment at home.

One and two room schools such as this are still in use today (1997) in the Amish sections of Pennsylvania. These areas will probably continue to use these schools for many more years, since the Amish feel that education should end with the eighth grade.

The 'Little Side' In 1937 (52K)

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Grandpop Grunenberger

Because Grandpop died when I was four years old, I didn't get to know him. However, because of his indirect effect on me I am including what I know of him in my life story

He was born George Marie Grunenberger in the village of Bergholtz, Alsace-Lorraine, Germany on October 18, 1883. Alsace-Lorraine was returned to France in 1945.

His father was an older man, a widower with half grown children when he married Maria Sanner about three months before Grandpop was born. Perhaps a year or two after he was born, a sleigh full of firewood ran over his father's legs when the horses bolted unexpectedly. In spite of a double amputation which was performed on the kitchen table, his father died, probably of gangrene.

Sometime later Joseph Rominger, a business man from America was planning a visit to Europe. Before he left, his friend, Celestine Sanner, suggested to Joseph that he visit his (Celestine's) sister, Maria while on his trip. Joseph took his suggestion, and he and Maria quickly became attracted to one another. When Joseph returned home, he sent for Maria and her young son, George, to come to America. Upon their arrival Joseph and Maria were married and started another family in Philadelphia.

After graduating from high school, George attended Girard college in Philadelphia

When he was ready to go to work, he was employed as a grocery clerk in his uncle Celestine's store. Upon delivering groceries to a customer who happened to be a dressmaker, George noticed Mary Ellen Hannigan, a young seamstress who was employed there.

Eventually they married and started the Grunenberger family in America. Grandpop seemed to have a difficult time settling in one place. He kept moving around the Middle Atlantic seaboard as is evidenced by the births of his children. George Francis (1906), my father, was born in Philadelphia; Mary Elizabeth (1907) in Princess Anne, Md.; Madeline Joy (1909) in Somerset County, Md.; Marie Bernardine (1914) in Child's Station, Md.; and Jacqueline Julian (1920) in Montgomery Co., Pa. My father graduated from high school in Red Hill, Pa. in 1924, and in 1925 when he married my mother, the family was living in Manheim, Pa.

Sometime thereafter Grandpop bought a duplex home in Lititz, Pa. and he moved the family into one half while renting out the other. While living in Lititz he was a regular columnist for the local newspaper.

The family remained there until 1933, when in addition to the duplex, he bought a farm in Peach Bottom, Pa., and moved there, although he still commuted to his job at the Animal Trap Factory in Lititz. Unfortunately he died less than a year after moving to the farm.

He was a life long Catholic and a devoted family man. When my parents were married, my mother agreed that any children of the marriage would be raised in the Catholic faith. When I was born she reneged on her promise, and he was broken hearted.

He and Grandmom did everything they could to help the family during the great depression. At one time or another they took into their home all their children, their children's spouses, and their children's children, as well as various and sundry half brothers and other relatives.

When my father lost his job in Manheim, he lived for quite some time at Lititz and the farm. Before grandpop's death he and my father were out driving along the river when my father said, "Pop, if I don't soon find work I will have to go on relief."

Grandpop responded, "I will drive this car into the river and drown both of us before I'll allow any of my family to go on relief."

I have only two faint memories of Grandpop. I recall that he took me along to his job at the trap factory one day, and held me up to help pull the handle which blew the noon whistle. The other memory was seeing him in his coffin.

I regret very much that I did not have the opportunity to get to know him better. He died January 23, 1934 at Peach Bottom, and was buried in St. Anthony's cemetery in Lancaster, Pa.

Grandpop Grunenberger In 1915 (15K)

Grandmom Grunenberger In 1918 (13K)

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Holiday Excitement

My early Christmases were all filled with fun and excitement, although during the Great Depression our ideas of fun were extremely mild compared to those of 1997.

In those days if you sent your Santa Claus letter to the local radio station, Santa actually read your wish list on the air. After you sent your letter, it was exciting to listen for your name each evening on WGAL, along with what you wanted Santa to bring. Whether it was for a hootnanny or a real cowboy suit like Gene Autrey wore, Santa usually came through.

However, while for the grownups the most exciting event of 1934 may have been the FBI's shooting of John Dillinger, my most exciting event up to that time happened on December first of that year, the Saturday after Thanksgiving.

Of course, it was important that everyone knew for several weeks what was going to occur. For a five year old the excitement was not only in the event itself, but in what it would be like if it didn't happen the way it was supposed to.

The annual food orgy of Thanksgiving came and went without calming me down; on the contrary, the event was now only two days away. Friday night I had a terrible time trying to sleep.

Saturday morning dawned with perfect weather; sunny with not a cloud to be seen. On Saturday I usually slept very late, but this time I was up and dressed before seven, even though the event was scheduled for eleven. Uncle Ralph had agreed to take me, and I'm afraid I made a pest of myself asking, "Is it time to go yet?" time after time.

Finally about 10:15 Uncle Ralph said "Let's go." I had been waiting in the car since 9:30.

When we arrived in Manheim, the square was crowded with parents and children. As the magic hour of 11:00 drew near, the excitement grew and grew.

Suddenly a buzz went through the crowd as a small plane appeared from the south, swept over the square at a low altitude, then climbed and circled back. I held my breath as a small red figure dropped out, then joined in the cheer when a huge white mushroom blossomed over it. The parachutist missed his target slightly, but landed close enough so that he could complete his mission.

Santa Claus had arrived at Rettew's Department Store!

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An Unforgettable Character

Every group of boys has one member who can run faster, jump higher, climb quicker, cuss more creatively, pee further and get into more trouble than any other 5 boys in the group. In my group it was Harry F., who moved in across the road from me when I was about 5 or 6 years old.

Harry was number one at all boy-type skills, from getting through straw tunnels quicker to climbing unclimbable trees. In Grandpa's woods there was a tree which had grown at an angle of perhaps 80 instead of straight up. Harry could climb the outside of the trunk on hands and feet like a Polynesian scampering up a coconut tree. I never knew anyone else who could do it. He lost some of his enthusiasm when he tried peeing on the electric fence, but he found it again after a few minutes. However, it was one experiment he never repeated, at least to my knowledge.

Harry was the first one to learn to ride a bicycle, swim, and walk on stilts. He was the envy of all the boys, the secret love of all the girls, and the bane of all the parents.

Because he was a natural leader, he could get into trouble either by himself or with a group. In fact, he could do it without even being present. One night his father dreamed he was booting Harry in the rear. Instead he kicked the wall and broke his toe.

Eventually Harry wound up in the Army, and was stationed several hundred miles from home. When his parents went to visit him it was a twelve hour drive for them. When Harry drove home to visit his parents, it was a 6 hour drive. He led a charmed life.

I lost track of Harry until recently. Although not a member of my high school class, everyone knows him, and he has been invited to our monthly breakfast meetings, which he attends fairly regularly. He owns a large farm, and except for knee replacements is still in good health. As with all of us, he has mellowed considerably over the years, but he is still very much his own person. In fact, he showed up at our most recent meeting in January 2007, with his new bride!

Harry is one of my most unforgettable characters, although not exactly the same type as those found in the pages of the Reader’s Digest.

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The Entertainer

Since my grandparents were Lancaster County born and reared, it was only natural that they would have a Pennsylvania Dutch accent. Because I had lived with them almost from infancy, and all my playmates were from the same area, I also developed a very heavy "Dutch" accent.

The most noticeable indication of such and accent is the reversal of pronunciation of the sounds of "v" and "w." For example, the word "very" might be pronounced "wery," while the word "well" would be pronounced "vell." In addition, the "z" sound signified by the "s" at the end of a word would become a hiss. For example, the word "his" sounds like "hiss," and "hers" becomes "herss."

Although neither of my grandparents was a "joiner," my grandfather did belong to the Odd Fellows. I do not know anything about them except that he always wore a tiny pin, shaped like a chain with three links, on the lapel of his good suit.

Grandma belonged to the Farm Women, a group of farmers' wives, which held a meeting one night each month at the home of one of the members. I do not know what all went on at these meetings, although I do know that there was always a short entertainment program.

I was about six or seven years old when I was prevailed upon to be the entertainer at one of the meetings. This particular meeting was held at the home of Mrs. D., who, in addition to being a farm wife, also made beautiful neckties. Grandpa always got his neckties from her. You could even take her your own material to be made into a tie, thus assuring that the product would be one of a kind.

My program would consist of singing two songs, unaccompanied, in my own inimitable accent. Of course, I was very nervous about what would be my first public appearance, and I practiced my songs every waking moment for several days before the big event.

The first number was a popular song of the time: Gene Autry's "That Silver-Haired Daddy Of Mine." With apologies to Gene, wherever he may be, it went something like this:

          In a wine covered shack in the mount-in,
          Brawe-ly fighting the battle of time,
          Liwess a dear one whoss veathered life's sorrowed,
          'Tiss that silwer-haired daddy of mine.

          If God vould but grant me the pow-wer,
          Chust to turn back the pachess of time,
          I'd give all I own
          If I could butt a tone
          To that silwer-haired daddy of mine.

My encore was an exciting(?) number that my Aunt Dorothy found in a Sunday School hymn book:

          Did you ewer hear the story of the sun-shine man?
          And hiss smile and hiss smile so bright,
          Ven he smiless he seemss to say
          Frost and cold vill melt avay,
          And the summer dayss vill come,
          And the bissy beess vill hum,
          And the flowerss gaily bloom every day.

Since I had not forgotten the words, I considered the performance a success.

But I just had a thought: They never invited me back. Hmmn.

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Till The Cow Comes Home

When I was about eight years old, one of my few chores was to bring the cow, Lady, home from the meadow each afternoon. Grandpa had only one cow, and the meadow was about a mile from the house along small country roads. Lady would usually be waiting at the gate when I arrived, and since she knew the way home as well as I did, all I had to do was open the gate and follow her to the barn. I don't know how she got to the meadow each morning, but I suppose Grandpa took her before I got up.

The road home passed the house where two brothers, friends of mine, happened to live. On this particular lazy, late summer day, I could hear the insects buzzing, and I could actually see the haze rising off the road. The tiger lilies were drooping from the heat and were covered with the dust of passing traffic. They looked thirsty. I decided that I really needed a glass of cold water, and since it was only about four o'clock, supper would not be ready for another two hours. After all, we were only about a quarter of a mile from home; what could go wrong?

As it happened my friends had just acquired a guitar and were happy to let me plink away on it while reading the easy lesson book. Before I knew it, an hour had passed before I finally decided to go on home.

I didn't see Lady along the way, and when I got to the barn she was safely inside, so I considered everything was OK.

Grandpa was waiting for me with a few questions. "Where have you been?"

"Bringing Lady home."

"What took you so long?"

"She wasn't at the gate so I had to go into the meadow to get her."

I thought I had all the answers. I wasn't sophisticated enough to sense that Grandpa already knew the right answers before he asked the questions. He should have been an attorney. He didn't usually lose his temper, but this wasn't one of the usual times.

"You're lying," he said. He grabbed me and practically dragged me into the orchard. Cutting a green switch from a peach tree, he proceeded to teach me that lying was not the best idea I ever had. Each stroke was punctuated by a word such as, "I'll . . . teach . . . you . . . not . . . to . . . lie . . . to . . . me." He was right, it was a lesson I still haven't forgotten.

Later Grandma briefed me on what had happened. When I took somewhat longer than usual to return, she looked down the road for me and saw the cow munching away in a neighbor's alfalfa field. She brought the cow home herself.

From that time on I didn't get thirsty until after I had Lady safely in the barn.

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My Favorite Place

Whenever school was not in session, I was free to roam the countryside around the farm. Although as much as I enjoyed playing in the small "woods" on the northeast corner of the farm, more often I headed for the meadow where Grandpa was allowed to keep the cow for a small annual fee paid to the owner.

A small stream meandered casually through the meadow. Just six feet wide at the maximum, it barely managed to display a couple of six-inch high waterfalls. Its banks supported lush green grasses, bright ferns with tiny brown spores on the underside of their delicate fronds, cattails waving brown pods on the ends of their slender stems like little hot dogs impaled on the end of sticks for roasting over a campfire, bright orange tiger lilies peppered with dark, measles-like spots, and many other colorful plants. The shaded areas away from the stream were home to delicate, white flowers with blood-red roots in the spring, and timid little purple violets later in the summer.

Animal life also frequented the stream and its banks, with frogs, muskrats, birds and dragonflies in abundance. While lying on my stomach and peering into the water along the shady bank of the stream, I almost always saw many tiny fish, although few were longer than an inch or two. Once I saw a heron scooping up something from the water, and that was my first lesson about the danger of being at the bottom of the food chain.

On one occasion as I approached the stream, a water snake not more than 10 or 12 inches long splashed into the water just a step away. I was as surprised and just as frightened for a second or two as the tiny snake was.

One day I scooped a mass of jelly filled with tiny spots from the stream. When I arrived home, Uncle Ralph told me they were frog eggs, and would turn into tiny tadpoles. He helped me transfer the jelly to a larger container, and sure enough, the next day the container was filled with tiny, wriggling forms, which I carried back to the stream and released. When I asked why there were so many more tadpoles than frogs, Uncle Ralph explained that fish, snakes or birds ate most of them.

Although there were many shrubs and bushes in the meadow, there was only one large tree, a magnificent oak with large trunk and wide-spreading branches. On hot days I loved to lie on my back on the cool moss beneath the tree, my head supported on my clasped hands. Many hours were spent looking up at the specks of blue sky that managed to peep through the leafy branches, thinking about whatever it is that small boys think about.

I had some wonderful times during my years on the farm, but the days spent exploring that small meadow were the best of all.

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A Tale Of A Tail

The first Saturday of April, 1938 was a beautiful day. The snow and ice had all melted, the flowers were beginning to pop up, trees were budding, and spring was in the air. The temperature was so much warmer than it had been for the previous four months that a few of us boys went down to the creek to check out the old swimming hole. The water looked clear and bright, so we decided to try skinny dipping.

Unfortunately it didn't feel quite as good as it looked, so we were in only long enough to be able to say we had tried it.

Looking around for something else to do, we spied the friendly cow who graciously allowed us to share her meadow. She was lying by the fence, so we walked over to renew the relationship from the previous summer.

Now you've got to understand that cows have a brush of hairs on the end of their tails-a very handy item for chasing flies. Somebody got the idea of tying this cow's brush to the fence in order to see what would happen.

While some of us talked to and petted the cow, another carefully fastened the brush to the fence. Upon completion, we scared the cow to make her jump. It worked-she jumped up, bellowed loudly, and took off, that is, most of her did! The brush remained securely attached to the fence, leaving a bloody wound on the end of the poor cow's tail.

Of course, word got around what some mean boys had done. Nobody knew for sure who it was, but we were all questioned, although of course none of us knew anything about it.

All boys in the area were warned not to do that again. I really didn't need the warning; the painful sound the cow made and the sight of her brushless tail was enough to cure me of harming defenseless animals forever.

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The 1939 World's Fair

During the 1930s, the Lancaster County Grocers' Association sponsored annual "Grocers' Picnic" excursions from Lancaster to Atlantic City, NJ. The Association leased trains and made round trip tickets available at a very reasonable price so that families could afford to have a day at the beach. En route the grocers provided snacks and soft drinks, and everyone had a most enjoyable time, not only at the shore, but also during the train ride. My grandparents and I had gone on one of these excursions in 1938, and I was anxious to repeat the wonderful outing.

So I was excited when they announced to me that we were going to do it again in 1939. However, as the train left the station in Lancaster, a man came through carrying a sign which read "Special Excursion To The New York World's Fair." As I had read about the fair, I quickly forgave my grandparents the little trick they had played on me. Again some organization had leased a train and had arranged for reasonable tickets, snacks, drinks and all the other little niceties that I had experienced on the previous trip to the seashore.

The skyline of the fair was dominated by the huge, spherical Perisphere and the pyramid shaped Trylon. A walkway led through both structures, and inside was a huge model of what the futurists of the time were predicting for the city of tomorrow. "Tomorrow" was supposed to be 1989, and from the vantage point of 1997 I can say they overrated the beauty and functionality, and underrated the amount of empty warehouses and slum areas rather badly.

The General Motors building was supposed to be one of the highlights of the fair, so of course we had to go through that. GM had modeled the highways of 1989. Everything was supposed to be electronically controlled so that no drivers were required for the swarm of cars in their model. Again I can say they grossly overrated the control almost as badly as they underrated the volume of traffic.

The weather was typical for New York in summer-bright sunshine with the temperature well into the 90s. To see the popular GM exhibit required two hours of standing in long lines which snaked back and forth in the hot sun. Eventually we got to recognize some of the people in the lines as we passed each other time after time.

Suddenly a lady in the next line fell to the ground; her body began jerking spasmodically and her saliva sprayed the people around her as she suffered an apparent epileptic seizure. After almost sixty years I can still picture her plump body and black hair as she lay there quivering uncontrollably. It was the first time I had seen an adult who had lost all physical control, and it was a very sobering experience. In fact, of all the experiences I had that day, that's the one I recall most vividly.

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The Treasure Hunt

The midsummer day dawned bright and clear for the United Brethren Church's annual Sunday School picnic in nearby Kauffman's Park. Located in a tiny ravine on the east side of the main highway from Manheim to Lancaster, the park contained many fine old trees, a small stream, two picnic pavilions, and a few items of playground equipment. Like most ten year olds I looked forward eagerly to any chance to have a good time, and even though I was only an infrequent visitor to the Sunday School, I managed to attend often enough to get invited to the picnic. Perhaps if I had attended more regularly I would not have let my greed get me into a most embarrassing situation; a situation that even after almost sixty years I regard as one of the most humiliating of my life.

The park soon rang with the sounds of happy children seesawing, sliding, or riding the old foot powered merry go round, and the hot dogs, hamburgers and other delicacies looked and smelled so wonderful that I could almost taste them.

Having had experience in such matters, the teachers had organized a series of games and contests designed to keep the children away from the food laden tables in the larger pavilion. In addition to the three legged races, sack races, and other things, the highlight of the day and the last activity before lunch was always the treasure hunt. What lucky child would find the hidden treasure?

Among the few visitors enjoying the park who were not members of the happy revelers was a man who was an acquaintance of my father. He was not really a close friend, but my father had introduced me to him at one time. Soon he called me away from the activities and asked me if there was going to be a treasure hunt.

"Of course," I replied.

"Well," he said, pointing to the branch of a tree which sagged almost to the ground along the side of the hill leading up to the highway, "I saw one of your teachers hiding a pencil box in that branch a few minutes ago."

A pencil box! With school starting in five weeks, that was just what I needed. "Thanks, George," I said.

Then he offered a piece of advice. "Now when the hunt starts, don't run right up there and get it or they will know someone told you where to look."

Soon the call came to gather for the treasure hunt. "You all know the rules," the teacher said. "The first one to find the treasure gets to keep it. Now go find it."

My greed immediately overruled the advice my accomplice had given me, so I ran directly to the hiding place and retrieved the treasure. Running back to the teacher I exclaimed, "I found it!"

"My, that was fast," she said. "Children," she shouted, "the treasure hunt is over. Glenn found the treasure already."

Unfortunately there had been a witness to our little scheme. One of my classmates exclaimed, "That's not fair. Someone told him where it was."

"They did not," I lied. "I found it fair and square!"

Since the voice of my conscience was apparently going to be silent about the situation, my betrayer took the job upon himself. "Yes they did. I saw that man talking to you and he pointed right at the branch where it was hidden!"

Finally realizing that I was caught, I sheepishly admitted my offense.

"Well," the teacher said, "the only fair thing to do is hide it again and start the hunt over."

So everyone had to hide their eyes until the treasure was hidden a second time, and the search was started again.

As for me, I skipped the hunt and the food and went home. When my dad asked me how the picnic was, I told him "Fine." I suppose he found out about my transgression sooner or later, but he never mentioned it to me. It was a long time before I went back to Sunday School.

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Sex Education 101

It has long been the custom in the United States to teach young people about sex by having another young person explain it to them. Usually the teacher is a big kid of the same sex but two or three years older than the student.

When I was eleven years old I knew the difference between little boys and little girls, but when I heard Jay (age thirteen) make certain remarks to Rosie (also thirteen), I didn't understand what he was talking about. When I asked him, he explained in great detail what he would like to do to her. He even explained condoms (in those days they were called "rubbers," and were used to prevent pregnancy, not disease). Little did we know that we would have a graphic demonstration of sex the very next day.

Among almost all mammals except humans, reproduction is possible only when the female is in heat. As a matter of fact, among most mammals, intercourse is only performed at that time. Humans, of course, have no such limitation.

Jay, Rosie and I were working temporarily helping a farmer plant tobacco. It so happens the farmer had a cow who had just come into her menses. Since a cow doesn't give milk unless she has delivered a calf, it was important to have her impregnated within a short period of time.

Most small farms that had a few cows did not also have a bull on site, so the farmer had rented a bull for use as a stud. It so happened that the bull was brought into the barnyard while we temps were on our lunch hour. Picture it, the bull and the cow in the arena while we temps stood around the fence to watch and applaud the performance.

The 2,000 pound bull kept trying to mount the poor cow who weighed probably 1,000 pounds less than he did. She kept staggering away, trying to keep her feet, while the bull kept trying to keep up with her on his hind legs, all the while prodding and poking at a moving target he couldn't see. It was both awesome and hilarious at the same time.

In spite of all the difficulties, the performance was finally completed. Of course everybody benefited-the bull enjoyed it (although I'm not sure about his inamorata), the bull's owner got money, the cow's owner got a calf and milk, and all of us around the fence had a learning experience.

Afterwards the bull pranced around the barnyard as if to say, "Hey guys, look what I did," while the cow laid in the corner looking as if the whole thing never happened. Much later I learned that this behavior has been known to carry over to the human species.

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The Threshing Party

On the small Pennsylvania farms of the 1930s, a harvest combine was economically out of reach for most farmers. Instead, the sheaves were brought into the barn, and a threshing rig was engaged to do the job. The rig consisted of a mobile engine, often steam driven, which pulled a huge threshing machine and a separate baler from farm to farm at the end of the harvesting season. Power to the thresher and baler was provided through an endless belt which ran from the flywheel on the engine to a pulley on the thresher. Once the actual threshing got underway several manual operations had to be performed simultaneously, including throwing the sheaves into the thresher, hauling away and storing the bagged grain, tending the baler, hauling away and storing the baled straw, etc. The whole operation required a crew of eight or ten men.

Since my grandfather had perhaps the smallest farm in the area, his was not a profitable operation for the threshers. In order to make it worth their while, he always had his job done last, and hosted a party in the barn to celebrate the end of the season. The refreshments consisted of cold cuts, various cheeses, and of course, beer. While the threshing was usually finished by noon, it was not unusual for the party to last until 4:00 or 5:00 o'clock in the afternoon. At the last of these parties before I left the farm, a friend and I did our best to add to the merriment, although I am sure our efforts were not appreciated by some of the crew.

I had been tapping the beer at the parties from the time I reached the age of seven or eight. It made me feel rather grown up to do so, although of course I was not allowed to drink any of it. In any event, since the crew did not change personnel very much from year to year, the men were used to my playing bartender.

I was about eleven years old at the last party I attended. As usual the beer keg was set up in the tobacco stripping room, which was on a slightly lower level from the rest of the barn. After the men had drunk a few beers, my friend and I began squirting them with water pistols. Since by that time most of the men were getting somewhat fuzzy in their thinking, and the barn was plentifully supplied with knotholes through which we could fire, or should I say, water, quite a bit of time passed before some of them figured out what was going on. I suspect there were a few who never figured it out.

As the party went on, a few of the men did not seem to appreciate the fact that we were only trying to cool them off on a hot day, however, the longer the party lasted, the slower they reacted. In fact, one of them fell sound asleep under the apple trees behind the barn. I don't know what time he woke up and went home, but I know it was after all the others had left.

I have been to many parties since that time, many of which I have forgotten, but this one I still remember clearly after almost sixty years. In spite of the half hearted scolding he administered to me afterwards, I think my grandfather enjoyed it almost as much as I did.

1. A combine is a machine which simultaneously cuts the stalks, separates and bags the grain, and bails the chaff. It is a very expensive piece of farm equipment.

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Market Square - Circa 1939

Prior to WWII, Market Square in Manheim was an active, lively area. Although the square was busy every night of the week, Saturday nights in particular found it bustling with activity. Families from the surrounding farms came to town, partly to do their weekly shopping, and partly to chat with each other and catch up on the latest "doings." Anchored on the west by Cassel's Clothing Store and on the east by Rettew's Department Store, the south side of the square was home to a variety of shops catering to just about every need.

Someone said to me recently that "you can't even buy a pair of shoes in Manheim anymore." That was certainly not the case in 1939. Every article of men's clothing, from the shoes to the hat, was available at Cassel's, Bill "Gaxy" Kuhn's, Harry Alpert's, Danner's (the only store on the north side of the square) and Rettew's.

The weekly groceries could be purchased next to the Keystone Bank at Moseman's, (featuring that latest product of modern technology, Bird's Eye Frozen Foods), or across Main Street at Rettew's (Telephone 123).

Blankets, throw rugs, curtains and other household items could be found at Rettew's and Alpert's, with smaller items available at Trimmer's Five and Ten.

Hungry? Try "The Edmond" restaurant. With its soda fountain and juke box it was the favorite hangout of the younger set. Or you could get a hot dog or hamburger at Schiffer's trailer, which was parked midway between Charlotte and Main streets. It may be my imagination, but I believe that the more years that go by, the better those dogs and burgers tasted. Full meals could be purchased a few doors south on Main Street at Johnson's Sea Food House, or a few doors north at Schaeffer's Restaurant.

If you were in the market for home appliances, you could find whatever you needed at Henny's Appliances, which was featuring a radio that did not need an aerial or a ground wire! Longenecker's Hardware could also sell you whatever appliance was on your shopping list, as well as any hardware items you needed.

While the ladies shopped and chatted, men could while away the hours with a beer or two at Pippins Whitmyer's American House on the southwest corner of the square, while others went down the outside steps for a haircut at Achey's Barber Shop.

Midway down the block, the D & E Telephone Company had an exchange; one could stand on the sidewalk and see the operator wearing her headpiece and sticking the long wires into the plug board. Those were the days when one was greeted with a cheery "number please" when making a phone call.

For those who needed to have a prescription filled, Merkel's Drug Store was just around the corner on south Main Street. If one forgot his wedding anniversary until the last minute, or was in the market for an engagement ring, Flinchbaugh's Jewelry was a short distance north on Main Street, at the big clock.

At one time a humorous story circulated about the clock. Supposedly Mr. Flinchbaugh swept the sidewalk by the big clock every morning at 7:30. And every morning a gentleman walked down the street, stopped at the clock to set his pocket watch, and continued walking. Eventually the two got to talking, and Mr. Flinchbaugh asked the gentleman what he did. He said he worked at the Asbestos, and among his other duties it was his responsibility to blow the siren at exactly noon each day. In order to be sure that it was exactly at noon, he set his watch each morning as he passed the big clock. Looking startled, Mr. Flinchbaugh replied, "Gee, every day when I hear the siren at noon, I come out and set the big clock." I cannot vouch for the truth of this story.

The square was also the center of activity during the annual Farm Show. While the smaller exhibits were held in various buildings around town, the square sprouted rides such as the flying swings on the west end, and a Ferris wheel near the center flagpole. Large equipment and autos were on exhibit on the rest of the square, as well as small booths sponsored by local merchants. One could pitch pennies, have someone guess your age or weight, buy Mexican Jumping Beans, or check out the latest in radios (in 1939 it was the new superheterodyne with pushbutton tuning) and other appliances. All kinds of food were available, from cotton candy and popcorn to chicken corn soup and coffee. It was a small version of the state fair.

The sensational arrival of Santa Claus (one year he actually parachuted out of an airplane) at Rettew's signaled the start of the Christmas Season. Soon the lights were strung from all over the square to the flagpole. Occasionally snow would fall, and with the glow of the lights reflected in the snow, and the shoppers scurrying to and fro with their gifts, it appeared as if a Currier and Ives Lithograph had magically sprung to life.

It was Market Square's finest hour.

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