Coming Home

"Where is she?" were the first words my mother said when I walked into the house.

'Oh God,' I thought, 'they've guessed!' But I had to be sure, so I bluffed. "Where is who?"

"Your wife," mother said.

They did know! There was no use bluffing anymore. "In Lancaster," I replied.

My father then asked the question that was usually asked whenever a sudden and unexpected marriage occurred. "Did you have to get married?"

"No," I answered truthfully.

My mother sighed, and said, "You might as well go get her."

I had been discharged from the Army on August 8, 1948, and Ann and I arrived in Lancaster by train the afternoon of the 9th. I called my parents and told them I was staying in Lancaster overnight, and that I would be home the next day. Since that was only ten miles from Manheim, they quickly guessed the reason why I didn't come straight home.

Ann and I moved in with my parents. They had had wonderful plans for me; college, medical school, a doctor in the family, and now they all fell apart. Although everyone tried to be civil, I received complaints whenever Ann did not quite live up to the expectations they had for my wife.

There was no escaping the tension. I soon built up a defensive wall around myself. Since Manheim was such a small town, everyone knew each other, and I had the feeling that people were looking at me with disapproval, so I extended my wall to exclude everyone. Twelve years passed before I began to realize how my attitude was hurting people who loved me.

After two months, Ann said one day, "I'm not happy here. I want to go back to Atlanta."

"Neither am I. Let's do it," was my reply. So we moved in with Ann's parents.

Although they did not disapprove of the marriage, they were having personal and financial problems of their own. As a result there was also some tension there, so as soon as I found a steady job we rented an "efficiency" apartment on West Peachtree Street. We remained there for several months.

After Ann became pregnant with David, however, we decided there was more opportunity in Manheim, so we moved back. My parents bent over backwards to help us. As soon as I started working for Armstrong Cork Co., my mother got an advance on her inheritance from my grandfather, and gave it to me to use as a down payment on a new row home on South Fulton Street. Over the next few years my father helped us buy our first and second cars. During the following ten years I lost two uncles, my mother, both grandmothers, and finally my father. In spite of it all, I remained inside my protective wall.

Oh, I did some things which I thought would help my career. I threw a party for some friends at Armstrong, joined the Junior Chamber of Commerce, and golfed with my supervisor at Raybestos Manhattan, but I remained completely insensitive to anyone's concerns but my own.

I am so very, very sorry for the disappointment and heartache I caused my parents during the last few years of their lives. I know that all they wanted was my happiness, and my only consolation is that I have achieved that happiness, but that's not enough. Barbara tells me that wherever they are now, they know that everything is all right. I wish I could believe her.

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Finding My Niche

It's funny how people find their particular life's work. After many years of observation, it's my opinion that most of them either drift into their occupation, or else wind up doing something they couldn't avoid. From the time he was in junior high one of my high school classmates wanted to become a mortician; instead, he became a life insurance salesman. Now that's an example of drift. Another went into his father's grocery business. That's an unavoidable choice.

My ambition was to become a psychiatrist, but that was thwarted by my premature marriage. That's pre, meaning before, and mature, meaning growing up. Put them together and you get "before growing up."

After the marriage, we lived with my parents for a few months, but since things weren't going too well, we decided to move to Atlanta, Ann's home. We moved in with her parents.

I got a job selling vacuum cleaners from door to door. After six weeks I had collected three dollars in deposits on two sales, but since both sales fell through, I had to return the three dollars.

I decided door to door selling was not my forte, so I answered an advertisement for office help at Morningside Radio Service, a radio/TV repair shop and appliance store. Television was just becoming popular at that time, and the repair service was expanding rapidly.

There was only one other person in the office, Ed P., an old style southern gentleman. I guess I must have done OK, because after a few weeks Ed suggested that I should further my education in accounting. There was a correspondence school in Atlanta, with studies leading to the CPA exam, so I signed up for their course. Since I had always liked mathematics, I really enjoyed the lessons. Even after we left Georgia permanently in 1949, I continued with the course, which I eventually finished. While it's not psychiatry, I have never regretted it.

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Working At Armstrong Cork Co.

When Ann and I moved back to Manheim, I immediately started answering "Help Wanted" ads. I also applied for work with the Armstrong Cork Co. in Lancaster. As part of the application, I had to take an arithmetic test, which I was sure I had passed easily. They told me there was an opening, but there were several applications, and they would call me within the next week.

While awaiting their call, I was notified that I could start working for the Lancaster Electric Motor Co., which was one of the places I had called upon in answer to an ad. What to do? I really wanted the potential job with Armstrong, but here was I job I knew I could have. I decided to wait, and turned down the offer. Fortunately, the Armstrong call came through.

My first assignment was in the Tile Warehouse as an inventory control clerk. Three of us had to keep manual records of all the patterns of tile which were available for shipment. It was the entry level position for jobs in the Plant Controller's operation.

After six months I moved to the next level, which was Payroll Auditor. Hourly employees' time records were kept in departmental offices throughout the factory. I was required to visit each office once a week to make sure that production workers received credit for the correct number of regular and overtime hours. I got to know the plant intimately on that job.

Then I became Accounting Supervisor for three factory departments-Coating, Inspection, and Sundries. The job title sounds important, but it was primarily another learning position. I did have about a dozen payroll and inventory clerks whose work I was supposed to oversee, but I did not have hiring and firing power, although I did have the power to be reprimanded for everyone's mistakes, and of course I could pass the reprimand along to whomever had committed the error. I also had to make decisions regarding any accounting problems which arose in my departments, plus fill in whenever anyone was absent. I really got a good overview of how the cost accounting system worked in the factory.

During my stint as Accounting Supervisor, the Systems and Procedures Dept. decided to automate the order writing, shipping and billing process. This was to be done over one weekend. Normally the factory shipped about 50 railroad carloads and 200 truckloads of floor covering daily.

The changeover did not go as planned. For three weeks not one roll of linoleum or box of tile was shipped. Those persons doing the changeover were working as much as 110 hours per week trying to get it finished. As you can imagine, holding up shipments for that long cost the company millions of dollars.

When the changeover was finally completed, several people were fired. One of them was the supervisor of the Order and Billing Dept., who I replaced. By that time most of the problems had been solved.

My job was to see that the Order and Billing clerks prepared the correct data processing cards¹ so that the proper shipping papers were prepared and the billing was done correctly. Again it was mostly an oversight job.

In 1953 I saw an advertisement for a cost accountant to work for Raybestos Manhattan in Manheim. Although it meant a cut in pay, I figured I could make up most of that by eliminating the round trip to Lancaster every day. In Manheim I could walk to work and even walk home for lunch. Although I enjoyed working at Armstrong, I took the job in Manheim. That was where I met Barbara.

1. This was before the advent of the computer. Each data processing card contained 80 columns of data in the form of small, rectangular holes punched in each column. The position of the holes relative to the edge of the card signified what information was coded in the column. The possible codes in each column could be one of the letters A to Z or one of the digits 0 to 9.

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My First House

When I finally settled down to a good job with Armstrong Cork Company, my mother got an advance on her inheritance from my grandfather and gave it to me to use as a down payment on a brand new row home at 30 South Fulton Street in Manheim. The cost was $6,850, and the payments were only $35.15 per month - easily within my price range.

We were not there very long before we decided to perform a few alterations. The kitchen/dining area was fairly large, about 15'x15', and had a wood floor. Since I was able to get floor covering at a very good price, that was the first thing we decide to improve. Unfortunately the floor covering we chose was 4"x4" tile, and I neglected to figure out just how many of those tiny pieces it would take to cover a room that size.

I have since calculated that I laid 2,000+ pieces of tile over that weekend, starting early Saturday morning and finishing late Sunday night. By that time my back hurt so bad that I could not stand up straight for two days.

Next we decided to tile the basement. By this time I was a little smarter; I bought 12"x12" tile, and although the basement was twice as large as the kitchen/dining area, it didn't take nearly as long, nor was it nearly as much work. Both experiments turned out rather colorful and attractive, although I should probably not have bought seconds for the kitchen area because the color was not quite as uniform as it should have been for such a highly visible room.

Next we decided we needed more closet space in the dining area, so that project taught me to work with gypsum board and how to install a folding door. Again, it turned out very well.

Projects got a little more tricky and complicated after that. The bathtub was separated from the commode by a 36" wall. We decided to extend the wall up to the ceiling and install a shower. I did the carpentry work, but called in a professional for the plumbing. In retrospect I am sure that was a wise decision. This project also included my first attempt at installing wall covering around the tub in order to prevent the walls from getting soaked when the shower was in use. I was learning.

My final project was a very ambitious combination breakfast bar with sliding door cabinets above and below and built in florescent lighting. In addition, the refrigerator was built into the bar, and was raised up from the floor in order to include a large drawer type storage bin beneath. Now we were talking real carpentry work, including the use of power and jig saws, a router, and other sophisticated (at least to me) equipment. I took the design to a draftsman friend, and he drew a detailed set of plans. He was good - I could hardly go wrong the way he designed it. Nevertheless, I was very proud of the finished job.

We also had some other adventures in this house. David was a few years old when he called me up to his room during a heavy rainstorm. "Water's running out of the light," he said.

"Don't be ridiculous," I responded.

He was right; the roof leaked, and the water had found its way into the globe of the ceiling light and was dripping unto the floor.

One night we were watching TV when a mouse ran out of the living room closet and across the floor. I set traps, with no results.

Grandpa came to the rescue. "I'll get you some poisoned wheat," he said. "I use it to kill rats in the barn. Just be sure you put it where the kids can't get at it."

A few days later we noticed a terrible odor coming from the living room closet. The mouse had died inside the wall. I couldn't tear out the wall, but I had to get rid of that sickening odor. I finally pulled the molding off at the floor, and using a coat hanger, I got the mouse out bit by bit, but it still took a few days for the odor to disappear. So much for poisoned wheat.

After ten years, we finally decided we were ready to move on up to a better home, but the first one provided a learning opportunity I'll never forget.

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Behind The Bar

After we returned to Manheim, and even though I was underage, I got a part time job as doorman at the American Legion home-a beautiful new building constructed in the aftermath of the war. It contained a large bar, game room, and combined banquet room and dance floor. There was a live band every Saturday night for dancing, and it was my job to see that only members and their guests were admitted.

Eventually I was promoted to bartender. The Saturday night dances required the services of three bartenders, two in the main bar and one in a small back bar which served the banquet room. Usually I worked the main bar until closing at 2:00 A.M., and then opened again on Sunday at noon.

We had quite a few illegal slot machines in the game room, and one Saturday night we received word that we were about to be raided by the police. Finding illegal gambling equipment on the premises would have meant the loss of the liquor license, so we carried all the slot machines outside and hid them in a drainage ditch along the edge of the property. Fortunately the police searched only the building, not the grounds, and the machines were never discovered. I often wondered what we would have done if it had been raining that night.

We had many regular customers. Sunday afternoons were not usually too busy, so I got to know some of them rather well. One older gentleman in particular always came in shortly after opening, and always ordered a whiskey with a beer chaser. For him it was an eye opener; for me it would have been an eye closer no matter what time of day I tried it.

After his first drink he always said, "How about some breakfast?"

"What will it be?"

With his Pennsylvania Dutch accent it came out, "I'll have a couple of 'crap' cakes". Of course I knew he wanted crab cakes, but I often wondered what would have happened if I had served him what he really ordered.

Eventually I quit there and formed a band about which I have written elsewhere, but when I discontinued the band I got another bartending job at a local restaurant. I usually worked Saturday nights and one or two week nights. My wife also got a part time job there as a short order cook.

One night she was working with the owner, an older lady, when a customer ordered a hamburger. When the owner went to get it out of the refrigerator, she dropped it on the floor, and instead of throwing it in the garbage, she just wiped it off with her hands and served it to the customer. Since the restaurant had a good reputation, my wife could hardly believe the lady had done such a thing. Of course, part of the reputation may have been due to the fact that it was the only restaurant in town.

Another time when she got to work, she looked at the raw hamburger, and it was actually green. I happened to be working the same night, and I agreed it was not fit to eat. She refused to serve it, and as a result she was fired.

Not too long after that I worked on Christmas Eve, and when I ended my shift the boss said, "You work tomorrow from 4:00 to midnight."

"But it's Christmas day."

"Somebody has to work, and you're it."

I worked, but shortly thereafter I turned in my notice and never tended bar again.

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A Strange Birth

"It's time," Ann said. It was only 6:30 on Saturday morning, but when she said that, I knew this was an important day, so I got up immediately and called the doctor. Since we didn't have a car, he agreed to take us to the hospital, which was located in Lancaster, about ten miles away. We were ready and waiting when he showed up about 7:30.

When we got to the hospital, Ann went directly to the labor room while I checked her in at the desk, filled out the forms, etc. It was 9:00 when I got to the waiting room. This was a pleasant, sunny room at the end of the hall. It contained a wicker sofa, table and chairs, and of course the usual complement of old magazines. Is there a service to which doctors and dentists subscribe which provides out-dated magazines?

About 9:30 the doctor came out and said, "Nothing is happening here. Let's go home." This seemed a little odd to me, but he was the doctor, so home we went.

About 1:30 he showed up again to go back to the hospital. This time there was something doing, and an hour later the nurse came out and said, "You have a boy." I asked if I could speak to the doctor, but he had already left. He surely seemed to be in a hurry.

All misgivings disappeared as I got my first look at my helpless, perfect son. Everything was right with the world - I thought.

An intern explained to me that Ann had been torn during the process, and would require special care for a while. We found out later that if the doctor had been paying attention, a little slit with the scalpel and a stitch or two would have avoided the problem. As it was, she suffered quite a bit of pain for a couple of weeks.

When I got to the Sunday paper the next day, there was a story concerning a Manheim doctor who had received his divorce in the morning of the previous day, and had married his girl friend (the one who caused the divorce) in the afternoon. It was our doctor.

He sent me a bill which I immediately threw into the waste basket. I never heard from him again.

Mr. Grumpy At Nine Months (21K)

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Sweet Death

During the summer and fall of 1950 my Mother developed a rapidly worsening pain in her abdomen. Finally in November an osteopathic physician diagnosed her problem as an infected appendix, and it was removed immediately. We were told after the operation that the surgeon had examined her abdominal cavity and found no evidence of any other problem. Of course everyone was overjoyed, and Thanksgiving took on a very special meaning now that we knew she was finally cured!

But she wasn't . . . after the soreness of her incision passed the other problems returned, and it soon became apparent that the operation was in vain. In February we were told by a medical surgeon that she had a tumor the size of an orange on her pancreas. It was decided that she should immediately undergo another operation.

As my father and I awaited the outcome of the operation, the cold, damp, depressing weather exactly matched our mood. When the surgeon told us that he had removed the tumor, but was not able to get all of it, our worst fears were realized. I don't remember how I got home, but when I arrived there I cried like a baby. I told my wife, "She's going to die," and the tears flowed for a long time.

The surgery was followed by a period of radiation therapy, which weakened her even faster than before. In spite of that, she continued to walk the five blocks to my house almost every day to visit her eighteen month old grandson. It was painful just to watch her; it took her almost an hour to make the trip.

The day arrived in March when she could no longer make her daily visit, and shortly thereafter she was too weak to get out of bed. She could barely take any nourishment, and her weight kept dropping. About this time Uncle Ralph came to visit her. He was in the final stages of cancer himself, and I can still see him, with his grossly swollen stomach, sitting beside her bed. He died a short time later.

I was visiting every day, but I could barely stand to look at her. Finally my father said to me, "Your Mother says you don't kiss her good-bye when you leave. Don't you know she won't be here much longer?" I kissed her after that, but it was not easy for me. I was so ashamed of myself, but I couldn't help it; she not only didn't look like my Mother, she barely looked human any more.

Eventually she had to be drugged to the point where she no longer knew what was going on. In order for her to receive any nourishment, my father froze soda pop and put a little of the ice on her lips. As it melted it trickled into her mouth, and the swallowing reflex took it down her throat.

On June 25th. I was at work in Lancaster, and I called my father about noon and asked him how it was going. He told me he didn't think it would be long, and I had better come home. Since I had to take the bus, I didn't arrive until about 1:30, and by that time she had died. It was a blessing.

The only thing I remember about her funeral is having to pull the casket blanket up to her chin. I don't know how I got through it. It has always seemed to me that funerals were designed by some barbarian to make the living suffer. I am glad that the trend seems to be toward memorial services instead of funerals.

People have since mentioned that it is too bad the living will was not available back in 1951. It would not have helped; she was not connected to any life support system. She was not able to eat for several weeks, and eventually starved to death.

I believe that if the assisted suicide option had been available, she would have chosen that at least a month prior to her actual death. Unfortunately, even though a majority of people seem to favor it, that choice is still not available in 1997.

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The Kauffman Curse

Except for my grandfather Kauffman, all the other members of his immediate family died of cancer. In fact, among friends and surviving relatives the situation became known as the "Kauffman curse". The names of the victims, as well as their relationship to me and their ages at death are as follows:

There is a very small probability that the causes of these deaths were all unrelated; that this cluster was just a coincidence. There is a much larger probability that they were caused by some condition in their shared environment or life style. Finally it could be that there is some genetic link between these untimely deaths.

It is this last possibility that concerns me. Consequently, I have been insistent upon getting a complete annual physical examination. In addition, I constantly monitor my bodily functions for any signs consistent with the seven warning signals of possible cancer.

In my opinion, it would be prudent for all descendants of the Kauffmans to do the same, at least for the next five or six generations.

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My Own Band

When my mother died I inherited her piano. My house was rather small, and since I had recently tiled my basement, I decided to put it there. Because it was too large to take down the inside basement steps, the local mover I had hired decided that we should take it down the outside steps. It was also too large for that, but we removed the wooden steps, leaving a concrete block lined pit which was just large enough to accommodate the piano.

The mover proceeded to the basement, and told me to move the dolly with the piano over the pit, remove the dolly, and he would ease the piano down the hole. Although I was a bit doubtful, I assumed he knew what he was doing.

I positioned the dolly over the hole and managed to pull it out from under the piano. The piano suddenly dropped six feet straight down, coming to rest on the concrete floor. When it landed, every string began vibrating and every peg was jarred loose, and I heard the sickening sound of the entire range flatting by at least half a step. The casters were driven up into the corner posts so far that they would not turn.

Fortunately the man on the bottom was not under it. If he had been, we would have had to somehow lift the piano and pick him up with a spatula.

I decided to form my own group, so even though the piano was badly out of tune, I used it to begin writing arrangements for a four piece band; saxophone and clarinet, trumpet, piano and drums. When I had completed about thirty, I began looking around for a piano player (I intended to play sax and clarinet), a trumpet player and a drummer. I had no trouble finding the trumpet player and the drummer, but I couldn't find a piano player. The piano is probably the most common household musical instrument in the country, but I could not find one person willing or able to play it in a band. I finally decided to play it myself, and soon found a good saxophone player.

We started rehearsing at the American Legion Post in Manheim, and after a short time I thought we sounded pretty good. We got several jobs at various veterans club dances and other affairs, but almost immediately there was dissension over how to split the money.

Although we were a non union band, I followed the union standard of a double share of the money for the leader. I felt it was particularly justified in our case since I not only had to arrange for rehearsal space, jobs and transportation, but I also had to write all the arrangements.

Since I felt I would have trouble replacing the major dissenter, I put up with this for some time. However, it all came to a head the night we played for a Junior Chamber of Commerce dance at the Grubb Mansion, a beautiful old castle-like home a few miles north of Manheim. While not really doing anything obscene, the saxophone player did commit an act which some of the dancers thought was a bit vulgar. In particular, the wife of one of the club's officers was offended, and spread the word about the "horrible" thing the band had done.

I quickly decided that I did not wish to put up with any more problems, and broke up the band. I have never again played professionally.

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Working At Raybestos Manhattan

In 1953 I heard about a job opening for a cost accountant at the U.S Asbestos Division of Raybestos Manhattan in Manheim. The Division employed approximately 1,000 people in the factory, with another 600 in management, sales and warehouses spread across the country.

Since the office was within walking distance of my home, I applied for the job, and was accepted. In spite of the fact that the pay was about $50 per month less than I was being paid at Armstrong, I immediately gave my two weeks notice. I figured that the difference would be made up by not having to commute, and besides, it would save me an hour of travel time each day. After I had been at R/M for two weeks, my boss told me I was to receive a $4 per week increase because I was able to do more than they had anticipated.

The function of the cost accounting department was to calculate the cost of the tens of thousands of individual items manufactured by the company. In order to prepare for pricing the year-end inventory, we went into an overtime mode beginning in September. From that time until the end of the following January, we worked eight hours of weekly overtime, so that by the end of the year I had more than made up the loss in monthly salary.

I soon saw that the accounting systems were antiquated compared to the state of the art systems to which I had become accustomed at Armstrong. It was easy to make occasional suggestions that would lead to a saving of time, more information, etc.

About that time Charlie B., who was sort of a troubleshooter and understudy to the Controller, was looking into the production reporting system of the factory. Working together, we were able to standardize the calculation of the cost accounting records. Also working with us was the supervisor of the Data Processing Department, who was looking for an opportunity to increase the value of his department. We were soon able to put the production records on his equipment; a procedure which eliminated many hours of manual calculations each month.

Even though the cost accounting records were now in the standard format, each item still had to be calculated individually. There was one product in particular that was a problem - there was no standard size, and every order was for an item of varying dimensions. Working with the new Data Processing Supervisor - the old one had been transferred to the company headquarters in New Jersey - we were able to develop charts covering all possible dimensions for this product. The charts were calculated on his department's computer, and when we received an order for a new size, all we needed to do was look at the chart to determine the cost.

After the year-end work was completed in January, there were days when I was not particularly busy in my department. During those times I began doing some systems design work in conjunction with the Data Processing Supervisor. I spent many days in the factory talking with the scheduling people, helping to design forms and data processing cards, etc. I really enjoyed the variety of work being thrown my way; the creative juices were flowing.

In 1964 the Controller died, and Charlie B. replaced him. Seizing the opportunity to revamp an accounting department which had not been updated for many years, he divided the department into sections according to responsibility - Accounts Receivable, Credit, etc., - and put me in charge of General Accounting. In addition to interesting and challenging new work, this was the time when I started working more closely with Barbara, who was my new boss's secretary.

The Accounts Receivable Section was using a small computer which posted directly to ledger cards, and the company sent me to Philadelphia for a two-day seminar on programming the machine. When I returned I was able to utilize the computer for several other jobs in both the office and the factory.

Not everything we tried worked out so well. At one point several of us designed a new reporting system which we felt was an improvement over the then current system. We realized that the biggest problem with our new system would be overcoming the resistance to change - we had to convince people that our new reports provided more powerful controls than the old ones. To that end we conducted a one-day seminar to familiarize management with the new system.

It didn't work. We were unable to overcome the built-in inertia. I know we were right, but people could not unlearn the old "tried and true" system. We finally abandoned the project.

Several years previously the company had opened a new branch in Fullerton, Calif., and in 1967 Charlie decided that there should be an on-site office manager. He offered me the job, and since my marriage was in bad trouble at the time, I accepted almost immediately.

Here was another challenge! In addition to managing the office, I was responsible for not only accounting, but also order entry, purchasing, scheduling - all the systems needed to operate a small factory. In addition, I was expected to entertain visiting dignitaries, which led to trips to Disneyland, Universal Studios and other tourist attractions. On one occasion it meant trying to keep up with one heavy-drinking vice president until 1:00 a.m. on a work night - a test at which I failed very miserably.

In addition to its normal business, the Fullerton plant was developing some special applications in conjunction with the U.S. missile program. I was privileged to be in on the design of the components, and made a special trip to Manheim in order to keep the brass comprised of developments.

Late in 1968 the decision was made to move the production of the products manufactured at Fullerton back to Manheim, and convert the Fullerton location to the manufacture of brake lining. During the conversion, I was transferred back to Manheim to assist in the annual year-end closing orgy, a development that I did not appreciate. When I returned to Fullerton, the plant had been converted, and I was actively looking for a way out. Eventually I found it.

While I have always enjoyed my work, the time spent with R/M was probably the most enjoyable of my career. It was an opportunity for creativity that I have never found in any other job. I arrived there just at the time old manual methods were being converted to the new date processing equipment. Besides, I met Barbara there.

Eventually the problems caused by asbestos ruined R/M. The plant at Manheim is completely deserted, and the Fullerton plant has been sold. Recently I read that the company owes an estimated three billion dollars for site cleanup, health claims and unpaid employee pensions.

An era has passed.

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Little Lost Boy

As soon as I answered the telephone I could hear the panic in Ann's voice. "Gary's disappeared!"

"What do you mean, he's disappeared?"

"He's gone! We were outside, and I went inside for just a minute to get something, and when I came out he was gone! I can't find him anywhere!"

"He's probably at one of the neighbors."

"I checked all the neighbors and he's not there!"

"OK," I said. "Call the police! I'll be right home."

It took less than ten minutes to get home, and the policeman arrived at the same time I did. When Ann explained what had happened, the officer said, "I'll get help."

In a small town the fastest way to get a lot of help is to call the volunteer fire department, which is what he did. Immediately I heard the fire siren sound, which was the signal for all the volunteers to assemble at the firehouse. In a few minutes we had all the help we could handle.

The officer quickly dispatched groups of men to check the surrounding area. He told me to stay by the phone so that if anyone found him they could call me and he would check in with me from time to time.

Two hours went by with no results. By that time most of the town had been searched.

Finally the phone rang. It was the officer, and he had received a call from a gasoline service station seven blocks from our house. The owner was reporting that a little boy had wandered in but that he was too small to tell them where he lived.

The officer picked me up and we drove to the station to get him. He was seated on a box eating an ice cream cone which the station owner had bought for him.

I was both relieved and angry at the same time, but I believe the relief won out. I picked him up and hugged him and tried to scold him at the same time, but I think he sensed I wasn't too serious. I don't know for sure how he managed to wander that far, but since the service station was located right beside the railroad tracks, the best guess is that he walked two blocks to the tracks and then followed them to the service station. If that is correct, he was fortunate no trains passed while he was on his little tour.

He is now forty-six years of age, and I asked him last week if he has any idea how he got there. He said, "The only thing I remember is eating an ice cream cone, and riding home in a police car." Since he was only a two and a half years old when it happened, I don't suppose I should expect him to remember much more than that.

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Gary

"I want the one with the broken leg," he sobbed as the tears ran down his cheeks. We had been planning to buy a parakeet, and now he was letting us know in no uncertain terms which one he wanted. Knowing Gary as I did, this was no surprise. He was the most tender hearted little boy I had ever known, and was always attracted to any stray bird or animal with a physical problem.

So now we had to go back to the store and get the one which was not going to live very long under any conditions. When the bird died, Gary was broken hearted all over again, so we had a little burial ceremony behind the house by the TV antenna tower.

I have often heard the expression, "What goes around comes around." Through Gary I have finally learned exactly what that means.

He had a rebellious streak which was expressed in acts of vandalism and petty theft; a problem which, in my opinion, was brought on by poor parenting on the part of Ann and me. Partly because of one such outbreak we moved from Manheim to East Petersburg, but the problem went with us. Determined to make him realize the seriousness of his offenses, I required him to deliver morning papers to raise the money for restitution, but since he couldn't handle the Sunday papers alone, this was as much a punishment for me as it was for him.

In 1968 he enlisted in the Marines and was trained as a helicopter mechanic. I hoped the service would do for him what I should have done years before: help him grow up. It didn't work; in 1971 he was discharged.

Then came the greatest heartbreak of all - he disappeared. For five years I had no word whatsoever about him; where he was living, what he was doing, nothing! I worried every day that I would get a call telling me he was in serious trouble or even dead.

One day in 1976 I answered the phone in our office and heard, "Hi, this is Gary Grunenberger."

I was overjoyed. "Where are you? How are you? When can I see you?" All the questions came tumbling out.

"I'm living in Hayward, but my wife will be visiting in your area next week. I was wondering if it would be OK if she stopped in to see you," was his answer.

"Wife? Of course," I answered. Then he informed me she was pregnant. I was going to be a grandfather.

Since that time our relationship has ranged from good to excellent. He has grown up, and I'm proud of the man he has become. And, he has given me four beautiful grandchildren.

When I visited Gary last year, he told me that he is very concerned about his son. I believe his precise words were, "He's exactly like I was at his age".

As I said, "What goes around comes around" means the same as "poetic justice."

Gary At Four Weeks (14K)

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Drastic Birth Control

Several months after Gary was born in 1951, Ann again became pregnant. After we told the doctor we did not want any more children, she developed a rash. The doctor decided it looked like German measles, and recommended that the fetus be aborted since it would probably not be normal. Accordingly, a D and C was performed.

The doctor then suggested that I get a vasectomy. Ann and I talked it over and decided to go ahead with it. I was working at Armstrong Cork Co. at the time, and my medical insurance covered the entire procedure.

The operation was performed on an out patient basis in the surgeon's office in Lancaster. Since I did not own a car at the time, I had to go to the office and back home on the bus. It was not the most wonderful day of my life.

After Barbara and I were married, we discussed the idea of having a child. We both decided a little girl would be nice, so we consulted our doctor about having my operation reversed. He said the odds were 50-50. Since the odds of having a girl were also about 50-50, the chances of successfully reversing the operation and having a girl were about one in four. That was not good enough, so we gave up the idea.

If it had been successful, she would now be almost 30 years old. I often wonder what she would have been like.

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An Accident To Remember

Hillary and Tenzing gave the world an unforgettable memory by climbing Mount Everest in 1953, but my most unforgettable memory of that year was of an accident in which no one was seriously injured. However, two people were very shaken up: the victim of the accident, and me, the perpetrator.

As soon as the winter thaw set in, South Charlotte Street in Manheim was closed for six weeks for major repairs. Because of the cold weather very young children were unable to play outdoors from November through March, and by the time the street was opened for traffic in May they did not know that such a thing as traffic even existed.

On that first Thursday evening in May the weather was beautiful; the temperature was in the mid sixties, trees were turning green, daffodils were in full bloom and high cirrus clouds displayed a gorgeous array of bright reds, pastel pinks and deep purples. Spring was definitely in the air, and as David, aged four, and I returned from an errand, I noticed that South Charlotte Street was open for traffic. Responding to the urge to explore, I turned into the newly opened thoroughfare.

Autos were parked on both sides of the street, leaving just enough room in the middle for two cars to pass. As I breezed along, possibly a little too fast considering the narrow lane, a small boy suddenly appeared from behind a car parked on the left and darted across the street. Too late I observed the tiny figure and applied the brakes. Forty-five years later I can still hear that terrible thump as my car rammed into the child!

Of course I stopped immediately and ran to the poor victim. His screams quickly brought his father out of the house as I tried to explain that I had no time to stop. He seemed to understand, and told me the boy was only two years of age, and was not accustomed to having any traffic on the street. I got them both into the car and rushed to the doctor.

Fortunately the boy was only shaken up; he had a few bruises, but there did not appear to be any broken bones or internal injuries. I took them home and told them my insurance company would contact them. As soon as I arrived home I called my insurance agent and gave him all the details. He said, "Don't worry, I'll take care of it."

And he did. I suppose I never would have heard any more about the incident if I hadn't asked him about it when I saw him several weeks later. He said, "No problem; I gave the father ten dollars for his trouble and that was the end of it." He didn't even report it to the company, but paid it personally so that my driving record wouldn't suffer.

I cannot imagine such a settlement being made today. I am sure the boy does not remember anything about the time he was hit by a car, but certainly I will never forget it.

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A Homosexual Encounter

Since I had never run into any homosexuals before, that was the last thing on my mind one late summer evening in 1951. While living in Manheim, I was working in Lancaster at the Armstrong Cork Co. Since I didn't own a car, I rode back and forth to work with a neighbor who also worked for Armstrong. On this particular day I had to work a few hours overtime, so of course I missed my ride. That was not unusual; when that happened I usually rode the bus or hitchhiked home. Since it was a beautiful, warm evening with a full moon, and the bus was not due for another hour, I decided to try my thumb at hitchhiking. After about ten minutes, I got a ride.

Because it was now fully dark, I couldn't see the driver too well, although he appeared to be a rather large man with a mustache. We talked for a while about my work, family, and other conversational things, and finally the driver asked "How good a sport are you?".

Being somewhat naive, I thought he wanted to change the subject to baseball or the local high school teams, or some such, so I answered, "I like sports."

Then he placed his hand on my knee, and said, "Do you mind if I play with it a little bit?."

Suddenly my razor sharp instincts told me he wasn't about to talk about the Phloundering Phillies or the Manheim Barons. I answered, "Yes, I mind. I'm not that kind of a sport."

With that he withdrew his hand, stopped the car, and said, "Then you can walk the rest of the way."

That was quite acceptable to me. Since by that time we were only about three miles from home, I did not figure it would be too great a hardship. Fortunately, I was spared even that, because a friend of mine happened along a few minutes later and took me all the way home.

Although hitchhiking was not considered particularly dangerous in those days, I have been leery of it ever since. Shortly after that incident, I managed to get my own car.

It also took me a long time to get over being wary of homosexuals. While I now think just about anything is OK between consenting adults, and have occasionally enjoyed being in the company of homosexuals, whenever I'm around them I still hear the question in my mind, "Do you mind if I play with it a little bit?". And the answer flits through my mind, "Yes, I mind". Hopefully, if that happens to anyone else, the worst thing that results will be a walk home.

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A Most Embarrassing Moment

When David was about eight years of age, we arranged for him to take tap dancing lessons. I don't know whose idea it was, but it was probably not his.

The dance teacher was Mrs. Nock, a nice looking, very well endowed lady.

I formally introduced them to each other, saying, "Mrs. Nock, this is David. David, this is Mrs. Nock."

David took one look at her and said, "Daddy says knockers."

I would gladly have fallen through the floor

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The Lottery

Throughout the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s Market Square was the center of social life in Manheim. When I lived in Sporting Hill the farm families from the surrounding area converged on the square every Saturday night in order to do their shopping for the upcoming week, as well as to hold weekly conversing and gossiping sessions. When I was in high school, my friends and I gathered at the soda fountain and dance hall on the square almost every night.

This was only natural because the major businesses were located there: grocery stores, clothing stores, barber shops, etc. This was before television was available, so people gathered together and socialized just because they had nothing else to do.

Because the square was a very busy place most of the time, the convenience of having public rest rooms there had been discussed frequently over the years but nothing had been done about it. So in the mid 1950s, the local Junior Chamber of Commerce decided to accumulate funds in order to build these facilities. There was some question as to the practicality of such an undertaking, but for the time being the detailed planning was shelved until there was some indication that money would be available for the project.

The group decided to run a lottery, and I was appointed to administer it. We decided to sell just 200 tickets to people who were willing to pay one dollar per week for twenty-five weeks, with a weekly winner to receive a payoff of $25, and a final payoff of $1,000 to some lucky person at the end of the period. So I had 200 numbered tickets printed with a tear off stub to be held by the ticket purchaser, and a name and address portion to be held by me so that I could be sure that I received the weekly payment from every ticket. For obvious reasons the lottery was named the 200 club.

We were a bit doubtful that we could find that many gamblers in Manheim, which was a rather conservative town, but the response was overwhelming. The day after I parceled out the tickets to the club members to sell, I began receiving calls for an additional ten or twenty tickets from almost every one of them. I believe all the tickets were completely sold in less than two days. We immediately regretted that we had not set up the 500 club.

Because lotteries were strictly illegal, we were a bit concerned about potential trouble with the law, however, I soon discovered that among the ticket purchasers was the chief of police and all the borough councilmen, so I didn't foresee any trouble from that corner.

I was working for Raybestos-Manhattan at the time, and since that was by far the largest employer in the town, a very large percentage of the tickets were sold to R/M employees. Because most of the club members also worked there, collecting the money was extremely easy. Collections were made every Friday (payday), so by Friday night I had most of the weekly money, and by noon Saturday I had all of it. There was never the least bit of trouble with collections - if someone decided to drop out, a dozen others were ready to buy his ticket.

The weekly drawing was held on Wednesday evening, so by the Friday collection time the winner would have his money, and all the collectors would know who he was in order to pass his name along to the ticket holders when they picked up the money for the next week.

As it happened the grand prize winner worked in the Data Processing Department at Raybestos-Manhattan, in fact, I had sold him the ticket, so it was with great pleasure that I counted out ten $100 bills before his astonished eyes. He told me later that that windfall was what enabled him to accumulate the down payment on his home.

The arithmetic indicated that I should have collected $5,000, but somehow or other I deposited $5,002 into the bank account. I guess I did a better than expected job.

Were the rest rooms ever built? Well, the winnings were not enough to even start the project, so the money lay dormant for a few years, and it is my understanding that it was eventually turned over to the Manheim Memorial Park committee. This was probably a better idea anyway, because a few years later most of the business establishments moved away and the square became practically deserted at night - in fact no loitering is allowed there after 6:00 P.M. On the other hand the park contains the swimming pools, athletic fields, and a large play area for children, and is now the de facto social center for the town. Oh yes, it also contains rest rooms.

But even after forty years I am still amazed at the number of otherwise sensible people who were willing to pay $25 for 1 chance in 200 of getting $1,000. Terrible odds.

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The Swimming Pool

Manheim's community swimming pool opened in 1958, but without a not-so-subtle nudge from several men of the community, there is no telling how long it would have been before a public pool became a reality.

During the long hot summer days the often muddy and always unsanitary Chickies creek was filled with wading and swimming kids. But where else could they go to swim? It was an extremely unsatisfactory solution - in the sweltering weather kids needed a place to cool off, and that was the only one available.

In 1957 I was working at Raybestos Manhattan. Along with everyone else in town, my supervisor and I had often discussed our dissatisfaction with having the local kids swim in the creek; we were wondering if Manheim would ever have a regular swimming pool.

A "club" pool had opened in neighboring Lititz a few years earlier, and we decided to investigate the feasibility of building one in Manheim. What the operators of the pool had done was find 200 interested families which were willing to pay $1,000 each for construction and $200 annually thereafter for operating expenses.

It was a resounding success, and there was a long list of families who were waiting for club members to withdraw and sell their membership. We felt certain we could find 200 such families in Manheim. Of course, such a pool would have the disadvantage that many families with children would not be able to afford the fees, but we couldn't see any other way of financing the project.

Then we scouted around the town for suitable locations, and found several potentially excellent sites. We didn't check their availability, but again we were sure that one would be obtainable when the time came.

We realized that it would take more than the two of us to put the plan into operation, so we invited several people whom we thought would be interested to a meeting. The first order of business was to elect a secretary to keep the minutes. The high school basketball coach volunteered for the job, and also agreed to work on the public relations campaign we knew would be necessary. The meeting ended with a unanimous agreement to proceed.

Our public relations man forwarded the results of the meeting to the Lancaster Intelligencer Journal in time to appear on the front page of the following morning's edition. He started the article with a sentence to the effect that the idea of a public swimming pool in Manheim appeared to be a dead issue, so a group of men had held a meeting the night before and decided to proceed with the building of a club pool. He went on to name the participants at the meeting and to discuss in great detail what had transpired.

It was as if we had dropped a bomb on the borough council! Shortly after my boss and I arrived at work, one of the councilmen who also worked at R/M stormed into our office and proceeded very loudly and very angrily to take us to task. In a voice that could be heard all over the building he "explained" that "the idea that a public pool was a dead issue" was not true. He also "talked" about the poor little boy standing outside the fence of our private pool because his family couldn't afford the fee, that Memorial Park was the only place for a pool in Manheim and of course we could not build a club pool there, and other issues which we had discussed prior to starting our pool activities. Then he proceeded to "tell" us that the council was going to hold a "special" meeting that same night to discuss the issue. The poor man was so angry that I thought surely he was going to have a heart attack.

The council did hold their special meeting that night, and decided unanimously to prepare a bond issue in order to finance a public swimming pool. Of course this was the result we had been hoping for all along, even though we had given up hope that it would ever happen.

The following year the community pool opened, and was an immediate and huge success.

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Black Moshannon

The year 1957 provided both large and small firsts: the Soviet Union launched Sputniks I and II, the first artificial earth satellites, thus launching the world into the space age - and the Grunenbergers launched their first camping vacation. Gary and David were six and eight years old, no longer babies, so I reserved a cabin for a week in July at Black Moshannon State Park, deep in the mountains near the town of Philipsburg, Pa., roughly a three hour drive from Manheim.

The park area comprised 50,000 acres, including a lake well stocked with fish, boat docks, a nice sandy beach, and miles and miles of forest. Living quarters consisted of log cabins which appeared very nice, at least from the outside, and nearby was a lookout point from which one could see seventy-five miles of beautiful forests, streams and farms. It was gorgeous.

There was no outdoor lighting, so at night the complete darkness was relieved only by the unbelievably bright stars shining through the trees. Except for the chirping of crickets, the hooting of owls and the occasional rustling of some forest creature in the underbrush, there was complete silence. I loved it.

However, to say that the facilities were rustic is an understatement; the only convenience was an electric light bulb hanging in the middle of our cabin. There was no indoor plumbing, which of course did not please any of us, particularly the boys, since their outhouse experience was limited to use during occasional visits to Grandpa Kauffman's farm. Cooking was done on a wood stove, which also served for heating. We didn't think we would need heat in July but we soon found out that we were completely wrong about that!

It was a wonderful place for people who wanted to get away from civilization. I got a lot of reading done, but Ann and the boys were bored.

There was one thing the brochure forgot to tell us; the park is located in what is known as the ice box of the state. While the temperature was quite pleasant during the day, at night it dropped into the low 40s. We shivered through the nights as best we could, but by Thursday we had had enough, so we packed up and went home. On the way we stopped at a restaurant, where I absent mindedly left my cap hanging on a hook.

You might think we should have learned, but we decided to give it another try the following year. Joan, Ann's sixteen year old sister, was staying with us at the time so she went with us. I think the boys cheated a bit when they were told not to look while everyone was changing clothes.

On the way to the park we stopped for lunch, and by chance it was at the same restaurant where I had left my cap the year before. It was still there; I know it was mine because my fishing license was attached to it.

There was a large hornet's nest hanging from the eaves of our cabin, and of course one of the inhabitants found Gary. That was when we found out he was allergic to insect stings. He got very sick, and I had to take him to a doctor in Philipsburg. I had not brought enough money along for such an emergency, so I went to the local bank to get a check cashed.

At the time the Manheim High School Wrestling Team had been undefeated for several years, and many of the athletes had gone to the state wrestling finals in nearby State College. Fortunately the banker was a wrestling fan, so he knew about Manheim. He agreed to call my bank, and even though I did not have enough money in my account to cover the check, my bank approved it. In 1997 I doubt that my present bank would be quite so agreeable, although I could probably use my credit card at the doctor's office.

Gary recovered quickly, but when we got home he had to undergo a long series of weekly shots in an attempt to overcome the allergy. I don't know if the shots worked or not, since I don't believe he has been stung since then. Of course that's the best prevention.

This trip we became convinced of two things: it was always cold at Black Moshannon and we were not a camping family. Again we left on Thursday, and by popular demand we never went back to Black Moshannon again.

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Sudden Death

Whenever a loved one dies there is a sense of loss from which one never really recovers, although if there has been a long, wasting illness the feeling may be partially mitigated by the relief that comes from knowing that the pain and suffering are finally ended. However, if death is sudden and unexpected there is an additional shock from which recovery may take several days or even weeks. Until that recovery is complete, it is impossible to begin coping with the loss.

After my mother died, my father remarried a lady named Susie Gochenaur. During the last week of 1957 he was hospitalized with pneumonia. He was scheduled for release on January 3rd., but on the evening of January 2nd. Susie called and said she was going to see him, and asked me to go along.

During the course of our visit, my father said he was getting cold and asked if I also felt cold. Actually the room seemed rather warm to me, and I told him so. He said, "I am really feeling cold. Look at my nails, they're turning blue." He also was having trouble getting his breath. He couldn't seem to breathe deeply enough to fill his lungs.

Alarmed, Susie called the nurse, who in turn brought in the intern. He asked us to wait in the hall. We found chairs from which we could see the door of my father's room. Shortly thereafter my father's family doctor appeared, followed by another doctor whom we found out later was head of the hospital's cardiology department.

Susie and I decided to wait until the doctors were finished with their examination, and as I walked past my father's room to find a telephone to call home, he saw me and said, "You might as well go on home."

"We'll wait until you're feeling better," I answered.

Several pieces of equipment were hauled into his room, and the two doctors worked on him from 8:45 until about 10:30, when his doctor told us that there was nothing more they could do for him that night. He told us, "He needs to rest, so I am going home. He is not out of danger, so I can understand if you want to stay a while longer."

We waited. Every now and then a nurse went into his room to check on him. I looked in a few times and he seemed to be asleep. The clock slowly ticked off two hours. Still we waited.

Shortly after 1:00 A.M. the nurse again stopped in, then quickly came out and ran down the hall in the opposite direction from where we were sitting. Shortly thereafter the intern hurried into the room. About five minutes later he came out, and walking slowly to where we were waiting, said, "I'm very sorry. He's gone." The time was 1:30 A.M., January 3, 1958.

His death didn't really register with me until the next morning. Even though he was not scheduled to work that day, I felt I should notify his boss before he heard it somewhere else, or read it in the newspaper. I called and told him who I was, and then suddenly it hit me. I could barely get the words out. "He died last night." I hung up the telephone and burst out crying.

To this day I can't remember anything about his funeral!

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The Schoolhouse Steps

There is no way I can overemphasize the change that came over my life as the result of a small event that occurred one day in mid-April, 1961.

Talk about beautiful spring days, this one was the model: bright sunshine, trees beginning to show their green buds, tulips pushing through the barren ground, and a beautiful blue sky with just a few high clouds. There was a slight breeze blowing, although it was nothing compared to the private turbulence that I was about to experience.

As always, in the spring a young mans fancy turns to thoughts of . . . baseball(?). It may have been different in the old days, but in 1961 thoughts of love were pretty much reserved for the drive-in movie.¹

On this particular day my two boys and I decided to go across the street to the Burgard school playground and bat the baseball around. After a few minutes we saw some other boys on the back steps of the school. They seemed rather secretive, so I asked David, my older son, what they were up to. He went over to them, and a few minutes later reported back that they were burning bugs. I told my boys to stay away from them, and we continued playing.

A few minutes later the local policeman showed up. It was a small town, and there was only one cop, so everybody knew him and vice versa. He went over and talked to the kids on the steps, and they got up and left. Then he came over to me and asked if I knew what the boys on the steps were doing. I said, "I wasn't paying attention to them - they're not my kids." He didn't say anything else, but he looked at me kind of funny, and left.

At work a few days later I happened to overhear the end of a conversation among several people. One lady was saying, " . . . and then he said 'I don't know, they're not my kids.'" I realized she was talking about me. In a small town word gets around.

I thought to myself, "What's the big deal - I didn't do anything wrong," but the whole thing bothered me for several days. I began to look at how I had handled responsibility in the past, and I didn't like what I saw.

I had lied to protect myself, and I had ignored wrongdoing in others. Slowly it dawned on me, "Yes, if I want my kids to live in a decent world I need to help create that world. No longer could I depend on someone else to do the right thing."

The worst realization was the knowledge that I had deeply hurt people whose only crime was to love me, and it was too late to do anything about it. Thirty-five years later it still hurts.

I know I still do not always do the right thing, but I'm trying. I believe Saint Paul admitted to the same problem.

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My Brief Career In Golf

There is a saying that only a thin line separates comedy from tragedy. The way I played golf could be classified as either one depending upon your point of view. Be that as it may, I believe the way my golfing career ended is a good example of the close relationship between the two.

About 1960, at the urging of some fellow employees of Raybestos Manhattan, I decided to try my hand at golf, so I bought a cheap set of clubs and went out each Saturday to develop my game. At first I thought my terrible playing was simply because I was a beginner, but as time went on and I showed little improvement, it gradually dawned on me that I would never be a Bobby Jones or a Gene Sarazen. I must admire the loyalty and fortitude of those friends who continued to include me in their foursome.

The normal golf course is 5,000 to 6,000 yards long. I probably averaged about a 10,000 to 12,000 yard hike as I zigzagged from the left rough to the right rough and back again. I recall one day in particular when I started out really hot. I completed the front nine in only 59 strokes, and I thought I was at last getting the hang of the game. Of course I couldn't keep up this torrid pace, and on the back nine my game fell apart. I finished at 155, which I believe was fairly close to my average.

However, because of the beautiful scenery, friendship (though somewhat strained), fresh air and exercise, I persevered. One day I came home from a round and discovered that while I was playing, Marilyn Monroe had committed suicide. Although there was, of course, no connection between her death and my game, the fact that this event occurred while I was playing could have been an omen foretelling the tragedy which ended my golfing career.

Finally, out of either pity or sheer desperation, someone gave me a certificate which entitled me to ten golf lessons at the Overlook Country Club in Lancaster, Pa. For several weeks I went out there every Thursday evening and perfected all my hooks and slices.

I received my sixth lesson the day before I gave up golf forever. It was a late summer evening-the temperature, though still warm, held just a hint of fall's cooler weather, the sky was deep blue with just enough high clouds in the west to present a gorgeous sunset, the scent of the flowers in the club gardens was in the air, and the fairways and greens were just beautiful. With all that beauty, plus the outdoor exercise received from hitting hook after slice after hook, I went home feeling great. I slept well that night.

The next morning at breakfast I opened the newspaper to the sports page and the headline leaped out at me, "Overlook Pro Commits Suicide". After my lesson my golf guru had hanged himself in the basement of his home. Oh, the paper cited personal and financial problems, but I knew what the straw was that broke that particular camel's back. I gave the clubs away and never played again.

This happened many years ago, and since that time I have almost convinced myself that my abysmal showing had nothing to do with that poor man's demise. And yet . . .

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Grandpa Kauffman's Death

Although there was a small house on the Kauffman farm, the family actually lived in a larger home across the road. Eventually my grandparents sold the farm and the small house, but continued to live in the family home.

After my grandmother died in 1956, my grandfather stayed in the house by himself. One day as he was standing on a chair to wind the clock, he caught his foot in the rung of the chair, and fell on his buttocks. After about six weeks, when the pain still had not gone away, he finally went to the doctor. An x-ray disclosed that he had suffered a fractured hip.

He was taken to the hospital and his hip was replaced by a metal one. When he got out of the hospital, he sold the old house and went to live with my Aunt Dorothy. Although he was able to take short walks along the highway with the aid of a cane, he spent most of his time reading the newspaper and watching TV, although he usually didn't care too much for what was showing. Besides, he told me he felt the two children considered him sort of a nuisance, so he spent a lot of time in his room.

I visited him frequently over the next several years. His room contained a bed, chair, lamp and bedside table. Although it was decorated in bright colors, it was a very small room; I'm sure a man who had spent 85 years in the outdoors must have felt terribly closed in.

On one occasion, while discussing his situation, I asked him what he had for dinner the night before. He couldn't exactly remember. He then went on the tell me about the summer he was seventeen years old.

He had "hired out" to a farmer, and worked from sunup to sundown, seven days a week for a dollar a day. He told me in great detail about the various chores he had to perform. He was thrilled when he collected his hundred dollars at the end of the summer.

A few days later my Aunt called to tell me he had a stroke, so I went to visit him the next day. He was curled up in a fetal position in his bed, completely unconscious. His body had huge purple splotches where the blood had collected because of poor circulation.

He died that night, November 2, 1965, at the age of 93.

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The End Of A Marriage

Long before I left Ann, I knew it was going to happen sooner or later. When it got down to the end, I didn't realize until after I had left that both my job and our marriage had been in danger.

In the fall of 1966, David and Gary were 17 and 15 respectively, and things were going from bad to worse. We had moved from Manheim to East Petersburg because of some trouble Gary had got into, but unfortunately when you move to get away from problems, you have to take yourself along. Neither Ann nor I were very good at parenting, and it showed. Gary got into trouble again with the law, and David was having psychological problems.

So when Barbara and I got to talking at work, we discovered that we were both going through failed marriages. One thing led to another, and we soon had an affair going. Soon the excuse of working overtime was beginning to stretch a little thin, and by Thanksgiving things had gotten really bad at home. I spent most of the day holed up in the den watching football on TV, and not saying much of anything to anyone. By Christmas the situation was next to impossible.

Everything came to a head on New Year's night. Gary had a friend visiting him, and Ann and I got into some kind of an argument over something or other - I don't remember what. The upshot of it was I walked out of the house and slammed the door behind me. Since it was late, I got a room at the Holiday Inn.

The next day at work I got a call from Ann telling me to stop being ridiculous and come home. I said no.

At the time I was doing some part time bookkeeping work for a few personal clients. I knew one of them had some unused living quarters at his place of business, so I called and made arrangements to stay there for a few days.

Subsequently I found a small, furnished apartment in Lititz, and moved in. Of course, I had been keeping Barbara informed all along as the situation developed. Because I no longer had to have excuses for being away, our affair progressed even more rapidly than before.

About a week before the end of January my boss, Charlie Briggs, called me into his office. "You know," he said, "up until the end of the year I was thinking about firing you." That woke me up in a hurry. He continued, "For the previous two months or so you had become so surly and disagreeable that no one could get along with you, so I was about to let you go. But since you left home, you have turned yourself around. Now I have a question for you, 'Would you be willing to move to California and manage the office at our Fullerton plant?'"

I thought it over for about five seconds and said "Sure, I've always wanted to go to California."

That night I asked Barbara if she would marry me and move to California. She agreed. As one door closed, another opened.

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