Summer is definitely here. As a matter of fact, it’s almost high-summer in my mind. Some recognizable signs of high-summer?
July 4th has come and gone
The All Star game in baseball is over
High temperatures, with high humidity
Crabs and crabfeasts
Drinking an occasional “lawnmower beer” while working outside
Oh, and the tomatoes in our garden are finally ripening!
In my mind, nothing says summer like a tomato from the garden. Just picked, washed off, sliced, and maybe a sprinkle of salt on it. Or whole and hot from the vine, dripping juice and seeds down my chin and shirt. That could be a feast unto itself.
We’ve been eating some items out of the garden for awhile now – broccoli, onions, basil, various peppers, some baby beets, but so far, no tomatoes. That changes tonight, when we will have our first grape tomatoes from the garden, halved, and added to a salad.
First grape tomatoes of the season at Rohan FarmIt’s been a strange growing season, and things are a bit delayed. May was cold and rainy for almost the whole month, so even though we put the tomatoes in near the start of May, they are just now starting to really grow and ripen. The grape tomatoes will go into salads, starting tonight. The Early Girls aren’t so early this year. And the Roma, Beefsteak, and Heirlooms? Still to come.
In our future? Cheeseburgers with a slice of ‘mater… Caprese Salads….. Gazpacho…. and of course that king of summer sandwiches – the BLT. The bacon and lettuce, along with a smear of mayo are important. You can toast or not toast the bread. But what’s the true key? A couple of slices of fresh tomatoes from the garden. When our good friend Tim’s tomatoes come in, he says….
“yep, fry up a pound of bacon, get a loaf of bread, keep slicing tomatoes and eat till the bacon is gone. It is not pretty, so do not watch if you are squeamish”.
Summertime is a sandwich. Or at least this sandwich is summertime.
As August gets here, we’ll hit critical mass on the tomatoes in the garden, and Cathy will start canning her Tomato Provençal Pasta Sauce. It’s a great sauce, and when we have it this winter, it still tastes like summer.
For now, it is high summer. With apologies to George Gershwin,
I recently received a letter in the mail from Fauquier County (note to people who live elsewhere: this is pronounced Faw-keare, not Fuc-here, as my mother-in-law use to occasionally mispronunce….). Cathy opened it for me, and I heard “uh-oh” as she handed the letter to me.
Special Grand Jury leaped off the page at me and my pulse increased a bit. Then I realized that I was being summoned as a potential juror, and not to be investigated…”whew, dodged a bullet there” I thought. Kidding…I’m not currently aware of doing anything that a grand jury would want to investigate….;-)
I read and then reread the letter. It turns out this is a serious time commitment – the first and third Thursday of the month, for a period of six months to “investigate any condition that involves, or tends to promote criminal activity“. Two days a month for six months….If you are working fulltime, how could you possibly do this?
But, I’m not working fulltime. As a matter of fact, I’m (mostly) retired, with a bit of consulting on the side, so I don’t have to worry about that impact. And you know what? This IS important. We all need to do our part to support our communities, and maybe this is another way I can support mine. It will be interesting to see the makeup of the jury, once selection is completed. Will we be a collection of retirees, unemployed people, and house wives/house husbands?
I looked at the letter again, and they provided a number to call, confirming you received the letter. I called the number and a lady answered. I confirmed receipt and said I would be there on the 14th. The lady said “make sure you wear appropriate attire (no shorts)”, and then wanted to confirm my telephone number. I was about to give her my home number, when she recited my cell number to me, and wanted to know if that was correct. I said “yes”, and then it hit me – why and how did the county have my cell phone number? I asked her that question and there was momentary silence on the line. Then, “I don’t know, that’s just the number we show for you”. I thanked her, and hung up the phone.
So, on the 14th, I’ll be in downtown Warrenton, dressed appropriately, and not carrying my cellphone (on the backside of the letter – no cellphones allowed). I sure hope they don’t have to call me that day….
We were over on Tilghman Island, at our neighbor Bill’s house for dinner. Also there that night was another of our neighbors, Captain Stanley Larrimore. Captain Stanley (as everyone calls him) is a retired Skipjack captain, and semi-celebrity around here. Captain Stanley has been featured in more than a few books about the Eastern Shore, and particularly books about oystering, and Skipjack sailing boats. For those not aware, Skipjacks are a low slung sailing boat used for oystering, through a method known as dredging. Back in the 1800s, there were literally hundreds of them on the bay. Over the next century, there came to be fewer and fewer of them, until now, there are only 2 working Skipjacks left on Tilghman.
For dinner that night, we were having soft shell crabs, and Captain Stanley was showing us how he prepares soft shells. Anytime a waterman is giving you cooking instructions on seafood, you want to pay attention – in this case, this is a man who has spent over 60 of his 80-something years making a living on the water – he knows what he’s talking about…..A drink or two later, we fried up the crabs and they were delicious.Captain Stanley
After dinner, we were sitting around the table, when all of a sudden Captain Stanley says “ya know, rats do desert a sinking ship”. We looked at him, and with a bit of sparkle in his eye, he relayed the following story…
“We were out oysterin’ and the day had gone well. We’d hit our limit, and were heading for Tilghman. As we passed Poplar Island, it seemed to me that the boat was handling funny, so I told one of the crew to check below. He took a quick look and said everything was fine. It turned out not to be fine. The hold was filling with water and The Reliance (his Skipack) kept running lower and lower in the water. I wasn’t sure we were going to make the harbor, so I ran her to a point near the entrance to Knapps Narrows and ran her aground…as we hit the ground, two rats came out of the hold and leapt off the deck and swam to shore……..Well, I got the buy boat to come by and we offloaded the oysters. Without the weight, I was able to nurse her home. It turned out that the rats had eaten a two inch hole near the centerboard and that’s what caused the hold to flood. We got her repaired the next day, and we were back out the day after that. Not only had the rats caused the hole in the boat that caused the leak, they were the first one off when it looked like we were going to sink”.
We all laughed and made a few jokes about the rats. A few more stories were told, and the dinner ended an hour or so later. For me, it ended way to soon.
Captain Stanley is a great neighbor and I count myself lucky to know him. I’d first heard about him 7 or 8 years ago, when reading a book called Skipjack (White). When we bought our home on Tilghman, I couldn’t believe that he was a neighbor across the street. If you want a living history of the Eastern Shore, he’s about as close as you can get. Well, he, and a few others like him. Vocal histories are something to be treasured. I’ve found this to be true not only with my own father’s stories, but also many other people I’ve met along life’s path. Captain Stanley is one of those people.
Now when you hear the phrase “They left like rats deserting a sinking ship” in reference to a business, or friends, or politics, you will know there’s a real basis for the phrase…..at least on one ship in the Chesapeake.
My sister-in-law Cindy recently called to get a couple of clarifications on Cathy’s potato salad recipe. She’s catering a wedding reception in the near future, and needs to make potato salad for 100 guests. Cindy and I joked a bit about Cath’s and my somewhat tortured history with potato salad.
When Cathy and I first started dating in high school in the summer of ’72, after about a month of dating, we decided to go on a picnic at Deer Park. My job was to get the soda and drive us there. Cathy’s was making and packing the picnic. The day of the picnic arrived and we drove out to the park. Not wanting to be disturbed, we ignored the picnic grounds and hiked one of the trails for a mile or two and found the perfect spot by a stream running through the park. We put the blanket down by the stream, pulled out the plates, napkins and silverware, and then Cathy proceeded to reveal our lunch, all of which she made that day. Fried chicken, potato salad, deviled eggs, and brownies for dessert. I mean, my mouth was watering. She served each of us a plate of food and we started eating.
As we continued to eat, Cathy asked me “How is everything”? Now I could have said “This is the best fried chicken I’ve ever had”, or “gosh, these deviled eggs are delicious” (Both statements would have been absolutely true). But what I actually said was “My mom doesn’t put pickles in her potato salad”. Seriously? Really?? Unbelievable, but true. Cathy shot me a look, but to be honest, I was pretty clueless (some would say I’m still pretty clueless) and didn’t catch it. I actually hadn’t realized what an idiot I was at the time. The picnic continued, and we had a good time the rest of the meal, and the rest of the day.
A couple weeks later, Cathy made a dinner for us and we had potato salad again. She chose this time to inform me that I had been mean to her on the picnic, and informed me of my transgression. She asked how was the potato salad this time? I can be a quick learner when I need to, and I answered “pretty good!”
Puppy love, or young love, can survive a lot and we survived that episode. At some point in time, Cathy stopped putting pickles in her potato salad. I should have been a happy man, but I couldn’t leave well enough alone. Over the coming years, I made several jokes about how her potato salad was good, but I still wasn’t sure it was as good as mom’s. At Fort Sill Oklahoma, in the fall of 1978, I made the joke one time to many after a wonderful meal of brats and Cathy’s potato salad. Cath put down her fork, looked me straight in the eye, and said in the calmest voice imaginable “You know what? You’re right. Since it’s not good enough, I’ve just made the last potato salad I’m ever going to make for you”. I laughed. Cathy didn’t laugh.
One month passed…two months passed….a year passed….eighteen months passed…two years came and went, and still no potato salad. Finally I begged, pleaded, almost got down on my knees and said “I will never criticize your potato salad again. You make the best potato salad in the world. Would you please start making it again?”. She looked me straight in the eye and said “OK, but consider this a warning….”.
I’m hear to tell you, Cathy makes the best potato salad in the world. My mom’s was really good, and my niece Diane who carried on mom’s recipe, makes awfully good potato salad…but Cathy’s is the best.
Some potatoes, more eggs than you think you’ll need, celery, onions, Hellmann’s Mayonnaise, salt and pepper…………and no pickles.
Fathers Day is this weekend. I’m thinking not only about Dad, but other influencers on my life. This is the story of Dad, Deason, Boggs, and Noble…
When dad told his stories from WWII, they often involved 4 guys – dad, Jack Deason, Bob Boggs, and Noble Clevenger. We heard many stories, most of them funny, about their times together at Ft Bragg, in North Carolina, and then over in North Africa and Sicily. They were all young, full of life, and full of mischief. They were also all in B Company, of the 60th Regimental Combat Team, 9th Infantry Division. Each had his own story as the war went on.
Dad, Deason, Boggs, Noble, and some of the other Boys of Company BDad was wounded in Sicily and the war was over for him. After his recovery, and some additional time as an MP in North Africa, he was sent back to the States. Stationed at Camp Butner, NC, he’d get occasional passes or leaves, and liked to go to DC when he could.
On one of those trips to DC, in early 1945, he was partying at a bar in Georgetown, when amazingly, he and Boggs ran into each other. There was much backslapping whooping, and drinking. It turned out that Boggs was severely wounded in France and eventually evacuated to the States. From Boggs, dad found out that Deason had been killed in France, and he (Boggs) had last seen Noble in France…..
Dad and Boggs continued to party and made the rounds of the bars in Georgetown. At some point in the night, they were feeling no pain, and Boggs said “I’ll be right back….” and disappeared into the crowd. It turned out they were separated, and didn’t see each other later that night, or ever again. Dad tried to locate him over the years, but only found false trails.
And Noble?
Dad didn’t hear anything else about Noble after that night with Boggs. The war ended in ’45. Dad met mom in the summer of ’47, and married her in May of ’50.
In July of 1950, there was a knock at my parents door and mom answered. A young couple was standing there and wanted to know if William Hall lived there. Mom said yes, and called dad to the door, and all of a sudden there was yelling, and exclamations, and hugging, and dancing and back pounding…..It was Noble, and his new wife Myra.
It turned out that Noble was traveling from a vacation in Wisconsin back to Southern Illinois where they lived, when they passed our home town – Ottawa. Noble thought dad had probably died in Sicily, and then remembering that dad was from Ottawa, decided to stop in and see if he could find dad’s parents to offer his condolences. He looked the name William Hall up in the phone book, and stopped off at the local VFW to see if anyone knew of dad. They then drove over to the address from the phone book, assuming it was my grandfather. Instead, he and dad saw each other for the first time since August of 1943…..
Amazingly, Noble survived the war without a scratch. After Sicily, he fought in France, and then crossed the Bridge at Remagen into Germany itself. When the European war ended in May 1945, he was near the Elbe River. Two and a half years of combat, and not a scratch…
I was born in ’55 and was named Max Noble Hall to honor Noble. Mom, Dad, “Uncle” Noble and “Aunt” Myra remained great friends through the years and would get together several times a year at our house, or theirs. The four of them had a close friendship that lasted a lifetime. I learned a lot about life, and about enjoying life from all of them, but particularly from Dad and Noble. Later, when I was at West Point, and then spending my own time in the Army, I often asked myself if I was measuring up to these men from B Company. I feel so lucky to have known them, and hear the stories that Noble and dad would tell…..
Not everyone can get kicked out of a walled city twice in one night, but dad found a way….
In February of ’43, after relieving the 1st Infantry Division at Kasserine Pass, the 9th Infantry Division spent the next several months in combat across Tunisia. I remember dad telling some stories of those times and the names don’t role across the tongue lightly – Maknassy, Jefna, the Sedjenane Valley, Mateur, Bizerte…. Forgotten names in history books now, but deadly important then. I think the great WWII columnist Ernie Pyle got it right in his description of the Infantry in North Africa:
“IN THE FRONT LINES BEFORE MATEUR, MAY 2, 1943…..
There is now a thin line of men. For four days and nights they have fought hard, eaten little, washed none, and slept hardly at all. Their nights have been violent with attack, fright, butchery, and their days sleepless and miserable with the crash of artillery…..The men are walking. Their walk is slow, for they are dead weary, as you can tell even when looking at them from behind. They are young men, but the grime and whiskers and exhaustion make them look middle-aged…..There is an agony in your heart and you almost feel ashamed to look at them. They are just guys from Broadway and Main Street, but you wouldn’t remember them. They are too far away now. They are too tired. Their world can never be known to you, but if you could see them just once, just for an instant, you would know that no matter how hard people work back home they are not keeping pace with these infantrymen in Tunisia.”
They kept at it and on May 9th, the enemy surrendered In Africa. By then, they had fought and beaten the French, Italians, and Germans and were feeling pretty good about themselves.
Dad’s unit, on the date Bizerte fell (from “An Army at Dawn”, by Atkinson)
At the end of May, the division was in bivouac and had almost seven weeks of light duty and downtime. The nearest town was a walled city, Sidi bel Abbes, about 30 miles away. The Army, in it’s generosity and wisdom, was giving day passes on a quota system. They’d truck the GIs there during the day, and bring them back to the encampment at nightfall.
Over the course of June, Dad made it there multiple times and drank wine, ate French food, and visited a couple of houses of ill repute. Not a bad way to spend time in your 19th year of life.
In any case, he eventually returned one time to often to Sidi bel Abbes. Towards the end of June, dad and a buddy got a pass and caught the truck ride to town, where they spent the day partying, drinking, and committing other questionable acts. They missed the truck back to the camp and kept partying until they were caught by the MPs who were patrolling the town. The MPs actually cut them a break and didn’t arrest them. They just kicked them out of the walled city, meaning they would have to walk the 30 miles back to camp. They knew they were already in trouble at this point, so they said the hell with it and climbed the wall and went back into the city.
Part of the wall around Sidi bel Abbes
More partying ensued and they were trying to find a particular address they had been given. The MPs saw them again and gave chase. With the wine they had consumed, they were in no real shape to get away, and were caught a second time. This time, rather than just depositing them outside the gate to the town, the MPs drove them back to the encampment, and turned them over to the company First Sergeant.
The next day, dad reported in to the CO. “Sir! Sergeant Hall reporting as ordered”.
The CO looked up from his desk, then looked back down. “That will be all Private Hall”.
And so, dad, who entered North Africa as a Sergeant, departed as a Private. In his words, “Hell, what were they going to do to you for acting up? Short of murder, Or armed robbery, no one went to the stockade, especially if you were an Infantryman. Combat veterans at that point were of incredibly high value, so maybe you got busted, but you stayed with your unit.”
Dad left Africa on July 24th, on a ship bound for Sicily. They landed at Polermo on August 1, while being bombed by the Germans. He didn’t know it yet, but his time with the 9th Infantry Division would be over on August 8th when he was severely wounded. In fact, his buddies thought he was probably going to die. He survived, and was in the Army for two more years, but never did rejoin the 9th…
One of the things I’ve been thinking about lately is Dad, President Roosevelt, and a brush with history… The many minor connections that we have with larger historical events always intrigue me. Dad had a few of those, including one in January 1943.
For America, the ground war in Europe started November 1942, with the invasion of North Africa. Dad was a part of the 60th Regimental Combat Team (9th Inf Div), assigned to MG George Patton for the invasion. On November 8th, they took part in the amphibious assault on French Morocco and their mission was to take Port Lyautey, and the famed Kasbah. Three days later, after sometimes brutal fighting, they completed that mission. People don’t often hear about the invasion of North Africa, but it turns out that after Normandy, it was the largest amphibious assault ever made.
Dad at the WWII Memorial several years ago
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After mopping up activities in Morocco, the 60th had some down time that December and January. To quote from the 9th Inf Division history book “Eight Stars to Victory” (published 1948):
“The 60th CT was located within the beautiful Momora Cork Forest, guarding the Spanish Moroccan border, and sipping an occasional glass of vin rouge….”
(As a side note, at long last, we know when and where Dad’s love of wine started…).
About this time, preparation was being made in the 9th for a classified visit by a surprise visitor, an “Army Commander”. There was great secrecy, and details were kept quiet. It turned out that the “Army Commander” was none other than President Roosevelt, although the 9th didn’t know it yet. He had travelled to meet Churchill at the famed “Casablanca Conference” and chart the continuing course of the war. The conference took place from January 14-24, 1943, and remained a secret until after it was completed. This was the conference when Roosevelt announced “the Allies would accept nothing less than the unconditional surrender of the Axis Powers“.
On January 21st, dad and the other GIs in the 60th found out they would be in a parade for a dignitary the next day. Of course, there was quite a bit of grumbling and groaning about infringement on their time. Later that day, or early on the 22d, they found out the parade was going to be for President Roosevelt. Now, I’d heard about this parade from dad over the years, and I’d always assumed that it was a couple of Divisions (20,000-30,000 men), but in reading the 9th Infantry Division’s history, it turned out it was only a couple of battalions (500-1,000 men), including parts of the 60th combat team, and dad.
President Roosevelt reviews the 60th Regimental Combat Team in January, 1943
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With parades, people think of formality and quietness during the review, and the 9th’s history book presents it that way. In actuality, the soldiers were still unhappy about having their free time taken up, and the grumbling continued during the parade. I remember dad telling me that as Roosevelt passed, Boggs, one of his buddies, called out quietly to the other guys nearby, “Hey Rosie, while you’re over here, have you got Eleanor running things back home?“….and “Hey Rosie, When are we goin’ home?” It wasn’t loud enough for President Roosevelt to hear, but the CO did, and Boggs was ripped a new one after the parade.
After the review, Roosevelt returned to Casablanca and two days later, the US. Within the week, the 60th would move to Oran and then in mid-February, they would rapidly travel 800 miles to the Tunisian front and relieve the 1st Infantry Division after the debacle at Kasserine Pass. In Tunisia, they would remain in combat with the Germans for the next several months, but that’s another story.
I remember learning about the importance of the Casablanca Conference in my history studies at West Point. It set the course for the remainder of the war, including the invasions of Sicily and Italy, and further cemented the solidity of the Anglo-American alliance. At the time, I didn’t realize dad was there. Just another small connection to world changing events….
It was August of 1943 and my father was a bit shy of his 20th birthday. By this time he had been in the Army for three years, was promoted to Sergeant, and busted back down to Private (That’s another story). His unit had participated in the invasion of North Africa and they were one of the units that fought and beat Rommel and the Afrika Korps.
Dad in 1942, before he shipped out
In Sicily, Patton was racing Montgomery for Messina, but the Germans controlled the high ground and Patton couldn’t move his tanks on the roads. The Ninth Infantry Division (my father’s unit) landed at Palermo and moved inland to try and clear the Germans. Rather than an all out assault, the 9th moved in the mountainous terrain only at night, under the cover of darkness. They were so quiet, It became known as “The Ghost March” in military history books. When they attacked several days later, they totally surprised the Germans.
According to Dad, the attack went well and they scattered the Germans everywhere. In fact, the 9th had penetrated well to the rear of the German forward positions. The Germans were then trying to infiltrate their units back through the 9th so they could retreat. As one of the German units was trying to retreat that night, a German soldier saw Dad and fired a burst from his “Burp Gun” ( a small German machine gun). Dad saw the movement and tried to dive into a dry stream bed, but was caught in midair by three rounds, two of which lodged in his lung. A firefight then erupted between the two sides and it lasted quite some time before the Germans finally retreated.
Dad couldn’t move or be moved that night because of the ongoing firefight. The next morning, he was loaded onto a stretcher and carried by hand to the nearest aid station, which was seven miles away. Before going, he was given a shot of morphine to ease the pain (Dad said it’s the best he ever felt – it was like he was floating three feet off the stretcher). Because they were in the mountains with no roads, probably few trails, and a major battle was still going on, it took them four days to carry Dad the seven miles to the aid station. He was given one more shot of morphine by a passing medic during the four days.
Once he arrived at the aid station, they didn’t have the doctors to treat him there, so they loaded him in an ambulance and drove to the nearest “Mash” unit. There, they finally operated on him and removed the three bullets. They then evacuated him to a recovery station in Palermo. As he started to recover, he continually ached all over his body. The doctors checked on him and determined that in addition to the wounds, he also had an acute case of malaria. They started him on drugs immediately.
Between the wounds, and the malaria, it took him about 5 months to recover. Because of residual weakness, he did not rejoin the 9th Infantry Division, or the fighting. He was sent back to North Africa, where the Army, in it’s infinite wisdom, made him an MP and he was suppose to keep soldiers from doing the kinds of things he use to do.
The stories dad told about WWII were always funny ones. This one? Years ago, a few days after dad had his stroke, I was sitting with him and asked what he was thinking. At the time he was laying on the couch and was pretty well exhausted from physical therapy that day. He didn’t say anything at first, but then after I prompted him again, he related the story of when he got wounded. It’s the first and only time I ever heard him tell it. I always knew that he had been wounded while in Sicily, but I’d never heard the complete story, nor do I think anyone else had. As he related the story to me he said that if the Germans didn’t beat him, he’d be damned before he’d let the stroke beat him. He was a strong man. I miss him, and his strength, every day.
Mom Snow (aka mom, Cathy’s mom, Faye, the Fayester) was always a tough and smart woman. I guess I’d known that since way back in the 1970s when Cathy and I first started dating. I didn’t realize how tough though, until one day in the early 2000s when we got a phone call from mom, letting us know she was alright.
Mom had moved from Illinois back to Alabama several years earlier and built her dream house on ten acres. After building the house, she started clearing some of the woods to make trails and build her beloved gardens. In the course of the clearing, a lot of oak trees came down, and these eventually became firewood for her wood stove.
Well, one year when she was about 70, she and her neighbor, Doc (who was a retired chiropractor and a few years older than she was) were cutting up some of the wood. Doc was using the chainsaw, while mom was holding the wood in place. Suddenly the chainsaw hit a knot and kicked back. In the process, it snagged mom’s sweatshirt and pulled her into the spinning chainsaw, which proceeded to slice her arm open.
Doc stopped the chainsaw and set it down, and started running around the house. Mom called out “Doc, what are you doing?”. Doc answered back “Looking for a phone book to call the hospital!”. Mom back to him – “DOC! DIAL 9-1-1!” That stopped Doc from running, and he quickly went to the phone and called. He went back to mom, and helped her keep pressure on the wound. A short time later the ambulance arrived, and took her to the hospital, where she received 22 stitches in her arm. It was after that, that she called to let us know that she was alright, that she’d only sliced her arm open while chainsawing some wood…..
We laughed about the story later, and retold it whenever the family was together. Then, a year or so after mom passed away, the story came full circle. One evening at the farm, I was in our garage and was bitten in the foot by a copperhead. I was in the garage cursing and yelling, and Cath came to the back door. – “What’s wrong?!” Me back to her – “A F@$&#}! Copperhead just bit me!” Cathy, started thinking “what do I do? What do I do?”, when she heard her mom’s voice, clear as a bell, say “CATHY! DIAL 911!”, which she quickly did. The ambulance got there, and took me to Warrenton, where they administered the anti-venom, and I was OK (although I had an extremely swollen and sore foot and leg for awhile).
Yep, mom was a tough lady, and her toughness stood out when a crisis was pending. She stayed calm and helped herself when Doc was panicking, and kept Cath calm a few years later when I had my own incident…..
Mom, a Butcher Shop, and Her First Glasss of Wine……
I was back in town for mom’s 85th birthday, and we had steaks and martinis the night before her party. If you want to grill great steaks in Ottawa, there’s only one place you buy them – Polancic’s Meat Market, and that’s where I bought them. As we were eating the steaks, mom said “you know, the Polancic brothers worked at the meat shop right next to Grandma’s house before they opened their own shop”. No, I didn’t know this. As a matter of fact, I didn’t know there had been a butcher shop next to Grandmas. “Oh yea, it was owned by Mr. Steinbach. He’s also who sold Grandma and Grandpa their house”. Now, I was really interested. Grandma and Grandpa’s old house – The butcher shop was to the left It turns out that Grandma and Grandpa had rented the house from Mr. Steinbach for years, before buying it from him around 1940 (for the princely sum of $4,400). When they were renting the house from him, a condition of the rental was that Mr. Steinbach was able to live in the house in the “back bedroom”. That room was off limits to the kids unless Mr Steinbach invited them in, and a whippin’ was the penalty if caught.
One day when she was 7 or 8, mom was in the kitchen and the door to Mr. Steinbach’s room was open. She couldn’t help herself, and went on in. Once in the room, she was looking around and there was a trap door open to a different part of the cellar. She went over to the trap door and there was Mr. Steinbach in the cellar. He saw her about the same time and asked if she wanted to come down into the cellar. He held her hand and she walked down the steps. Low and behold, there were several large barrels in the cellar, one with a spigot in it. It turned out that he was having a glass of his homemade wine. He had another small cup there, filled it and handed it to mom, who sat down with him and had her first wine. They drank the wine and had a nice visit for a while.
After they finished their wine, they both went up the stairs and Grandma and Grandpa were in the kitchen. Mom was evidently feeling the effects of the wine and was walking a bit funny. The adults were all chuckling at her staggered steps right up until she slipped and fell against the stove and cracked her tooth. That started her to crying, but it turned out she was alright.
Polancic’s as it looks today It worked out well for mom, as she later had a job working in the butcher shop in 1944 or ’45 when she was 13 or 14. The Polancic brothers were already working there then, learning the trade. Later, they opened their own shop. Today, it’s on the north side of town (and is run by one of the sons and their grandsons).
I love the connections that are in small towns. I felt lucky to learn about this one.
Live Life Exuberantly 