Kennedy's Keystone Gas Station
Left: A group of boys hang out at the corner of North and Main streets in the parking lot of Kennedy's Keystone Gas Station. Some things to notice:
1. Remember the old glass phone booth. This may have been one of the reasons the boys hung out here. Great way to call the girls!
2. Did you see the sign? Only 30 cents for gas!!!!
3. Tight pants for boys must have been the fad at the time. Not sure when the picture was taken but looks to be the 60s.
Right: Time for a new tractor tire. Post Office is in the background. Anyone know who this is?
Bottom: Inside the front door of the station. This is Ethel Kennedy in the photo.
DUCK, DUCK, EGGS!
As a little girl, I remember going to the station with my Dad. My most vivid memory is of the ducks. Fosburgh's owned some ducks that had taken over the town. You never knew where you would find them. I have pictures of them down on the corner of Lowville and South streets where we watched them at least one time. There was one spring when the ducks hung around the gas station. There was a men's and women's restroom there but you had to walk around back to get to them. One day when I went out there to use the facilities, I noticed a patch of weeds in the corner by the door. It had been matted down and picked over so that it looked like a small pile of hay. Sitting on top of that pile were three duck eggs. Boy, was I excited. I ran back to the front of the building to tell Dad about them. Of course, he said we'd have to leave them alone so they would hatch but it was fun for awhile going there to see if they were okay. I don't know if they hatched or not. Those restrooms were used a lot so anyone could have seen them. But I did notice that there were a lot more ducks around town that year.
1. Remember the old glass phone booth. This may have been one of the reasons the boys hung out here. Great way to call the girls!
2. Did you see the sign? Only 30 cents for gas!!!!
3. Tight pants for boys must have been the fad at the time. Not sure when the picture was taken but looks to be the 60s.
Right: Time for a new tractor tire. Post Office is in the background. Anyone know who this is?
Bottom: Inside the front door of the station. This is Ethel Kennedy in the photo.
DUCK, DUCK, EGGS!
As a little girl, I remember going to the station with my Dad. My most vivid memory is of the ducks. Fosburgh's owned some ducks that had taken over the town. You never knew where you would find them. I have pictures of them down on the corner of Lowville and South streets where we watched them at least one time. There was one spring when the ducks hung around the gas station. There was a men's and women's restroom there but you had to walk around back to get to them. One day when I went out there to use the facilities, I noticed a patch of weeds in the corner by the door. It had been matted down and picked over so that it looked like a small pile of hay. Sitting on top of that pile were three duck eggs. Boy, was I excited. I ran back to the front of the building to tell Dad about them. Of course, he said we'd have to leave them alone so they would hatch but it was fun for awhile going there to see if they were okay. I don't know if they hatched or not. Those restrooms were used a lot so anyone could have seen them. But I did notice that there were a lot more ducks around town that year.
I Refused To Drown
Top Left: Old Route 8, at Baldwin Flats, after it was closed off. This photo was taken from the Hatch Hollow Road corner. I vividly remember the day Mom took us there to show us the water.
Top right: Union City Dam in the early 1970s just after it was built.
Bottom Left: Baldwin Flats flooded. Photo taken from the new Route 8 looking west toward French Creek.
Bottom Right: Dad and Tammy preparing to go for a ride in our six wheeled dune buggy in 1973. Photo was taken in our front yard at 14443 Lowville Street, Wattsburg.
Fear can cause a lot of problems in the life of a child. I was afraid of anything different or that I didn't understand. I can vividly remember the day Mom took us to see the water on the flooded Baldwin Flats.
The flats is a stretch of land south of Wattsburg, off Route 8, that frequently floods. The old Route 8 had been laid through the flat area crossing old Arbuckle Road west of the ponds that can now been seen from the road. These ponds had been accessible only by way of the old Arbuckle Road before the new road was built.
There are stories of the flooding that made residents go home from Union City to Wattsburg by boat through Baldwin Flats. There are also stories of wagons breaking through the ice that hid a thin layer of water that covered the road. Flooding has always been a problem in the area. So the Pennsylvania Department of Engineering decided to fix the problem two ways. Of course, their solutions came only in answer to other problems with flooding in Meadville. The Union City Dam was built in the late 1960s to alleviate that problem and in so doing caused the flooding of the old Route 8. So they built a new road, raised it fifteen to twenty feet above the flats and solved that problem.
As for the story about my fear and Baldwin Flats flooding, Mom took us to see the water. She drove down Hatch Hollow Road and turned onto old Route 8 as you can see in the photo above. I was petrified! All I could see was water and we were driving straight for it. What was Mom thinking? Of course, she was only trying to park the car where we could get a good view without getting out of the car. But things like that scared me.
Recalling this fear, I also remembered the old six wheeled dune buggy that we used to own. I was also petrified of that. I'm not sure if it was because I had been scared riding a snowmobile when I was even younger, or because of the stories my sister would tell me. She said Dad took her across French Creek! Yeah! The dune buggy floated across the water. I had visions of sinking in that dumb machine and refused to ride in it especially when my Uncle Roger teased me about crossing the creek. I was even afraid to ride in it when my mother was driving. She showed up at the elementary school one day to take us home in it. My friends were devastated that they couldn't ride with us so I voluntarily let them have my seat. It was one day I was happy to walk home alone.
These were only a couple incidents where my fear made me miss out on a lot of fun. Being shy also made me miss out on a lot but perhaps it also saved me from a lot of grief. I may never know, but I do know this, as a child I was determined to avoid drowning!
Top right: Union City Dam in the early 1970s just after it was built.
Bottom Left: Baldwin Flats flooded. Photo taken from the new Route 8 looking west toward French Creek.
Bottom Right: Dad and Tammy preparing to go for a ride in our six wheeled dune buggy in 1973. Photo was taken in our front yard at 14443 Lowville Street, Wattsburg.
Fear can cause a lot of problems in the life of a child. I was afraid of anything different or that I didn't understand. I can vividly remember the day Mom took us to see the water on the flooded Baldwin Flats.
The flats is a stretch of land south of Wattsburg, off Route 8, that frequently floods. The old Route 8 had been laid through the flat area crossing old Arbuckle Road west of the ponds that can now been seen from the road. These ponds had been accessible only by way of the old Arbuckle Road before the new road was built.
There are stories of the flooding that made residents go home from Union City to Wattsburg by boat through Baldwin Flats. There are also stories of wagons breaking through the ice that hid a thin layer of water that covered the road. Flooding has always been a problem in the area. So the Pennsylvania Department of Engineering decided to fix the problem two ways. Of course, their solutions came only in answer to other problems with flooding in Meadville. The Union City Dam was built in the late 1960s to alleviate that problem and in so doing caused the flooding of the old Route 8. So they built a new road, raised it fifteen to twenty feet above the flats and solved that problem.
As for the story about my fear and Baldwin Flats flooding, Mom took us to see the water. She drove down Hatch Hollow Road and turned onto old Route 8 as you can see in the photo above. I was petrified! All I could see was water and we were driving straight for it. What was Mom thinking? Of course, she was only trying to park the car where we could get a good view without getting out of the car. But things like that scared me.
Recalling this fear, I also remembered the old six wheeled dune buggy that we used to own. I was also petrified of that. I'm not sure if it was because I had been scared riding a snowmobile when I was even younger, or because of the stories my sister would tell me. She said Dad took her across French Creek! Yeah! The dune buggy floated across the water. I had visions of sinking in that dumb machine and refused to ride in it especially when my Uncle Roger teased me about crossing the creek. I was even afraid to ride in it when my mother was driving. She showed up at the elementary school one day to take us home in it. My friends were devastated that they couldn't ride with us so I voluntarily let them have my seat. It was one day I was happy to walk home alone.
These were only a couple incidents where my fear made me miss out on a lot of fun. Being shy also made me miss out on a lot but perhaps it also saved me from a lot of grief. I may never know, but I do know this, as a child I was determined to avoid drowning!
Trapping With Dad
Top left: Dad with two White tail deer in the 1970s.
Top right: Dad holding his two favorite girls and two pheasants. Dad was struggling to keep us still for the photo knowing he'd have to keep us at bay while trying to butcher the birds after this was taken.
Bottom left: Dad had just returned from a fishing excursion on Lac Round in Canada the first year we vacationed therein our own cabin in 1974. We always greeted him at the dock. He is showing us a nice Pike.
Bottom right: The mink Tammy and I so often fought over to carry home during trapping season.
NOTE: Though Tammy and I went trapping and fishing as early as age five, we didn't hunt until later. Tammy went at age 12 years but had a soft spot for Bambi so she couldn't shoot the deer. She gave up the sport. I began hunting at age 34 and have since taken 12 deer by rifle and one by bow.
Top right: Dad holding his two favorite girls and two pheasants. Dad was struggling to keep us still for the photo knowing he'd have to keep us at bay while trying to butcher the birds after this was taken.
Bottom left: Dad had just returned from a fishing excursion on Lac Round in Canada the first year we vacationed therein our own cabin in 1974. We always greeted him at the dock. He is showing us a nice Pike.
Bottom right: The mink Tammy and I so often fought over to carry home during trapping season.
NOTE: Though Tammy and I went trapping and fishing as early as age five, we didn't hunt until later. Tammy went at age 12 years but had a soft spot for Bambi so she couldn't shoot the deer. She gave up the sport. I began hunting at age 34 and have since taken 12 deer by rifle and one by bow.
Winter is not the safest time to be spending at French Creek in Wattsburg. As small children around the ages of six and eight, the only hopes my sister, Tammy, and I had of going to the creek was to go trapping with Dad. Dad loved his outdoor sports like hunting, fishing and trapping. I can still remember when it came time to go trapping. Dad would call my cousins over to help him with the bluing of the traps. The traps, which hadn't been used since the previous year, would have to be boiled in a bluing solution to protect them from rusting in the cold French Creek waters.
Dad would set up a 50-gallon barrel on three cement blocks. A fire would be built under the barrel between the blocks. It would take hours to get the water to boil. Tammy and I got to haul the wood out of the basement to keep the fire going though we weren't permitted to be near the flames.
After the traps were ready, Dad would get up early to go set them in the parts of the creek where he thought he'd catch some muskrat or mink. My cousins would also trap for beaver. Tammy and I would wait and go in the evening to empty and reset the traps. We preferred our warm beds in the morning. Trapping was done when there was snow on the ground; not the ideal time to wake up in the cold. But Dad would faithfully check the traps twice daily until the season was over.
Tammy and I still remember the funniest time we had during trapping. We had been trudging through the deep snow behind Dad. The snow went over our boots and the air was cold. We had checked a number of traps and were heading to a small runoff area of the creek near Laing Bridge, south of town. Dad had to lay down in the snow to reach the trap which was located in the water under a small ledge. Dad wasn't worried about the snow; he wore his Carhart overalls and wading boots. He would be warm even when he had to wade into the creek to reach a trap. But this particular day, the boots were not high enough and the Carhart overalls not waterproof enough. He had just leaned over the edge of the bank when Tammy and I heard a "Kersplash!" Dad disappeared below the surface of the water. For a second, we were stunned. Then Dad shot up out of the water like a rocket. Tammy and I busted into a fit of laughter. We laughed the rest of the day over the event. I don't know if it was the way he shot out of the water or the look of shock on his face, but it was funny!
The water had not been deep so he could stand in it easily enough. The problem was that he was drenched from head to toe in freezing cold water. He quickly climbed up onto the bank in the deep snow. He had to take off his boots and stand in the snow in his wet socks so he could get the water out of his waders so he could walk back to the truck. Needless to say, we went straight home.
Dad usually trapped for muskrat or mink. Muskrat hides were worth from $4 to $8 each while mink was worth from $8 to $15 per pelt. Mink were our favorite to catch. Dad preferred them because of the case return. Tammy and I liked the fur. We would argue over who got to carry the mink because the brownish-black fur was so silky.
The final part of the trapping process was the dressing and drying of the hides. Tammy and I would watch Dad dress out the animals on the red brick linoleum floor in the utility room. Each animal had its won unique feature which we'd discuss during the process. The rabbits had the fuzzy tails; the beaver the large flat tail; the mink its fur; and the pheasant its colorful feathers. Dad would catch anything that moved by trapping or hunting.
The drying of the hides was done in the basement. (Did I mention that everything you do with animals when trapping or hunting, smells?) A large "A" frame made of wire was used to stretch out the hid so it would for well while drying. Dad would save them in the freezer until he had enough to take and sell. This fur trading was the occupation of those who first visited Wattsburg in the 1700s. It was a way to make a living by trading the furs for items needed for survival. Now, trapping is rarely heard of, though it is still legal in Pennsylvania.
Dad would set up a 50-gallon barrel on three cement blocks. A fire would be built under the barrel between the blocks. It would take hours to get the water to boil. Tammy and I got to haul the wood out of the basement to keep the fire going though we weren't permitted to be near the flames.
After the traps were ready, Dad would get up early to go set them in the parts of the creek where he thought he'd catch some muskrat or mink. My cousins would also trap for beaver. Tammy and I would wait and go in the evening to empty and reset the traps. We preferred our warm beds in the morning. Trapping was done when there was snow on the ground; not the ideal time to wake up in the cold. But Dad would faithfully check the traps twice daily until the season was over.
Tammy and I still remember the funniest time we had during trapping. We had been trudging through the deep snow behind Dad. The snow went over our boots and the air was cold. We had checked a number of traps and were heading to a small runoff area of the creek near Laing Bridge, south of town. Dad had to lay down in the snow to reach the trap which was located in the water under a small ledge. Dad wasn't worried about the snow; he wore his Carhart overalls and wading boots. He would be warm even when he had to wade into the creek to reach a trap. But this particular day, the boots were not high enough and the Carhart overalls not waterproof enough. He had just leaned over the edge of the bank when Tammy and I heard a "Kersplash!" Dad disappeared below the surface of the water. For a second, we were stunned. Then Dad shot up out of the water like a rocket. Tammy and I busted into a fit of laughter. We laughed the rest of the day over the event. I don't know if it was the way he shot out of the water or the look of shock on his face, but it was funny!
The water had not been deep so he could stand in it easily enough. The problem was that he was drenched from head to toe in freezing cold water. He quickly climbed up onto the bank in the deep snow. He had to take off his boots and stand in the snow in his wet socks so he could get the water out of his waders so he could walk back to the truck. Needless to say, we went straight home.
Dad usually trapped for muskrat or mink. Muskrat hides were worth from $4 to $8 each while mink was worth from $8 to $15 per pelt. Mink were our favorite to catch. Dad preferred them because of the case return. Tammy and I liked the fur. We would argue over who got to carry the mink because the brownish-black fur was so silky.
The final part of the trapping process was the dressing and drying of the hides. Tammy and I would watch Dad dress out the animals on the red brick linoleum floor in the utility room. Each animal had its won unique feature which we'd discuss during the process. The rabbits had the fuzzy tails; the beaver the large flat tail; the mink its fur; and the pheasant its colorful feathers. Dad would catch anything that moved by trapping or hunting.
The drying of the hides was done in the basement. (Did I mention that everything you do with animals when trapping or hunting, smells?) A large "A" frame made of wire was used to stretch out the hid so it would for well while drying. Dad would save them in the freezer until he had enough to take and sell. This fur trading was the occupation of those who first visited Wattsburg in the 1700s. It was a way to make a living by trading the furs for items needed for survival. Now, trapping is rarely heard of, though it is still legal in Pennsylvania.
The Plates That Wouldn't Sell
My Mother sold Avon during the 1970s for extra income and to keep occupied. I have few memories of her selling although my sister, Tammy, and I would go along with her, often staying in the car. I do recall, however, her Avon plates. She would earn the plates through sales as well as receiving one each Christmas. The Christmas ones always had a snowy scene, like the one with the sleigh sauntering down the snow-covered country lane. Or the one with the family nestled in front of the warm glow of the fireplace, while snow could be seen falling outside the window. She had a couple of dozen of these plates that were lined above our kitchen cabinets behind pretty wooden rails.
The plates came down in 1987 when the kitchen was remodeled for my sister's graduation party. Yes, we received new kitchen cabins and everything. The plates were packed away, except for the annual yard sales. They were placed on a table, with the box, priced from $20-$30 each. Of course, they didn't sell. Each year they were placed on a table, prices finally falling to a mere $10-$15 each. Then in the mid 90s, my parents went through a divorce. Mom found it important to sell...everything. Out came the plates again, with the prices dropped to $5 each. Again, they didn't sell. However, both boxes did disappear.
Later in life, My Dad decided he loved Avon. He began collecting Avon bottles buying boxes of them at every auction he attended. (He and I went every week.) None of the bottles were ever displayed and Dad didn't bother with plates. He insisted that someday the bottles would be worth something. Dad passed away June 16m 2011. His wife decided to clean out the spare room taking everything to Chesley's auction house. Besides the collections of guns, knives, antique salt and pepper shakers, glassware, toy tractors, and more, that Dad had collected for years, there were also records, western books, National Geographic magazines, and of course, Avon bottles.
The surprise at the auction was one small box of old Avon plates. Looking inside I pulled out a box that not only held a plate, but also three layers of yard sale stickers priced from $30 down to $5, all written in my mother's handwriting. Yes, they had stood the test of time and showed up at a sale...again. Bid after bid, items were taken from the pallet, but not those plates. There they sat alone waiting for someone, anyone to say 'yes' to the last one dollar bid. I couldn't resist. I raised my hand with a devilish look in my eyes. I had a plan.
I placed those plates in my car and headed for Mom's house. On arrival, I told her I had bought something for her at the sale. She knew that the items were from Dad's estate and had no idea what I may have purchased. I handed her the box. She set it on the floor and opened it. Straightening up, she looked at me with accusing eyes and said, "What am I supposed to do with those!" I laughed heartily reveling in the ongoing saga of the plates that wouldn't sell.
Of course, Mom was back to trying to get rid of the plates again. My brother's girlfriend decided she liked the plates, so they have traveled to a new home, probably in the back corner of a closet or perhaps behind a wooden rail above the kitchen cabinets.
The story, however, was not over. There were two boxes of plates, remember? Almost two years after the sale of the first box, a blue milk crate of Avon plates were seen at Cox's Auction House in Elgin. The boxes of plates also had those three layers of yard sale stickers still attached, verifying they had belonged to Mom. That box had arisen from the dark closet and were for sale. This time the box went for two dollars to a flea marketer. Perhaps they have yet to be seen at the Corry or Waterford flea markets next summer. Or maybe, they went to Florida this winter. Time will tell.
The plates came down in 1987 when the kitchen was remodeled for my sister's graduation party. Yes, we received new kitchen cabins and everything. The plates were packed away, except for the annual yard sales. They were placed on a table, with the box, priced from $20-$30 each. Of course, they didn't sell. Each year they were placed on a table, prices finally falling to a mere $10-$15 each. Then in the mid 90s, my parents went through a divorce. Mom found it important to sell...everything. Out came the plates again, with the prices dropped to $5 each. Again, they didn't sell. However, both boxes did disappear.
Later in life, My Dad decided he loved Avon. He began collecting Avon bottles buying boxes of them at every auction he attended. (He and I went every week.) None of the bottles were ever displayed and Dad didn't bother with plates. He insisted that someday the bottles would be worth something. Dad passed away June 16m 2011. His wife decided to clean out the spare room taking everything to Chesley's auction house. Besides the collections of guns, knives, antique salt and pepper shakers, glassware, toy tractors, and more, that Dad had collected for years, there were also records, western books, National Geographic magazines, and of course, Avon bottles.
The surprise at the auction was one small box of old Avon plates. Looking inside I pulled out a box that not only held a plate, but also three layers of yard sale stickers priced from $30 down to $5, all written in my mother's handwriting. Yes, they had stood the test of time and showed up at a sale...again. Bid after bid, items were taken from the pallet, but not those plates. There they sat alone waiting for someone, anyone to say 'yes' to the last one dollar bid. I couldn't resist. I raised my hand with a devilish look in my eyes. I had a plan.
I placed those plates in my car and headed for Mom's house. On arrival, I told her I had bought something for her at the sale. She knew that the items were from Dad's estate and had no idea what I may have purchased. I handed her the box. She set it on the floor and opened it. Straightening up, she looked at me with accusing eyes and said, "What am I supposed to do with those!" I laughed heartily reveling in the ongoing saga of the plates that wouldn't sell.
Of course, Mom was back to trying to get rid of the plates again. My brother's girlfriend decided she liked the plates, so they have traveled to a new home, probably in the back corner of a closet or perhaps behind a wooden rail above the kitchen cabinets.
The story, however, was not over. There were two boxes of plates, remember? Almost two years after the sale of the first box, a blue milk crate of Avon plates were seen at Cox's Auction House in Elgin. The boxes of plates also had those three layers of yard sale stickers still attached, verifying they had belonged to Mom. That box had arisen from the dark closet and were for sale. This time the box went for two dollars to a flea marketer. Perhaps they have yet to be seen at the Corry or Waterford flea markets next summer. Or maybe, they went to Florida this winter. Time will tell.
Little Red Morsels
A TRIBUTE TO WALTER & VIRGINIA ROTTHOFF
Remember the days of youth picking strawberries? I can still hear the whistle of the wind through the nearby wheat field. I can feel the brush of the cool wind on my sunburned cheeks. I can still feel the ache in my cramped legs from stooping over the low strawberry plants; my knees wet with dew that settled overnight on the straw lining the rows. I can taste the sweetness of the little red morsel as the red juice drips over my parched lips. Remember those days?
My first trips to the local strawberry field were with my mother. She would take my sister and I with her as she picked through the countless rows of strawberries. As children, we were not allowed in the rows. We had to be twelve years old to help pick the little red morsels because of the fear of our careless feet on the tender fruit. We were permitted, however, to pick off the ends of the rows or the length of the last row in the field. We would eat every berry we picked savoring each bite. The problem was the berries in the middle of the field seemed to look bigger, redder, and sweeter than those we were allowed to pick. Many times my sister and I would venture down rows to get to mother to ask if we could help. Each time we tried she would holler at us, "Get out of the berry patch!"
Soon, we would be so full of berries that we would get to whining. "Is it time to go yet?" We would badger mother. She would get up and dust off her knees. Leaving her berry basket where she stood, she would go to the car and retrieve some toys to placate our bored minds. That would last only a few minuted before boredom returned. It was not time to go until Mom hoisted those baskets from the grounds and started for the grassy area where we played at the end of the row.
In later years, I worked at the strawberry field. Most youth who lived near the patch, worked there at one time or another. I managed to avoid it until I was well into my twenties. First came the rules of berry picking. Though we were permitted to eat as we picked, we were expected to be quick and efficient. The berries had to be ready for the stand down by the road as soon as possible. We had to be sure that we picked only red berries with no white tips. The bad part was picking the rotten berries. Anything with a brown, wet spot was beginning to rot. If left alone, it would cause the berries near it to begin to rot as well. The worst berries were those that had been missed by the last picking.The berry would cling to the plant by its blackened stem. Not only were they harder to break off without uprooting the plant, they were gray, hairy, and slimy. Touching them was disgusting!
As we picked, we talked. You could hear the quiet murmur of the youth escalate to shouting as they worked they way down the field. Mornings didn't seem to sit well with these kids so it took time for them to wake up. Now and then you would hear one say, "I hope it rains!" as he'd look into the sky hoping a rain cloud would form. We didn't pick in the rain. A hay wagon with a tarp over it was always close by the patch to shield the workers from a downpour. If it was a brief shower, we would return to picking after it passed. If it lasted twenty to thirty minutes without letting up, we would be sent home. (Of course, this didn't help me any. I rode my bike to work.)
Getting wet while picking berries was an everyday event. Early mornings in June were cold and wet with dew all over every plant and the straw between the rows. If there was a threat of freezing the previous night, the berries would get watered by the sprinkler system set up in the field. If it did freeze, the ice would cling to the leaves of the plants freezing our fingertips as we picked. Mornings were even colder and wetter the. Yet by mid-morning everyone would begin to remove their sweatpants revealing their shorts beneath so our legs could collect the warmth of the sun. By noon complaints would filter through the rows of workers. The heat was unbearable at times with the sun directly overhead. Breaks would be ordered for everyone to get a drink or perhaps a cookie made by the Misses in the house on the strawberry farm. It would get so hot during the summer that the boss would only make us stay and work until noon each day. Those who wanted could stay the afternoon and pull weeds between the rows of Everbearing strawberries that wouldn't be ready for harvest until August.
One of the best rewards for working on the strawberry farm was the offer of a free basket of berries every day we worked. We would have to stay after work to pick them ourselves on our own time, but they were worth every minute. I can still remember trying to carry them home as I rode my bicycle back to town.
Now berries in my home are rare. I don't even like to think about stooping to pick the little red morsels. And bending over hurts worse and exposes parts that are not for public viewing. The thought of having the back of my thighs sunburned also discourages me from berry picking. It's odd but now I don't get free berries; I get free baskets. We used to have to pay 40 cents for a basket to pick berries. Now I work at a basket factory and can take home baskets that are labeled "seconds."
Yet I still love the smell and taste of those sweet berries, the wind blowing through my hair, and hearing the children giggle as they pick off the end of the rows. I love the strawberry shortcake, the berries with vanilla ice cream, and the jam on my morning toast. It's still a pain to pick them, but the rewards remain equally pleasant.
Remember the days of youth picking strawberries? I can still hear the whistle of the wind through the nearby wheat field. I can feel the brush of the cool wind on my sunburned cheeks. I can still feel the ache in my cramped legs from stooping over the low strawberry plants; my knees wet with dew that settled overnight on the straw lining the rows. I can taste the sweetness of the little red morsel as the red juice drips over my parched lips. Remember those days?
My first trips to the local strawberry field were with my mother. She would take my sister and I with her as she picked through the countless rows of strawberries. As children, we were not allowed in the rows. We had to be twelve years old to help pick the little red morsels because of the fear of our careless feet on the tender fruit. We were permitted, however, to pick off the ends of the rows or the length of the last row in the field. We would eat every berry we picked savoring each bite. The problem was the berries in the middle of the field seemed to look bigger, redder, and sweeter than those we were allowed to pick. Many times my sister and I would venture down rows to get to mother to ask if we could help. Each time we tried she would holler at us, "Get out of the berry patch!"
Soon, we would be so full of berries that we would get to whining. "Is it time to go yet?" We would badger mother. She would get up and dust off her knees. Leaving her berry basket where she stood, she would go to the car and retrieve some toys to placate our bored minds. That would last only a few minuted before boredom returned. It was not time to go until Mom hoisted those baskets from the grounds and started for the grassy area where we played at the end of the row.
In later years, I worked at the strawberry field. Most youth who lived near the patch, worked there at one time or another. I managed to avoid it until I was well into my twenties. First came the rules of berry picking. Though we were permitted to eat as we picked, we were expected to be quick and efficient. The berries had to be ready for the stand down by the road as soon as possible. We had to be sure that we picked only red berries with no white tips. The bad part was picking the rotten berries. Anything with a brown, wet spot was beginning to rot. If left alone, it would cause the berries near it to begin to rot as well. The worst berries were those that had been missed by the last picking.The berry would cling to the plant by its blackened stem. Not only were they harder to break off without uprooting the plant, they were gray, hairy, and slimy. Touching them was disgusting!
As we picked, we talked. You could hear the quiet murmur of the youth escalate to shouting as they worked they way down the field. Mornings didn't seem to sit well with these kids so it took time for them to wake up. Now and then you would hear one say, "I hope it rains!" as he'd look into the sky hoping a rain cloud would form. We didn't pick in the rain. A hay wagon with a tarp over it was always close by the patch to shield the workers from a downpour. If it was a brief shower, we would return to picking after it passed. If it lasted twenty to thirty minutes without letting up, we would be sent home. (Of course, this didn't help me any. I rode my bike to work.)
Getting wet while picking berries was an everyday event. Early mornings in June were cold and wet with dew all over every plant and the straw between the rows. If there was a threat of freezing the previous night, the berries would get watered by the sprinkler system set up in the field. If it did freeze, the ice would cling to the leaves of the plants freezing our fingertips as we picked. Mornings were even colder and wetter the. Yet by mid-morning everyone would begin to remove their sweatpants revealing their shorts beneath so our legs could collect the warmth of the sun. By noon complaints would filter through the rows of workers. The heat was unbearable at times with the sun directly overhead. Breaks would be ordered for everyone to get a drink or perhaps a cookie made by the Misses in the house on the strawberry farm. It would get so hot during the summer that the boss would only make us stay and work until noon each day. Those who wanted could stay the afternoon and pull weeds between the rows of Everbearing strawberries that wouldn't be ready for harvest until August.
One of the best rewards for working on the strawberry farm was the offer of a free basket of berries every day we worked. We would have to stay after work to pick them ourselves on our own time, but they were worth every minute. I can still remember trying to carry them home as I rode my bicycle back to town.
Now berries in my home are rare. I don't even like to think about stooping to pick the little red morsels. And bending over hurts worse and exposes parts that are not for public viewing. The thought of having the back of my thighs sunburned also discourages me from berry picking. It's odd but now I don't get free berries; I get free baskets. We used to have to pay 40 cents for a basket to pick berries. Now I work at a basket factory and can take home baskets that are labeled "seconds."
Yet I still love the smell and taste of those sweet berries, the wind blowing through my hair, and hearing the children giggle as they pick off the end of the rows. I love the strawberry shortcake, the berries with vanilla ice cream, and the jam on my morning toast. It's still a pain to pick them, but the rewards remain equally pleasant.
Wattsburg's Greatest Childhood Loss
The building on North Street, beside Kimball's Hardware, was a haven for the youth of Wattsburg. In the early 1980s it was the busiest place in town on Friday nights. I can still see the building with its long curved roof. I can still remember the dip in the polished wooden floor on the west side by the door. And there are still certain songs that play on the radio that bring those Friday nights to mind again.
The Rainbow Roller Rink was built by Kenneth Brumagin in 1945. He bought another rink in Wrightsville, dismantled it, and with the help of Floyd Tanner, brought the lumber to Wattsburg. At the time, World War II was just ending, and lumber was not available. It wasn't too expensive, it just wasn't available because it was being used for the war effort. Over the years, it came under the ownership of John & Ina Baroth. They had it for many years and most people remember them during the heyday of the rink.
Birthdays were a big deal at the rink. Parents would bring in a cake and everyone who wanted to come would enjoy the cake and ice cream. The birthday person would get a free skate around the rink...alone. And then have to stand out in the middle while everyone sang the birthday song to the music coming from the old 45 record. And so it was for more than two generations. My Dad and I both had our birthdays held there. Both of our pictures were even posted in one of the several framed photo collages that lined the walls of the rink.
The rink was a great place to meet other young people. I used to have to decide whether to stay home and watch the Dukes of Hazzard or hope my crush was at the rink and go watch him skate. Boy, could he skate! He tended to show off a bit, but I didn't mind. Just a smile from him made my heart flutter.
Skating is not all fun and games. There were times when it was downright dangerous. There were those who would skate too fast or dodge in and out of other skaters like a maze. My sister, Tammy, paid a price one day for this type of behavior. She was always a cautious skater. She wasn't one to race around the rink but just enjoy the slow ride as she learned to manipulate those wheels under her feet. One night, a girl in a bright green jumper, was zipping around like she was running from the law. She and another girl would link hands and whip around the rink. Tammy says, "I remember getting hit in the back of the head. I think they had tried to pass on either side of me raising their linked hands over my head, but missed." Tammy's skate struck her elbow as she fell to the floor. If she hadn't been in so much pain from the broken arm, that girl's life would have ended that night. Tammy had a terrible temper and it was good that we never saw that girl again.
January 7, 1982, the legacy of the Rainbow Roller Rink came to a smoking halt. Around 5pm a fire was reported at the rink. The day was a cold 16 degrees but 75 firefighters from nine fire companies came out to fight it. My Dad, who owned Country Cookin' Restaurant, was concerned as the back of the rink was only a few yards from the back of the restaurant. However, he was more concerned about the firefighters and made sure that they had plenty of free coffee and sandwiches throughout the ordeal. What I remember most was running up North Street where the fire trucks had gathered in front of the burning structure. I stood across the street as the flames leaped out of the small front window burning everything dear to me. My Friday nights out were gone. My Dad's and my birthday photos were burning. The fun I had with my friends was going up in smoke. I cried. It was a great loss and proved to be so even more as time passed. It had been the only thing for kids to do in Wattsburg.
The case of the burnt roller rink was never really solved. It was said that it started from a furnace in the crawl space below the building. It was being used to dry out the floor that was wet from a leaking roof. The owner, Ron Dunawold, was at the restaurant having supper when it caught fire. Years later an investigator came to town asking about people who witnessed it. Apparently, this had not been the first or last fire the owner had experienced. I never heard any more after that.
But that isn't the end of the memories I have of the old rink. Though it was immediately condemned because the structure was unstable from the fire itself and the roof falling in, it didn't keep us kids out of the building. I remember sneaking in one night after dark with my friends and looting the place. I felt guilty for years though all we got was a box of multi-colored skate laces, some burnt records, and some old "Free Pass" tickets. I still have those in my scrapbook.
The Rainbow Roller Rink was built by Kenneth Brumagin in 1945. He bought another rink in Wrightsville, dismantled it, and with the help of Floyd Tanner, brought the lumber to Wattsburg. At the time, World War II was just ending, and lumber was not available. It wasn't too expensive, it just wasn't available because it was being used for the war effort. Over the years, it came under the ownership of John & Ina Baroth. They had it for many years and most people remember them during the heyday of the rink.
Birthdays were a big deal at the rink. Parents would bring in a cake and everyone who wanted to come would enjoy the cake and ice cream. The birthday person would get a free skate around the rink...alone. And then have to stand out in the middle while everyone sang the birthday song to the music coming from the old 45 record. And so it was for more than two generations. My Dad and I both had our birthdays held there. Both of our pictures were even posted in one of the several framed photo collages that lined the walls of the rink.
The rink was a great place to meet other young people. I used to have to decide whether to stay home and watch the Dukes of Hazzard or hope my crush was at the rink and go watch him skate. Boy, could he skate! He tended to show off a bit, but I didn't mind. Just a smile from him made my heart flutter.
Skating is not all fun and games. There were times when it was downright dangerous. There were those who would skate too fast or dodge in and out of other skaters like a maze. My sister, Tammy, paid a price one day for this type of behavior. She was always a cautious skater. She wasn't one to race around the rink but just enjoy the slow ride as she learned to manipulate those wheels under her feet. One night, a girl in a bright green jumper, was zipping around like she was running from the law. She and another girl would link hands and whip around the rink. Tammy says, "I remember getting hit in the back of the head. I think they had tried to pass on either side of me raising their linked hands over my head, but missed." Tammy's skate struck her elbow as she fell to the floor. If she hadn't been in so much pain from the broken arm, that girl's life would have ended that night. Tammy had a terrible temper and it was good that we never saw that girl again.
January 7, 1982, the legacy of the Rainbow Roller Rink came to a smoking halt. Around 5pm a fire was reported at the rink. The day was a cold 16 degrees but 75 firefighters from nine fire companies came out to fight it. My Dad, who owned Country Cookin' Restaurant, was concerned as the back of the rink was only a few yards from the back of the restaurant. However, he was more concerned about the firefighters and made sure that they had plenty of free coffee and sandwiches throughout the ordeal. What I remember most was running up North Street where the fire trucks had gathered in front of the burning structure. I stood across the street as the flames leaped out of the small front window burning everything dear to me. My Friday nights out were gone. My Dad's and my birthday photos were burning. The fun I had with my friends was going up in smoke. I cried. It was a great loss and proved to be so even more as time passed. It had been the only thing for kids to do in Wattsburg.
The case of the burnt roller rink was never really solved. It was said that it started from a furnace in the crawl space below the building. It was being used to dry out the floor that was wet from a leaking roof. The owner, Ron Dunawold, was at the restaurant having supper when it caught fire. Years later an investigator came to town asking about people who witnessed it. Apparently, this had not been the first or last fire the owner had experienced. I never heard any more after that.
But that isn't the end of the memories I have of the old rink. Though it was immediately condemned because the structure was unstable from the fire itself and the roof falling in, it didn't keep us kids out of the building. I remember sneaking in one night after dark with my friends and looting the place. I felt guilty for years though all we got was a box of multi-colored skate laces, some burnt records, and some old "Free Pass" tickets. I still have those in my scrapbook.
This photo is of Raymond Tanner's 16th Birthday held at the Rainbow Roller Rink in Wattsburg in 1957.
This is a photo from 1956-59 at the roller rink in Wattsburg. The girl with her back to the photographer is Judy Millspaw. She has her hand on one of the many framed collages of photos that burned in the fire in 1982. Beside her is Lena Johnson and the man across from her, Roger Fardink, Judy later married. The guy in the sweater turning to avoid be photographed is Raymond Tanner.
Wattsburg Junk Yard & Lumber Yard
I grew up in the 1970s and was a teenager in the '80s. At the time, we didn't have computers, Ipods, MP3 players, etc. We enjoyed taping songs off the radio at 3pm when our hour long program came on; and we taped them on cassette. (Note: The word 'cassette' was actually taken out of the dictionary in 2013 because the word is now considered obsolete.)
There was a piece of property on North Street that attracted the attention of every child in town, especially those of us whose properties were adjacent to it. It was Zaborowski's junk yard and mulch pile. I can remember many days of playing in an old red wreck of a crane pretending to rescue people and using it as as 'escape' vehicle. Periodically, a 'new' car would be added to the piles of vehicles in the junk yard. My friends and I would search those cars from top to bottom for loose change, small toys or other treasures.
The junk yard was not the safest place to play. Cars were piled on top of one another. Glass was everywhere. And many times we were running around in our bare feet. We didn't care. We were having fun as long as Mr. Zaborowski didn't catch us.
The one place in that yard that we wouldn't go barefoot was in the mulch piles. Zaborowski's owned the lumber yard across the street. All the left over mulch was dumped there in large piles. We didn't go barefoot because slivers in the feet were not comfortable at all! Besides, there were snakes in those piles. But nothing could keep us away from them. We would take our toys over there and shape the piles into pretend houses; making 'chairs' and 'tables' by forming a flat place in the mulch with a board for the seat. Each night we had to take all that stuff out of the piles. We never knew when Mr. Zaborowski would fill it in with another load of mulch.
Winter was the best time on the mulch piles. Wattsburg was located in a valley; a flat valley. Even the smallest of hills were rare. I think the one by the side of our driveway on Lowville Street was the steepest in town; except, of course, for those mulch piles. Sledding was always fun in that yard. We never knew how steep they'd be. And sometimes they had drop off's that the boys would fly over on their sleds. They usually landed on their heads. I preferred not to get snow in my face.
There was a piece of property on North Street that attracted the attention of every child in town, especially those of us whose properties were adjacent to it. It was Zaborowski's junk yard and mulch pile. I can remember many days of playing in an old red wreck of a crane pretending to rescue people and using it as as 'escape' vehicle. Periodically, a 'new' car would be added to the piles of vehicles in the junk yard. My friends and I would search those cars from top to bottom for loose change, small toys or other treasures.
The junk yard was not the safest place to play. Cars were piled on top of one another. Glass was everywhere. And many times we were running around in our bare feet. We didn't care. We were having fun as long as Mr. Zaborowski didn't catch us.
The one place in that yard that we wouldn't go barefoot was in the mulch piles. Zaborowski's owned the lumber yard across the street. All the left over mulch was dumped there in large piles. We didn't go barefoot because slivers in the feet were not comfortable at all! Besides, there were snakes in those piles. But nothing could keep us away from them. We would take our toys over there and shape the piles into pretend houses; making 'chairs' and 'tables' by forming a flat place in the mulch with a board for the seat. Each night we had to take all that stuff out of the piles. We never knew when Mr. Zaborowski would fill it in with another load of mulch.
Winter was the best time on the mulch piles. Wattsburg was located in a valley; a flat valley. Even the smallest of hills were rare. I think the one by the side of our driveway on Lowville Street was the steepest in town; except, of course, for those mulch piles. Sledding was always fun in that yard. We never knew how steep they'd be. And sometimes they had drop off's that the boys would fly over on their sleds. They usually landed on their heads. I preferred not to get snow in my face.
A Hiding Place
As children, we all had fantasies. Some children prefer being a pirate, a firefighter, a policeman, while others fantacize about going to exotic place or doing exotic things. As a child, I pretended that Wattsburg had had a special part in history.
The Wattsburg Lumber Company was located on Jamestown Street but the back of the property was adjacent to North Street. This is where my friends lived and where we most often played. Sometimes it was in the junk yard, the mulch piles, or in my Dad's garage. But one place we all loved to go was to the saw mill. The saw mill was a dangerous place with a large circular saw that was bigger than me. Perhaps the danger is what made it so alluring to us as children. We always made sure to play there after the mill closed so we would be less likely to be caught, except by our parents. There were two places we loved to play; in the sawdust house and in the planing building.
The sawdust house was like a big tree house. It was built high above the ground with a laddder to get into it. Playing in that sawdust was like playing in the sand. We liked to bury each other in it. It couldn't be formed like sand, however, so there were no 'sawdust castles.' The sawdust was kept inside the little house to keep it dry.
Our favorite place to play was in the planing building. In this building, they would plane the wood to make it smooth. The intriguing part of it was a room toward the back. It has always been rumored that the underground railroad ran through Wattsburg. We had been told that this was where the slaves would hide. We believed it because there were two by fours nailed together to look like bunk be3ds. There were no blankets or bedding, of course, but we still believed. As I got older, I realized that these 'bunk beds' were racks for wood that had already been planed. Oh well, fantacizing was half the fun!
The Wattsburg Lumber Company was located on Jamestown Street but the back of the property was adjacent to North Street. This is where my friends lived and where we most often played. Sometimes it was in the junk yard, the mulch piles, or in my Dad's garage. But one place we all loved to go was to the saw mill. The saw mill was a dangerous place with a large circular saw that was bigger than me. Perhaps the danger is what made it so alluring to us as children. We always made sure to play there after the mill closed so we would be less likely to be caught, except by our parents. There were two places we loved to play; in the sawdust house and in the planing building.
The sawdust house was like a big tree house. It was built high above the ground with a laddder to get into it. Playing in that sawdust was like playing in the sand. We liked to bury each other in it. It couldn't be formed like sand, however, so there were no 'sawdust castles.' The sawdust was kept inside the little house to keep it dry.
Our favorite place to play was in the planing building. In this building, they would plane the wood to make it smooth. The intriguing part of it was a room toward the back. It has always been rumored that the underground railroad ran through Wattsburg. We had been told that this was where the slaves would hide. We believed it because there were two by fours nailed together to look like bunk be3ds. There were no blankets or bedding, of course, but we still believed. As I got older, I realized that these 'bunk beds' were racks for wood that had already been planed. Oh well, fantacizing was half the fun!
A Poem For Grandpa Tanner
I have spent hours listening to my grandfather [Floyd Arthur Tanner] tell about his childhood. He has told me of my family and how life was int he first part of the 20th century. He has encouraged me to learn, grow and be creative while exploring my creative talents. He has been an example in his faith in God through his daily living. This is a poem I wrote when I thought about the things he has told me in our many chat sessions.
DAYS & DREAMS GONE BY
Neighborhood schoolhouse on the corner of a country road.
One room with students of all grades sitting neatly in a row.
The country church down the road sits quietly at best.
Awaiting Sunday morning when all take time to rest.
Horses pull the plow on farms surrounded by a field.
Cows graze on fenced in land waiting for harvest's yield.
Horse-drawn buggies saunter down the road;
To visit a sick neighbor suffering with a cold.
The garden is planted as spring turns to summer.
Baby chicks run rampant as the warm days begin to simmer.
Fall comes all too quickly, leaves turning to gold.
Farmers take their livestock to town to be sold.
Harvest brings 'round friends as the thresher is shared.
Farmer helping farmer as fields are laid bare.
What is left of the garden is brought in by the pound.
Hours are spent canning before being stored underground.
Winter comes with a vengeance; time is spent around the hearth.
Precious time with the family like no other time on earth.
Written by Tina L. Tanner March 1, 1997
Floyd Arthur Tanner passed away January 2004
DAYS & DREAMS GONE BY
Neighborhood schoolhouse on the corner of a country road.
One room with students of all grades sitting neatly in a row.
The country church down the road sits quietly at best.
Awaiting Sunday morning when all take time to rest.
Horses pull the plow on farms surrounded by a field.
Cows graze on fenced in land waiting for harvest's yield.
Horse-drawn buggies saunter down the road;
To visit a sick neighbor suffering with a cold.
The garden is planted as spring turns to summer.
Baby chicks run rampant as the warm days begin to simmer.
Fall comes all too quickly, leaves turning to gold.
Farmers take their livestock to town to be sold.
Harvest brings 'round friends as the thresher is shared.
Farmer helping farmer as fields are laid bare.
What is left of the garden is brought in by the pound.
Hours are spent canning before being stored underground.
Winter comes with a vengeance; time is spent around the hearth.
Precious time with the family like no other time on earth.
Written by Tina L. Tanner March 1, 1997
Floyd Arthur Tanner passed away January 2004