The MoreStories Place

Class Assignment

2012-02-27T06:16:00.000-08:00

THE CREATIVE WRITING CLASS ASSIGNMENT

by June T. Bassemir

I am so inspired after listening to the words of our Tuesday night author, that I grabbed a pencil and my big yellow pad as I climbed into bed. I can’t wait for tomorrow, as I do my most original thinking in bed just before drifting off to sleep….or just before I am fully aware that it is the start of another day.

The lights are out. I am all cozy with my head on the pillow; my right hand resting lightly on the yellow pad. My hand is holding a number 2 pencil all poised ready to go. Suddenly the thoughts begin racing around my brain, over my shoulder, down the straight of my arm and out through the graphite pencil point. I am busy scratching away with a sudden delightful burst of originality, when my husband, who is drifting off to sleep next to me, is awakened. It seems a #2 pencil is soft but only in the daytime. At night, it sounds like there are mice in the room. He sits bolt upright in bed and asks “What’s that?” I reply that it is only me doing my creative writing assignment for next week. “Your nuts”, he says.” Do it tomorrow.” and sinks back into the pillow. It’s too dark and too late to convince him that this is how I get my inspiration. So much for my creative writing masterpiece assignment.

JTBassemir (ca 1956)

The Bear and Eagle Affair.

2012-02-24T13:01:00.007-08:00

by Kevin Schmitt

The Man From U.N.C.L.E.

Chapter One

The guard observed the approach of the hand pulled cart with his usual lackluster expression. But as its owner-operator passed through the large barbed wire gate, the middle aged sentry’s eyes widened almost as much as they did the day he was forced back into the Wehrmacht. Behind the shabbily dressed peddler was a collection of old musical instruments, including an honest to God sousaphone.

John “Busty” Brown, scrounger extraordinaire had been given permission to meet with the salesman in front of the delousing station. Many eyes were upon them, but since no one had any pest control issues at the moment, the two men were pretty much alone. Brown briefly examined the rolling stock and then shook his head in disapproval.

“Everyone of these instruments has at least one sticky valve.”

“I’ve made arrangements with a fix it shop to deal with those problems one instrument at a time,” said the peddler.

“Screw that, Wendal. You get your property fixed, then sell it to me.”

“I don’t have money to spend on repairs, but you do,” countered the peddler.

“I won’t after I’ve bought this junk,” declared Brown. “I’ll be tapped out for six months at least.”

“Oh, God you are such a lying sack of excrement. You deserve to be in jail the way you operate,” Wendal said loud enough for the guards and fellow P.O.W.s to hear.

That line caused some sporadic chuckling.

“Need I remind you that I am not a criminal,” the Englishman declared with a lofty expression. “I am a non-commissioned officer who was honorably captured while serving King and Country.”

“Please, Goebells gives us enough of that sort of crap on the radio. But I’ll take the sousaphone back and get that repaired with my own money.”

Brown picked up a cornet and pretended to point out a defect to the peddler.

“John Amery is a traitor. I have my suspicions about William Joyce as well.”

“You’d better have proof,” the man in the baggy suit muttered under his breath. “Those two won’t be easy to convict, and you will not be remembered with great fondness by your associates.”

“Scroungers are never popular. We’re envied too much.”

“And seldom seen in a patriotic light,” muttered Wendal.

“One last thing: I want you to keep an eye on Margery Booth.”

“The Abwehr has no doubt taken an interest in the fact that you meet with her. I don’t think—“

“Do it,” snapped Brown, “or your people can write me off as an operative.”

“You’re a bleeding heart,” muttered the salesman.

“And you threw yours away,” Brown countered.

The salesman was not insulted. He understood John Henry Brown very well and appreciated the fact that they were cut from two different bolts of cloth. Brown had started out as a Quartermaster Sergeant in the British Army. Mi5 recruited him for special service because he had been a member of the British Union of Fascists. It was arranged that he be captured at Dunkirk, and from there on he would have to improvise a way to become a traitor to his country.

This fit very nicely into a program that the Germans had devised to recruit collaborators from the British P.O.W. ranks. A sort of luxury camp was constructed near Berlin and designated Stalag 111d. There, Brown had made friends with the commandant, and a high ranking British traitor who secured him a position as a broadcaster on the German Concordia radio service. He then began to pass on coded information to a willowy opera singer named Margery Booth. He pretended to be infatuated with the lady; wanting to further her career even though she was a virtuous woman who remained loyal to her husband.

Unfortunately, Adolf Hitler was a real admirer, and that made Booth a person of interest to Heinrich Himmler. The singer didn’t notice for quite some time, but Brown could spot a Gestapo agent in a full scale air raid and he feared for his lovely contact, even though she was tougher than she looked.

Wendal saw things the same way. The only difference was that spying was his life’s calling, and as a true professional, he was able to view everyone as expendable, including himself. In the world of cloak and dagger, there were no mud filled trenches or gangrene infected wounds like in the first war. A few operatives even enjoyed champagne and chauffer driven limousines. But if you slip up, or Lady Luck steps out of the room----they shoot you. With or without the added discomfort of cigarette burns----they shoot you.

Continued here:

http://www.windsweptpress.com/uncle.htm

Kevn Schmitt lives in the Mohawk Valley and has been a factory worker for thirty-five years. His hobbies are camping, cross country hiking, kayaking, and playing the Boehm type flute (Irish folk music and marches.) When the weather is too God awful for anything else, he writes and practices a bit of Karate kata. He is not a cool person, and he is aging rather quickly.

One Summer

2012-02-20T15:13:00.002-08:00

by Bo Drury

The bug moved slowly across the dirt pushing and guiding the perfect ball he had created of manure gathered from the cowshed. Polly watched curiously while lying on her stomach on the splintered porch of the old farm house. Wisps of golden hair flew around her oval face and her brown eyes watched intently as the bug traveled over the uneven ground, his spindly legs working continuously. What was he going to do with it she wondered, where was he going? He will never get there she thought.

Losing interest she rolled over on her back and looked past the cover of the porch to the white billowing clouds gathering on the horizon. They were in constant motion, building and ebbing, rising here and falling there, going nowhere. It was the same with her she thought, going nowhere.

Polly was fifteen years old. School was out. It was summer vacation. Most everyone she knew was gone out of town on a trip and here she was stuck here on the farm with nothing to do for three months. What a bummer for a teenager.

The old farm house, void of paint, was a weathered gray standing just off the old county road. Few cars traveled the road any more as the paved highway north of the wheat field had been completed some months back. A few travelers still came that way when they got lost or missed the turn in the road.

The county road grader crew still stopped to get a drink from the well and if her Dad was around they would sit in the shade of the big elm by the well and visit a spell. Some of them would lay in the shade and take a nap. Her Dad said those county jobs were “gravy” what ever that meant.

She heard them coming down the road, moving slow, stirring up the dirt as they came. This day there was a pickup truck following them. They pulled up in the yard and piled down off the grader and out of the truck and came across the yard.

“Mornin’ Missy.” The man from the truck spoke,”Mind if we get a drink of that good water ya’ll have here?”

Polly sat up and looked them over. They had someone new with them this morning. A young boy. He was tall, at least a head taller than herself. He had black hair and the bluest eyes she had ever looked into. The dirt on his face did nothing to distract from his good looks. She shook her head not saying anything as they continued on to the barrel of water. The boy hesitated. They looked each other over good. Polly felt herself blush and looked away.

They took down the tin cup that hung on a nail and was for the use of anyone who came by, skimmed the dirt off the water in the barrel and each one drank their fill. Sam, the one who drove the grader took his hat off and poured a dipper of water over his head, cooling down. It was hot and dirty work. Polly was watching.

The man who had spoken earlier smiled, took off his hat, and looking at Polly said,

” This here’s my nephew, Chip, gonna be helping Sam out this summer on the roads. Learning the trade. He will be stopping by from time to time.” Wiping the sweat from his forehead he put his hat back on. “Thanks for the drink, Missy.” and started for the truck.

“My names Polly.” she said, looking at the boy. He nodded and followed his uncle. Sam wiped his face with a big red bandana and smiled at Polly.

“See ya next time, Polly.”

Polly watched them, never moving from her spot on the porch. The boy looked back as they drove away and raised his hand in a wave unseen by the others.

Polly leaned back on the porch and looking up at the clouds smiled. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad summer after all. Remembering the bug Polly sat up and looked to see how far he had traveled. He was almost to the fence. He had gone at least five ft. He might get there after all, where ever that was.

© Bodrury 2007

Bo Drury, born in the Texas Panhandle during ‘the great depression’, had the advantages of growing up in the country and developing a great love and respect for nature and the plains. Listening to the tall tales of her father and hearing the stories of many of her ancestors as they braved the hardships of the new land and were themselves instrumental in taming the Wild West, from her 5th great-grandfather, Daniel Boone, to her paternal grandparents making ‘the run’ for land into the Indian Territory, she has story after story to tell. With a ranching heritage on one side and a newspaper family on the other, her desire to write started at the age of eleven after reading the story of “Betty Zane” written by Zane Gray. To date she has written several short stories of the west and of the folks who lived during those times.

It's Only A Wrapping

2012-02-17T06:30:00.000-08:00

by June T. Bassemir

It was in 1944 and I was visiting my southern cousin in Miami, FL. We finished our roller skating that night and were headed back to her house by bus. A small black grandmother got on with her packages and stood in the aisle. I got up to give her my seat. Being a teenager from New York, I didn’t know that the South had an unwritten law in those days that blacks could only sit in the back seat of the bus and the back seat was filled. My cousin said she wouldn’t take the offered seat and… she didn’t. I felt terrible.
I felt terrible because prior to this, when I was about 8 yrs. old, my older brother (10) and I did a terrible thing. While our mother shopped, we sat in the car in a parking lot in Freeport. A black man walked by the car and we used the “N” word and then ducked down so as not to be seen. But he knew the voices were ours and he came to the car. He scolded us until we were ashamed and that guilt has remained…all this time. I have no idea where we heard that word ….. certainly, not from our parents.
Now, in 2012, I offer an apology, to that man long gone and to all black people. I want to be able to see each other as just plain people not as black, tan white or yellow. It felt so good this past holiday, when on four separate occasions, kind words were spoken to me by men and women of color. It was so infectious; I found I wanted to do the same thing to the strangers I met. In other words, the love expressed to me was being passed along to others. Let’s promise to un-see each other’s skin color. It’s really only a wrapping of what is underneath.

copyright June T. Bassemir 2012

Bewildered

2012-02-14T12:43:00.000-08:00

by Kelly Reale

Motherhood is the loneliest job I’ve ever had. It requires so much change; so much soul searching. And, these are lonely pursuits.

In the immortalized words of Carly Simon, having children is “…So good on paper, so romantic, so bewildering.” But as any parent will tell you, it’s also so wonderful.

The birth of my first child was, for me, confirmation once and for all that there really is a God out there somewhere. I’m pretty sure that I don’t believe in the God that I was taught about in any particular brand of church, but I’m dead certain that the miracle of life happens in spite of man’s best intentions and is in no way accidental. The way nature blends resemblances and individuality into an un-repeatable little soul is simply stunning to me.

My firstborn’s arrival heralded a change in my thinking that took me by surprise. Where I had been liberal, I sometimes became suddenly conservative. Where I had previously been certain about how I would raise this child, I quickly learned that it wasn’t completely up to me…this daughter of mine did and still does have a plan all her own. I know now (but sometimes need reminding) that she is her own little self. My second daughter is equally unique and so very opposite. From her I’ve learned that almost nothing I figured out with my first daughter will work on the second.

The questions are un-ending. My oldest asked me last week if God had died. I explained that God did not die; he’s in heaven, looking over us. In the clear logic of a 5-year old, she responded, “But Mommy, everyone goes to heaven when they die - so God must be dead.” Truly, this is easy stuff compared to the questions I ask myself. How do I get them to try broccoli when I hate it? How do I instill in them a sense that their bodies are beautiful, but keep them from running out the back door naked? How do I encourage them to be free-spirited and find their own path, while at the same time learn what society expects of them – and why that actually matters? And for God’s sake, how do I get them to take a bath without actually drinking the bathwater?

And then, there has been the question of my self-identity. Everything I thought I knew about myself is seen in a new, shifting light. How am I supposed to set an example of the kind of women that I want them to grow up to be when I myself am still “becoming”? How do I make room for all of the parts of me that sometimes compete, along with my kids, for my time and attention? In this aspect I am completely alone. Husbands, girlfriend heart-to-hearts and various support groups play a crucial role, but none of them can replace the voice of my soul. When I listen to it, I sometimes hear that it’s time to take care of myself for a change. Sometimes I heed its advice. And, it often reminds me that I’ve been granted the gift of being a mother to these two little girls. It tells me that I don’t have to be perfect and that I should enjoys these crazy, hectic, wonderful moments.

I doubt my daughters will take the time to notice who their mother is until they are mothers themselves - I surely didn’t. When they get around to it, I hope they see a confident woman who isn’t afraid to take chances. I hope they see a woman who loves to laugh and does so often. I hope they see a mother who did the very best she could for them and who loves them with all her heart and soul.

Copyright by Kelly Reale 2007

Kelly Reale lives in the Albany, NY area with her husband and two daughters. She writes occasionally, when the corporate world lets up a bit.

A Case For Peace

2012-02-10T14:02:00.000-08:00

by June Tuthill Bassemir

This is 2009. Sixty five years ago in 1944 my brother Bruce W. Tuthill gave “the supreme sacrifice”…his life for his Country in WW2. It was supposed to be the last war. We lived for about a month with the “Missing in Action” notice until the final dreaded telegram of “Killed in Action” came. As hard a blow as it was for us to bear, the taxi man who delivered it had just as hard a time.   He tried for as long as he could to delay the news of the delivery. Mr. Miller was the husband of Bruce’s first grade teacher and his job was to relay these telegrams as they came in to the parents in our small town. It was a dark day in November when we received the news. Its devastation is no less potent today than it was then but there are fewer and fewer folks still living to remember him. Gone are his Mother, Father, his oldest brother; both Grandmothers; the only Grandfather he knew; Uncles and Aunts…. Gone are his two closest buddies; his first girlfriend and his admiring Floridian cousin who thought so much of him that she even named her son - Bruce.

He was born on April 18th 1924 and died twenty years, four months and eight days later – in 1944. He was very proud of his birthday and never failed to let people know that it was the date of the ride of Paul Revere – no less a hero. He graduated from H. S. in 1942 and after working at Grumman Aircraft for a short time, he enlisted in the Army Air Corp in 1943. His basic training was at Camp Upton, NY and from there he went on to Miami FL; Tulsa OK; Las Vegas NM; and Sheffield, TX. In Tulsa he met “Billy” Emmons, a nice girl whom I am sure he was planning to come home to.

Finally, he was ready to be shipped out and the Army gave him a “Ten Day Delay en Route” to visit the family in the spring of ’44. The pictures of that time are curled and yellowed now, but oh how the memory lingers. All four siblings lined up in profile for that picture – from the tallest and oldest brother; then the second oldest brother, then Bruce; then me his only sister. That day he showed off his bulky brown shiny flight suit and his khaki uniform with the Staff Sgt. Insignia on the sleeve. At one point he noticed I was wearing the gold plated locket he sent me. Someone snapped a picture of us just as he said, “Oh… you’re wearing my locket – and my picture is inside”.   I still have that picture with the locket attached to the outside of the frame.
I look at it and see two young people unaware of the photographer …absorbed in the joy of the moment.

He loved his family and his home town and wrote frequently from the day he enlisted to the bombing days while stationed in Italy. We didn’t know then where he was but afterward we learned that he was part of the bombing raids that targeted the Polesti Oil fields in Poland. I became the recipient of all his letters and tried to put them in a book but reading them with his hope of what he wanted to do when he came home expressed in all the letters caused my heart strings to stretch and the tears to flow. I put them aside thinking that time will ease the sorrow.

My life went on; I married; children were born; houses were built; moves were made – and still the letters followed with me. Now, my oldest son in his 50’s is interested in his Uncle Bruce that he never met. I dug out the letters to read and to supply the information my son wanted. What kind of a plane did he fly; what was his position in the plane; did the plane have a name; what was the number of the Bomb Squadron; how many missions did he fly? I found that even though tears flowed again, the more I read of Bruce’s familiar hand writing, the closer I felt. He lived in a tent and frequently he would write his letter as “the candle is getting low” or “I’m writing this by flashlight”. He had adopted a dog, a mutt really, and the guys called him “Elmer”. Elmer slept with Bruce on his cot. At one point he and his crew went to the Isle of Capri and he thought it was “the most beautiful place he had ever seen”. When servicemen wrote home they only had to write “Free” where the stamp would be and V-mail was another method of receiving mail. One sheet of writing was photographed and sent in a small envelope. While it was good to receive those letters, it was less intimate than a regular hand written one. Quite often the letters were censored if something was said that would imperil the safety of the soldiers or give information to the enemy. He said, “After fifty missions, we get to fly to Miami Beach for a 21 day rest”. I don’t know if that was a rumor or if it was really true. Fifty was the magic number. - But he was on his 35th mission when his plane was hit. All but two of the crew was able to parachute to safety but Bruce was not one of them. He occupied the Top Turret Gunner position on the B-24, having proven himself to be a good marksman. One of the crew, who lived in Brooklyn, came to visit us after he was sent home. He told us more than we wanted to know of that last flight. Too late to stop him, he said my brother’s chute failed to open.

I have come to the end of this writing… my eyes are swollen again but this time it has been comforting to share my brother’s thoughts and activities with my interested son…. sort of a visit with my brother “Bru” and his Uncle.   Maybe some day wars will cease but I doubt it. There always seems to be another generation in the wings that has not learned that hatred, revenge, envy, greed and fighting only lead to bloodshed and heartache for those left behind. Of course, they say that WW2 was “an honorable war” but really in the end “honorable” or not, if you have lost a loved one in any war the sadness never really goes away.

          copyright February, 2009, June Tuthill Bassemir

June Tuthill Bassemir is the widowed mother of four and grandmother of 10. An artist and writer, she volunteers as a docent in a 1765 farm house. June loves old cars and antiques, and has also enjoyed furniture stripping and rug hooking. "I used to say I was a stripper and hooker.but with so many trips around the sun, no one raises an eyebrow anymore. They only laugh." June has given up furniture stripping, but is still an avid rug hooker.

The delectable way of life at the Brook Farm

2012-02-08T05:43:00.000-08:00

by Nathaniel Hawthone

To Louisa Hawthorne

Brook Farm, West Roxbury

May 3 1841

AS the weather precludes all possibility of ploughing hoeing sowing and other such operations I bethink me that you may have no objections to hear something of my whereabout and whatabout. You are to know then that I took up my abode here on the 12th ultimo in the midst of a snow storm which kept us all idle for a day or two At the first glimpse of fair weather Mr Ripley summoned us into the cow yard and introduced me to an instrument with four prongs commonly entitled a dung fork With this tool I have already assisted to load twenty or thirty carts of manure and shall take part in loading nearly three hundred more. Besides I have planted potatoes and pease cut straw and hay for the cattle and done various other mighty works. This very morning I milked three cows and I milk two or three every night and morning. The weather has been so unfavorable that we have worked comparatively little in the fields but nevertheless I have gained strength, wonderfully grown quite a giant, in fact and can do a day's work without the slightest inconvenience. In short I am transformed into a complete farmer.

This is one of the most beautiful places I ever saw in my life and as secluded as if it were a hundred miles from any city or village. There are woods in which we can ramble all day without meeting anybody or scarcely seeing a house. Our house stands apart from the main road so that we are not troubled even with passengers looking at us. Once in a while we have a transcendental visitor such as Mr Alcott but generally we pass whole days without seeing a single face save those of the brethren. The whole fraternity eat together and such a delectable way of life has never been seen on earth since the days of the early Christians. We get up at half past four, breakfast at half past six, dine at half past twelve and go to bed at nine. The thin frock which you made for me is considered a most splendid article and I should not wonder if it were to become the summer uniform of the Community. I have a thick frock likewise but it is rather deficient in grace though extremely warm and comfortable. I wear a tremendous pair of cowhide boots with soles two inches thick. Of course when I come to see you I shall wear my farmer's dress. I would write more but William Allen is going to the village and must have this letter so good by,

Nath Hawthorne

Ploughman

Abe

2012-02-04T16:41:00.000-08:00

Injured WWI Soldier

by Mark D. Shulman

Abe, my grandfather, fought for the Germans during the first world war when he was in his twenties. He was a decorated war veteran. He was shot in the face, losing most of his teeth and much of his jaw and was left with a hole in both cheeks through which he could whistle much to the merriment of his many grand children. Abe was a very short man, a little over five feet, but very strong. He could snap chain links with his bare hands. In a rough and tumble area, with many different peoples, few would try to bully him. He took his religion seriously and observed the Sabbath. He was a self-made wealthy man in a very poor region where the people lived off the land. He owned much land and livestock in Bukovina and served as a butcher to peasants (gentiles) and Jews of the surrounding area. He was well liked and had many friends, including the local Parish Priest.

Bukovina, part of the Pale, which between 1918 and 1940 was almost entirely in Greater Romania, was the melting pot of eastern Europe, with populations of Romanians, Moldvans, Gypsies, and German/yiddish speaking Jews. The Prut, or Pruth, in Ukrainian, is a 953 km long river in Eastern Europe, originating, in the Carpathian Mountains in the Ukraine was the largest river in the region and important to its commerce. It flows southeast to join the Danube River near Reni, east of Galati, before entering into the Black Sea. Nowadays it forms the border between Romania and Moldova. The biggest city along its banks was Chernivtsi, now in the Ukraine. Abe would take his family there on special occasions, to visit his brother Joachim, his wife and many children. The river had a special meaning to my Mother, Abe’s third oldest daughter. With the melting of the snow in the Carpathians, the spring flood of the Prut would often coincide with Passover. My mother told me how she wait for her grandmother, who would hike her skirts to ford the flooded river to join the family for the Passover celebration. It was a happy annual ritual.

On another special occasion, while visiting Chernivitsi, my mother told me of joining a group of excited teenagers and younger children surrounding and following a very beautiful woman who was different from anyone ever seen before. She was black! It was the famous singer, Josephine Baker, on tour of Eastern Europe, strolling the streets and enjoying the attention of the young people.

The Jews of the Pale had an uneasy relationship with their neighbors, suffering numerous atrocities over the centuries, but the years following the end of World War One were peaceful. In the mid 1930’s, things began to sour. There were unsettling rumors. The gentile neighbors, friends for years, became strangely distant, not so gentle, and then hostile. Abe could speak many languages but could not read (except for the Torah), but he was in ‘touch’ and knew things were changing quickly. Although Abe was relatively wealthy, his extended family was poor. They would perish at the hands of the Nazi death squads abetted by their covetous neighbors. Simon, Abe’s second son was about to be drafted into the Army that had honored his father. It would have been sure death. Abe helped him flee to Argentina, never again to see his parents.

Abe bribed the local parish priest, once a great friend of his, to prepare baptismal certificates for him and his family. This allowed the family, now Roman Catholics, to obtain passports and leave for the United States. They traveled comfortably, through Poland, and then from Gdanks sailed on a Cunard Steamship and landed, now destitute (his wealth liquidated), at Ellis Island where they were granted asylum.

Abe and his family settled in the Bronx. As the children grew, married and had children, they remained in the Bronx, in the same neighborhood. I came on the scene at the end of the Great Depression prior to the Second World War. Through the early forties the family learned of the murder of the family members left behind. First it was Uncle Joachim and his children, then there were the others.

Abe had great respect for FDR and I remember, as a four year old, walking with Abe to the Bronx’s grand Concourse to see the President. I still can see FDR, passing by in an open car, waving to Abe and me among the crowds. Most of the time Abe had no time for parades. Now in his seventies, once a wealthy man, he became a ‘junk’ man. He would march up and down the hills of the Bronx, often with me in tow, pushing a metal cart collecting scraps of metal and anything of value. Some of the other junk men had the advantage of a horse and a cart, Abe had only me.I don’t know what he did with his collected ‘stuff’ but he earned enough to support himself and my grandmother Pearl. He was never a burden to his children. Abe’s most valuable finds would be books, which he would always give to me encouraging me to read. Though illiterate (other than in the the writings of the scripture), and an impoverished old man, Abe placed great value on education and imparted these values to me, those many years ago, for which I continue to remain grateful.

One Shabbat morning, toward the end of the war, in his Bronx Schul on Mt. Eden Avenue, Abe was called to read from the torah. A great honor. He could not.

Mark D, Shulman, is Professor Emeritus at Rutgers University, where he taught and did research as Head and Graduate Program Director of the Meteorology Department. His research led to more than 80 peer reviewed publications. He served as President of the National Weather Service, Associate Editor of several professional journals and as the State Climatologist for New Jersey. He lives in Woodstock on the steep slope of Overlook Mountain where he continues to observe the weather and work in and on the arboretum he built, and in Florida in a home to which he hasn't yet invited me!

A Poore Veteran

2012-02-03T05:23:00.000-08:00

(Some punctuation added.)

Wrightsville, York County, Pa.
April 14

(Some time after the Civil War.)

Dr. R. B. Bontecou my dear friend. i was glad to heare from you and now i must tell you that i am still a live but sufpher very mutch and if you could see me i know that you would pittey me. i never can go no plaice but must set in my bed all the time. i have paide well deare for fighting
for my contary and can never enjoy the fruits of it. i have not walked for thirteen years and i am nothen but a reck and the poore soldier is forgoting and there is nothen caird about the poore cripple that the war has made up here were i live. but i am glad that you still think of me.

you asked me to tell you how mutch pension i get. why i get six hundred dollars a year but that does not keep me as i should be kept for there is many things that i need that i cant get. for it takes all that money to keep me a home. There is one hundred dollars Bontey(?) money coming to me yet that i never got and i gess i never will get it either. government ain't doing right by the soldiers atall. you said that you would like to have a large photograph of me but i cannot go out of the house to get it taken. it would be impossibel for me to go any where atall to get one taken, on less you could have a good man to come to my home to take it, then it could be done easly the way you want it.

and the neares photographer liven neare me (?) little. he lives in cloumbia, lancaster county, Pa. so you can wright to him all about it, but he would have to come over to my home to take one for you. that is the oanly way that it can be done. oh i wish that you would take that mutch time to come just wonce to wrightsville to see me for your self. you would be surprize to see me and why not come. it would oanly take you too days to come to where i live and i would love to see you wonce more. So do try and com.

Alexander Rider

The News From Hortonville

2012-02-01T15:43:00.000-08:00

by Delores Miller

The temperature is below freezing and we had a few inches of snow last night and the county snow plow is running up and down the roads. They have nothing else to do. It has been a very mild winter, most days above freezing temps and little snow. No doubt we will pay for it in March when we hope for spring and it is not ready to grace us here in Wisconsin.

Christmas was over a month ago. All the children and grandchildren came except Richard in Boston because he won't fly in winter anymore. Too many hassles on airplanes when weather is bad. The children and grandchildren like to open lots of gifts under our Christmas tree. Sometimes it is junk what I wrap up. They did give us gift certificates for movies, restraurants, and for a new 'grass catcher' for the riding lawn mower. And then Robin and Keith have to go out for Indian food at least once while they are here.

New Years Eve, we hosted our high school friends, it has been about 57 years we have met that night. We gossip, play cards and eat, herring, ham, chips, casserole and a mean alcoholic drink called slush. Needless to say we are all getting old.

We try to go dancing, but it was cancelled because of bad weather. So we just hunker down and read books at home. Did read John Grisham's new one 'The Litigators', wasn't as good as his usual one. Did try to read Robert Massie's book on Catherine the Great of Russia, we always have an interest in that one because Russell's Mother was one of the German Lutherans from Russia.

Trying to work on the income tax, very complicated this year because of the tornado taking the barn, garage and pig coop. All that insurance money would have to be listed as income, or we would have had to pay a 30% in capital games, that is why he built a 5-stall garage.

Richard's foot ball team, the New England Patriots won most of their games, and the play offs, and now go to the Super Bowl next Sunday in Indianapolis. If they win, he will get another diamond ring and a big bonus, which he needs because they spend money so foolishly. The University of Wisconsin - Madison football team played in the Rose Bowl in California and they lost. They have a big parade which we like to watch on television.

April, 2011 Tornado Destruction at Miller Farm

With one of the gift certificates from Christmas, we went to movies, I saw 'The Iron Lady' with Meryl Streep playing Margaret Thatcher. Russ went to the Descendants. Before that he had gone to 'War Horse' and we all went to see The Help'. Then we went out to eat at the American Legion Club House, Russ had perch and I had the boiled haddock dipped in butter, tarter sauce, baked potato and a glass of Miller Lite Beer. Very good.

Went to a polka church service and chili luncheon with all the home made pies we could eat. Was a nice day. Polka dancing on Sunday afternoon, Tuba Dan was tooting his horn. Big croud, everyone had cabin fever from being house bound for a couple months.

All the news for this time

Keep in touch

Delores

Hortonville, Wisconsin

Big Thoughts

2012-01-31T11:01:00.000-08:00

by David Griffin

I wish I could find the reference, but a few years ago a housewife whose hobby was reading scientific journals happened across a series of articles on (I think) some theoretical aspect of biology and figured out a solution to the scientists' questions. So she wrote a scholarly article with the correct references supporting her opinion and sent it in to (I think) Nature, the world's "most cited interdisciplinary scientific journal." The article's initial reception was cool. Selection for publication is a peer reviewed process and none of the scientists had ever heard of her. However, a few recognized the truth and value of her opinions and championed her cause. Eventually her article was published.

With that in mind, I thought I'd provide here a Wiki-inspired List Of Unsolved Theoretical Problems in Physics. You won't need a zillion dollar laboratory to solve these mysteries, just your noggin. If your Physics is a little rusty and you can’t remember the difference between a coulomb and a cumquat, you can begin a refresher with a basic text in physics at a good technical library and work your way down the shelves until every article in Nature or The Journal Of Applied Physics makes sense to your ever-expanding mind. Good luck! You could be the next Einstein, who wrote his early important papers while working at the Swiss Patent Office. With just a pen and paper and his brain he revolutionized our modern world.

Here are the questions, with my initial thoughts following each.

Vacuum catastrophe - Why does the predicted mass of the quantum vacuum have little effect on the expansion of the universe? I always thought a vacuum meant there was nothing there, like what my teachers claimed was between my ears. So how could it have any effect, huh?

Quantum gravity - Can quantum mechanics and general relativity be realized as a fully consistent theory? Is spacetime fundamentally continuous or discrete? The times I've been spaced I've been very INconsistent, to be honest, and often indiscrete.

Black hole information paradox - Do black holes produce thermal radiation, as expected on theoretical grounds? From what I've heard, I wouldn't know what to expect form a black hole, theoretical or not!

Extra dimensions - Does nature have more than four spacetime dimensions? I hope so. I'm going to need them if I gain any more weight.

Cosmic inflation - Is the theory of cosmic inflation correct, and if so, what are the details of this epoch? Finally, an easy question. The detail of the epoch of cosmic inflation is it's getting bigger.

Multiverse - Are there physical reasons to expect other universes that are fundamentally non-observable? None that I can think of, but if they wish to remain unobservable then I guess we better not mess with them.

The cosmic censorship hypothesis - Can singularities not hidden behind an event horizon, known as "naked singularities", arise from realistic initial conditions? I've never been very realistic about censorship. I happen to like being naked and if the event horizon is large enough I guess I'd hide behind it.

Arrow of time - What do the phenomena that differ going forward and backwards in time tell us about the nature of time? All that back and forth would make me dizzy and not tell me anything.

Locality - Are non-local phenomena limited to the entanglement revealed in the violations of the Bell Inequalities? I'm pretty sure Alexander Graham Bell would have limited his entanglements with any non-locals. I've read he never even went to a biker bar.

Future of the universe - Is the universe heading towards a Big Freeze, a Big Rip, a Big Crunch or a Big Bounce? I think I know these women! I tried to date Big Bounce back in college. And I did wonder if they had any kind of future, to be honest.

See you at the Nobel Prize ceremonies!

Early Ratzburg History - 1804 And Beyond

2012-01-30T04:45:00.000-08:00

By Delores Miller

208 years ago Christian Ratzburg (1804-1895) was born in the small village of Zerrenthin, near Stettin, Poland, Prussia, province of Brandenburg. He married Christina Plarge in Germany and (as far as we know) had three children, William the first (1837-1910), Caroline Schultz (1834-1911) and John the first (1830-1912).     Times were tough in Germany, wars with neighboring countries. Military service was mandatory, a life sentence. William the first served with the Army during the Danish War in 1864 when he was 27 years old, and already married. Later he was called to the Austrian 1866 clash, and the Franco Prussian 1871-1872 conflict.    Because Wisconsin was a fairly new state, land agents wrote to German churches and newspapers, promising a land of riches.

Caroline Ratzburg (1834-1911) married Carl Schultz and had six children, all born in Germany, Wilhelmine, Wilhelm, Carl, John, Bertha, and Maria.   Someone sent emigrant tickets for Caroline, her husband, six children and her Father, Christian Ratzburg who by that time was 78 years old. They arrived on April 12, 1882. Settled at Fremont and because they brought their Lutheran Religion from Germany, were some of the first members of St. Paul's Lutheran Church, and eventually made their way to the church cemetery. Christian Ratzburg lived another 17 years in the promised land of America and died at 91.

Early in the 1870s the first wave of immigrants came to Wisconsin, including John Ratzburg the first in 1874. Settled near Fremont, and it is surmised he sent an emigrant ticket for his brother William the first to come in 1880.    By this time he was 43 years old and came with his wife, the former Dorothy Maria Malwitz (1840-1903) and four children, Wilhelminia Buss, William the second, Ida Schmidt, Anna Schwan and nine months after the boat landed another son John (1882-1932) was born.

Names were very expensive in those days, and the Ratzburg family had to keep reusing and repeating names like John and William.

Shortly after arriving in American, William Ratzburg the first and his wife Dorothy came to Dupont, a land covered with trees, maple, beech, hemlock and oak. Boulders, cobblestones, fieldstones, pebbles, rocks. Built a log house, hewed out of a dense forest, almost a hovel, and a log barn.   Dorothy died in May 1903 after an accident involving runaway horses pulling a wagon. She had survived life in Germany as a peasant with her husband in the military, the boat ride to America, crossing the United States to Wisconsin and then die in a horse and wagon accident. What was she doing in the field? Picking stones?

Dupont neighbors in 1889 were Dell Spaulding, Nichols and Corwin, from Ireland, Ranke, Krueger and Carey. Later associates were Diecks, Laufler, Poppe, Mielke, Hangartner, Arndt, Seibold.   They were members of St. John's Lutheran Church, Marion.

This was a happy time, hunting, fishing, trapping muskrats. Large heater for warmth, kitchen wood stove. Cut trees with crosscut saw, split wood. Women picked wild berries on the hill in back of the barn, hickory nuts, large garden. Baking bread, cookies, cakes, biscuits. Knitted mittens, socks, scarves, sewed clothing. Butchered pigs, cured the hams and bacon, fried out the lard. Cooking maple syrup. Raised and bred trotting horses.

Visiting neighbors, relatives and friends, horse and buggy in summer, sleigh in winter. Christmas was an event looked forward too, filled the sleigh with hay and all the family went to church. Picnics in summer, food in great abundance, fried chicken and pies. House parties for birthdays and anniversaries, dances. Someone always had a fiddle and concertina. Kerosene lamps, wash board and brush for clothes and then a hand operated washing machine. Home made soap, water from a cistern pump. Toting well water. Outhouse, chamber pots. Chickens, ducks, pigs, huge garden and potato patch. A self-sustaining farm.

William the second of Dupont who was 17 years older than his wife Hulda produced 12 children, three who died in infancy: Fritz, (1902), Louie, (1903-1978), Herman (1904-1987), August, (1907), Ella Lampe (1908-1990), Dora Sheldorf, (1910-1974), Ren, (1912-1996), Nicholas, (1915-1940), William the Third, (1918-2011), Arthur, (1920), Lester, (1922-2009), and Margaret Baerenwald, (1924-1990).   In her 22 years of childbearing, Hulda had 12 children so she was pregnant for 108 months. Pictures show Hulda always a smile on her face, dressed in a cotton house dress, long apron, brown cotton stockings, and her thin long hair, piled in a pug on top of her head.   All the children walked west the two miles to Maple Valley grade school.

John Ratzburg of Dupont (1882-1932) married Anna and had Henry, John, Walter, Rose and Ed. Farmed west of his brother in Dupont, later at Tigerton and finally Oshkosh. When he died in 1932, his remains were brought back to Roseland Cemetery.

Early in 1900 William Ratzburg and his brother-in-law Carl Schwan ran a saw mill on the Pigeon River. The railroad arrived in Marion (Perry's Mill) in 1879.    Probably to saw timber and lumber to build a new house in 1906 to furnish enough bedrooms for his growing family. Windmill for water power, grew tobacco to dry in the corn crib.    Milk cows, canned milk, hoisted to the Maple Valley Cheese Factory.

William the second of Dupont married Hulda Ehlert of Pella. Siblings of Hulda included Emma who married John Ratzburg, Louisa, Mrs Fred Radtke, Mary, Mrs Gust Wege, and Anna, Mrs John Moericke. Between the Ratzburg and Ehlert families, they were related to most everyone in three counties.

Along came the depression of the 1930s, low prices for farm products and Franklin Roosevelt's WPA programs. Because Ratzburgs lived on the ridge, and the road over the hill was crooked, one of the WPA programs was to straighten the road. Farmers were paid a dollar a day to dig dirt and rocks, and a stone wall was cemented in to the embankment, and the date - 1935 chisled into a large central boulder, still standing 75 years later in 2012.

John the first of Fremont (1830-1912) had a son, John the second (1860-1925), came to America when he was 14 years old in 1874, married Anna Pagel in 1885 and lived in East Bloomfield, Waushara County and had eleven children: Emma, Albert, Alma, Louise Hauk, William the first of that branch, Elsie, Edwin, Walter, Adolph, Alvin and Margareta. Were members of St. Johns Lutheran Church, Bloomfield and many are buried at the adjoining cemetery awaiting eternity. William the first of this branch drifted to Hortonville, married Miss Radichel and had five children, Marie, Myrna, Antoninette, William the second of this branch and Janice.

Eventually after almost one hundred years, the Dupont Ratzburg Farm was sold to Tim Nolan and the Ratzburg family drifted away from Marion and Dupont and only the ghosts linger and rest at Roseland Cemetery. But that big hill south of Marion on the way to Big Falls is still known as Ratzburg Hill.

And now they are probably glad
They didn't know the way it would all end,
The way it would go.
Lives are better left to chance,
They could have missed the pain,
But would have missed
The fun at the dance.

Over two centuries ago, Christian Ratzburg was born in a small Polish village and now in 2012 he has uncountable desendants in America and beyond.

Information furnished by Mary Rahr, research analyst and genealogist, census and cemetery records, Richard Dixon, verbal interviews, the Ratzburg Family Archives, and the Standard History of Waupaca County Wisconsin, edited by John M. Ware, 1917.

Mom And The U.S. Constitution

2012-01-29T15:11:00.000-08:00

by David Griffin

I was musing the other night on crime and punishment and freedom. I often think deeply on issues in which I have no expertise and feel quite satisfied when I solve any of humanity’s crucial problems.

I had read of a prisoner’s case brought against the government for cruel punishment. I think a prisoner’s rights are related to my personal freedoms, because the government's sway over both of us is limited by similar law. Damage to his rights could eventually lead to a weakening of mine. So, the proper administration of justice is important to all of us.

Probably the most effective person I knew when it came to punishment was Mom. Her personal attention to my boyhood faults and her precise judgments were executed from a base of love, but they clearly trampled on my civil rights. She could not have cared less.

Mom would have no problem running a prison. She knew how to call 'em and she knew what you were thinking and she knew what hurt and what didn't and she didn't give a rat's ass if your best friend Tommy got away with murder. But if you said "rat's ass," you got another night of jail at home with no TV.

As I grew toward puberty and asked Mom who gave her the authority to Lord it over me, her answer snapped back without hesitation. "GOD anointed me. Now go clean up your room!" At age twelve I was almost as tall as the little woman. When I offered to arm wrestle her to determine if it was really my turn to do the dishes, she accepted. And won.

The United States Constitution would not allow my mother’s brand of punishment to violate an inmate’s human rights. Mom might do a great job running the State Prison, but she would eventually spend all her time in court defending herself against civil rights suits.

The Constitution also serves to prevent the practice of Mom-ism outside prison walls by those who want to control us as though we were children. Laws said to protect us continue to whittle away our freedoms. Rights are demoted to privileges and whatever is dangerous becomes licensed. We see this over-protective attitude in the public sphere’s fixation on safety and security. Often the solutions offered seem very practical.

But that's the great thing about America. Sometimes we’re willing to substitute impractical abstractions for practical wisdom, because without an impractical idea like freedom our personal abilities could not unlock our promise. We wouldn’t live up to our potential nor mature as a nation.

My mother knew when to stop acting like a Mom. It was probably difficult for her. Allowing me to follow my own paths may have seemed impractical to her at times as I grew up. But she knew I would in some ways be rid of her in the future, as she had grown beyond her parents. I would build a worthwhile life based on my freedom rather than her wisdom.

The power Mom wielded over me as a child was long ago replaced by a mutual respect, built brick by brick while I advanced to maturity. Mom became important to me as a person and not as a set of rules. I was free to do as I pleased, to enjoy the fruits or accept the consequences of my actions. She might have continued to insist I obey her, but she was smart enough to know that seldom succeeded. Instead she let the reins slacken a little at a time while she rode herd on my adolescence and I galloped toward my independence. I arrived there certainly not without her help, but without her holding my hand. Although I suppose that’s just a son’s opinion.

The Sell Family and Marion High School, 1943-1945

2012-01-19T05:39:00.000-08:00

By Delores Miller

Victor Sell (1928-1973) was the youngest child of Ernst (1885-1962) and Anna (1893-1985) Sell of Dupont. Siblings included Goldabelle Fischer (1913-1981), Alice Marchini Hauser (1914-2010). Rozan Flink (1917-1987), Pearl Schewe (1919-2008), and Elvira Graper (1923-1982). Ernst Sell was born in Brandenburg, Germany and immigrated with his family in 1891. A son Clifford died on the boat and is buried at sea.   The 1910 census for the township of Fairbanks in Shawano County lists August and Augusta Sell with their children Ernst, August, Gustav, Frank, Augusta, Alfred and Irwin. Another son was Charlie and daughter Louise. Three other babies died young, making a family of 12 children. In 2011 there are uncountable descendants.     At some time the name was spelled 'ZELL'.   The Ernst Sell family rented a dairy farm on Horn Road in Dupont, moving to Quarterline Road about 1946.

In the fall of 1941, shortly before the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, Vic Sell began a 4 year stint at Marion High School. Because gasoline, tires and automobiles were rationed, Vic Sell, Butch Conradt and Bucky Hintz rode horses to school. During the day the horses were boarded in Bill Ziehm's cattle barns.

Surviving these last years are Marion High School year books, the Mario. The class of 1942 dedicated the book to Miss Edna Schmidt. L. K. Forrest and T. K. Hocking were the principal and superintendent. Other teachers were Lloyd Meiners, Michael Foley, Marjorie Baeseman, Delos Kobs, Ruth Nygaard, Mary Gordon, Jeanette Schielke, Earl Clausen and Dorothy Roth. What happend to them all? Doris Krueger and Vergene Ruehmling were editors of the year book.    47 seniors graduated.   About 200 students in high school.   These were the years when Big Falls and Leopolis had two years of high school before students transfered to the big school at Marion.    Tom Meyer, Jean Lau,Darold Brockhaus, Bonnie Babcock and Ken Halpop were Presidents of their respective classes. On a sad note, Tom Meyer (1925-1945) was killed in action on April 15, 1945 while in the U. S. Army, Blackhawk 86th Division, World War II in Germany.

Extra activities included Thespians, Future Farmers of America, Future Homemakers, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, Pep Club, Cheerleaders, Girls Athletic Association, Chorus, Glee Clubs, (complete with gowns), Band (with uniforms), Office Girls, Librarians, Boxing, Football, Baseball, and Track.

All the grade school children had a group picture in the yearbook. They   performed in an Operetta called 'Station Cloudville'.

Darhl Jantz and Norman Draeger were the 1941 Football Homecoming King and Queen. Betty Behling and Clarence Bork were the 1942 Prom King and Queen. Doris Krueger and William Ehlert were the 1941 Prom King and Queen.

Vic Sell was vertically challenged, and the autographs written by class mates in his yearbook, were almost on the edge of harrassing this short person. From the sounds of some of the writings, Vic had lots of fun (and girlfriends).

1945 was the year Vic graduated from Marion High School. The yearbook was dedicated to Dr. Frank Mulvaney (1875-1944) who had recently passed away. Members of the school board were L. R. Noack, Lucille Schultz, Forest Schafer, Rexford Michaelis and William E. Wulk. J. F. Holms was Superintendent, Hilman Kittelson, Malcolm Anderson (his first year), Maxine Davidson, Dorothy Heicalis, Fay Lavold, Robert Kunitz, Norman Aderhold, Rosann Kopjar, Carol Ross Fuchs and Frederick Schultze were teachers.

Young men left during the school year to serve in the armed forces, Oryn Blashe in the Air Corps, sadly he was killed in action October 23, 1945. Howard May, Lloyd Schilling, Russel Hopkins in the Marine Corps, and Arthur Scherbarth.

Other activties included Debate, Forensics, French and German Club, Hi Crier, Commercial Club, Science Club,

After graduation, and the end of the war, Vic and Kenny Erdman bought a Texaco Service Station (now Kleins) in Clintonville . Later Vic owned his Standard Oil delivery truck. On August 11, 1948 Victor Sell and LaVerne Krueger were married and lived happily ever after until his untimely death on August 28, 1973.   Two daughters Debbie and Mary.   Vic was a happy-go-lucky fellow who enjoyed life. He was 45 years old.

Information furnished by LaVerne Sell, Mary Rahr, Genealogist and Carol Gruetzmacher

At The Mall

2012-01-15T19:55:00.000-08:00

by David Griffin

My wife and I have had an agreement for the 47 years we’ve been married. She won’t murder me and I won’t lie to her. I’ve never fibbed about anything serious, but if she had been strict about our bargain she would have been a very young widow.

When the cell phone rang, I turned the volume on the car radio down and dug into my pocket. I sure don’t know how we ever got along in life without cell phones.

”Where are you?” my wife asked.

“I’m sitting up at the end of the north parking lot and I can see the Mall entrance where I dropped you off.”

“OK,” she said, “I’m inside walking toward it now.”

“I’ll be looking for you when you come out the door,” I said.

“Well, start driving. I hate to stand outside waiting for you. The young guys always try to pick me up and take me out for a drink,” she said.

“A word of advice…” I began.

”Never mind,” she finished. “Start driving.”

“I will when I can verify you’re actually at the North exit. You always get your directions mixed up, come out the wrong exit and I drive around wondering where the hell you …” I began.

“It says ‘North Exit’ in big letters,” she finished, “in English, right over the door. Which I’m walking through now.”

“I don’t see you,” I said from my perch up at the end of the parking lot. “You should carry the Boy Scout compass I gave you for these occasions.”

“I AM at the north parking lot exit,” she said heatedly. “I’m not carrying that thing. I’d look like a surveyor.”

“With the flip-up mirror, anyone would think you’re just checking your make-up with a compact.”

“Who carries a brass compact mirror as big as a hockey puck? I’m holding up my shopping bag.” she said. “You can’t miss it. It’s bright pink. Can you see me?”

“No,” I said, “wave it back and forth.”

“Oh, for … I can’t,” she said, “it’s too heavy.”

“Set down the bag and just raise both hands and wave,” I said. “Like a cheerleader,” I added.

I got no answer. Perhaps I needed to explain further.

“You’re too short,” I said. “Can you get some height? Remember jumping jacks, where you jump up and clap your hands together over your head? Or is there a bench or something you can climb up on?”

Still no answer.

“Are you there?” I asked. “Are you listening?”

“I stopped listening to you the first year we were married,” she replied. “I’m busy looking for a nice young man to buy a drink for a soon-to-be widow.”

You know, it’s simply amazing how we can miss the little things in life. I’d been sitting there up at the end of the North parking lot for almost an hour without noticing that the sign on the mall building I was watching plainly read “South Entrance.” I guess that meant I was in the South parking lot.

“OK I see you!” I hurriedly shouted into the cell phone as I turned the key and ripped the shift lever down into Drive.
“Yes, that’s you,” I lied. “Gee you’re just as pretty from a distance as the day I married you,” I added.

“Then remind me to keep my distance from you,” she said.

The car in front of me stopped abruptly and waited to take the place of an SUV backing out. This always annoys me. I had stopped in time only a foot from her rear bumper. The SUV driver couldn’t see traffic in either direction and he inched out backwards a tiny bit at a time

“Where are you?” asked my wife.

“I’m in motion,” I said.

“Uh huh,” she said, “don’t hurt yourself.”

The SUV driver was now out far enough to see up and down the traffic lane. He accelerated and swooped backward, crashing into the driver waiting in front of me. Her car lurched backward and hit my bumper.

I got out to inspect the damage to my car… only a slight scratch.

“What’s going on?” asked my wife.

“I’m caught in traffic,” I lied.

The woman ahead of me was taking a long look at the front of her car while the other driver stepped from his SUV and apologized.

“No problem with my car,” I said as I approached the two, holding the cell phone away from me with my finger over what I always thought was the tiny voice pickup on the device.

They didn’t seem to notice me. “And your back bumper looks OK,” I said to the woman.

“It’s my husband’s new car,” she said to no one in particular. “He will absolutely kill me!”

“I gotta go,” I said to her, with my hand up in the air, the cell phone held as far away from me as possible. Some day I’ll find the mute button. The last time I held my hand that high was in the third grade the day I almost wet my pants before getting the teacher’s attention.

A policeman materialized to my right.
”Sir, I’ll need your license and registration,” he said. “You can put your hand down now.”

“Honey, I’ve been involved in a minor accident,” I said into the phone.

“Well, you look OK to me,” said my wife, standing now to my left.

“I brought her with me,” said the policeman.

“I heard the crash on the phone,” she said.

“While you were standing on the bench, lady,” said the policeman.

“He said he was arresting me,” my wife said, glancing at me with what might have been a proud look on her face.

“I said I was rescuing you, Mam.” said the policeman.

“Well, I was only standing there, young man, and this is America!” said my wife. “You’re lucky I hadn’t started my jumping jacks.”

copyright David Griffin, 2011

World War One and The Local Boys

2012-01-15T06:14:00.000-08:00

By Delores Miller

On June 28, 1914 the Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria-Serbia and his wife were assassinated. Little did the local folks know what a long-lasting effect this was going to have on this area. War began over there with Germany and Kaiser Wilhelm II conquering all Europe. President Woodrow Wilson promised in campaign speeches in 1916 to keep America out of the war, and remain neutral, but in April 1917 declared war on Germany. This was to be 'The War to End all Wars, The Great War, The war to make the World safe for Democracy', all names given to World War One. Another embellished and gaudy name was 'La Guerre du Droit' or the War for Justice. (Little did they know what the future held for more wars.) Liberty Bonds were sold to provide financing for the war.

Local boys were required to register for the draft. Pressured by propaganda, publicity, proselytism, ballyhoo and enthusiasm to become soldiers, mercenaries, and sharpshooters. They left by train in high spirits. They returned home two years later, broken and bent in vitality but when they left, were sent off with the high school bands from the train station. Most of the population were only one generation removed from immigrating from Germany. The food sauerkraut was changed to Liberty Cabbage. People named Schmidt changed their names to Smith to disassociate themselves from German roots. Some Dupont young men were straight off the farm and never been further than Marion, too busy milking cows.

One young man from Marion, William Bertram (1890--1918) was the son of Charles Bertram (1856-1940) and his wife Louisa Rigby (1866-1943). His draft registration lists his birthdate as December 5, 1892 in South Dakota and his employment as a painter. William was a Private in Company H, 127th Infantry, 32nd Division and lost his life in battle at the age of 28 on August 27, 1918 and is resting for all eternity at Roseland Cemetery. 94 years ago he died. A life cut too short by a terrible and needless war.

Dr. Frank Mulvaney, a Marion physician was in the Spanish American War in 1898, in the Panama Zone where he contracted malaria and could not serve in World War One.

One such infantry training facility was constructed, and called Camp Grant, and christened and named after the Civil War General and later President Ulysses S. Grant. Located near Rockford Illinois in Winnebago County. Quarters were built for housing, drill grounds, rifle ranges for 43,000 men of this new National Army. 180 barracks each holding 200 men was ready for the reception of the first draftee contingent of selected men. 61 buildings comprised the base hospital unit. A remount depot had a capacity of 5000 animals, mostly horses and mules and had to include a school for blacksmiths. Classes were held in French and German. Activities included boxing, wrestling, football and mandatory attendance at Chapel. This was the 86th Black Hawk.

After a training period of several weeks, off they went by train and shipped to France, Belgium and Germany and into the sand-bagged trenches. Often filled with 2 feet water, which provided a gratuitous bath. Hand to hand combat, warfare with grenades, poison mustard gas, masks. New and improved weapons gave each side more efficient machines to kill the enemy. (how wasteful!) Mechanized vehicles, tanks, trucks, automobiles, motorcycles and for the first time airplanes. Submarines torpedoed merchant ships. Stench of rotting flesh. Soup kitchens and rations, all in the name of fighting the Huns. Most infantry men were in the Army, although the Marines served among other places at Belleau Wood, on the Marne River, just outside Paris, France, Chateau-Thierrey. Hard winter weather, and were forced when not in the fox holes to sleep in the snow. Few had tents or other protection. Came home shell-shocked and deaf. Some received a small disability pension. This was a world war, with soldiers, sailors from many countries. They still bled and died.

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat

The soldier's last tattoo!

No more on life's parade shall meet

The brave and fallen few.

Their silent tents are spread

And glory guards with solemn round

The Bivouac of the dead.

By the time the Armistice was signed on November 11, 1918 more than three million Allied servicemen had died from wounds, disease and other causes. Then came the Spanish Influenza which is another story for another time.

In 1919 the American Legion was formed in Marion. A canon used in the war was brought to Marion and a park was built near the plywood factory especially to house this historic artifact. Wives, daughters and other interested females organized the Auxiliary which every year sell poppies in honor and tradition of the World Wars.

In Flanders fields, the red poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The birds, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow

Loved and were loved and now we lie dead

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

Remembrance Day November 11 and the poppies still grow in abundance and profusion, in the disturbed earth of battlefields and cemeteries where war casulities are buried. In Marion, still the high school band marches down Main Street with a program and ceremony. A moment of silence marking the end of the war, the 11th day of the 11th month at 11 a.m. in 1918.

And then the Veterans came back to Marion to live uneventful lives, seldom talking about their experiences in World War One.

Old soldiers never die;

They just fade away.

Their memories remain.

Bibliography: Zillmer, Lembke and Miller family archives, World Book Encyclopedia, the History of Marion, The Early Years.

First Snowfall

2012-01-13T07:16:00.000-08:00

by Delores Miller

So we got our first snow storm of the year here in Wisconsin after temperatures that were above freezing. 4 inches of snow with lots of wind so Russell fired up the new International tractor to plow some snow out of the yard. If you can open these pictures it shows Russ plowing snow a year ago with his old Case Loader tractor in front of our old 4-stall garage. Then it is 2012 with a new 5-stall garage. Same place but oh, what a lot of water, wind and tornado went down the road in 12 months.

Happy New Year 2012 from the Miller Family

2011-12-30T13:26:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year 2012 from the Miller Family

May the bright spots of the old year 2011;

Be but flickers in the dark,

When compared with what the new year 2012

Will enkindle with it's spark.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring out the wrong, ring in the true.

All is well with the Millers, we survived 2011

Marianne, Matthew, Russell, Delores, Keith and Robin. Missing from the pictures is the Massachusetts Richard Miller.

Ratzburg - Real Or Repro - Ask The Experts!

2011-12-29T17:12:00.000-08:00

by Harold Ratzburg

Last spring, at the Military Vehicle Rally in Aberdeen Maryland, I was wandering through the vendor stands to see what goodies I could find. Aberdeen is basically a vehicle show but other vendors connected to the military hobby also come to sell.

    I came to a table of a vendor who was strictly a vehicle parts guy, but in the middle of his table was one of those plastic heads that you see and on it was a beautiful M-1943, Einheitsfeldmütze (ie, Field Cap) of the German Schutzstaffel----SS----troops of Nazi Germany.

    The SS was a vicious Nazi outfit, which started out to be Hitler's very own bodyguard and ended up as a large enough unit to have full fledged combat divisions. They were also the troops that controlled and guarded the concentration and extermination camps that the Nazis created. Since it was such an elite and nasty branch of the German military forces, anything connected to the notorious SS is very collectible.

The cap looked to be in excellent condition with the correct BEVO insignia on the front and left side. It had the makers name stamped on the inside, dated 1944, and size 57. Its age seemed evident by the corrosion on the copper or metal air ventilation grommets on each side

    The vendor told me that he had bought it at a garage sale and didn't really know the value of it, and asked me to make an offer on it. I really hate getting into a deal without a price tag to start with, but I did make an offer (low ball of course) and finally walked away with my purchase and what I figured was a really good deal.

    OK, so there I was----a picker like you see on the American Pickers TV show on Monday nights----so now it is up to me to research and establish a resale value for my purchase.

    I showed it around to friends who also collect and every darned one of them saw the cap as an original. The collectors I talked to were not the beginner collectors of Nazi stuff but at least three of them were advanced collectors. One of them is a well-known author of a book on how to detect fakes and repros of German military memorabilia, and all of them allowed as how they felt the cap was original.

    Then of course, I hit the reference books on the subject.

    The first book, "Head Gear of Hitlers Germany" by Smith and Saris, with Otto Spronk, has an exact picture of my cap and close ups of the insignia on it, and if that isn't the same cap, by golly, I will eat it----as the saying goes. One small exception is that my cap has a vent hole at the top on each side. Other books show similar caps as well, though not exact like the "Head Gear" book does.

    So I thought I would check out the cap maker's name that was stamped inside my cap. Using Google, I found that the maker, a man named Otto Schlientz, Uniformmützen maker of Straubing, Germany, was listed as being one of 40 or 50 recognized manufacturers of the cloth visored field caps for the German military.

    The cap is in excellent condition which in collecting can be good or bad. If a cap is moth eaten and sweated up through hard use, I suppose the tendency is to think----OK, this cap has been there and survived and collected its very own DNA sweat samples, therefore it has got to be the real thing.

    On the other hand, my brother-in-law, who was in Germany at the end of the war, tells me of garage rooms stacked to the ceiling with German uniforms, helmets and equipment that was confiscated from the German military when prisoners were taken and the piles were stacked there for American GIs to help themselves to souvenirs to send home. He helped himself to two helmets, two visor less field caps, a bayonet and other odds and ends.

I figure that caps in new condition could also have been stacked there or in similar piles all over Germany, and caps in new condition would have been the first to be picked up by a scrounging GI.

    It is also a given, that if you were a military cap maker in Germany when the fighting stopped, you had a problem deciding what you could manufacture that would keep bread on the table in very desperate times. Your inventory of supplies to make military caps may have been all that you had, and if you noticed that the swaggering and rich and well-fed US GIs were collecting old Nazi stuff to send home, then maybe you could produce more of the stuff to provide some income. It did happen I am sure.

    It is also true, that when you look through the militaria catalogs today, you find that just about everything from the Third Reich,--- flags, uniforms, weapons, daggers, etc, etc, etc,--- is being reproduced and offered for sale.

    But, dang it, my cap just looks so real and old and of the correct period, that I can't believe it is a repro. (after all, the difference in price between a repro, at $50.00, and an original, at $1000.00, is a very tidy sum) So, I figured, I will go to a militaria show and ask the "Experts" there who deal in the Nazi stuff!!!!!!!!

    Right off, the first Expert there says it's a repro. When I ask him how he knows, he says that the color of the lining is wrong and it is definitely a reproduction. The color of the lining is wrong!? Germans were using any kind of material they could get their hands on that even came close. They even used material imported from Italy.

    The next vendor says it is wrong because the SS never had the manufacturers name stamped in the inside and the stitching and tread color was not correct. He didn't even attempt to prove any of what he said.

    But, the Expert that really corked me off, tells me from a distance of six feet, without even looking close at the cap, "That's a repro!!!!" When I asked him how he knew, he tells me, "Listen, I have been dealing in Nazi stuff for over fifty years now and I can tell at a glance if it is real or repro." YEAH-RIGHT!!!!!!!!! What a bunch of BS!!!!!!

    When you think about it however, can you really expect a straight answer from a dealer at a show? They don't know if you are there to maybe sell it, and they would certainly rather buy it from you at the price of a repro worth fifty bucks than pay you for a cap that might be worth a thousand.

    As long as I am picking on Experts at the shows, let me tell you about what happened to a friend (a really sharp lady in the German militaria field) at a big show in Monroeville PA where the really big guys in the hobby come together.

    She was walking down an aisle and noticed a plaque on a table that was engraved with an inscription of the SS Unit that was the personal bodyguard of Adolf Hitler----the Leibstandarte. She made a comment to her companion walking with her that the engraving was certainly intended to increase the value of the plaque but that it certainly was not correct. The dealer at the table, who was a very highly respected vendor of very expensive Nazi militaria overheard the comments and got quite incensed over them, and kind of followed them down the aisle, berating her as to what did she know about Nazi artifacts compared to himself, the dealer, who had been in the business for years?

    What the issue was, was a little detail in the spelling of the engraving of the word Leibstandarte which was spelled 'LIEbstandarte' instead of the correct 'LEIbstandarte'. In the German language, lieb is a word associated with love and sweetness, which the Leibstandarte tried very hard NOT to follow. They were a very nasty group of people under Hitler's command, in fact they started their rise to power as Hitler's very own personal body guard unit.

    The prefix leib however, is associated with “life” and Leibstandarte is the rough German equivalent of the elite Roman Praetorian or Life Guards – a very select group of big, able men who took the obligation to the guard the life of the Emperor. Hitler’s Leibstandarte or Life Guard was even equipped with flags and poles that bear a close resemblance to those of ancient Roman guard units.

     After the dealer shot off his mouth for a while, my friend very quietly pointed out the obvious problem with the spelling on the plaque, and she also pointed out that Germans are some of the most precise people in the world and most certainly would never make an error like that on an important SS Nazi item. In those circles, such an error could have meant a direct transfer to the Russian Front.

    What it all goes to show is that even this “expert” didn't know everything he thought he did but that didn't stop him from making a fool of himself with my friend. He simply turned and walked away----no apology came from him.

    And, the question remains, who had the engraving done on the plaque and who was responsible for the incorrect spelling. I wonder if the dealer took the thing off his table as an 'original' and lowered the price to the cost of a repro. I'm sure that not one in a hundred would notice the error in spelling, so I'll bet it is still there on the dealers table as 'original' or maybe hanging on some collectors wall as his prize piece.

    Such is life in the collecting field of Nazi memorabilia.

Miller - August and Minnie Polzin and the Spanish Influenza

2011-12-29T16:59:00.000-08:00

By Delores Miller

One of the aftermaths of the First World War was the Spanish Influenza Pandemic or commonly known as 'La Grippe'. Legend says this was a disease brought home from the overseas by returning soldiers. This malady killed more people than the WWI bullets. Young adults were victims. Healthy today, sick tomorrow, died, and was buried. 75 million people perished world wide, This was the deadliest natural disaster ever. High infection rate, death was from pneumonia, demise was swift, sometimes within hours. Patients experienced fatigue, muscle aches, sneezing, coughing, lung fever. In those days, no antibiotics were available. Dr. Mulvaney recommended whiskey, brandy, aspirin and quinine. Homes were quarantined and isolated and after patients recovered or expired the home was aired out, and washed down with bleach and disinfectant.

Because so many people were sick, there was a shortage of health care workers, medical supplies, coffins, grave diggers and morticians. 28% of all Americans were affected, but only 3% died.

Gauze masks had to be worn in public. Closed all stores, churches and schools in Marion. Rules and laws were instigated, funerals could not last more than 15 minutes. Fines were issued.

The disease ran rampant from June 1918 until December 20, 1920 and vanished for no apparent reason.

Thirty people died in the Marion area including August and Minnie Polzin. According to the History of Marion, the following people also passed away from the flu: Mrs John Krueger, Hugo Schlender, Mrs William Woller, Oscar Brockhaus, the first Mrs Paul Knaack, Walter Poppendorf, Harvey Lutzewitz, August Hartwig, the cigar maker, Leo Poppendorf, Paul Schlender, Mrs Harry McCulloch, Mrs Emil Liskow, Mrs August Hartwig, Jesse Rodgers, Mrs Jesse Rodgers, William Garry, Mrs Emil (Annie Schmidt), Winter and others.

Memories are a gift from God

To those left behind

They bring comfort, joy and laughter

And they enable us to live forever

In the hearts of those we love.

Wilhelminia Klatt (January 15, 1858-February 3, 1934) and Gustav Polzin (April 9, 1853- August 23, 1937) were married in 1878. They came to the USA and Dupont in 1881. They purchased the Nohr farm, near the south branch of the Pigeon River. Nohrs had a saw mill which burned. Wilhelminia and Gustav had the following children: Henry Polzin of Seattle, Washington, Otto Polzin of Symco, Amelia, Mrs Ed Kussman (1883-1966) of Dupont, Emil Polzin (1885-1966) of Dupont, Hilda, Mrs Francis Hoezle (1888) of St. Paul, Minnesota, Otilla, Mrs Louis Brockhaus ((1893-1978) of Caroline, Ida, Mrs Ernest Nelson (1895-1991) of St. Paul, Edward Polzin (1899-1984) of Elderon, Albert (1891-1918)of Dupont, and August Polzin (1881-1918) of Dupont.

August Polzin (September 10, 1881-December 9, 1918) and a neighbor girl with red hair, Minnie Zillmer (January 4, 1890-December 13, 1918) were married December 31, 1907. Little did they know, when they married with such high hopes, that in eleven years both would be dead. In those days of horse and buggy or sleigh, courting was done amongst the neighboring families. Minnie was a tall big boned, buxom woman, healthy and willing to work hard. Two children, a daughter Lillian (January 15, 1909-March 13, 1909) and Leonard (April 9, 1910-June 7, 1938). August was born with wandering feet, and although a mason by trade, did travel to the state of Washington and did live there for a time. He purchased land in 1911 in Pearce County, south of Tacoma.

Minnie as she was called, although her real name was Wilhelminia was the oldest of the eight children of John Albert (1869-1936) and Fredericka Lembke Zillmer (1873-1939). Siblings were: John Zillmer (1892-1961), Ella Knaack (1894-1952, William Zillmer (1896-1981), [Delores' Father], Alma Pruess (1900-1969), Edwin Zillmer (1905-1977), Adeline Ratzburg (1910-1993), {and Mother to the famous author, writer, military history bluff Harold Ratzburg of New Jersey}, and Fern Ratzburg (1913-1999) who was born on her Mother's 40th birthday.

Minnie urged a family studio portrait be taken, because her brother John was due to be drafted in World War One Army and she was worried he was going to be killed in the trenches in Germany. Little did they know at that time that John never got further than training horses and mules in Alabama and August and Minnie would be dead in less than six months. Doom and gloom.

From the 1977 verbal history of William Zillmer he states: August and Minnie got sick, they had a house in Clintonville. Because of the fear of epidemics and contagion, no one was left to nurse them, except himself and his mother. August died on December 9, 1918 and the funeral was planned to be held from the house. But on the day of the funeral, Minnie died on December 13, 1918. There was nothing we could do, we just watched her die. Leonard, their son at the age of 8 was an orphan. Hauled the caskets and remains to Dupont's Roseland Cemetery with horse and sleigh. A large ostentatious tombstone marks their grave. The family always talked about Minnie and August as though they were just gone away for a little while.

Leonard was made an parentless child, went to live with his maternal grandparents and John Albert Zillmer was made his legal guardian.

After their catastrophe demises the estate had to be probated and followed a paper trail of lawyer and court documents disposing of the Washington land. An inventory of personal items was performed by Ed Kussman and William Rosnow for the appraisal of the estate. A Ford second hand automobile was valued at $125. Other items were mason and carpenter tools, cords of wood, bushels of potatoes, stoves, cooking apparatus, tables, sewing machine, chiffonier, wood heaters, davenport, chairs, oilstove, beds and a land contract for $375.

Leonard had a happy life with the extended Zillmer and Polzin families. Attended Sunrise School, where the commencement exercises were held on Friday May 18, 1923. Graduates included Dora Schwan, Leonard Polzin, Linda Keup, Harold Brown, Leonard Laux and Arthur Brown. Miss Breed was the teacher. The diplomas were presented by his Grandfather John Albert Zillmer who was school board clerk. Other school board members were: Gust Mielke, Director and John E. Nohr, Treasurer. Leonard gave the Salutatory address to the Under Graduates.

Leonard married Helen on October 6, 1932 and had two children.

On June 6, 1938 Leonard died of a heart attack at 28, the same age his Mother Minnie was when she died of the Spanish Influenza.

Thus ends the saga of the Spanish Influenza and August, Minnie and Leonard Polzin.

Information furnished by the Polzin Family Archives, verbal history, Mary Rahr, Genealogist and World Book Encyclopedia.

Miller - World War One and The Local Boys

2011-12-29T16:55:00.000-08:00

By Delores Miller

Dr. Frank Mulvaney, a Marion physician was in the Spanish American War in 1898, in the Panama Zone where he contracted malaria and could not serve in World War One.

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat

The soldier's last tattoo!

No more on life's parade shall meet

The brave and fallen few.

Their silent tents are spread

And glory guards with solemn round

The Bivouac of the dead.

In Flanders fields, the red poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The birds, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow

Loved and were loved and now we lie dead

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

And then the Veterans came back to Marion to live uneventful lives, seldom talking about their experiences in World War One.

Old soldiers never die;

They just fade away.

Their memories remain.

Bibliography: Zillmer, Lembke and Miller family archives, World Book Encyclopedia, the History of Marion, The Early Years.

Reality Redux

2011-12-29T16:30:00.000-08:00

Richard kept an eye on Jackie and on each party guest who spoke with the diminutive man. Jackie may have been short and rather ordinary looking, but he should be the most important man at the party and Richard was happy to see the other guests act accordingly, treating the fellow not only with respect, but also with an easy friendliness that Jackie was thoroughly enjoying. When a small man in a professor’s threadbare herringbone jacket spoke glowingly of Jackie’s famous ability in college to write funny send-ups of the faculty, Richard congratulated himself on his inspiration to alert the guests to a few personal aspects of Jackie’s history.

The afternoon was gorgeous, blue sky and temperature at 70 degrees. And the house, yard and deck where the party took place were exactly what Richard thought they should look like … solid middle class, with shrubs set out and inexpensive flowers planted near the foundation. A Sears power lawn mower of recent vintage sat out in the back corner of the yard. He’d always felt he’d like to live here in Monterey Hills if he couldn’t afford better. Just another section of Los Angeles, a metropolis the writer Dorothy Parker had described as “72 suburbs in search of a city.”

Richard turned back to the crowd and watched as a blonde woman came out of the house and crossed the deck to where Jackie stood talking with Bert Fuller, a man of fifty with blazing good looks who had some success on stage and screen. Willomenia, the blonde, walked up to Jackie and while effusively saying hello put her hands first on his forearm before reaching out and giving him a chaste hug. Perfect. Richard hadn’t met her before this week, but he wondered if that was the only chaste act Willomenia had performed in the past twenty years.

The crowd in the driveway began to separate as a large black limousine slowly inched into the back yard and came to a stop just on the edge of the grass. The driver’s door opened and out stepped a familiar looking alumnus of the University of Chicago; 35 starts, 194 tackles, 13 sacks, six foot, three inches; 253 pounds and a dark ebony finish. Wearing a meticulously groomed gun metal grey suit and wrap-around dark glasses, he moved slowly like the largest cat in the jungle. Indeed, he was the biggest cat in this jungle. The giant named Franklin slowly gazed around the yard, not searching but gathering. His eyes stopped on Jackie, resumed their task and then came back and locked on his employer. When Jackie touched his nose, the big man stepped toward the rear of the limousine, ready to open the passenger door. Jackie began to walk toward the car while Richard moved in a line to intercept his route.

The crowd was now milling around the guest of honor, allowing him to pass slowly from their midst, shouting well wishes and reminding him to come back next year. Jackie seemingly tried to shake the hand of everyone in attendance. When he came to Richard, the short man reached out with two hands to grab the hand of the man who had organized the party.

“Terrific, as usual,” said Jackie, and Richard smiled winningly.

As Jackie reached the car, the ex-football star pulled open the door and the two of them were quickly inside, the sound of locks popping like guns in the distance. Everyone was now waving to a man they couldn’t see behind the darkened bullet proof glass, but that didn’t seem to diminish their enthusiasm.

The limo backed out onto the tree lined street and swiftly glided away toward the expressway a mile distant.

The party had lasted exactly ninety minutes. As soon as the limousine rounded the corner at Blythewood and Gordon Streets, the cheering abruptly stopped and the raised hands dropped out of the air like fallen birds. The party-goers wordlessly looked at each other. A few smiles could be seen throughout the crowd, but most of the faces were sober and a few thoughtful.

You now have a choice between two endings (so far). I really couldn’t make up my mind. Let me know if you prefer A or B.

A. Richard rolled a large residential plastic trash can from behind the bushes into the center of the driveway and hefted a leather brief case atop the impromptu paymaster’s desk. He opened the case and took out a small stack of envelopes, arranged in alphabetical order. The actors began to arrange themselves into a rough line as Richard called each of the 23 names and handed out checks from an agency none of them had ever heard of.

Later at the bar, Willomenia asked, “How much does he pay your agency for that show every year?”

“About thirty grand for salaries, the food, rental of someone’s house, touch up, staging, clean up …. it all adds up,” said Richard.

“And all because he has no real family?” she asked.

“What’s a real family?” said Richard. “When you go to their homes, they complain, ask for money, tell you you’re no good when you refuse their begging. Family isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

“I like the pay,” said the woman. “But it’s all so hard to believe that a man would hire a talent agency to stage a party with a fake family.” She slowly swirled the liquor around the ice cubes at the bottom of her glass.”

“You really think so?” said Richard. “If you were worth a lot of money and for a mere thirty thousand dollars each year you could hire the family and neighbors you always wanted? Who act happy to see you? And ask your advice instead of complain about what you haven’t done for them? Who remember the little things you did in life as well as the big deals and laugh with you at what you think is funny or smart? It’s a wonder more billionaires don’t do it.”

“But the “family” he hires isn’t real,” she protested.

“No, you have it wrong,” Richard said. “It’s the so-called real family who isn’t real. They just want your money. THEY are the fakes. You and I are more real than they will ever be.”

“Well, OK, but ….”

“Believe me, I know,” said Richard, as he slammed his drink down on the mahogany bar. “I know what it’s like to have a family that just wants a piece of what you’ve spent your whole life building, who couldn’t give a damn about how you fought your way up in the world, the cousins who have no idea what it was like growing up with a drunken father, getting beat up all the time, sleeping on the porch some nights, never given a goddamn thing but a fistful of knuckles in your face …”

“Richard, calm down!” said Willomenia, “You’re getting very upset … and a little scary.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that …”

A silence came between them while Richard took a breath, a swig of his drink and lit up another cigarette.

“I’m sorry,” said Willomenia, “I didn’t know about all of that.”

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” he said. “It’s not your worry.”

“I wouldn’t have brought it up,” she said, “but I wondered wherever anyone would get the idea for a fake reunion.”

“It’s my idea,” said Richard. “I staged my own fake family gathering for three years until I got tired of it. Then I moved on to my next fantasy.”

“Do I want to hear this?” asked Willomenia

“Let me tell you a little secret,” said Richard. “Jackie and his bodyguard are actors. I told all of you they were real to disguise who the show is really for.

“Richard, this is getting creepy.” said Willomenia.

”I’m wealthy enough to treat myself,” Richard said. “My fantasy is to be the head of a talent agency. To be with actors, meet pretty women like you and hopefully date them. The backyard party is a lot easier and cheaper to pull off than a short film.”

“You’re not a real talent agent?” she asked.

“Nope,” he replied “just a very successful patent attorney living out his fantasy.” Richard wondered why he had said “patent attorney.” Did they make that much money?”

“Is anything real?” she asked.

“Not in this town,” he replied. “Would you like to go somewhere for dinner?”

OR

B. Richard rolled a large residential plastic trash can from behind the bushes to where everyone stood. He hefted a leather brief case atop of the impromptu paymaster’s desk, opened the case and took out a small stack of envelopes, arranged in alphabetical order. The actors began to arrange themselves into a rough line as Richard called each name and handed out the checks from the Thespedia Agency.

Cabs arrived and the group began to leave. In less than an hour Richard found himself alone. He looked at his watch and wondered if he should wait for the home’s owners to return. He decided it wasn’t really necessary. The cleaners would be by in the and he had already written a check to Bill and Fran, the agreeable owners.

He chuckled when he thought of his wife complaining about the money he spent on this charade. He placed the call on his cell phone, waited five minutes and then stepped outside into the cool night air.

A light rain had begun to fall and the cozy neighborhood street lamps were reflected on the surface of the wet street. A pair of headlights made their way toward him and pulled to the curb, the passenger door directly in front of him.
He reached down and pulled open the door to the executive grey limousine and got in.

“Did you get Franklin home to his honey on time?” he said to Jackie, who sat behind the wheel.

”Yes, she’s a sweet kid,” said Jackie

“She keeps him on the straight and narrow,” said Richard.

”We have to get the limo back, too,” said Jackie. “By tomorrow noon.”

“I’ll take it back in the morning on my way to the agency,” said Richard.

Why do we do this every year, Rich,” asked Jackie.

“Because they need the work,” replied Richard.

“They’re terrible actors,” said Jackie. “Maybe that’s why they need the work.”

“They’re old and no longer beautiful, that’s why they need the work,” said Richard. “Zach and Bert and the others were some of the first people to sign with my agency thirty years ago,” said Richard. “I owe them my career and my success, frankly.”

“Well, you’re paying for it,” said Jackie. “What’s this cost you every year, fifty grand?”

“About thirty,” said Richard, “mostly their pay. But there’s food, rental of someone’s house, touch up, staging, clean up …. it all adds up.”.

“Why not give them an annual stipend or something,” said Jackie. “Why the fake party?”

“Jackie, you’ll never understand show business,” said Richard.

“I’m not in show business,” said Jackie. “I’m your brother in law, the plumber.”

“They need a SHOW!” said Richard. “They need to feel valuable doing what they spent their lives perfecting. To feel good about themselves.”

“I don’t get it,” said Jackie.

“I know you don’t,” Richard replied as he stared out the window into the night. “But you play the part of John Randal Smith Yorkton perfectly.”

“I work at it,” said Jackie. “I want them to think they’re fooling me, that they’re great actors.”

Richard smiled to himself. In truth, his brother-in-law was a pretty poor actor. But the overly sensitive man would have never been able to play his part if he knew everyone at the party understood he was a plumber, not an actor and certainly not a billionaire. That’s why Jackie was never told everyone knew he was Richard’s brother-in-law. To the actors it didn’t matter. They thought it just part of Richard’s annual silliness so that he didn’t feel embarrassed handing out a little charity to them, his old clients. They didn’t care how he gave them money. They were mostly in financial positionis beyond pride. The only person fooled at Richard’s annual party was Jackie. And maybe Richard was, too.

copyright 2011 by David Griffin