The Heartland Philosopher

Musings from the Midwest

[heartlandphilosopher]

THE SHORTEST MEMORIAL DAY PARADE

The 2023 Memorial Day parade in our small town was promoted as the “longest Memorial Day parade in the state.” 200 units! Bands! Flags! Horses! Motorcycles! Floats! Politicians! Candy! Hundreds of spectators lining the parade route, thrilled to witness this small town welcome to summer.

I was chairman of the Memorial Day parade in 1988 and I have a plaque from the mayor to prove it. That parade was probably the shortest Memorial Day parade in our town's history.

I have forgotten how I got the job as chairman, maybe it was a phone call that became a personal favor that I couldn’t say “no” to. Besides, I had some ideas to make the parade truly representative of Memorial Day, honoring our military and our war dead. As my mom had said once, “Memorial Day parades shouldn’t have clowns in them.” I agreed.

Believe it or not, I found a book at the public library on how to organize a parade and that greatly influenced my thinking in what should and should not be in a parade. The book emphasized adhering to the parade’s theme and maintaining public safety.

For theme, I chose to honor those who were sacrificed in the Korean War. My father-in-law was in combat with the 7th Infantry Division there. He survived, but many of his comrades didn’t. I wanted to include military units and equipment from the National Guard, area Korean War veterans (such as survivors of the Battle of Chosin Reservoir), the American War Mothers, maybe a fife and drum corps, a fly-over by the Air National Guard, theme-appropriate floats, and bands from every high school in the county.

This parade would have flags and patriotic music. It would not have Ronald McDonald, hot rods, tee ball players, political candidates, and candy-throwing (safety — you could put an eye out or get run over by a jeep).

Since this was before communication by social medial, the local newspaper helped hype the parade and units were contracted at a central location, maybe the mayor’s office or the library. Entrants got a copy of the parade guidelines and signed off on them. No one would be showing up on the day of the parade asking us to allow their pickup truck to join the end of the line-up. And no one would be throwing candy.

There were hiccups. I recruited some friends as volunteers to be parade marshals and had difficulty finding “Made in America” hats for them to wear for identification. Also, the Air National Guard vetoed the fly-over because the fuel expended would be too costly. But some things turned out favorably, too. For example, the mayor agreed to foot the bill for a motivating monetary donation to each of the high school bands as a gesture of thanks for their participation.

I think the parade ended up having something like 30 or so units in it. We assembled in the library parking lot and along adjacent streets. Vehicles from the National Guard, men and women marching in uniform, veterans riding in convertibles, and a few theme-appropriate floats were interspersed with the marching bands from the county high schools. The sights and sounds created a wonderful Memorial Day effect. It didn’t take long to accomplish the marching portion and I’m sure spectators asked themselves, “Is that it? It’s over?” 

A thread of commonality ran through each parade unit, however. Patriotism. Honor. Solemnity. Integrity. This parade reflected the essence of Memorial Day. I was proud of what we had accomplished.

Nevertheless, over the years, I have reconciled myself to the fact that the public wants an entertaining parade that kicks off summer and celebrates the American way of life, preserved by those who made the ultimate sacrifice. My idealism has adjusted to the reality of:  Bands! Flags! Horses! Motorcycles! Floats! Politicians! Candy!

[heartlandphilosopher]

A Modest Proposal to Return the New Castle Fieldhouse to Its Rightful Place as the Largest High School Gym in the World

For sixty years, the New Castle Fieldhouse reigned number one as the largest gym in the world with 9,325 seats. In fact, nine of the top ten largest gyms are in Indiana (Google it).

It could be that residents in the other eight communities, or maybe it was just two or three in the top five, were rankled by not having the number one designation and they began to wonder if errors were made in calculating how seats were counted in order to be recognized as the “largest.”

Eventually, an organization -- like “The Society to Calculate Seat Accuracy in Hoosier Gyms” -- was created with the goal to count the seats in the large high school gyms in the state of Indiana until it was clearly determined what was THE largest high school gym. Picture teams of otherwise idle historians scattering hither and yon, visiting the ranked Hoosier high school gyms, carefully counting and documenting their number of seats.

Later, it was announced in the major newspaper in Indianapolis — lo and behold! — a new ranking of the largest gyms and the New Castle Fieldhouse had fallen to number three with only 7,829 seats. East Chicago with 8,054 was number two and the new number one was — ta-da! — Seymour, with 8,228.

After the weeping and wailing had subsided among New Castle fans, great minds assembled and began to consider methods to gain 400 more seats, which would give the New Castle Fieldhouse 8,229 seats — one more than Seymour’s seating capacity and restoring New Castle’s gym to its number one status.

Using careful thought and analysis — and in the satirical spirit of Jonathan Swift, I am willing to contribute to this noble effort by offering my own Modest Proposal.

I propose that additional seats, such as folding chairs, be strategically placed at every available space throughout the fieldhouse.

Start with the restrooms. Twenty five or thirty chairs can be set up in each of the restrooms, men’s and women’s.

Another five or so can be unfolded in the three concession stands.

The three ticket offices can probably utilize two each.

Twelve chairs can be arranged on the overhead scoreboard, three on each of the four sides. Lower the scoreboard before the game for the twelve lucky fans, who will have the best view of the game when the scoreboard rises to its usual position fifty feet or so above the center circle.

Neatly arrange folding chairs in the tunnel, leaving an aisle for entrance and exit.

Attach a folding chair to each exterior door, ready to be unfolded and occupied, facing the court.

Random chairs can be scattered about the concourse, maintaining safe traffic flow and protecting emergency exits.

The Auxiliary Gym on the east side might hold one or two hundred chairs, depending on their configuration. Closed-circuit TV would enhance the fan experience, although hearing the roar of the crowd through an open door might suffice.

Finally, consider adding folding chairs on the playing floor itself, in front of row one and lining the out-of-bounds areas completely around the playing floor.

Also, if necessary, four additional chairs can be arranged back-to-back on the Trojan head in the center circle.

Have you been counting? Is that enough? Is that 400? If not, keep adding chairs until it is.

However, if we are number one by only one seat, Seymour and East Chicago will merely make adjustments in their arenas in order to regain their seating glory, again by only a seat or two. And Richmond, which has 7,786 seats, is nipping at New Castle’s heels, needing only 44 seats to overtake the number three spot. This competition can go back-and-forth for years!

Consequently, to avoid a seating war, there is a simple method for picking up MORE than 400 seats. Re-number the seats! Paint the numbers on the bleachers half the distance they were when the fieldhouse had only 7,829 seats. This should DOUBLE the number of seats to 15,658! We’re number one -- again!

In conclusion, if we follow these modest proposals, we will assure ourselves that the New Castle Fieldhouse will return to its rightful position as the “largest and finest high school fieldhouse in the world.” When visitors enter the facility, they will continue to be awed by the sheer vastness of this architectural wonder, where every seat has an unobstructed view, where fans stand patriotically for our National Anthem, where a junior prom and a roller derby and an evangelical crusade and a physical education class all can find a magical space to touch the souls of participants and spectators alike.

[heartlandphilosopher]

The Deflated Birthday

Duke celebrated his birthday. He turned 12 and relished the opportunity of having a whole day when attention would be focused on him.

The day began with The Little Sister singing “Happy Birthday” to him while he was eating his cold cereal at the breakfast table. Before the last “…to you” had faded, The Mother appeared by his side with a fresh doughnut from the neighborhood bakery and it had a single candle stuck in it. Duke smiled, said, “Thanks!” and devoured the doughnut in just a few bites.

He put on his jacket and headed out the door for school.

Monte joined him on his walk as he went past his house and Jimmy, Mike, and Ricky joined them a half block later. Even though it was his birthday, Duke tried to contain any excitement and pretended to be nonchalant.

“ Who got that math homework done?”

“I did. It wasn’t hard.”

“I couldn’t do it so I’m gonna ask Mr. Beach about it before class starts.”

“Mike, we’ve been in school for three months. His name is Mr. Veach. Veach.”

“I know. I was just funnin’ ya.”

“Did anyone watch ‘Dragnet’ on TV last night?”

Duke couldn’t believe it. No one was saying a thing about today being his birthday.  Maybe when he got to school, someone would say something.

Homer and Larry and Jerry were waiting by the door when Duke and the guys walked up.

“Has the warning bell rung yet?”

“No, do you want to wait or go on up?”

“Let’s go on up. Mike has a math question for Mr. Beach.”

“I know it’s Mr. Veach. I said I was just funnin’ ya.”

The boys started their school day and Duke spent the rest of the day waiting for someone — anyone — to acknowledge his birthday. During every lesson, at every recess, during lunch: not a word about Duke’s birthday.

He had one opportunity at the last recess. They were playing “Red Rover” — .the popular recess game where two teams of kids stood in two lines facing each other on opposite sides of the playground, having joined hands with their teammates. The captain of one team summoned a player from the other team to run across the playground at top speed and attempt to break through the joined hands in the opponent’s line.  

Homer was on Duke’s team and had shouted, “Red Rover, Red Rover, send Tank McShurley over!” Tank was named “Tank” because he was a HUGE kid from the other sixth grade classroom, and when he lumbered across the playground, he headed straight for Duke’s position, thinking that was where the hand grip was weakest. If Tank didn’t break through, he would have to join Homer and Duke’s team. If he DID break through the line, he could return to his own team, taking one of those two weak players back with him. Tank didn’t break through. Instead, he collided with Duke and fell to the ground on top of him. As Tank stood up, he looked down at Duke and said, “What do you think this is? Your birthday?”

It was almost as though no one had heard him because when they returned to the classroom after recess, it was back to the normal school routine. As the clock edged to dismissal, Duke regretted having a birthday during the school year. His birthday may as well have been during summer vacation. In fact, that would have been more fun.

Just before the bell for dismissal, Mr. Veach reviewed the next day’s assignments and made some announcements. The last announcement was: “And today is Duke’s birthday. He is 12.”

His classmates started singing “Happy Birthday” to him and just as they sang “…dear Duke…” the dismissal bell rang. They got up to leave and finished the birthday song for Duke as they walked through the door and into the hall.

Duke’s cheeks were still red as he joined his buddies for the walk home.

According to Monte, “We knew it was your birthday all along. We even passed the word at school but told everybody not to say anything until the end of the day.”

Mike said, “We were just funnin’ with ya!”

“You’re 12 already? I won’t be twelve until next spring,”

“Me either! Geez, Duke you’re the old man of our class.”

Homer pointed out that he was twelve in September. As they neared their neighborhood, and began to split up to go to their separate homes, Monte said “Happy birthday, Duke” and Homer added “Yeah, happy birthday, old man!”

That night, at dinner, Duke told the family about his birthday experience at school. He showed them the scrapes on his elbows from the tackle by Tank. The Mother brought out a homemade chocolate cake with twelve lit candles. They all sang “Happy Birthday” to him and he blew out the candles. The Little Sister pointed out, “You didn’t make a wish!” and Duke just presented an exaggerated, fake smile in her direction.

The Little Sister gave him a homemade birthday card. The Mother gave him two wrapped presents. Duke unwrapped them slowly and carefully, to build suspense for the onlookers. The first gift contained a dress shirt.

“A shirt? That’s nice.”

“You needed a nice dress shirt,” The Mother added, “so there you go.”

Duke opened the second present. It was a plastic model kit of a stagecoach.

The Mother continued, “We knew how much you liked to build models and how much you liked western movies and western TV shows, so we — your father and I — thought this would be the perfect gift.”

She sensed disappointment in Duke’s reaction. “You can glue it together and paint it up and you will have a unique model for your collection. I’ll bet no one else around here has anything like that.”

“Georgie, maybe” Duke suggested.

The Mother turned and retrieved something from the sewing machine cabinet. She placed a third gift —  unwrapped — on the table at Duke’s place.

“It’s deodorant,” she said. “You’re coming of an age when you’re starting to stink.”

[heartlandphilosopher]

A 50s Kid Goes to the Movies

In my youth, four movie theaters existed in my hometown: the Castle, the Princess, the Royal, and the Starette. At one time or another, I went to all four of them -- usually with an older sibling or with a neighborhood friend -- because the movies were first-rate entertainment and the price was right. I paid fourteen cents for a ticket at the Royal on a Saturday afternoon to watch the Durango Kid riding his horse, Raider, and chasing bad guys. Oh, I could have stayed home and listened to the radio, or played cards, or built a plastic model airplane, but sometimes my imagination needed to be dazzled and my psyche needed the reminder that the good guys can win.

The Royal and Starette theaters were on Broad Street, in the middle of the shopping district. That made it convenient for my parents to give me change and send me into the theater alone while they continued to shop. They knew when the feature would be over and reminded me to meet them in front of a particular store upon my exit from “the show.”

It was fun sitting in a crowded, darkened theater with other kids my age, waiting for the curtained screen down front to light up with those images from Hollywood. Impatiently, the children would begin chanting, “We want a show! We want a show!” until a glow would appear on that screen. Then, a roar would go up from the crowd of kids, the curtain would part, and a cartoon featuring Bugs Bunny, or some other animated character, would illuminate the space and we would all cheer. We saw previews of coming attractions and a newsreel summarizing current events. Eventually, the featured presentation would begin and we would settle down to be enthralled by the latest adventures of one of our cowboy idols: Tom Mix, Red Ryder, Rex Allen, Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, Lash Larue, The Cisco Kid, Hopalong Cassidy, Smiley Burnette. Gabby Hayes, or other horse opera heroes. They weren’t always westerns but everyone seemed to love cowboys -- except when they pulled a guitar from a saddle bag and started singing or they did that mushy stuff, like kissing a girl. Many of those Saturday matinees were serials and would end with a cliffhanger to lure an audience the next Saturday. When the lights came up, I had to hurriedly exit the theater and rendezvous with my parents at our appointed location.

The Castle and the Princess theaters were across the street from each other on Main Street, a block or two from downtown. The Castle was the attractive, ritzy theater, with jacketed ushers, subdued lighting, plush carpet, and first-run, blockbuster, grade A movies (such as “Gone With the Wind”). The Princess was an older theater, with a grungy atmosphere, sticky floors, and a balcony that allowed its occupants to shower those below with popcorn or bubblegum. The Princess also seemed to schedule more B and C grade movies (such as “I Was a Teenage Werewolf”).

My brother was an usher at the Castle in those days so I went there more frequently. He would spot me in the crowd and either pay my admission or slip me some cash to get something extra from the concession stand. He also brought home a variety of those eight by ten black and white photographs they used as promotions in the theater lobby. The Castle not only showed the popular, most-talked-about movies but also introduced me to 3-D, which is how I saw “The Creature From the Black Lagoon” and “The House of Wax” -- as well as some western movie where Indians shot flaming arrows into the audience and a pioneer’s wagon overturned and slid off the screen right into my lap. Another technological advance at the Castle was Cinemascope, using an extra wide screen to surround the viewer with the latest Hollywood epic (such as “Ben Hur”).

The Castle also had “Bank Night,” a marketing ploy to sell more tickets on poorly attended Wednesdays, and the winning numbers would then be drawn for cash payout Wednesday night. The payout could be $25, $50, or even $100, which was big money back then. My next door neighbor’s mom regularly participated in Bank Night by having her son and me attend the Wednesday matinees so that she would be entered in that night’s drawing. As a result, I saw a slew of movies I had no excitement about (like those old black and white movies my wife likes on TV). In fact, to this day, my wife can be watching an old classic film on the Turner Classic Movies channel or the American Movie Channel and I will sense deja vu; I’ve seen this movie before.

I did attend a few live shows performed on the stage at the Castle. Besides local Christmas programs and dance revues, I remember a professional touring production of “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs” when I was in elementary school. We got out of school to attend and admission was a can of food. Elementary-aged boys were excited about the opportunity -- not to see beautiful Snow White, but to see real, live dwarfs. Other popular attractions were the scary horror productions with the outlandish advertising (“Can you sit through the whole show? Ambulances will be standing by!”) These shows might feature a “live” bat flying over the heads of the audience, an effect rigged with an invisible wire puncturing the screen and stretching to the back of the theater.

Yes, going to the movies in our small town’s multiple theaters was a reasonably-priced entertainment alternative in my youth -- not to mention they were air-conditioned in the hot, humid days of summer. Today, I sit at home in my air-conditioned living room, watch Netflix on my 45 inch flat screen TV, and enjoy buttery microwave popcorn. Meanwhile, my hometown is down to just one theater, and it happens to be the Castle. I hear that it, too, will close soon.

[heartlandphilosopher]

Rudolph Ramps Up a 1950 Christmas

I was listening to the Christmas music channel on the car radio this morning when Gene Autry’s “Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer” started playing over the speakers. That crooner voice, the orchestra and backup singers, all contributed to its being a number one song in 1950. Hearing it today immediately took me back to when the same song played over other speakers in my childhood history: through the sound systems of department stores downtown, over the public address system at school, and of course, through the big, console Crosley radio in our living room at home.

Back then, our downtown was abuzz at Christmastime. As a child, I had no idea that, financially, merchants’ profits in that month frequently would make or break them for the whole year. No, in my childish mind, I thought everyone was caught up in the spirit of Christmas. The main streets in the business district were decorated with pine or fir greenery and with twinkling lights. I could hear the Salvation Army bells vying with the Christmas music. Shop windows were painted with Christmas scenes and symbols and even the five-and-dime-stores had enticing displays. The courthouse had a full-sized sleigh with Santa and his bag of toys being pulled by the eight reindeer — and Rudolph leading the charge. We children paid no attention to the guy-wires that made it look like they were swooping in for touchdown. A soft, flaky snowfall completed the scene and my little town looked like a Christmas card or a Norman Rockwell painting.

Even at my elementary school, the atmosphere was electric with the excitement. Red, green, and white construction paper seemed more abundant for art projects. We used the big paste jar and constructed long paper chains, alternating red and green, and draped them around the chalkboard. Rudolph was portrayed in many of the crayon drawings and tempera watercolor paintings. Live Christmas trees appeared in some classrooms and in the halls of the school. I thought about what Christmas presents would I get for my teacher and for my special friends — and how I would eventually make the dramatic presentation of them. Music class incorporated more Christmas carols and helped create a program, skit or play for class or school convocations. Adults probably observed us at recess, playing on the playground with a little more energy, a little more enthusiasm, and a lot more noise in anticipation of the pending Christmas vacation. Passersby strolling by our elementary school during a quiet snowfall looked at the student holiday paintings on the building’s huge windows and probably thought they were ensconced in a giant snow globe.

Naturally, the commercial and secular aspects of Christmas were interrupted when my family and I went to church. The church building itself was lightly decorated with some greenery, candles, and a religious-themed Christmas tree. The congregation sang more carols from the hymnals and adults heard Christmas-related sermons. The nativity scene helped teach children the biblical story of the birth of Jesus: however, near Christmas, Santa arrived downstairs in the church basement to give each child a small, brown bag containing an orange, some walnuts, a few chocolate drops, and several pieces of colorful hard candy. After church, my family walked home in the accumulated snow. As our feet crunched the clean, white snowpack, my siblings and I looked up at the clear, starry night sky, oblivious to the innocence, purity, and naivete surrounding our childhood.

At home, my sister and I reveled in the anticipation ramped up by Christmas Eve. We sought distractions to help burn the nervous energy we had and to help get Christmas morning to come sooner. The children at our house had no stockings to hang but we did enjoy our live Christmas tree with its piney smell and bright ornaments. We gazed at the bubble lights and pressed our noses toward the shiny spheres to watch our reflections distort. We re-arranged the dime store candles depicting carolers, Santa, and Frosty the Snowman. “Frosty, the Snowman” was another Gene Autry hit in 1950 that my sister and I sang, along with our duet on “Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer.”

I now realize that, back in 1950, during the Christmas season, every phase of my life was seemingly dedicated to driving the hype about Christmas coming. On Christmas Eve, the anticipation was at a fever-pitch and it was no wonder I couldn’t sleep. I lay there in my bed, upstairs — just below the roof — wide awake, thinking I could hear reindeer hooves pawing on our roof. One of them had to be Rudolph, I thought. I would lie still for what seemed to be forever before I would creep down the stairs — only to be sent back up to bed because it “wasn’t time.” Finally, at about 4 or 5 a.m., I would slip back down to the brightly-lit Christmas tree in our living room and stand there shaking, in awe of the wonder of it all.

[heartlandphilosopher]

Radio Santa

Years ago, I got the opportunity to play Santa Claus on the radio. Not too many people get the chance to play this role, so when I was invited to audition, I accepted the invitation — and the challenge.

I thought the jolly voice and the ho-ho-hos were going to be important but skills in improvisation and ad-libbing were just as essential. During the audition, the producer/director had me ad-lib something about Mrs. Claus and her baking or something about visiting the reindeer in the barn. I must have passed because I got the job.

Santa was going to be live on the radio for only a limited time. Parents were to patronize a local steakhouse and fill out a form that would then be used by an announcer, or Telephone Elf, to call the child during a specific time-frame. When the child was on the phone, the announcer would cue Santa with the child’s name — “Santa, we have little Johnny Jones on the phone” — and Santa would find out what the kid wanted for Christmas.

Ideally, this structure would work smoothly, but we didn’t count on children being struck silent while in awe of talking to Santa, or not having their Christmas list in mind and taking a long time to think of something to ask for. At first, it was awkward and Santa repeated himself a lot. Sometimes Santa had no idea what toy the child was talking about because the kid referred to the toy by its marketed brand name.

And in those first attempts, sometimes radio Santa made mistakes. Once, he assured a child that he would be in his town on Christmas Eve, but he named the wrong town and the child had to correct him. Other times, Santa talked too much and the Telephone Elf got behind. Occasionally, the Telephone Elf would shrug his shoulders because there were no callers and Santa had to improvise.

About halfway through this Radio Santa gig, we made midcourse corrections. Santa studied toy catalogs and visited department store toy departments to check out the year’s popular toys and to clarify the name brands. With experience, Radio Santa got better at gently moving the kid caller along and winding up conversations with the generic “…and some surprises.” Other midcourse corrections came from Santa’s boss: cram in more callers and chuckle more ho-ho-hos.

The two sweat-producing conditions were: having no callers or having a teenage caller. When there were no callers, Santa had to ad-lib about the cookies and the baby reindeer in the barn. When there was a teenage caller — always a prank by another teenager who completed a form at the steakhouse to embarrass a friend — Santa diplomatically steered the conversation to a short, graceful conclusion. Since Radio Santa’s day-job was a high school teacher, most of those were identified before they got on the air.

One night, near the end of my tenure as Radio Santa, a friend put the whole episode on audiocassette tape. I kept that precious tape for years and later realized that some of the children I talked to on the radio years ago were students in my high school senior English class. It made a nice lesson on how much they had matured from childhood to adolescence now that they were on the threshold of young adulthood.

My last night on the job, I left the studio bewitched by the spirit of Christmas. I stopped by the driver’s door of my car and looked up at the multitude of sparkling stars revealed in the rural night sky. I thought to myself, all those naive, innocent children, they really believe in Santa Claus, a symbol for the spirit of Christmas. I didn’t need to climb into my car to get warm. I had been warmed by my experience as the radio Santa.

[heartlandphilosopher]

Decoration Day

I have a problem.

I have to spend the weekend with Grandma. Not just any weekend but the three-day Memorial Day weekend. Most kids would look forward to it. Not me. Grandma is short and boring. She likes to read romance novels, listen to classical music, or play Solitaire. She doesn’t have cable. She doesn’t even own a TV. Grandma lives in a one-stoplight town where there’s absolutely nothing to do. I’m going to die.

This town is dead. Grandma made me give her my cell phone and she put it her purse. Since she didn’t have any video games, she tried to get me to join her in a game of Euchre but I said I had to do some writing for school. She believed that just because I used the word “school.” It’s not for school — it’s my journal — but she’ll never know. She gave me tomorrow’s schedule: watch the parade in the morning; visit the cemetery in the afternoon. Woot. Bet I won’t sleep tonight.

I slept like a baby last night. Maybe it was that big, old bed in Grandma’s guest bedroom. Maybe it was because of the grilled hot dogs, potato chips and pecan pie. Whatever. We didn’t have to go far to get to the parade since it went right by Grandma’s house. We sat on the porch next to her big American flag. The sun was shining bright so I moved down to the lawn and caught candy the parade people were throwing. The parade was short. A couple of antique tractors, two motorcycles, a semi, seven clowns, three politicians and a four trucks with t-ball players in the back. Grandma seemed sad but I thought it was ok. Hope we go to out to eat for lunch.

Lunch was in Grandma’s backyard. We had grilled hamburgers. I took off the pickles and ate three burgers. Neither one of us talked much. She did say, “Clowns don’t belong with Decoration Day.” I just listened. She added, “There were lots of flags though.” I nodded and told her I needed a nap. She reminded me, “We will be going to the cemetery soon so make it a short nap”. I could hardly wait. Hope I sleep as well as I did last night.

I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about going to that creepy cemetery. But, you know what? It turned out to be not so creepy. First, we had to pick flowers. Grandma has a yard full of peonies (she calls them “pinies”), lilacs, roses, and a bunch of others I don’t even know the names of. She put the cut flowers in buckets, coffee cans, and canning jars — each one wrapped with foil. I asked her why we needed all these and she said, “We will use them to decorate the graves of our relatives at the cemetery — that is why they call it ‘Decoration Day.’” I helped her load all the flowers in the back of her old car and she drove real slow to Peaceful Valley Cemetery.

She parked near an old pump at the cemetery so we could fill each flower holder with water. The place was full of people putting flower arrangements on graves and planting miniature American flags, too. Grandma knew just where to find my ancestors. I asked her if she would get my cell phone out of her purse and let me use the GPS to locate where we were. “GP what?” she asked. “The Global Positioning System -- GPS.” She dug out my phone and I started locking in latitudes and longitudes. Grandma left some flowers for each relative’s grave. She stood quiet by each one so I didn’t say anything either. We weren’t there very long and Grandma offered to take me for some ice cream when we left. When we got back to her house, I had to pack for my ride home.

While I waited for Mom and Dad to come get me, Grandma and I sat on the front porch in her swing and watched kids in the neighborhood as they played. Grandma was quiet again for awhile and then she started talking.

“I’m glad you got to spend the weekend and I’m also happy that you got to go to the cemetery with me. You know, some of the relatives we had in the cemetery had been killed during wars. Others were just folks, like you and me. We decorate their graves to remember them — that’s why it’s called Memorial Day”.

Then she asked me a question. She wanted to know if I would decorate her grave when she was gone. Not just hers, but all our relatives, too. Before I could say anything, she said, “My grandma told me ‘Those who remember will be remembered.’” She said it again, “Will be remembered.” I didn’t know how to answer. So I pulled out my cell phone and showed her my GPS record for the cemetery. “See? They are all here in my cell phone! I will remember!”

Grandma put both her hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eye. “No, don’t store them in your phone. Store them in your heart.”

 I shut off my phone and put it back in my pocket and then I gave her a big hug — and she hugged me back. We hugged for a long time and then I told her, “I’ll never forget you, Grandma. And I’ll never forget this weekend either.”

[heartlandphilosopher]

You Gotta Have Heart

Valentines Day in elementary school is a big deal. It is now, and it was when I was a grade school student.

In early February, the red, pink and white construction paper would appear and we would have instruction on the art of heart design: fold a piece of paper in half and carefully use the elementary-sized scissors to cut one side of the curvy portion of a traditional heart symbol. Unfold the paper, and there it was — the basic foundation of a future valentine. Using crayons, we could adorn the heart-shaped paper with colorful designs, usually even more hearts with little arrows piercing them, crudely drawn cupids and fancy, curly lettering of the word “love.” Then, using the giant, pickle jar-sized container of white paste, we would attach our creations to dainty paper doilies in order to achieve just the right romantic effect: a misshapen, dried-paste- encrusted, asymmetrical, primitive token of childhood “love”.

Create enough of those paper hearts and we could write the names of classmates on them before the big celebration on Valentines Day itself. In addition, each row of desks in the classroom had a cardboard box, covered with colorful paper and stickers, that functioned as a “mailbox.” It had a slit in the top so that valentines could be inserted for their recipients. All students also made personalized paper packets to transport the handmade treasures home.

Forget the flu and pray not to have a snow day — the one day that a student did not want to miss school was Valentines Day. It was party time!

Sometime after lunch (the Valentines Day lunch, by the way, seemed to always feature a dessert of applesauce sprinkled with red hots), the celebration began. There might be heart-shaped cookies, iced cupcakes, chocolates or little candy hearts with messages emblazoned on them, asking, “Will you be mine?” or declaring, “Sweethearts 4-Ever.” After the snacks and candy, the distribution of valentines began. One at a time, paper valentines appeared on your desk, each one from someone in the class who really, really liked you. This was before today’s politically correct time when every student must have a valentine for every student. Back in my elementary school days, if I didn’t get a valentine from someone I expected, I was absolutely crushed! However, if I did get a valentine from the right person, I was absolutely euphoric! That taught me a lot about my future social relationships: not every one you like is going to like you back and you don’t have to have everyone like you in order to get along in life.

Now, all that worked fine until one bright fall day over thirty years ago, when a smartly-dressed redhead with bright blue eyes caught my attention. I got to know her better and, around Christmas, I discovered that I liked her — and she liked me back! Around Valentines Day, I discovered that I loved her. To declare my affections for her, I created a handmade valentine, just like the ones from my elementary school days. I obtained the red, white and pink construction paper, I bought a pack of huge paper doilies and I started cutting. I left an open space in my heart so I could place my hand, making the “I love you” sign from universal sign language, on the school copy machine and generate the finished work of art. I gave my handmade valentine to Chris and discovered that she loved me back! I was absolutely euphoric! Of course, when her mom saw my work of art, she thought it was some kind of obscene hand gesture, which required me to be on my best behavior for weeks — until she liked me back.

[heartlandphilosopher]

Belt, Badge and Bicycle: Adventures of a Triple A School Safety Patrol Captain

One freshly bleached canvas white belt, complete with fully operational buckles as well as hook and eye hardware...check.

One official chrome-plated badge, shield-shaped, adorned with wings-spread eagle and the embossed letters spelling “C-A-P-T-A-I-N” and “AAA SCHOOL SAFETY PATROL”...check. One twenty-four inch boy’s bicycle, oiled, greased and ready-to-ride...check.

In the early 1950’s, adults were not the crossing guards at public school intersections. Instead, the School Safety Patrol, a group of boys (yes, only boys) sponsored by the AAA Motor Club, was responsible for safely escorting elementary school-aged boys and girls across any of the four busy corner intersections surrounding school property. When I was in the fifth grade, I was one of these members of the School Safety Patrol for Hernly Elementary School. We were the “patrol boys.”

I’m not exactly sure who selected us — or by what criteria they selected us. I’d like to think our teachers and principal chose us because of our maturity and sense of responsibility. Nevertheless, fall, winter and spring, we arrived at school early for before-school traffic, left class early at noon for lunchtime crossings, and left class early again near dismissal time to handle after-school duty. Sometimes we slipped on the over-the-shoulder and around-the-waist canvas belt before departing; sometimes we wore the belts all day.

The first order of business as a patrol boy was to position the tall, colorful, metal sign, designed to look like a policeman, artistically-painted with one hand raised in the “stop” gesture. He was a friendly-looking officer, rosy-cheeked and eyes open for any careless drivers approaching our school zone. The sign had a large, round, and exceedingly heavy metal base that required wheeling it to the middle of the intersection at the beginning of the shift and then wheeling it back to the curb at the end.

Patrol boys never directed traffic. Our job was to keep the little ones on the curb until it was safe to cross the street, then — when the coast was clear — we would walk out into the street, arms outstretched, and usher the children across. We also had the responsibility of trying to prevent horseplay, with the option of reporting any malfeasance directly to the school principal. (As a first grader, I once suffered a report to the principal by a patrol boy because I had pulled the pigtails of a female classmate during the lunchtime crossing.) Most students respectfully obeyed us.

Four patrol boys were stationed at each of the four intersections. A fifth was a captain, who would substitute for any absent member of his crew. If all boys were present, he had the enviable task of patrolling all four intersections and checking that all went smoothly. I was a captain of the School Safety Patrol that year.

As captain, I rode my bike around the block as I checked on my fellow patrol boys. I would help them out if they were extremely busy, I would chat with them if they were not. Many times, I merely observed the goings-on. I often helped wheel out (or wheel in) the heavy policeman sign. I am sorry to admit that, on occasion, I even gave rides to the doll of a pre- school girl in the neighborhood. Those were happy days to be captain of the School Safety Patrol. I remember no serious accidents—no children hit by automobiles, no cars hitting other cars—just the rare occurrence of a pigtail-pulling.

Sadly, when my tenure as a member of the School Safety Patrol was over, I had to turn in my prized badge and belt. Today, I cherish my “School Safety Patrol Award of Merit” certifying my membership in this noble order. Signed by Richard James, who represented the Hoosier Motor Club, it proclaimed: “...in recognition of meritorious service rendered in protecting the lives of school children while serving as a member of the School Safety Patrol at Hernly School, from September, 1953 to April, 1954.” The local police chief, the school superintendent and the school principal also signed the certificate, which came with a miniature pin duplicating the original captain’s badge. Together, they remind me of those glory days of burgeoning maturity, responsibility and leadership.

[heartlandphilosopher]

Another Dicken’s Christmas Story

In 1951, Santa met Jesus at our house.

I was 9 and, thanks to being the brother of a 6-year old sister, I looked forward to Santa’s annual stop at our bungalow on F Avenue. I loved the way Christmas bombarded my senses.

In 1951, Christmas in downtown New Castle had its own sights and sounds. The courthouse, decorated with strands of multicolored lights, had an aerial display of Santa in his toy-laden sleigh, swooping toward the ground from the clock-tower, eight reindeer and Rudolph leading the charge to the nativity scene stationed on the ground below. Hundreds of shoppers crowded the sidewalks as Salvation Army bells clanged on the street corners.

At Kresge’s, crowds buzzed in excitement as the speaker system crooned Gene Autry’s Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer or Bing Crosby’s White Christmas. Cash registers rang, and shouts of “Merry Christmas” echoed through the exit as I re-entered the cold, watching my breath curl toward the clear, starry night sky and listening to the crunch of my steps on the snow-packed sidewalk.

Back in the coal-fired warmth of home, the smell of the pine Christmas tree saturated our little living room. Shiny ornaments beckoned closer inspection and distorted facial features. One ornament, a tiny, dome-shaped Bethlehem nestled beneath a starry night sky, glowed from the bulb it was fastened to. The bright, traditional lights intermingled with the bubble-lights and reflected on wall, on ceiling and on foil-wrapped presents stacked neatly below. The simple Nativity scene stood on a nearby shelf, peopled by ceramic figures, bought one at a time at (where else?) Kresge’s.

Beside the Nativity scene was an arrangement of three, small, candle figures: Mr. and Mrs. Snowman and, of course, Santa Claus.

Next to Santa was a small dish of Christmas candy, the hard, small, pillow-shaped, pastel, sugary morsels with little taste but still tolerable once a year.

No Christmas stockings. No fireplace. No Christmas specials on TV. No TV. No Advent calendar to count down the days. We didn’t miss what we didn’t have.

Christmas approached as we sang Christmas carols, shook presents and peeked through wrappings when the adults weren’t looking.

Finally, Christmas Eve arrived. I went upstairs to bed early so my sister would go to her room early, too. I couldn’t sleep on Christmas Eve. My older brothers talked among themselves until the wee hours and then got angry if I hinted that I was still awake. Then, silence. Long, long hours of silence. I lay there listening to every minute of it. Finally, I heard Dad using the poker to rustle up some heat in the coal-stove. It was morning!

Downstairs, my bare feet turned to ice as I counted the gifts—a walkie-talkie, a microscope, a Bible. A Bible? Could this be mine? Inscribed inside, in what looked amazingly like my big brother’s handwriting, was “Presented to Robert Stephen Dicken, from Santa, Christmas —1951.”

Who was I, a 9-year old, to question the theological implications of Santa bringing me a Bible? My big brother was a minister, so he knew what he was doing. Besides, our town and our living room mixed the secular with the religious, didn’t they? He was St. Nicholas, wasn’t he?

Sixty-five years later, Kresge’s is gone , artificial trees have replaced live ones, bubble-lights have disappeared, our bungalow on F Avenue belongs to someone else and I still have that Bible and that Bethlehem ornament to remind me of the year that Santa met Jesus.

[heartlandphilosopher]

Christmas Joy, Christmas Heartache

“Yeah, you guys get me a Santa suit, and I’ll wear it anywhere you want me to.”

Russell and I anticipated our brother’s wearing of the Santa suit on Broad Street in July or on the floor of the world's largest high school fieldhouse in October.

We got it from a costume shop in Indianapolis. It was an above-average Santa suit, but after one-wearing to a Sunday school Christmas party, Ray knew it needed upgrading. “Kids notice things like those plastic shoe covers. The wig and beard are scraggly, too.”

Russell and I pointed out that the station wagon didn’t make an authentic sleigh either, and the post-party cigarette seemed less Clement Moorean than a pipe. One good thing: Ray needed no padding.

We upgraded the beard and wig; black boots replaced the shoe-covers. Ray added “granny glasses” and quit smoking while he was on Santa duty. He drove the streets of our small town, waving to onlookers, getting smiles in return, especially from the scrooges. He looked so good, my wife and I asked him to be Santa at the reception of our December wedding.

Later, his Lions Club asked Ray to be Santa at its state hospital Christmas party. The residents loudly celebrated his arrival and embraced him with neck-wrenching hugs and gleeful gushes of appreciation. The post-party cigarette returned as he gazed misty-eyed and murmured, “They think I’m the real Santa Claus.”

You are, I thought.

Soon, parents were soliciting him to come to their houses before Christmas Eve. He would dispense candy canes and a gift or two. The reactions of the kids — shiny eyes staring in disbelief, tiny bodies trembling with excitement — were reward enough for Ray.

Then he got calls to visit children who were ill at Christmastime, some seriously ill. He thrilled them as he did the healthy children, but Ray’s reaction was different. His misty eyes returned.

What brought joy to the kids brought heartache to the Santa. Even though that happens to holiday angels sometimes, he said, “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

So, he found fault with the suit and complained about the wig. Not long after, Ray retired the warm, red suit to the attic.

For years, Ray disdained other Santas while he continued to shop for the perfect Santa suit, which he insisted he would wear anywhere he wanted to.

[heartlandphilosopher]

The Christmas That Almost Wasn’t

In the early fifties, my oldest brother, Dick, was in college and my older sister, Louise, was working full-time at the employment office. I was about eight or nine years old, wondering where I misplaced my crayons and looking forward to Christmas.

While she was employed, Louise continued to live at home, with the six of us — Mom and Dad, my two teenaged older brothers, Russell and Raymond, my little sister, Rosie, and me. That year, our skinny-but-real Christmas tree was up in the living room, and Rosie and I enjoyed gawking at the spherical ornaments that reflected our distorted faces. Near the top of the tree was my favorite ornament, a hemispherical shell that contained a sculpted landscape of Bethlehem, complete with an array of stars overhead. When the rear of the ornament was positioned over one of the Christmas lights, tiny Bethlehem was bathed in subdued light and stars radiated the glory of that wondrous night of Jesus’ birth.

Rosie and I were too young to realize that Christmas almost didn’t happen that year. Dad worked at the Chrysler plant and was laid off work just before and during the holidays. While Rosie and I shook the decorative snow globes and watched out the windows for real snow, the adults and teenagers whispered the unthinkable: “Santa Claus probably won’t come to 1611 F Avenue this year.” They kept the bad news to themselves and Rosie and I continued to have faith.

Christmas morning arrived and Rosie and I sneaked into the living room at an early hour. We discovered that Santa did make it to 1611 F Avenue! Rosie got a doll, Raymond and Russell got a movie projector, complete with a screen and films, and I got a toy rifle that propelled cork ammunition from the barrel. Christmas Day was its usual joyful reverie: Rosie played with her doll, I was cautioned not to shoot my rifle in the house and we all laughed uncontrollably at the silent movie antics of Lou Costello as a wrestler — and it was twice as funny when Raymond and Russell showed it backwards! Everyone was so happy; no one said a word about this being the Christmas that almost wasn’t.

Only when I was a mature adult with children of my own did I find out the circumstances of that special Christmas Day: my sister, Louise, with her regular paycheck and her generous heart, was solely responsible for Christmas that year. She even used her little Kodak camera to record the happiness and pride on her siblings’ faces.

Looking closely at that photo, particularly at the Christmas tree in the background, you can see that Bethlehem ornament nestled in the upper branches. Yes, the lights are still on in Bethlehem and love rules the world.

[heartlandphilosopher]

The Wealthy Paperboy Comes Home

The other day, when I retrieved the newspaper from the motor carrier’s tube by my mailbox, I noticed that the carrier had enclosed a Christmas card under the rubber band securing the rolled paper. I know about delivering newspapers at Christmastime.

I delivered newspapers for the New Castle Courier-Times back in the late Fifties. My route included Rose Court Apartments at 14th Street and A Avenue, the Annex on A Avenue, as well as the north side of A Avenue from 14th to 17th Street. It was an easy route, sliding unrolled newspapers under the doors of the apartments and tossing rolled newspapers from my bike to the porches of the A Avenue residences. They were good customers, paying their bills faithfully and having few complaints — even when I left an occasional paper on an occasional porch roof.

Passing papers in the winter was a challenge. I was lucky to have the indoor residences in the heated apartment complex but the cold and snowy weather conditions made it impractical to ride a bike to the outdoor residences. I staggered through the snow, carrying a bag slung over my shoulder and crammed with newspapers that were thicker and heavier, containing more sections and supplements for the holidays — especially the Thanksgiving issue.

But Christmas was a special time. It was enjoyable being outside on those cold, winter nights, seeing the Christmas lights and decorations. All the customers seemed to be in a good, holiday mood. The last collection just before Christmas found them in a generous frame of mind and tips rolled in like snowballs down a Memorial Park hill. They would tip with assorted gifts, homemade cookies, boxes of chocolate covered cherries, candy canes, other candies and — money, lots of money — dollar bills, silver dollars, five-dollar bills, ten-dollar bills, checks, and more. When I put that tip money with the money from savings (The Courier had every carrier put aside a set amount of money every week and then would pay out the savings just before Christmas), I felt as though I was the richest person on Earth.

I remember walking the six or so blocks home from my paper route on those cold, crisp Friday and Saturday collection nights just before Christmas. My coin changer was full and my moneybag was heavy. Stars twinkled overhead and the bright moon reflected in the snowy cityscape. As I turned the corner in my neighborhood along the railroad track, I approached my warmly-lit home where family awaited my arrival. The porchlight was on to welcome me and our Christmas tree lights twinkled through the frosted window panes. Smoke from the coal stove curled from the roof-top chimney and, eager to warm myself, I quickened my pace up the neatly shoveled sidewalk. My mind was full, too, as I pondered how lucky I was to be such a wealthy boy.

[heartlandphilosopher]

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