PARADISE PAST

Back in a long-lost childhood time

we felt rich if we had a dime

in our world of home-folks,
friends and dogs and cats.

To be poor was no cause for shame.

All families fared much the same

and “good guys” in cowboy movies

wore white hats.

But, as time passed by, our world changed.

Soon our lives were all rearranged

and altered by this strange

new world of today

The fables and fancies of youth

gave way to learning and to truth

and our cowboy heroes
all drifted away.

The Barbershop

There was a time when almost every little “wide spot in the road” community had a barbershop. And villages of 600 people had as many as three or four. There were no written rules, but, like the corner pool hall, a barbershop was generally considered to be “Men Only” establishment. Aside from being just a place to get a haircut or a shave, it was somewhere for males to gather and to exchange news and views. And the wide range of occupations, backgrounds and lifestyles of the shop’s patrons usually furnished ample material for interesting conversations.
Some businessmen, serious about the importance of their appearance, would hit the barbershop every day for a shave. And for a haircut every week or ten days. Most men, though, were satisfied with a haircut once a month. A few came in to get “prettied up” only for special occasions. Most men who worked outdoors disliked getting haircuts in winter because it made “their heads feel too cold.” A few of the old bucks came in only once a year, in the spring, to “get sheared.”
The barber was usually a neat and clean fellow, and highly skilled in the use of a barber shears and clipper, and especially the straight edge razor. Some tell me that, in barber college, they learned to use that keenly sharpened (and highly dangerous) blade by shaving their own faces. Others say that their training required them to be able to shave soapy, foamy lather off an inflated balloon.
The skill of a good barber has always been recognized and appreciated. And many found that it didn’t hurt their business one bit if they became good conversationalists. So they learned enough about farming to be able to discuss that enterprise while they cut a farmer’s hair. They became experts on the intricacies and details of many varied jobs and business ventures. They kept abreast of the sports news, both nationwide and local. And just about anything else that might be of interest to their listeners.
But then progress reared its ugly head, starting with the invention of the safety razor. Previously, barbershop shaves had been a matter of convenience, and for some a “status thing.” Soon the electric shaver came along, making it even easier for a man to hack off the stubble. Next came the cheap, disposable safety shavers. And barbershop shaves became, almost entirely, a thing of the past.
A young man somewhere got the idea that it would be great to wear shoulder-length hair. And that idea caught on. With much help from TV, movies, and the news media, the fad rapidly spread across the land. The demand for barbershop haircuts decreased. Many of the older “purveyors of the tonsorial arts” closed their shops and retired. Some of the younger ones, unhappy with their dwindling income, began seeking steady jobs with good pay and benefits. And our beloved old barbershops (and barbers) continue to become more and more difficult to find.

THE BARBERSHOP

I count up more treasures each day
That I’ve watched slowly slip away.
The one I sadly miss most is
The barber shop of yesterday.

Our old barber was a special
Kind of a gentleman, and wise.
Could make up good weather forecasts
Just by looking up at the skies,




Skilled with clippers, shears, and razor,
Could make a shaggy man look nice.
Whether asked, or not, he’d often
Dispense plenty good, free advice.

His one-chair shop was a kind of
World news and gossip clearing-place.
He would entertain you while he
Trimmed up your hair and shaved your face.

He could quote how much your neighbor
Got for that last big load of logs.
And how well folks’ cows were milking
And the latest prices for hogs.

He knew just whose hens were laying,
And whose wife and kids had the flu.
And which farm bills Congress should pass
And what the President would do.

He knew which young guys played on the
The local high school’s great baseball team.
They might not make it to “the State,”
But it don’t hurt to try…and dream.

He felt the Chicago Cubs just
Might get one more World Series chance.
He knew which girl each young fellow
Had taken to last week’s big dance.

Saturday evenings were busy,
Men would keep coming through his door.
As he prepared them for Sunday,
Clumps of hair piled up on the floor.

When each “masterpiece” was finished,
He’d splash on a bit of bay rum.
Show his customer the mirror:
“There I have maybe helped you some.”

He’d collect his pay politely,
This grand old master of pretext,
Say, “Hey, the chair’s empty, fellers,
I need the money. Who is NEXT?”

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY

Saint Valentine's Day was a big event in our one-room country school. Several weeks in advance we began devoting our limited "Art Class" time to the making of valentines. Obsolete wallpaper sample books were our main material supply. Our teacher would obtain these from a furniture store and drug store in a nearby small town. We would leaf through these catalogs until we found just the pattern we wanted, then would cut out that page and proceed. The amount of time that was spent on each valentine usually depended on how good a friend the giver considered the prospective recipient to be.
For simpler models, the page was usually folded in the middle, like a greeting card, and on the front, a "To" and "From" were carefully lettered with crayon. On the inside, the message would be simple: "Be My Valentine" or just "Be Mine,” with now and then an occasional "I love you." The shape of a heart might be carefully drawn to enclose the message. We all learned to draw pretty good hearts. We found that we could make a nice looking pattern by folding a sheet of paper in half, then drawing half-a-heart. Cutting this out and unfolding it, both sides of the heart would be symmetrical.
For closer friends, a heart was cut out of red construction paper and pasted to the inside of the back half of the wallpaper valentine. Some of these would have a short rhyme like, "Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and so are you."
For very close friends, a fancier card was made by cutting out a white paper heart, smaller than the red heart, and printing the message on the white heart, then pasting it on top of the red heart. Some were even decorated with white paper "lace." that we learned to make by folding and refolding the paper and then making the proper cuts with our scissors, much the same way the girls often cut out hand-holding multiple paper dolls.
As Valentine's Day approached, our teacher would put out a decorated box with a slot in the top. We would carefully write the name of one of our friends on each of our home-made wallpaper valentines, sign our own name, and then drop them into the box. Usually a few "store-bought" valentines made their way into the collection, but most were of our own making.
At mid-afternoon on Valentines Day (or the nearest school day preceding it), we all took our places at our desks. Several eighth graders were assigned to remove the valentines from the box, one at a time, read aloud the name of the student each was intended for, then distribute it to his or her desk. What a time of anticipation! As each of us wondered: "How many valentines will I get this year?" I once received one of the hand-made valentines that featured a short verse I had never read or heard before, or since: "Red roses say that I love you. Do you love me? I hope you do!" I liked that rhyme. It was different, somehow. I soon fogot about it, but must have filed it away somewhere in my memory.
Fifty years later I sat down at a table in a small restaurant. My day of selling had not gone particularly well. And I did not look forward to another evening and night away from home. I am not usually one to indulge in the luxury of feeling sorry for myself, but at that particular moment my mood was not the best.
As I waited for the waitress to bring my evening meal, I looked over the small vase of flowers on my table. The blossoms were pretty, and looked just real enough to prompt me to feel the leaves and petals to make sure. They were not roses, but somehow, for some inexplicable reason that old valentine rhyme popped back into my mind. And on the blank reverse side of my paper place mat I scrawled this lament:

RED ROSES SAY....

These red roses on the table
Are still in full bloom today.
Seems they've bloomed this way
A million years,
Since that day you
Went away.

They awake an old, old longing;
My love for you lingers on.
They'd have helped me to
Say, “I love you,"
But, though I'm here,
You're still gone.

Tonight I'll watch television,
Perhaps shed one lonely tear,
While I dust off these
Plastic roses,
And wish that you
Could be here.

THE SONG OF THUNDER BRIDGE

The subtle sound danced softly across our summer evenings. Too musical to be referred to as merely a “rumble,” it bore a vague resemblance to someone playing the lower tones on a distant marimba.

As children, we enjoyed the unusual melody. We learned at an early age that the sound was made by a vehicle crossing the old bridge, more than a mile away, down where Muscallunge Road crosses the Rattlesnake Creek. Many generations of area youngsters knew that random, rippling sound. And down through the years it was not uncommon for the more imaginative ones to refer to it as the “song of Thunder Bridge.”

The reason for the bridge’s harmonic tune was the design of the old structure. It was built in such a fashion that there was no need to fasten down the individual heavy wooden planks that made up its floor. Loosely laid, those timbers were free to move around a bit as a vehicle crossed over them. Some “self-proclaimed experts” explained that the choice of this method of construction was just good economics, that wooden bridge floors with free-moving planks stayed cleaner and dried out faster when wet, thus lasting longer than did floors that were tightly-spaced and with each plank firmly fastened in place. Others agreed that the design was a matter of economics, but argued that the major savings came from eliminating the need for many bolts and the labor required to drill holes and install them. Few, if any, of the local people knew the age of the bridge. Some of the old-timers estimated that it had most likely been built for the benefit of the early wheat farmers who hauled their wagon loads of grain to the Atkinson Flour Mill in North Andover. Others felt certain that it was constructed early enough to have rendered its first rhythmic rumbling when crossed by the steel-banded wooden wheels of a wagon heavily laden with locally-mined lead ore that was being transported to nearby Beetown or to the smelters at Potosi.

For many years, “Thunder Bridge!” was the rallying cry of partying teenagers. In a secluded valley in a bluegrass pasture that bordered the lightly-traveled Muscallunge Road, young people from the surrounding area, as well as those from a number of the neighboring small towns, found the privacy desired for frequent evening get-togethers. The first young men to arrive always managed to find and gather an ample supply of dry wood to feed a large bonfire. According to whispered reports, a good time was almost always had by all.

Most of the Thunder Bridge pasture parties were uneventful. At one of the more memorable ones, one of the happy young male revelers, for some unknown reason, pitched an unopened bottle of beer into the roaring bonfire. The resulting explosion was loud and filled the sky with sparks and bits of burning embers. A few of the surprised merrymakers suffered small burns from the flying sparks, and a number found their clothing suffered small burn holes. If there are such things as “party gods,” they all must have been smiling that evening, as only several very minor facial wounds were caused by the flying bits and shards of broken glass from the exploding bottle.

Occasionally a concerned neighbor would inform the pasture’s owner that the youngsters were holding beer parties on his property, and perhaps the time had come for him to do something about it. But he refused to become excited or get involved. “I was young once myself,” he would say. “Young people will party and I can’t think of a better or safer place for them to do it. As long as they close the gate when they leave, their parties don’t bother me a bit.” To friends, he would sometimes confide that he did regret the fact that he was now considered too old to be invited to join the young folks in their jolly evening events. More than likely he had done a bit of partying there himself in earlier years.

Except for singing its occasional song, Thunder Bridge led a quiet existence. A long-time fixture in the area, it was loved by most, and had no known enemies. But one dark, rainy autumn night it suffered a brutal and completely unprovoked attack. As may be expected on Halloween, the night had no shortage of spooks, witches, goblins, and any number of various other shadowy evil spirits traveling slyly about, performing their various pranks and wicked deeds. A number of the huge, heavy wooden planks that made up the bridge’s ancient floor were actually lifted out of place that night, and were spirited away – at least for a short distance – and carefully concealed in a nearby patch of tall weeds.

The next morning an alert school bus driver spotted the gaping hole in the bridge floor and managed to get his huge vehicle stopped in time to prevent any damage to either it or to his precious cargo.

The years went by, as years tend to do, and brought with them the changes and progress we had all come to expect. Both the kinds of change we eagerly awaited and the type to which we did not look forward with great anticipation. Eventually the time came for our beloved old Thunder Bridge to go. Perhaps it was just considered by some to be obsolete. Or it could be that it was thought to be too narrow for even the small amount of traffic that made use of the graveled rural road. It is possible that the bases and abutments built of quarried limestone and mortar had deteriorated beyond repair. It may be the heavy old riveted steel framework and beams had become badly rusted and weakened by age. Then again, it may be the ancient structure had just never been built strong enough to carry the large milk, fertilizer, and logging trucks that began traveling our roads as time moved along, or the even-larger, heavier burdens anticipated for the future.

Regardless of the reason, Thunder Bridge disappeared from Muscallunge Road, from the Rattlesnake Creek, and from our lives. It was replaced by a modern new bridge that is sturdy and substantial. One that appears to be almost indestructible, with steel beams that are securely anchored into, and supported by, what appears to be a more-than-ample amount of steel-reinforced concrete. No one can question its strength, but it is silent – so silent. Automobiles, trucks, and farm tractors cross it with scarcely a whisper.

Unlike most old bridges and many elderly people, the new span has no stories to tell. Even sadder is the fact that it has no song of its own. Youngsters of the area will never know the rhythmic rumble of a loose-plank bridge floor. But the music remains and lives on for a fortunate few. In our minds and memories we still hear and enjoy that distant melody, the song of Thunder Bridge.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD

HAPPY 84th BIRTHDAY DAD. HOPE YOU HAVE A GREAT DAY AND ENJOY YOURSELF. LOOKING FORWARD TO MANY MORE ARTICLES AND POEMS. THANKS FOR EVERYTHING YOU AND MOM HAVE DONE FOR ALL OF YOUR CHILDREN AND GRANDCHILDREN. YOU HAVE GIVEN US THE BEST GIFT OF ALL - A LIFE FILLED WITH LOVE AND JOY.

YOUR FAMILY

OLD BALDY

The old hunter proudly plopped the feathered carcass down on the ground for all of us to see. He stretched out its large, once-powerful wings to their full spread. The keen-eyed marksman felt sure he had just rid the neighborhood of a nasty predator.
Almost every farm had a flock of chickens running free in the yards back then. And anything that even vaguely resembled a "chicken hawk" was the enemy ... and was fair game for anyone with a gun. The trophies were often "spread-eagled," attached to a fence or tacked to a board wall with their wings fully extended. I was only a small boy then, and the dead bald eagle looked frighteningly large and ferocious.
Later I learned that the American bald eagle is our national bird - a part of our country's emblem - a proud, noble, royal, majestic bird and brave beyond belief. And that it is protected by Federal Law.
Eagle lovers "ooh" and "aah" at the great birds' ability to swiftly and silently swoop down to the river, catch a large fish with their talons, then,
without hesitation, flyaway with it, scarcely rippling the water's surface. They love to tell of some amazing aerobatics the feathery aviators engage in when in a playful mood. These include high-speed dives and loops and rolls reminiscent of the old-time human stunt flyers. They even speak of a few kinky tricks sometimes accomplished by two of the large, daring birds ... stunts that may or may not have inspired the old airline slogan, "Fly United."
The gaudy raptors' great size and snow white heads and tails set them apart from all other birds and their presence is always sure to attract attention. But they are not always universally loved and adored, respected and revered. Some farmers consider eagles unwelcome visitors to their property. Oh, they no longer believe in all the wild old tales. Most don't worry that their smaller livestock will be carried off ... or their small children. But a number of costly animal diseases plague farming country. Illnesses that cause a high mortality rate among their hogs, especially the newborn piglets, often wiping out the entire litters of most or all of the mother sows. In many cases, eagles get the blame for carrying these diseases from one farm to another.
In winter or early spring, a field spread with fresh hog manure holds a great attraction for eagles. From many miles away they will find and converge on such "choice pickings." And when finished, fly on to another such feeding ground, often a dozen miles away, and then another, possibly carrying some of the dreaded germs with them.
Some of our few surviving male chauvinists (an endangered subspecies) also take an extremely dim view of the bald eagles and their feathered world - a strange and unbelievable land where "queen size" means larger than "king size," where females completely rule the roost - and the nest - and everything else, a phenomenon made possible by their superiority in size, strength and ferocity,

OLD BALDY

The American bald eagle
Is our country's bird, although
Ben Franklin thought the turkey, wild,
Would be much more apropos.

Adult eagles are great, huge birds
Each is adorned with a clump
Of snow white feathers on the head
And on each and every rump.

Their size is quite impressive, and
They have plumage, goodness knows Like
old turkey buzzards dressed in
"Sunday-go-to-meeting" clothes.

To bird lovers, they're proud monarchs
Surveying from a tall tree"
Great untamed kingdoms as far as
Only eagles' eyes can see.

In the winter, they can be seen
On the river, now and then,
By a patch of open water
Often there'll be eight or ten.

Rural folks all know there's one place
They'll be seen flocking around
Where some farmer's spread hog droppings
On the snowy, frozen ground.

Though they're this great country's emblem
I will tell you this, for sure
Eagles look a lot less regal
When they're knee-deep in manure.

Theirs is an endangered species
Sorely threatened - yet I know
We sure didn't see this many
Baldies sixty years ago.

All-in-all, I must admit that
Eagles still give me a thrill
Whether seen out in the wild, or
On a crisp one-dollar bill.

THE SNOW DAY

One of my favorite rhyming poems has always been John Greenleaf Whittier's "Snowbound." It was required reading in the old one-room country school. And we had a great teacher who was always ready and willing to explain to us anything we didn't understand. If we stumbled over words when reading aloud, she made sure we got the whole picture.
I have a copy of the long old poem somewhere in my files. One of these cold, wintry days I may try to dig it out and read it again. I liked the flowing rhyme. The story told of a rural family that was snowbound – held hostage on their farm – by a super-bad winter blizzard. It told of each of the members of the family (and several visitors) and how each reacted and what each contributed to the stranded group. Whittier had such a great way of describing things. He could paint pictures with words, and almost make us not only see, but also hear, feel and smell the inside of that farm home with its wood heat and its good food. He spoke of many things we farm kids were familiar with.
I don't know how good my memory is, or how accurate my quotes, but, as I recall, Whittier spoke of "The sun that bleak December day" as a "time-worn traveler" that eventually "sank from sight before it set." In preparation for the coming storm, the children "piled with care their nightly stack of wood against the chimney back." And he described the cold as "a chill no coat however stout, of homespun stuff, could quite shut out that dull hard bitterness of cold that checked mid-vein the circling race of life blood to the starkened face."
The visiting school teacher was described as "Stern wielder of the birchen rule, the master of the district school." But, with the family, around the fireside that night he dropped his stiff facade and became almost human. He "teased the mitten-blinded cat, played crosspins on my uncle's hat." The poem told of an unfortunate lady who "cruel fate had denied a fireside mate." Also of an uncle, a hunter and who described "How the teal and loon he shot and how the eagle's eggs he got." Yes, I will definitely have to read that great old poem again just to get the story and the quotes straight. I only hope that I can find it in the shambles I refer to as a "filing system."
Being stranded by a blizzard is not nearly as great a threat these days. Most snowplowing and sanding and salting crews do a prompt and an excellent job of making our streets and roads passable. The sudden loss of electrical power can make things a bit uncomfortable and unhandy, but here is a modern-day "Snowbound" tale of a family that doesn't have much trouble dealing with such a problem:

THE SNOW DAY

The winter day wore on so slow
We watched new, white snow drift and blow.
The wild wind played, as blizzards do,
A whistling tune up chimney flue.

We gathered 'round the hearth-fire's glow,
Safe from the outdoor wind and snow.
A quiet day for game and book;
We used the fireplace to cook

Foil-baked potatoes, steamy hot,
Coffee in an old-fashioned pot,
White popcorn mounds filled giant bowls
Sausage sputtered on glowing coals.

In darkness, at the end of day,
We watched the firelight dance and play.
The fireplace, chuckling with delight,
Taunted the cold, storm-battered night.

Time passed; we prepared to retire,
Spread sleeping bags near the warm fire.
Before we closed our eyes in sleep,
We prayed – a ritual we keep –

Counted our blessings, large and small;
Thanked each other, and God, for all
The precious gifts we have and hold...
Our shelter from life's cruel cold.