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Kokomo Kootsie
2/15/2002
Submitted by: - Nibbles-- Bits & Pieces
Musings Today
Why is everyone so set on asking a criminal why he did it? What does it matter? He will have some rational, however crazy, and may not be his real reason at all.
However, some crimes are so heinous; we can’t help but wonder how someone could have possibly committed them.
The woman who let her car roll into the lake, with her two small boys strapped in their car seats. How could she?
The woman who recently drowned all five of her children, one by one, in the bath tub. One by one!
A mother is supposed to protect her children; care for them; fight for them!
Then along comes these mothers, who not only do not protect their children, they become monsters who destroy them, and society has to try to protect children from their own mothers.
‘Mother’ becomes a dirty word when the child commits a crime, and she is blamed for their criminal
behavior.
You! You are responsible, for whatever you do or become.
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| EPM 2002 - 2005 |
Kokomo Kootsie
2/15/2002
Submitted by: - Nibbles-- Bits & Pieces
Memory
Camera or Computer? Memory is a strange mental function. The capacity of recalling something that happened years ago and not mixing two separate events into one happening is a very tricky feat, not always possible with a faulty and limited memory.
Sometimes more than one event will trigger into what is thought to be a true and single memory, but in reality is two or more memories entwined.
Often the path to the conscious becomes blocked. Then all you have seen, noticed, but couldn’t remember until something gave your memory a jog - some word, a bar of music, even a scent, then you remember!
Our memories of childhood, our home, may not have been as great as hopefully many of us remember and think it was.
Recall the movie, 'How Green Was My Valley' with Freddie Bartholomew. Was his home town, his valley green? It was a coal mining village built on a hill of the coal mine! No green to be found! But the boy had such a great loving mother, dad, and brother, life was so good to him, he always remembered it when he left it all behind one day - as beautiful and green, because it was - in his heart and memory.
How many of our older generation keep referring to the ‘good old days’? Come on, I’m one of them! They were good. Yet there were none of today’s conveniences, or goodies. No phone, no refrigeration, no central heating and air conditioning, and no inside plumbing. None of the great services we have today. Not even sliced bread!
But we recall, remember them as ‘the good old days’
Because they were!
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| EPM 2002 - 2005 |
Kokomo Kootsie
2/15/2002
Submitted by: - Nibbles-- Bits & Pieces
Fantasy
I’ve had years to plan how I wanted to live - all my long life! Since I was a four year old, and would lay awake all night until the family got up about day light to face a long day of work.
I went to bed before dark most nights, because that’s when my grandparents, with whom I lived after my mother died, went to bed.
There were two beds, one on either side of the bedrooms, and grandpa, with my little brother, Jack, slept in one, while I slept with grandma in the other one.
I’d lay there and be wide awake, while the others were asleep, and listen to a cat yodeling, challenging some other feline to do battle, which never failed to send shivers up and down my spine, even though I loved cats and played with them; but in the night, or just at dark, their yowling sounded very threatening and was a most scary sound to me.
Next the bells on the ice-cream wagon and the clop-clop of the horse slowly pulling the wagon down the street, and then hear it stop next door at Bruno’s and know, and see, old Mrs. Bruno come out to the gate with her big bowl for her son Frank, to fill up with ice-cream, on the nights when it was his turn to make the rounds! I’d give that some wistful, fanciful thoughts.
I look back, and recall, I never, not ever, once, got a speck of the ice cream from that wagon, all those years I lived there; and didn’t expect any. Yet it passed our house every night in summer.
So, I lay awake listening to the night sounds, as it grew dark and the street lights came on, and streamed across the room, missing the corners, leaving them too dark for me, and I was often sure someone or thing, was standing there.
I lay there and was lulled by the comforting purr of grandpa snoring along softly, until he cut loose with a loud snort, waking himself and scaring me half to death!
Early forced bedtime gave me a lot of time to think; and within the framework of a young child’s mind, I’d fantasize and plan out all sorts of childish things. The one curled and wondered and meandered all through these fantasies and plans, was not so childish. It was the blueprints for a house, a home someday all my own! From age four!
As time moved on, so did my ideas; they took on a reality of possibility! Then I read decorator magazines. Clipped pictures from every source, made a scrapbook of all I’d like to have in my home someday! Included was for the yard also - flowers, shrubs - all of it. Even blueprints of the house I wanted, drawn as I wanted it, were found years later among my left-behind papers when I moved away.
All the articles, clippings, and bright shiny magazines saved; it was as if I held my life suspended, on hold, refusing to become attached to anyone or anyone place, until all those dreams were fulfilled! And then let myself begin to live.
This had been going on for a lot of years, and it had never occurred to me, I was living - living the most wonderful years of my life.
The best of all my life right here, now, today, I’m living and really have been for years and years! I realize this fact because I’m so aware of the bible prophecy, in chapter 90 of Psalms, verse 10:
‘The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.'
Therefore I know I live the best of all years, and they will soon be cut off, making them triply the very best years.
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| EPM 2002 - 2005 |
Kokomo Kootsie
2/14/2002
Submitted by: -NibblesBits&Pieces
Saturday Morning
Saturday Morning! Something magical about it; only captured once in a while.
Everyone is home; there's no school; no time clock to contend with, for the week-end.
The kids are up and out about their business; playing ball over in the park; at the swimming pool; off to their Saturday movie.
The house is quiet, the street is quiet; and seems the world is suddenly put on hold and is holding it's breath in expectancy, just resting, waiting.
The bird song is muted, the breezes a soft whisper in the tall poplars by the fence. Chickens cluck quietly in the next-door yard as some scratch in the dirt and others lay on their sides as chickens do, their wings and feathers soaking up the sun.
The smell of fresh coffee permeates the whole neighborhood, mixed with the faint scent of summer flowers.
The spell is not broken when the man of the house, comes in from a trip to the barber shop; he has a couple white bags filled with donuts and danish, which he pops down on the kitchen table.
Almost on his heels, a few friends drop in. All sit around the kitchen table with mugs of hot coffee and help themselves from the paper bags.
There is talk and a lot of laughter, everyone relaxed, enjoying their lazy Saturday morning, feeling it's special magic, but not yet recognizing it to be special. That will come years later, when there is never again a Saturday morning that special.
There are many, many, Saturday mornings in a life; rarely a special one to remember and treasure.
LINK
| EPM 2002 - 2005 |
Kokomo Kootsie
2/14/2002
Submitted by: - Nibbles-- Bits & Pieces
The Railroad Trestle
When I was about twelve years old, two momentous events occurred in my life; we moved to the country, on a small farm, and my auntie told me she was pregnant!!
I was highly embarrassed at that revelation; anything to do with the human body was a subject I was never comfortable with. I was not happy at the prospect of a newcomer in my Aunties life; she had taken the place of a mother, after loosing mine; at age twenty-two months.
However, after the baby boy was born, I had great curiosity about him, and couldn't leave him out of my sight; I loved the ground he walked on!
Then later, I moved into town to live with my uncle and grandma. Every Wednesday, my Auntie and uncle and the 'baby', a little boy of four then, would come into town to visit.
I always tried to have something to give Max; it was never much; it was the depression era, there was nothing extra ever. But he grew to expect some little thing and I almost always had something. It there was nothing to give him, then next best thing was to take him for a walk. I sometimes took our neighbor's little boy too. They were cute together, Max was dark with black curly hair and Buddy was fair with blond curly hair. Both were exactly the same size and very handsome little boys.
I'd take them and show them things they hadn't seen, and I'd explain all about what ever it was. I recall one day - showing them an old gravel pit - out at the edge of town, really right in a neighborhood, and told them of drowning and warned them never to go in one or play around one.
One day, I decided to take a walk with Max over to the old Indian graveyard and show him where Chief Kokomos was buried, as Kokomo was named for him. It was quite a ways from our house, but we didn't mind the walk; it was summer, the day was beautiful, we were so young! He was four years old and I, a teenager.
After we prowled the Indian graveyard, we knew we were going to be late getting back home. We also knew how much trouble we would face. Auntie and Uncle demanded we be back always exactly when they said. They had to be home to attend farm chores and one very important one, milking the cows! So - I took Max by the hand and I told him what I wanted to do. I bent down to him, and I told him of the short cut, across the railroad trestle!! I told him it would be scary, it was high above the creek; I laid it on thick. I thought he would then be prepared and not panic, out in the middle of the trestle!! I myself was deathly afraid of the trestle; would never step out on it, when we children used to play near it and everyone else would, walk, run, skip across it!! I had nightmares about it.
Yet I was willing to go across it with this precious little four year old boy - rather than face the wrath when I got home late with him!
The trestle was just back of the Indian cemetery. We walked to it and stopped; it looked miles long and as deadly as a cobra.
I stopped and told Max I would hold on to the collar of his little blue coveralls, and for him to put one foot down solid on a railroad tie, before he lifted his other foot to step on the next tie also, and go slowly. I told him not to be afraid - we'd be O.K. - if we went carefully and slowly. I was trying to psyche myself up to do it!
We stepped out on the first ties, where there was only a gravel bed, inches between them, for a trial run; then we were on the real thing; a lump came up in my throat, and I chill today nearly seventy years later when I think of it. How could I have done it? If anything had happened, we both would have died - because I would have tried to save Max at any cost.
When we were half way across, I paused, and therefore pulled on Max's collar; I can see that little face yet, as he turned his head and looked at me questionly. I told him I was getting a better hold on his collar! And we went on across to safety.
Surely God's angels were walking with us; a foolish young girl and a precious small boy.
Dedicated to that small boy of long ago,
My
Walter Max Gearheart.
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| EPM 2002 - 2005 |
Kokomo Kootsie
2/13/2002
Submitted by: - Nibbles-- Bits & Pieces
That’s Down My Alley
The old alley used to be a part of everyday life, perhaps more so, than the street or sidewalks of a small town; so much happened and depended upon the alley.
Today, one would be hard-pressed to find one, unless they are still in the small towns in middle America, not yet removed in the name of progress.
In my town, when I was growing up, there are so many memories from our alleys, and very few from sidewalks and streets.
One place we lived when I was four until about eight years old, is more familiar to me than any others because we had need to use that alley, as later was not the case in other neighborhoods.
Most all garages were situated in the back lot, entered from the alley. Then there were coal houses backed onto the alley, and the wood shed, that many 'old-boys' living today, do remember with good reason; they learned their lessons there! Don’t forget 'Mrs. Jones', the name for the privy, - or outhouse, the 'toilet', in by-gone days.
When young boys wanted to try their hand at smoking, they would gang-up behind the garage or shed or other building on the alley and light-up. And feel so grown-up and worldly.
They hatched all their nefarious plans there too. Told each other tall tales of their prowess with the fair sex; each trying to out do the other, when, as a matter-of-fact, they wouldn’t have known what to do, if they really had a chance with a girl!
The old rag-man called his messages every Saturday morning as he drove his old nag and wagon down the alley; for the cast-off he gathered from which he made his living.
All garden supplies were brought in from the alley. All deliveries were made from the alley, never from the street or front of house.
Garbage and ashes were put out there until someone could haul them away to the town dump. There was no such service then. The alley was also a short-cut to many places; the grocery, to a friends house the next street over and so on. My grandfather always took the alley when he went to the store for grandma.
The alley ran the length of our street, from Vale Avenue on north to Markland Avenue, south. So it seemed a bit of a shorter way to go down the alley to Tiplett’s grocery on Vale Avenue.
In the summer, when we children all went bare-foot, the fine black dust, as soft as talcum powder, from the coal ashes pulverized from months of trampling and wheels, would squish up between our toes, and by nightfall, we often looked as though we had walked in a coal mine, with feet and legs half-way to knees coated with all that black dust.
Going down the alley was always a more leisurely and interesting trip than down the streets. Street-side, everyone’s yard and houses put their best foot forward, so to speak; if time and weather permitted, often there would be some one enjoying a moment of rest, swinging gently to and fro in the porch swing. There was always a porch swing; hanging by chains from the roof of the porch. One walked sedately down the sidewalk and tried not to gawk at anyone or anything!
But Oh! Down the alley, one could stroll, even stop to gaze at what ever caught their eye or imagination. Look over the fences, see how others really lived! What they had, even what they ate! All from what they had in their back yard, or the debris piled in the alley by their gate.
I recall the oranges; just halves, empty of their insides, always a big pile by this one house. I didn’t know what had happened to them. Grandpa said some people liked orange juice for breakfast and cut them in half and squeezed the juice from them to drink it. That was so strange to me. I knew nothing of orange juice, outside the orange! My brother and I always found an orange in the toe of our stocking at Christmas, and we ate it, but never too thrilled with an orange! There were plenty egg shells tossed out too. I knew what they were and where they came from. My grandma always had a chicken-run and baby-chicks every springtime.
The ashes piled in heaps down the alley by each back yard gate; from coal burning cook stoves and heaters we used then. Hence, the soft black powder over the alley.
There were beautiful vegetable gardens, in most all yards, and a few had chicken-runs. Here and there a grape arbor running from the back door almost to the alley, like a well-shaded tunnel, so very inviting on a hot summer day. All yards had big old trees, and some with a swing made of rope with a wood seat or even an old tire to sit on, swinging from a huge branch, for the kids to enjoy.
There would be Robins and Sparrows pecking away in the grass or garden, pulling up an occasional fishing worm; in the chicken pen, hopping fast away when a hen came too close.
But rarely a beautiful flower! Not in the back yard. But down that alley, I found flowers! Here and there, scattered at the sides, would be a single and sometimes a small clump of three or four Batchelor Buttons. I never knew their names then, not till many years later. I can seem them yet. There was a very pale pink one, one only, by our fence. But there were white, or almost white, lavender and purple. I thought they were so beautiful, especially the purple. Today purple is my favorite color and Batchelor Buttons one of my favorite flowers, Iris being my favorite. It’s so strange it never occurred to me to pull one; I’d cup my little hands around them very gently, and bend to sniff them and, never ever pulled one! There was also a few Queen Ann’s Lace; so many along country roads.
There was a flower that was common; it was a tall green plant, could be over six feet high and many stems, a wide, big plant. It had yellow flowers about two inches across, many petals. One was in the corner of our back-yard then and later when I was 17, again one was in our yard by the alley. It was not a sun-flower, and I never knew what it was.
One day I went down the alley alone, I don’t recall what I was going to Tiplett’s grocery for, but I remember it well otherwise! Somehow, I got cornered, crowded up against the store door, by two ladies visiting! One had a live turtle by his tail, holding him down while she talked, and kept moving about, stepping backward, until that turtle was inches from my face and I could go no further. I was against the wall, and couldn’t get out the door, because the door was like a house door and was pushed back onto me; if I tried to slip around the door, I’d have to touch the turtle which I‘d no way do! Grandpa had told me, "if a turtle ever bit me, he wouldn’t let loose until the sun went down." I didn’t want to be attached to a turtle until dark! I was really scared silly, and didn’t know enough to protest and move those two women!
After several years went by and I was 16 years old I used the alley again for a short cut to my best friend’s house. But it was a different alley, across town where we then lived.
Winnie and Von had broken up and both were devastated. I’d just gotten home from letting her cry on my shoulder, when Von came to my door. He wanted to know how she felt about him. When he left, he was going to her house to try and patch it up with her. As soon as he had gone, I hurried to the alley, as Von would be going down the street and I didn’t want him to see me, and know I was on my way to warn Winnie that he wanted to make up, and now on his way there! So I ran as fast as I could and fell up, her front steps! I told her, and hurried away as he was coming around the corner. They made up and later married and had two sons. Thank the alley for it’s help!
The last time I ever used an alley was not such a happy occasion. My son and I had been visiting in Kokomo, and we cut our visit short. We went to our car parked in the back-yard by the alley - another alley - and I hugged and kissed my beloved Uncle goodbye, he looked so sad, as we pulled into the alley and drove away. I never saw him again, and he is gone now and my Aunt also.
So an alley plays or played some big scenes in my life for quite a long time, and holds great memories for me today, that I can recall at will - sight, sound and smell!
LINK
| EPM 2002 - 2005 |
Kokomo Kootsie
2/10/2002
Submitted by: - Nibbles-- Bits & Pieces
Song of the Cardinal
We made the trip to Kokomo once a year, but the thrill of ‘nearing home’ never left me. I thrilled anew with indefinable delight as soon as Indianapolis was behind us. I pointed out all the dear places, each becoming dearer as the miles flew by and they became more familiar.
There was the dairy farm, with its acres and acres of white painted fences. The big barn-yard, with the dark-squishy loblolly formed by the trampling feet of hundreds of Black Angus cattle. Across the roof of the huge red barn were king-sized white and green letters spelling, Shamrock Farm
Next came a small hamlet, its white church, tall-steepled. On the other side of the street was a very old irregular-shaped house. Its tan sides peeling and scabrous, year after year. Strangely, an old lady, with thin gray hair in a meager twist on top her head, sat in a wheel-chair in the big green yard, which was shaded with a vast number of gigantic and gnarled trees. I had a great curiosity about her. She was there, any time of the day of year, we happened to pass through.
Then came the farm a few miles from Kokomo, where I used to go with the neighbor children to get milk and eggs. What a time we had in the hay-mow! In those days a visit to the farm was high adventure, dearly loved by all children.
The farm house, quaint, old, and gray was a palace of enchantment; there was no end to its rambling, with nooks and crannies over three floors.
So many creeks and small streams! All so lovely! At this moment, in fancy, I feel the soft caressing Indiana breezes; smell the fragrance of the fields, the honeysuckle and clover. The soft sound and wondrously fresh smell of spring rain; fresh picked flowers,tulips, lilacs, and bridal wreaths.
In fancy too, I hear the song of the beautiful red cardinal, singing his heart out in the lilac bush outside my bedroom window, in early morning. It was spring for me, then. Each day by some mental magic, became a world of excitement, of rich incident, varied emotion and sensation.
No place in the world can probe the deep well of emotion, as a return to home-state, my home town.
Next, each farm, each house with its vine covered porches, rambler roses, and clumps of peonies tugged at my heart. Every red barn, all huge, and built alike with big overpowering convex roofs and adjacent silos, thrust me back into childhood. The winding side roads, country stores, and small schools, were old friends I was joyously glad to see again! Even old route 31, played a welcome, as our tires rump-rumped over the sun-sprung dividers and patched concrete.
City limits! Pop. 48,000! Dear beloved Kokomo. I love all forty-eight thousand of you! My heart and soul suddenly yearns and cries for you. My spirit reaches out to wrap around you, hold you close to me forever. Home of my youth! My youth!
There was Washington Street, and my girlhood friend’s old home. Then across Main Street, over to Union. Home!
Home! What a wonderful word. Home! With its thronging memories and visions of childhood; nostalgic wild confusion and longing. Home! However humble, from the hovel to the mansion; from the gold-spoon child to the ragamuffin, home is – Home! A place where the song of the cardinal had special meaning, held a promise. Home! The magic word, for a magic place, a magic world. After it no longer exists, the magic lingers, within, forever.
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| EPM 2002 - 2005 |
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