Dad always blamed his case of "nerves" on a hazing incident in his youth. The situation involved being tied to a railroad track near to the time a train was scheduled to arrive. The perpetrators evidently timed his removal from danger a bit too close for comfort. Dad always believed that the resulting stress had impaired his nervous system. Nevertheless, only he was affected as his treatment of others was always framed in care and patience. As for windchimes........

Mrs. Davis, our next-door neighbor, had windchimes hanging on her front porch. Tinkle. It may be that she was politely asked to take them down. Tinkle. Maybe not. Tinkle. But one breezy night, evidently Dad was having difficulty going to sleep. Tinkle. He might even have gotten up for a glass of warm milk or a little wine. Tinkle. The constant tinkling of those chimes next door was working on his frayed nerves. Tinkle. Possibly he was worrying about an important commitment he had scheduled for the next day. Tinkle, tinkle. Jesus took on the money-changers at the temple. Dad, the respected minister of the gospel, took on the windchimes on the neighbor's porch -----with a broom! Sleep tight.

Mother lived 35,845 days. Once out of infancy, I believe about 35,000 of those days were lived for others. She was born in 1892 the second-born in a brood of surviving seven. Her only sister was next-to-last to arrive. At a young age Mother helped a great deal in the nurturing of her siblings. This experience seemed to fortify her natural maternal instincts.

Mom was not a poor school student but she never completed high school. Her baptism occurred in 1912. She soon continued her education, this time in her favorite field of interest, that of music. After a year or so at a noted young ladies' school of music, she moved on to study as a music major at Susquehanna University where she was a member and vice president of the Girls' Glee Club. It was there where she met her Waterloo in the form of an interesting seminary student, Ray Stumpf.

Mother became the 'preacher's wife' in 1914 following a proper and ardent courtship. They set up housekeeping in the little 'hick' town of Smicksburg. A newspaper item of the time found that on a "Tuesday , 38 of our church folks wended their way to Smicksburg to spend the day with their pastor, Rev. and Mrs. R.N. Stumpf. An elaborate meal was served----" I can easily imagine Mother fixing things for the dinner, maybe with the help of a couple of members. A portent of things to come in the distant future was the fact that "Rev. Stumpf served coffee in the most conformable manner."

The scene shifts to another church function at least twenty years later.

In the interim, Mother bore and helped mightily in rearing three boys and a girl. As an affable partner with Dad, her participation was limited to singing in the choirs, sometimes as a soloist, and belonging to the women's groups. She taught no Sunday school classes nor did any public speaking.

Reared in a 'melting pot' steel town, I was taught egalitarian principles. "You are no better than......." was a not uncommon admonition from our parents. And so with blithe na�vet� I marched through 34 months of aviation cadet discipline, radio operator training and overseas flight operations as a member of the Army Air Corps. In all this time I never consciously took notice of the fact that I was immersed in a totally segregated white sphere of activities. Upon seeing 'colored' soldiers driving us flight crews to the airfield, I did not at the time realize that they all lived in a separate section of the camp evidently in accordance with written or unwritten military law.

Switch to the campus of Penn State in 1948 where I joined the non-violent action group called the Council of Racial Equality. CORE had been co-founded by James Farmer as a Gandhi-type effort for racial equality. One of our main goals was to establish and support an integrated barber shop in State College. This was done to remove the ridiculous need for black students to travel the ten miles to Bellefonte for a haircut. Books of chits were sold to CORE supporters. The tickets could then be redeemed as part of the cost of a haircut at the integrated tonsorial place. I believe this push for change ended successfully.

Even after the sun dipped below the bottomlands of the Mississippi River across from Vicksburg, the air was oppressively hot and humid. In June of 1951 I was nearing the end of a research stint with the Forest Service. The Korean 'police action' was still underway. Patty Paige was singing "On Mockingbird Hill" and "Tennessee Waltz". Our workdays consisted mostly of field work on various soil types in the area. It involved portable rainmakers which produced showers of selected intensities on our plots. We were trying to determine possible answers for the military. The question posed was that if one knew the weather and soil data for someplace, could one predict whether certain vehicles could cross that terrain without bogging down.

An excerpt from a letter home describes one event which occurred on the Louisiana bottomlands. "I saw a sharecropper shack go up in smoke today. This two-room domicile was located about 150 feet from where we were running our infiltrometer tests. About a quarter to twelve the two little kids ran over and told Bart about their 'cooler smoking and would he go get their daddy.' The Mrs. was evidently trying to put out the fire. Our crew chief, Ken Reinhard, went over and helped take out a wardrobe and then hollered to me. I took over a little extinguisher from a truck but it did no good. Then I drove a truck near and we started the pump and tried using water but by that time the fire was too far ahead. It was a coal oil refrigerator that caused it. The family lost everything but some clothes and the family Bible.".

After working all day on the loess and gumbo lands of southern Dixie in 90� temperatures, our goal in the evenings was to relax and cool down. One such night I walked from my rooming house toward the river in search of some respite from the heat. I found a neighborhood ice cream store which I entered. Since there were no seats provided, it was apparent that only take-outs were sold. I stood at one arm of the L-shaped counter ready to give my order. Customers kept coming and going while I waited and waited. I soon admitted to myself that I was being ignored. Could the clerk tell just by my demeanor that I was a Yankee? I sidled around to the other arm of the L-formed furnishing and was waited on immediately.

As I left the place happy with my creamy-cold treat I pondered what had just happened. I was aware of the "Whites Only" signs posted here and there in this southern city. I had not noticed such a directive in the store. In patronizing the business at later times, I never saw any outward indication of where the colorline was drawn. But I'm sure that I would have stood at the 'wrong' side of that counter until hell froze over before I would have been waited on. Even on an unbearably sticky-hot sauna-bath evening in June of 1951. We Shall Overcome?

It was at one of those inter-church services, when a little old lady came in and sat next to my wife, Barb. Each placed their respective handbags on the pew space between them. Things went normally until the ushers began collecting the offering. With the practiced discipline of a lifetime of giving, the elderly woman grabbed a purse, rummaged through it for the proper gift, and placed it in the offering plate. When Barb picked up the remaining bag she immediately recognized its alien features and quickly returned it to the seat. Her unknown fellow-worshipper, evidently unaware of her faux pas, calmly laid the purloined purse down beside her. At the conclusion of the service my help-mate gingerly retrieved her own handbag. So we had a good laugh over the episode as we reflected that it's not the gift but the thought that counts.

BEWARE OF VIXENS IN SHEEPS' CLOTHING

It was while I was employed doing farm work out the Rocky Grove road in the late 1940s that "Katie" Kuhlman set up shop in Franklin. She rented a large building in town to serve as her 'tabernacle'. It may have been a defunct auto sales place.

Katherine Kuhlman was billed as an evangelist faith healer. The crowds came from the surrounding countryside and were whipped up almost to a state of ecstasy by her exhortations. She was good at her, uh, trade. I call it that because one night when she had the folks enthralled, she spotted a fellow near the back of the crowd. Her face paled as he yelled out, "How's things going, Katie." I heard later that he had attended the same group hypnotism class with her. She shut down early that evening.

One man from a neighboring farm attended a Kuhlman service one Saturday night and his poor eyesight was 'healed' so well that he threw his spectacles away. We heard the next week that his wife was mad as a soaked cat at her fool husband who sheepishly sneaked to the optometrist that Monday to get a new pair of glasses!

(From the internet: "During the early 1970s, Minnesota surgeon William Nolen, M.D., attended a service conducted by Katherine Kuhlman, the leading evangelical healer of that period. After noting the names of 25 people who had been "miraculously healed," he was able to perform follow-up interviews and examinations. Among other things, he discovered that one woman who had been announced as cured of "lung cancer" actually had Hodgkin's disease -- which was unaffected by the experience. Another woman with cancer of the spine had discarded her brace and followed Ms. Kuhlman's enthusiastic command to run across the stage. The following day her backbone collapsed, and four months later she died. Overall, not one person with organic disease had been helped. Dr. Nolen reported his findings, which included observations of several other healers, in Healing: A Doctor in Search of a Miracle , a book that I heartily recommend [2] 2.Nolen W. Healing: A Doctor in Search of a Miracle. New York, 1974, Random House Inc."

It was a typical story-telling campfire at the end of a day of outdoor activities. Each summer Dad took our family to this rather out-of-the-way spot on the Allegheny River for a vacation. We would spend our days bass fishing, hiking along the railroad tracks, swimming, target shooting or maybe driving four miles to the little country store for ice cream. Any effects of 'The Depression" were lost on me as a pre-teen during this year of the middle l930's. I was busy learning that toads hid themselves in sandbanks and that a little red-berried plant called ginseng which grew on the mountain was worth cash when shipped to the Chinese market.

As dusk approached, we kids would drag in dry wood from the surrounding woods. By nightfall an ample fire would be roaring in the center of a circle of logs on which the storytellers and their audience sat. One of the main "talkers" was the camp's owner-host, John W.

John was an uneducated product of the boondocks remote from 'civilized' centers. With his dark alert eyes, black hair and coppery tough skin stretched over his big muscular frame, it appeared to some of us that John's forebears might have included an Indian. He survived as a guide to fishing parties in summer and as a furtrapper in winter. His 'cash crop' was ginseng which he collected in the woods. His clients' angling fortunes could be appreciably improved when John 'chummed' the fish. Chumming is the art of adding small bits of chopped fish or other material to the waters to attract fish. When my father would land a nice 18-inch bass, John would exclaim, "It's a mon-i-ster, Stumpf, it's a mon-i-ster!"

Being a World War I veteran, John probably received a small monthly government check.

Dad never told us that John lied but that he sometimes stretched the truth. Had John really been a personal "runner" for General Pershing in France? Had he actually dived from a high perch on a ship into Erie Harbor during a public celebration? When he failed to surface, was it reported in the paper that he had drowned? When he finally returned home, did he admit to his distraught mother that he entered the boat below waterline where he hid until the crowd dispersed? When Dad threatened to have him swear on a Bible, John, who really feared damnation, would protest with, "It's the troot, Stumpf, it's the troot!"

New stories were added for our entertainment as new wood was added to the fire for our warmth. As the glowing sparks which lifted into the dark of night slowly ceased to rise, we all knew it as a signal for us to retire to dreamland. Little did I know that as a naive greenhorn I would soon be the target of an adult conspiracy.

Many of the tales told that night included references to both wispy and wild things like ghosts and wolves. As the time came for our group to break up, it was decided that sentries would be posted by the fading embers. Turns would be taken to guard the sleeping campers from the dangers of the night. Of course since I was the youngest (and most gullible) marksman available, I was selected to stand guard for the first hour. My older brother, Ray, had a .22 caliber rifle which he shot into the air to prove to all that it was functional. He then to all appearances reloaded the firearm and presented it to me.

As all of the people melted into the moonless arc beyond the fire-circle, I was left alone in my defensive position. When the human sounds ceased the sounds from the surrounding forest seemed to magnify. Although confident in my arms, a tiny qualm was a-borned in my mind. Was the rifle properly loaded? With imaginary wildcats prowling nearby, I had to be sure. I opened the breech for inspection.

To my amazement there was not a cartridge in sight! How could my own brother make such a mistake? I turned and headed for the nearest domicile. Before making much headway I was intercepted by a sizeable remnant of the group. Various excuses were offered me for their flagrant lapse in the issuance of adequate armament. Their chance to have fun at my expense was lost when their 'trick' backfired. Instead of hearing snickers I was offered commendation for my alertness and sense of duty. Then we all went to bed.

THE BOY WHO-----

As a federal conservationist, I was fairly often used as a judge in school competitions in soils studies. There was one occasion when someone needed to fill a panel charged with judging 4H student speeches and I was 'volunteered'. I might have known soil types but I knew nothing about what made up a good speech. I was soon to learn of a strange disability which almost made me make a completely wrong judgment.

I presume there were three of us taking notes, penciled and mental, as we watched each contestant face the group and expound on some favorite facet of agriculture. I tried to log several traits displayed, such as confidence, knowledge of subject and contact with audience. When the last speaker finished, we judges huddled to compare notes and rate the players.

As we exchanged views on each speaker, I listened intently to my experienced cohorts, trying to learn quickly how to critique. When I felt that I could make a plausible case, I started to list the pluses and minuses of a lad who had impressed me.

I proceeded to describe how I thought he certainly was well-prepared, knew the subject, dressed appropriately, and spoke well. However, I explained that I was ready to deduct quite a bit from his score, as he seemed overly serious and never smiled during his presentation.

It was then, and only then, that my fellow judges let me in on a very pertinent secret. They advised me that due to a strange and rare muscular condition, the subject of my discussion was completely unable to smile! I cannot recall whether The Boy Who Couldn't Smile won that contest, but I certainly gained a valuable life lesson.

Quilt Guilt

In the late 50's or early 60's, a couple was found dead in bed of carbon monoxide poisoning. They had been trysting at a vacation cottage in northeastern Mercer County. They were both married, but, alas, not to each other!

It was reported that for several months afterward, all the wedded couples in the Sandy Lake-Stoneboro area slept with their own spouses.

Ever get to a place where you're delayed a few or many minutes and decide to sit and watch the crowd go by? It might be at a railroad station or a theater lobby or a commercial exposition. As the people come and go, you view the scene almost like a human kaleidoscope. There goes a young mother herding her small flock of youngsters. Here comes the harried business agent trying to meet some deadline. Grandma and Grandad are there fumbling in handbag and wallet for the precious tickets. With her high heels playing a staccato, the fashion model adds a bright spot to the scene. But here comes the one that perplexes me. He seems to be the same man, no matter the geographic locale. Dressed in no particular style, he shuffles along, with or against the flow, with a permanent puzzled look on his face. Has he not been in such a situation before? Will he eventually ask for directions or assistance? Should I approach him and offer help?

You know what I think? In a way, I'm really looking at myself. All of my life can be sketched like this. As I go to and fro, I can't always stop and ask directions from my fellowmen. They may be too busy to question or they may be as lost as I am. So if you notice me plodding along with face uncertain, aim me in the right direction and let me go.

Ed was a con man deluxe. To my knowledge, he was the better type of a confidence man. Let me explain.

I believe Ed was originally from the Grove City area. Maybe before or during WWII he bought a truck and did basic hauling in and around his home locale. He prospered enough to grow the business and some time later he moved to the Sharon area, no doubt to carry steel for the many industries nearby. Again he prospered.

Ed had evidently had advertising calendars made for a few years for late-in-the-year distribution. Finally, when he had a fleet of six trucks, he approached a photographer to make a new picture for his next calendar.

Ed: "Can you take a nice picture of my six trucks lined up abreast?"

Photographer: "Sure, no problem."

Ed: "Now after the photo is made, can you make it look like twelve trucks?"

Photog: "Oh, yes, that's possible."

Ed: "OK, you go ahead and make it that way because by the time the calendar is ready, I'll have a dozen rigs!"

Now that's what I call confidence. Ed built a house for his mother. It was replete with all the latest upscale modern conveniences. He was interested in aviation, having built a small airfield and being a passenger on the Concorde SST maiden flight. Methinks he also established a country-club estate-type golf course. So it would be better I call him a man of confidence.

DOWN THE CREEK

In earlier days of this nation's expansion in the 19th. century, new maps had to be made to keep pace with development. This task usually fell to a government cartographer, who after surveying and plotting physical features, had to apply names to these elements. In order to determine the accepted local designations, residents of the area in question would be interviewed.

And so, the mapmaker asked the old-timer, "What do they call that muddy brown stream over there?

"S__t Creek", was the salty answer.

"Thank you", replied the civil servant as he duly marked the result in his notebook.

And many months later, there on the published map, all could view the official name of the watercourse.....Physic Creek!

//DOUBLE EXPOSURE//

After my mother's death, rather than destroying them, I sorted through her voluminous snapshots. I separated them according to groups of friends she had known in various neighborhoods where she had lived. My aim was to present these pictures to the subjects depicted, in the hope of possibly spreading remembrances of past good times. Since I was not familiar with many of the subjects, I gave each batch to a key person who would be most able to return the photos to the proper people.

One strange outcome of this effort, was that which happened in a rural community in Butler County. One photograph of a couple of middle-aged ladies, when proffered to one of the two who were imaged, caused the recipient to be overwhelmed by tears.

I found the reason for this reaction truly surprising. The donee later explained that her weeping was caused by a wondrous mix of sadness and happiness. The likeness of the other lady pictured was of her life-long best friend, of whom she had no photograph, and who a few years before had committed suicide!