I remember living on four farms in my life. Actually, it was five, but I don't remember living on the first one. Dad was a hired hand until he bought the last farm...a chicken farm.
The first farm I remember was on the W. W. Benner farm near Coatesville, Pa. (A pharmaceutical laboratory is there now. The house we lived in was torn down where the parking lot now stands.) Mr. Benner was a gentleman farmer, you might say, who had a herd of pure-bred registered Guernseys which Dad took care of, along with a couple of other hired hands. I'm the oldest in the family but I don't remember life without any brothers or sisters because Ronald was born 14 months later, then my sister Sallie, and then Joyce, all about a year or so apart. You can believe we were a handful for Mom and Dad. But being on a farm had its advantages. After we developed our toddling skills we soon had the run of the place. I remember when the next one was born; Arlene. Then there were five of us.
I remember that time distinctly. I was five years old, and Ronny was four. Dad took Mom away and told us that she was going to get us a baby brother or sister. Ronny and I asked for a baby brother. In fact, we prayed for one in our bedtime prayers. We had two sisters already, and with another one we would be crowded with girls. Would you know it, we got another baby sister! I remember thinking, why didn't they just wait until a brother was available? But we doted on our baby sister Arlene. We were about old enough to lend a helping hand sometimes.
Mom must have been a blonde in her day. Dad's hair was almost black. We kids were a mixture of blonde and brown. Ron, Joyce and Arlene were blondes, while Sallie and I had brown hair. Later Jane and Marge came as blondes.
As children we developed somewhat of an affinity to some of the cows that were in the barn on the Benner farm. They all had names; and two that come to mind are Hester and Hector. They all gave the richest milk and during the summer Dad would get out the ice cream freezer and whip up a batch of homemade ice cream. Mom would cook up the recipe and pour it into the container; Dad would pack the wooden bucket with ice and salt and the youngest would start turning the crank, then an older and stronger one would continue, and Dad would finish it up. The results were delectable, to say the least.
Dad always had a garden. He grew everything there was to grow in a temperate climate: corn, string beans, lima beans, pole beans, wax beans, peas, carrots, celery, kohlrabi, white potatoes, sweet potatoes, rhubarb, cantaloupe, melons, cucumbers, radishes, even peanuts occasionally. Invariably,, he'd find wild groundcherries which he'd transplant into rows and later harvest for use in ground cherry pies. Ground cherry pie was a staple in our family when they were in season.
Life for us kids on the Benner farm was rather idylic as I remember it. We had our share of sadness and happiness, but for the most part they were pleasant memories. I do remember the first time I went to the dentist though, which was a sheer terror to me. I had been in hospita at 3 years old with major surgery and it wasn't many months later that I had an infected tooth. Off to the dentist I went, with Dad. But when I saw what the dentist was doing, I was struck with sheer panic and I let everyone know it. He was going to put me to sleep. I knew the procedure from what I experienced in the hospital. I still have the scars of a tracheotomy that was necessary a couple years before in the hospital, that attested to the degree of reaction, whether allergic or panic, that ether gas afforded me. It's not easy to convey one's feelings in a calm, rational manner when you're a small child, but a few hefty screams of terror did the trick. The dentist gave up. I did not get my tooth pulled.
We finally moved to another farm near Phoenixville, Pa. where Dad had the task of milking 40 cows. That too was quite a place to remember. I was about five or six then and sometime later I started school. I was kept back a year until Ron was old enough to go to school "to keep an eye on you", meaning me.
After a short number of years, Dad finally saw an ad in the paper for a hired hand needed to help run a farm. Instead of calling the number and asking about the particulars, he had us kids look up the number in the phone book. A to M is a long way to look for a name but we found it under Mack. Dad happened to know them and he then called them up. We moved
That was where Ron and I raised rabbits, and trapped for muskrat. The first victim of trapping season was a mallard duck which was caught by the tip of the foot. We let it go...no fur!
Then one day Dad bought a chicken farm; Pine Top Farm it was called. There were flocks of hens already in progress and we spent our time learning to gather, wash and grade eggs. The transition meant that we stayed in a cottage on the premises, while the owners, the Tuchinski's showed us how to go about the work. That was in 1956. I was 12 years old. Jane and Marge had come along by this time, and Ron and I were rather frantic. No more brothers? We had five sisters now.
The novelty of chicken farming wore rather thin over time, what with all the young hens that literally almost raised the roof as soon as you entered their pen. They were a flighty bunch and one had to be rather quiet; no sudden moves or the whole chicken house would explode with dust and feathers. And there were two other buildings full of chickens too. The older flocks were more reasonable.
Two years later, in February 1958, we finally got our prayers answered. We got a baby brother, David. I now had two brothers and five sisters. We were quite proud of the kid.
But tragedy almost struck. Ron and I were away at the neighbors a couple of miles away and when we returned on our bicycles we found the sunporch, Mom and Dad's bedroom, was entirely gutted out by fire. It was March and a heavy snow had knocked out the electricity for a few days. The bedroom was kept warm for the baby by a kerosene stove. It was knocked over and flames caught onto the diapers stacked by the bassinette. Mom leaped over the flames, snatched month-old David and ran for safety. Dad ran in, called the fire company, and shut everything tight. The flames came within about 3 feet of the staircase, otherwise the whole house could have gone up.
Kind neighbors took us in for awhile. The Mennonites built a two-story renovation, which enlarged the house considerably. For a family of eight kids, it was a godsend.
Dad gave up chicken farming years before he finally sold the place. However, he continued with truck gardening. One year he planted five acres of sweet corn, and lost count of the harvest at 25,000 ears. One year he disked down the remnants of the corn crop and sowed a quarter-pound of turnip seed over the acreage. We had turnips you wouldn't believe! Tons of them. We sold them to neighbors, and to my Mom's sister's supermarket--Landis Supermarket in Telford.
One day there was another fire. The largest chicken house on the place burned down. Spontaneous combustion, they said. The chicken house wasn't cleaned out after the last flock of chickens years before. The resulting insurance claim helped Dad on his feet financially, and when he sold the farm, he was on Easy Street. Dad and Mom moved to New Jersey in retirement.
You can thank Jack and Jane (my sister) Hobson for the care they gave to our parents in the last years. Dad passed away in 1999 and Mom went in 2006.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Children and animals
In 1995 Lucy and I lived in Shenandoah, Ohio in an old former schoolhouse, and we decided to invest in a couple of young beef cows, a Jersey and a Holstein. One day I was sitting by the fence when my brother-in-law Joe arrived with his family. Five-year-old Jonathan and three-year-old Rachel spotted the animals. Jonathan called out, “Do the cows have names?” “Yes,” I answered, deliberately solicitous, wondering what he would say, and pointing to the Jersey, “that one is Brisket…and that one is Rump Roast.” Jonathan thought for a moment, “Did you name them, or did Lucy?” (We weren’t going to name them but when a neighbor visited and asked the same question, I blurted out a couple of choices I had in mind, just for the humor of it, and the names stuck.)
Kids can be little divils at times, for no apparent reason. I lived in an apartment in a five story building in Maple Shade, New Jersey in 1993. I was coming home Sunday evening and found the elevator door open, as sometimes is the case, but I automatically checked the on/off switch above the button panel. This time it was off. I flipped it on. A 10- to 12-year-old boyI never saw before, carrying roller skates, followed me onto the elevator. I pressed 5; he pressed 3, and the elevator moved upward. Not a word was exchanged. He stood by the button panel and I thought he acted a little strange. He looked like he was leaning against the wall but I saw his hand was over the elevator switch. He was apparently bent on a little mischief at my expense. Just as the elevator stopped at his floor, he gave a cough and headed for the open door. The switch was off. Just before stepping out he patronizingly exclaimed, “Fifth floor, right?” as he pressed the number 5 button. He stepped outside and I replied, “Right,” as I stepped forward and flipped the switch back on. The last scene before the door closed was he staring at me with a rather wide-eyed and not-so-innocent expression on his face—and I with a benign expression on my face I’m sure, staring back at him. I almost took it personally…a real live Tom Sawyer.
Kids can be little divils at times, for no apparent reason. I lived in an apartment in a five story building in Maple Shade, New Jersey in 1993. I was coming home Sunday evening and found the elevator door open, as sometimes is the case, but I automatically checked the on/off switch above the button panel. This time it was off. I flipped it on. A 10- to 12-year-old boyI never saw before, carrying roller skates, followed me onto the elevator. I pressed 5; he pressed 3, and the elevator moved upward. Not a word was exchanged. He stood by the button panel and I thought he acted a little strange. He looked like he was leaning against the wall but I saw his hand was over the elevator switch. He was apparently bent on a little mischief at my expense. Just as the elevator stopped at his floor, he gave a cough and headed for the open door. The switch was off. Just before stepping out he patronizingly exclaimed, “Fifth floor, right?” as he pressed the number 5 button. He stepped outside and I replied, “Right,” as I stepped forward and flipped the switch back on. The last scene before the door closed was he staring at me with a rather wide-eyed and not-so-innocent expression on his face—and I with a benign expression on my face I’m sure, staring back at him. I almost took it personally…a real live Tom Sawyer.
I wrote the above to a penfriend of mine, Paul, who is a retired schoolteacher. He wrote about his experiences with children:
"You mentioned about the youngster playing a prank on you on the elevator. This is typical of children and I must say I enjoyed all the children who tried to outsmart me in the classroom or on the playground, wherever they thought they had a chance to best me. It was such a hard task to keep a straight face when knowing what they intended to do to me, that I was there waiting for them when they were about to pull the string which would bring something down on me. I looked innocent and unaware of what they planned, but noted out of the corner of my eye the surprise on their faces when caught in their own mischief! I never got angry at their pranks, but loved them for trying to get me in any sort of trick. Some teachers would blow their gasket. I merely played it cool and laughed myself to tears at times when they found out I had caught them."I always felt they were thinking when they tried to outsmart me, and since most of their pranks were harmless, I didn't mind. They knew my temperament and knew that I could give as good as I got, so they had to be careful, for I would hand things back to the Tom Sawyers of the room, and look so innocent while in the process."
I lived in Maple Shade, NJ, in the 90s, like I said earlier. Along came school time and the bus driver picked up young people from the apartments to take to school. The problem was that she chose to park the bus right at the exit to take on the numerous children. Of course, many of us had to go to work at the same time and we were forced to wait for the straggling kids to get onto the bus. And they were sure to take their time. Several of us auto drivers had to wait, but then I had an idea. I knew the others were not happy about being forced to wait for the bus to leave. In a burst of temperamental inspiration, I got out of line, darting down a row of parked cars, taking a long way around away from the bus, to leave for work. A couple of others followed. The bus driver blew her horn. It worked! The next school day saw the bus at the far end of the parking lot taking on the regular load of kids. For the rest of the school year we had no problem.
In 2003 Lucy and I moved to our present location, along with Jason and Minerva, Lucy’s niece. They bought a boxer pup and named it Bruno. I’m the kind of person who doesn’t want a pet anymore (see PENNY, Nov. 19, 2007), but Bruno was a dog I doted on, and he appreciated the attention. He was locked up at night to keep him from wandering. Then one morning, before dawn, there was a knock on the door. A woman, rather distraught, asked if we had a dog. “Yes, we have a boxer.” She said she hit a dog and it was lying by the road. I investigated and found Bruno lying on the grass, unable to get up, but conscious. I called Jason and he came with his pickup truck and took it to the house. I told the woman that Bruno was supposed to be inside during the night and this was one time when that rule was forgotten. Later in the morning they took Bruno to the vet. The xrays showed him to have numerous broken bones and it was merciful to put him to sleep. I was saddened by it although he was not my dog. That is one reason I don’t care to have a pet.
The first pet I had was Tuffy, in 1954, and my brother Ron had a dog named Fluffy. They were playful dogs, but Tuffy was more rambunctious, being a male dog. In the barn Tuffy got into mischief so often that Dad was finally fed up with it. While I was elsewhere he gave it the death penalty and I saw Tuffy no more. Dad was not a cruel person but it was rather ignoble of him to have someone carry out the sentence for him, leaving me without a pet. Meanwhile, Fluffy carried on, until one day Dorothy Weaver, who lived in the house below ours, was driving down the lane toward her house and I crossed the lane with Fluffy following me, and she got run over right in front of me. I was sick at heart and pronounced guilty by my family of causing her demise. Is it any wonder I don’t want a pet anymore? Years later I was given a puppy in reward for the summer work I performed on our neighbor’s farm. Penny was an intelligent dog and I was happy to have her as a pet. But, as seems to be my lot, she died unexpectedly when a motorcycle came roaring by our place. Penny was across the road with my parents and, frightened, she ran back for the safety of the house, and ran into the motorcycle. My cousin Arvin later apologized to me, but that was the end of my keeping any pet.
These are rather sad stories but it is advantageous to understand that we will most likely meet our pets when we finish our own time here on earth. That is a thought a lot of people like to believe, because so many pets are loved and treated like loving children.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Teaching Bible School
This article replaces the one I wrote on October 30, which I now deleted. It is from a letter I wrote in 1992 and is more detailed about my trip to Tennessee in 1963.
I remember when I was lot younger and afraid life was passing me by without the benefit of traveling beyond the local environs in rural Montgomery County, PA. I lived on a chicken farm in Franconia Twp. with my parents, two brothers and five sisters and we had our daily routines all set, and at the age of 19 life can get pretty humdrum. I was almost an adult and hadn’t seen the world yet!
Then one day someone asked me if I wanted to teach Bible School in a little Mennonite community church near Knoxville, Tennessee. I was, perhaps, a little reticent about getting involved in something I wasn’t used to, like teaching little kids, but my desire to spread my wings won out and I agreed.
The day came when I made preparations to take the long drive. The plan was to stay the night at the home of the Landes family, some who were leaving for Tennessee and we would take off sometime in the wee hours. I anticipated an interesting trip and I dozed off with the sound of mockingbirds serenading outside in the warm moonlit night.
Very early in the morning we took off—I was the only fellow, as I remember, with three or four girls. We would be picking up another volunteer, John Paul H. near Harrisonburg, VA. I volunteered to drive. Ever since I got my license at the age of 17 I had driven the family car most of the time, putting on thousands of miles and enjoying it. This was now my chance to drive a long, long way.
We were only a few miles on the road when I spotted a possum crossing the road. I was barreling along at 60 mph and didn’t have much time to stop with a fully-loaded car. The possum changed its mind and retreated back across the road, then changed direction again. The last sight of it was he facing me with feet spread and teeth bared for a fight. Discretion dictates a merciful omission of the details of the outcome.
I drove most of the way. I had a splitting headache which felt better while I was driving. The South was intriguing to me. Here I was, a young Yankee, visiting the South for the first time, and I was anticipating a cultural change, something which I looked forward to. As soon as we hit the Mason/Dixon line we were in another world. I believe it was somewhere in Maryland or Virginia where we stopped for breakfast. Everyone within earshot was speaking in a southern accent and, unknown to us, we were being observed. The waitress walked over to the juke box and put in a dime. “You Ain’t Our Kind, But We Love You Anyway” started playing as she took our orders. I wanted to try the grits, “and a Pepsi,” I told her.
“A whut?”
“A Pepsi…you know, a Coke…Pepsi.”
“Oh, a PAYepsi. Awraht, ah gotcha!”
So we dined on some southern vittles; I finished the grits, the Payepsi, and whatever else I ordered, and we were on our way again, deeper into the South. Toward the southern end of Virginia we picked up JP, another candidate to teach Bible school. He was about my age and more reserved than I was—from quite conservative Mennonite stock. A quiet fellow. We roomed together during our stay in Tennessee and I noticed how quiet he always was, while I tossed and turned most of the night. I guess I’m a fidgety guy by nature—always was.
I took notice of some of the trees in Tennessee, which I learned later were mimosa trees. Their delicate feathery flowers had an oriental appearance, and made me more aware that I was far from home—for the first time in my life. I reveled in what was to me an exciting adventure. The weather was quite warm and sunny, and we spent the first day resting. On Monday we would exercise our labor of love in the art of teaching fertile little minds something which might prove valuable to them. It was a rural community with plenty of kids around.
I was assigned to third graders—cute kids. Some were barefooted. They all had a delightful southern accent, and I was quite conscious of the difference between mine and theirs. In fact, my accent was a little distracting to them…and I gradually slipped into their manner of speech and made more progress in teaching them Bible stories. By the end of two weeks I was practically a Confederate.
We didn’t just teach Bible School. On the first weekend we attended a Saturday evening Southern Baptist song service. Being a strait-laced Mennonite and rather wide-eyed about cultural differences, I drank in the feeling of euphoria I felt. The music sounded wonderful and free. Yes, sometimes the music sounded more like a jamboree or hoedown but it was beautiful to me, even when sung in a church. They were all religious songs…sung in country style, complete with guitars and piano.
One of the girls, Betty, had brought her accordion along and over the free time I learned how to play it, to a limited degree. I had played some piano over the years so all I really had to do was to figure out the bass part of the accordion. It didn’t take long. Then on this particular evening we were asked to sing as a Mennonite group. Betty asked if I would play the accordion. I declined. I wasn’t used to playing in front of a group and the skills I learned were too new to stand up under the stress of public scrutiny. So we sang without instrumental music.
During one particular enthusiastic vocal/instrumental number, the song was so uplifting that one rather dignified middle-aged lady jumped up from her seat and in a fit of high emotion, danced around a couple of times, until she apparently realized what she was doing and—sheepishly, I thought—sat down again.
All this was a new experience for me. Here people were not enduring their religion; they were enjoying it. It set me to thinking…and I got to think a lot about some of these things over the next couple of years.
In comparison, we attended a Southern Methodist revival meeting—the following weekend. It was an open-air building in the old camp-meeting style. An American Indian sat on the stage with the evangelist. During one part of the service, he was the focus of some of the bad history between the early settlers and the tribes that were mistreated in their day. The singing was energetic and the hallelujahs and amens ran rampant. This clearly was not a Mennonite revival meeting.
When the evangelist had the pulpit, he didn’t mince words. He spoke straight to the heart of the people. He hit where they were most vulnerable. He was going to win converts tonight.
“You who are holding back from giving you heart to the Lord tonight may truly regret it,” was the gist of part of his message. “The Lord is calling you—heed His call. You may not get another chance. God could surely repay you for not heeding His call…tonight. Those of you who have children, take heed. That innocent little baby sitting on your lap could be snatched from you and you would live to regret it for the rest of your life. You could have a car accident on the way home, for not heeding His call…tonight.”
The altar call was awash with weeping treble voices. There were also a few men in the throng. One man was on his knees his face to the ground, loudly beseeching the Almighty for mercy.
I was rather dumbstruck, puzzled, and a little angry. There seemed to be something a little diabolical in all of this. There may be a place to be coerced into a meaningful spirit-filled relationship with God, but not in an emotion-packed arena such as this seemed to be. But I added this to the list of rounded experiences as a young man trying to find a clear road in life.
I love peace and quiet. I’m a country-boy at heart, and perhaps always will be. One Friday night we camped in a field under the stars. I had never slept outdoors before. Someone gave me a sleeping bag and we were scattered in a field wherein grazed and horse and her colt. They paid us no mind. Around us were steep hills typical of the Tennessee countryside. Throughout the night I watched the stars slowly drift toward the west. Mockingbirds (the state bird of Tennessee) warbled and sang in the late-night jamboree of their own. I slept fitfully, as I often do in new surroundings. I dozed off and awakened as the eastern sky started to lighten. I dozed off again, until I was suddenly awakened by a firm tug on the top of my head, pulling my hair. Startled, I rolled around to see what it was—in time to watch the colt scamper off. I guess he now knows what Brilcreme tastes like.
One neighbor lady often visited the house where we stayed. She always had something in her mouth, her lower lip bulging. Curious, I asked one of my friends what she was chewing on. “Snuff,” I was told. “She’s chewing snuff. It is quite common.”
I borrowed a bicycle and toured the rural neighborhood. The houses were few and far between and at one house where were people in rocking chairs on the porch. I waved a greeting and one of them called out, “Yu frum Paynsyllvaynia?”
I said, “Yes, how did you know?”
“Bah yor aksaynt,” was the reply.
I hadn’t said a word to them before, so I realized that the whole neighborhood had us pegged. We were Yankees in Confederate hillbilly country. We had been cautioned: Don’t you surprise anybody in these hills, they’re likely to shoot first and ask questions later.
The second week went like the first in the two-week Bible school. I got more comfortable teaching those darling kids. And I even got to lead the whole group in singing. I had learned how to handle a pitch-pipe adequately, although I had difficulty naming the keys of a sing.
During one weekend we traveled down to the southern corner of Tennessee to Chattanooga, of Civil War fame. High atop a bluff we could see Moccasin Bend far below. (Some years later I saw it from an airliner traveling from Alabama to Pennsylvania.)
We picked up a brochure that advertised Ruby Falls. “The highest underground waterfall in the country,” it said. Of course, since we were right nearby, we just had to go see it. We waited in a long line to be taken below-ground by elevator. We paid about $3.00 each for a ticket. While we waited I noticed that when the elevator brought tourists to the top, they were all laughing and smiling, and apparently having a great time. You couldn’t help but notice it, since it happened every time.
We were finally in front of the line and then taken below-ground. A guide gave us a little history of the area and a lay of the cavern. We walked back about a quarter-mile to the falls, stopping to gaze at the stalactites and stalagmites and other odd stone formations along the way.
The falls were a disappointment, however. We didn’t expect Niagara Falls but the pitifully small stream cascading down from 180 feet did not give one any great feeling of wonderment. We ambled back to the elevator in silence.
On the elevator again, we were still rather subdued…until just before we reached the top, when our guide cracked a joke. It was our turn to laugh and smile, apparently having a great time as we exited the elevator.
It took a couple weeks to change back to my normal accent. I was a little embarrassed when I had to give a little talk at the youth meeting at the Bridgeport (PA) Mennonite Church which I regularly attended. It was difficult losing what I had consciously tried to gain for convenience, and now found that it was an oddity in a Pennsylvania Dutch setting. No one objected, however. In fact, some said they liked it. But it gradually faded way into distant memory.
That trip was an eye-opener for me. I had been a little unsettled, as many teenagers are, but this opened my eyes to a broader view, a less confining view. I realized that there are good people outside of my own restricted environment. I became more tolerant of other views. And through subsequent informal discussions with fellow members of the church who had changing views, I felt more free to eventually leave the environment I was in an spread my wings even more. And it felt good to leave the nest gracefully.
I realize anew how much a broader perspective I have than many of those I meet. I don’t know if it’s all good. There are some experiences that one doesn’t like to reminisce over. It taints man’s faith in his fellow man sometimes. But I value the perspective I have gained, for it gives me a better understanding of why people are the way they are.
This was written years ago when I had just left the Mennonite Church and joined a group whose emphasis was in glorifying God through a music ministry. Music was a big part of our endeavors and we had public concerts twice a year for almost 20 years. During that time young people were trained in instrumental and vocal music and we eventually had a 60-voice choir, children’s choir singing in several languages, and a full orchestra. Good things take time.
I remember when I was lot younger and afraid life was passing me by without the benefit of traveling beyond the local environs in rural Montgomery County, PA. I lived on a chicken farm in Franconia Twp. with my parents, two brothers and five sisters and we had our daily routines all set, and at the age of 19 life can get pretty humdrum. I was almost an adult and hadn’t seen the world yet!
Then one day someone asked me if I wanted to teach Bible School in a little Mennonite community church near Knoxville, Tennessee. I was, perhaps, a little reticent about getting involved in something I wasn’t used to, like teaching little kids, but my desire to spread my wings won out and I agreed.
The day came when I made preparations to take the long drive. The plan was to stay the night at the home of the Landes family, some who were leaving for Tennessee and we would take off sometime in the wee hours. I anticipated an interesting trip and I dozed off with the sound of mockingbirds serenading outside in the warm moonlit night.
Very early in the morning we took off—I was the only fellow, as I remember, with three or four girls. We would be picking up another volunteer, John Paul H. near Harrisonburg, VA. I volunteered to drive. Ever since I got my license at the age of 17 I had driven the family car most of the time, putting on thousands of miles and enjoying it. This was now my chance to drive a long, long way.
We were only a few miles on the road when I spotted a possum crossing the road. I was barreling along at 60 mph and didn’t have much time to stop with a fully-loaded car. The possum changed its mind and retreated back across the road, then changed direction again. The last sight of it was he facing me with feet spread and teeth bared for a fight. Discretion dictates a merciful omission of the details of the outcome.
I drove most of the way. I had a splitting headache which felt better while I was driving. The South was intriguing to me. Here I was, a young Yankee, visiting the South for the first time, and I was anticipating a cultural change, something which I looked forward to. As soon as we hit the Mason/Dixon line we were in another world. I believe it was somewhere in Maryland or Virginia where we stopped for breakfast. Everyone within earshot was speaking in a southern accent and, unknown to us, we were being observed. The waitress walked over to the juke box and put in a dime. “You Ain’t Our Kind, But We Love You Anyway” started playing as she took our orders. I wanted to try the grits, “and a Pepsi,” I told her.
“A whut?”
“A Pepsi…you know, a Coke…Pepsi.”
“Oh, a PAYepsi. Awraht, ah gotcha!”
So we dined on some southern vittles; I finished the grits, the Payepsi, and whatever else I ordered, and we were on our way again, deeper into the South. Toward the southern end of Virginia we picked up JP, another candidate to teach Bible school. He was about my age and more reserved than I was—from quite conservative Mennonite stock. A quiet fellow. We roomed together during our stay in Tennessee and I noticed how quiet he always was, while I tossed and turned most of the night. I guess I’m a fidgety guy by nature—always was.
I took notice of some of the trees in Tennessee, which I learned later were mimosa trees. Their delicate feathery flowers had an oriental appearance, and made me more aware that I was far from home—for the first time in my life. I reveled in what was to me an exciting adventure. The weather was quite warm and sunny, and we spent the first day resting. On Monday we would exercise our labor of love in the art of teaching fertile little minds something which might prove valuable to them. It was a rural community with plenty of kids around.
I was assigned to third graders—cute kids. Some were barefooted. They all had a delightful southern accent, and I was quite conscious of the difference between mine and theirs. In fact, my accent was a little distracting to them…and I gradually slipped into their manner of speech and made more progress in teaching them Bible stories. By the end of two weeks I was practically a Confederate.
We didn’t just teach Bible School. On the first weekend we attended a Saturday evening Southern Baptist song service. Being a strait-laced Mennonite and rather wide-eyed about cultural differences, I drank in the feeling of euphoria I felt. The music sounded wonderful and free. Yes, sometimes the music sounded more like a jamboree or hoedown but it was beautiful to me, even when sung in a church. They were all religious songs…sung in country style, complete with guitars and piano.
One of the girls, Betty, had brought her accordion along and over the free time I learned how to play it, to a limited degree. I had played some piano over the years so all I really had to do was to figure out the bass part of the accordion. It didn’t take long. Then on this particular evening we were asked to sing as a Mennonite group. Betty asked if I would play the accordion. I declined. I wasn’t used to playing in front of a group and the skills I learned were too new to stand up under the stress of public scrutiny. So we sang without instrumental music.
During one particular enthusiastic vocal/instrumental number, the song was so uplifting that one rather dignified middle-aged lady jumped up from her seat and in a fit of high emotion, danced around a couple of times, until she apparently realized what she was doing and—sheepishly, I thought—sat down again.
All this was a new experience for me. Here people were not enduring their religion; they were enjoying it. It set me to thinking…and I got to think a lot about some of these things over the next couple of years.
In comparison, we attended a Southern Methodist revival meeting—the following weekend. It was an open-air building in the old camp-meeting style. An American Indian sat on the stage with the evangelist. During one part of the service, he was the focus of some of the bad history between the early settlers and the tribes that were mistreated in their day. The singing was energetic and the hallelujahs and amens ran rampant. This clearly was not a Mennonite revival meeting.
When the evangelist had the pulpit, he didn’t mince words. He spoke straight to the heart of the people. He hit where they were most vulnerable. He was going to win converts tonight.
“You who are holding back from giving you heart to the Lord tonight may truly regret it,” was the gist of part of his message. “The Lord is calling you—heed His call. You may not get another chance. God could surely repay you for not heeding His call…tonight. Those of you who have children, take heed. That innocent little baby sitting on your lap could be snatched from you and you would live to regret it for the rest of your life. You could have a car accident on the way home, for not heeding His call…tonight.”
The altar call was awash with weeping treble voices. There were also a few men in the throng. One man was on his knees his face to the ground, loudly beseeching the Almighty for mercy.
I was rather dumbstruck, puzzled, and a little angry. There seemed to be something a little diabolical in all of this. There may be a place to be coerced into a meaningful spirit-filled relationship with God, but not in an emotion-packed arena such as this seemed to be. But I added this to the list of rounded experiences as a young man trying to find a clear road in life.
I love peace and quiet. I’m a country-boy at heart, and perhaps always will be. One Friday night we camped in a field under the stars. I had never slept outdoors before. Someone gave me a sleeping bag and we were scattered in a field wherein grazed and horse and her colt. They paid us no mind. Around us were steep hills typical of the Tennessee countryside. Throughout the night I watched the stars slowly drift toward the west. Mockingbirds (the state bird of Tennessee) warbled and sang in the late-night jamboree of their own. I slept fitfully, as I often do in new surroundings. I dozed off and awakened as the eastern sky started to lighten. I dozed off again, until I was suddenly awakened by a firm tug on the top of my head, pulling my hair. Startled, I rolled around to see what it was—in time to watch the colt scamper off. I guess he now knows what Brilcreme tastes like.
One neighbor lady often visited the house where we stayed. She always had something in her mouth, her lower lip bulging. Curious, I asked one of my friends what she was chewing on. “Snuff,” I was told. “She’s chewing snuff. It is quite common.”
I borrowed a bicycle and toured the rural neighborhood. The houses were few and far between and at one house where were people in rocking chairs on the porch. I waved a greeting and one of them called out, “Yu frum Paynsyllvaynia?”
I said, “Yes, how did you know?”
“Bah yor aksaynt,” was the reply.
I hadn’t said a word to them before, so I realized that the whole neighborhood had us pegged. We were Yankees in Confederate hillbilly country. We had been cautioned: Don’t you surprise anybody in these hills, they’re likely to shoot first and ask questions later.
The second week went like the first in the two-week Bible school. I got more comfortable teaching those darling kids. And I even got to lead the whole group in singing. I had learned how to handle a pitch-pipe adequately, although I had difficulty naming the keys of a sing.
During one weekend we traveled down to the southern corner of Tennessee to Chattanooga, of Civil War fame. High atop a bluff we could see Moccasin Bend far below. (Some years later I saw it from an airliner traveling from Alabama to Pennsylvania.)
We picked up a brochure that advertised Ruby Falls. “The highest underground waterfall in the country,” it said. Of course, since we were right nearby, we just had to go see it. We waited in a long line to be taken below-ground by elevator. We paid about $3.00 each for a ticket. While we waited I noticed that when the elevator brought tourists to the top, they were all laughing and smiling, and apparently having a great time. You couldn’t help but notice it, since it happened every time.
We were finally in front of the line and then taken below-ground. A guide gave us a little history of the area and a lay of the cavern. We walked back about a quarter-mile to the falls, stopping to gaze at the stalactites and stalagmites and other odd stone formations along the way.
The falls were a disappointment, however. We didn’t expect Niagara Falls but the pitifully small stream cascading down from 180 feet did not give one any great feeling of wonderment. We ambled back to the elevator in silence.
On the elevator again, we were still rather subdued…until just before we reached the top, when our guide cracked a joke. It was our turn to laugh and smile, apparently having a great time as we exited the elevator.
It took a couple weeks to change back to my normal accent. I was a little embarrassed when I had to give a little talk at the youth meeting at the Bridgeport (PA) Mennonite Church which I regularly attended. It was difficult losing what I had consciously tried to gain for convenience, and now found that it was an oddity in a Pennsylvania Dutch setting. No one objected, however. In fact, some said they liked it. But it gradually faded way into distant memory.
That trip was an eye-opener for me. I had been a little unsettled, as many teenagers are, but this opened my eyes to a broader view, a less confining view. I realized that there are good people outside of my own restricted environment. I became more tolerant of other views. And through subsequent informal discussions with fellow members of the church who had changing views, I felt more free to eventually leave the environment I was in an spread my wings even more. And it felt good to leave the nest gracefully.
I realize anew how much a broader perspective I have than many of those I meet. I don’t know if it’s all good. There are some experiences that one doesn’t like to reminisce over. It taints man’s faith in his fellow man sometimes. But I value the perspective I have gained, for it gives me a better understanding of why people are the way they are.
This was written years ago when I had just left the Mennonite Church and joined a group whose emphasis was in glorifying God through a music ministry. Music was a big part of our endeavors and we had public concerts twice a year for almost 20 years. During that time young people were trained in instrumental and vocal music and we eventually had a 60-voice choir, children’s choir singing in several languages, and a full orchestra. Good things take time.
Monday, January 14, 2008
USDA
Working for the Federal Government in 1970 was a personal accomplishment for me, but also it brought me close to situations I wasn’t used to, coming from a Mennonite background. Bad language and salacious stories were some of them. One man, Jenkins, regaled the roomful of inspectors, of which I was one, with his sexploits of the weekend. No one really cared for his forwardness and some even left the room at times.
One Friday in March I brought in a $6 book from home on ways to save on income taxes. Jenkins eyed it several times during the day and finally asked me if he could borrow it over the weekend. I felt I would never see the book again so I helpfully suggested that if he gave me $6 he could keep it, to the amusement of everyone in the room. A scowl crossed his face and he got up and stalked out of the room, muttering something derogatory about my character.
I had come into the service of the U.S. Department of Agriculture not really knowing what to expect. I was fresh off the farm, not much into the world’s way of seeing things, but eager to learn more about life outside my plane of awareness. Dr. Barsh was my supervisor, a GS-11 government veterinarian. He had been a feisty government worker in his day but now his demeanor was tempered by declining health and many years of service in the agricultural industry, a fact which I was apprised of by other inspectors who knew him in his younger days. Dr. Barsh, I was told, was a real terror then. If his demands for cleanliness and proper procedures in the workplace were not met, he would sometimes snatch off his hard hat and slam it to the floor, exhibiting a temperament generally expected of spoiled brats.
Fortunately, he liked me and we got along fine—except for one day early on when I rubbed his feathers the wrong way. In an unthinking moment I made a rather stupid remark after which he exploded and sent me to the office for reflection, or further reprimand.
At the time I had very keen eyesight. One of the diseases chickens are cursed with is leukosis, which is manifested during post-mortem examination by spots on the spleen or liver, or anywhere else. A single spot, no matter how small, would determine the chicken go be inedible by the rules of government regulation. I happened to see a tiny spot, so I hanged the chicken back on the rack for Dr. Barsh to make a determination as he made his rounds of the inspectors’ stations. He questioned me about it and I remarked that maybe he couldn’t see the spot, it was pretty small. Well, Dr. Barsh exploded, fairly shouting at me and said if he could not see it, it isn’t there, and ordered me off the floor.
It was the first (and last) harsh reprimand I got, but I didn’t know what consequences awaited me as I waited in the government office. He sound just like my Dad. After awhile he came in, sat down beside me, put his arm around my shoulder and apologized for his outburst, something my father really never did. By that demonstration of compassion, I saw a side of Dr. Barsh that appealed to my sense of fairness and found it was not so difficult to stay on his good side.
As I worked on the eviscerating line, inspecting thousands of chickens per day, I also had my duty to study government regulations and procedures of proper inspection of the premises and of the products which were manufactured in the plant: chicken parts, batter-dipped chicken, chicken roll. I had to learn the necessary details of avian anatomy, systemic and local diseases, biophysics, and what my job description as a Career Conditional GS-5 government inspector entailed.
I was initially assigned to government inspection at Victor Weaver’s poultry processing plant in New Holland, PA. That was to be my home station. But I was told to report to the Bird-in-Hand Food Company in Bird-in-Hand in lower Lancaster County across the mountains from New Holland.
Occasionally Dr. Barsh’s boss would come in from Harrisburg to check on us. In meeting him, he informed me that I was entitled to a mileage and per diem allowance since I was actually not working at the station I was assigned to. Ordinarily, mileage is calculated from the home station to the station temporarily assigned. Since I had never been to my home station, I was allowed mileage from home where I lived to Bird-in-Hand, a distance of 110 miles per day roundtrip. This was mentioned a few weeks after I started and fortunately I had logged the miles on my brand-new 1969 Datsun, only for the novelty of keeping track of the use and abuse of a new car—my very first car.
The other inspectors told me I probably wouldn’t get the money. They had filed mileage allowances and often didn’t get a penny, thanks to government bureaucracy. But after Dr. Barsh learned I had kept a log of my driving record, he asked for the booklet for over the weekend and he filled out the necessary papers for me. He told me I could travel back and forth from home if I wanted to but he would like me to stay in a motel for one night, being sure to get a receipt to establish the per diem rate.
We had lots of paperwork to fill out every day and I signed lots of documents in the course of my work. Dr. Barsh was a stickler for detail and proper procedure, and any paperwork that required his signature had to be filled out properly before he even touched it. Apparently his signature meant something—he had that kind of reputation. I got the money, to the tune of over $300 allowance per month for the next two months, until I “graduated” from preliminary training under Dr. Barsh and was transferred to my originally assigned station in New Holland.
The day I began in New Holland was the day I met new faces in a new environment. The crew of seven or eight inspectors wanted to know what qualifications I had, who trained me, etc. When I told them Dr. Barsh trained me, they expressed their confidence in me.
But I had some misgivings about my own expertise, or my own enthusiasm for the job. Often I discarded chickens which were determined to be diseased but other inspectors weren’t as particular. Was I being too discriminatory? According to the regulations, I was apparently on target. Leukosis is a disease which is not known to be transmittable to humans, yet a spot on the spleen, and especially the liver results in condemning the whole bird. The reasoning is that if the liver shows signs of leukosis, the whole bird could be infected. I’ve seen some pretty ugly stuff during my tenure as inspector.
There are a few privileges in being a federal government inspector. One of them is having a plant employee do all the dirty work for you. Insurance regulations do not allow an inspector to handle a knife, so an inspector’s trimmer is required to do the job for him. He/she cuts off a broken wing here, a bruised leg there, picks condemned birds off the line, and is useful to allow inspectors to concentrate on making a 3- to 5-second decision about the fate of each eviscerated carcass passing before him on a moving line.
One day a GS-18 came by—a top-level government official, Dr. Youn. I was alerted about his presence and cautioned that he would be checking out the whole crew as we worked. I made sure I went according to the book. And sometime during the day I spotted him out of the corner of my eye, watching me intently. It was easier inspecting chickens in my own way, rather than by the book, but when I caught sight of him, I switched to the book method. Later we all got the results, and a lecture from our supervisor. (If I remember right, Dr. Barsh was temporarily assigned to New Holland at the time.) He expressed the importance of going by the book, and mentioned that Dr. Youn was disappointed that only one of the whole crew was inspecting properly. Later, he affirmed to me that I had indeed gone through proper inspection procedures. He told me that he was going to recommend I be sent to Gainesville, FL for full training once I passed the Career Conditional status.
Career Conditional status is a probationary period of one year where a trainee familiarizes with government regulations and inspection procedures. After that period, if the trainee wishes to continue in government service, he is given further tests and training and given a hefty GS-7 promotion. The first day of work Dr. Barsh told me to read The Jungle by Upton Sinclair, a book which was instrumental in passing the Pure Food and Drug Act of 1906. It was fascinating reading to me, if rather gruesome.
There are a whole host of ailments a chicken can acquire in its short lifespan: leukosis, airsaculitis, synovitis, and rarely, tuberculosis, being a few of them. Discarded chickens are recycled in some plants, at least at the time I was inspector. They were sent to the cookers where they were rendered into a mass of protein, the tallow (fat) removed and the remainder sent to the grinder where it was pulverized to a high-quality dry fat-free high-protein chicken feed. And it smelled just like regular feed, not oily at all. The tallow was shipped to some soap company.
Another trainee who entered government service at the same time was a Puerto Rican woman, Maria. She was of a different status than the other Puerto Rican people I had met and worked with over the years. She was white and had a cultured bearing about her. Over the several years I had previously worked in a poultry processing plant, I had picked up a handful of Spanish words and phrases. When I mentioned them, she remarked that some of them were street language and not good Spanish. She helped me refine some phrases.
Meanwhile, the Spanish workers found I knew some Spanish, and so did Management. One day the foreman asked me if I would be able to use a trimmer who spoke only Spanish; he wanted to train her to be an inspector’s helper. I told him I was not fluent in Spanish…I would give it a try but if there’s any problem I would have to stop the line oftener if I couldn’t convey the orders, or discontinue using her. So I tried it…until Dr. Barsh got wind of it. He took Maria and me aside and, in no uncertain terms, demanded that government regulations did not permit anything other than English spoken in the service of the U.S. government and we were not to converse in Spanish to any of the employees while working. Maria was dumbstruck. It was her native language. Whether she followed his orders is a matter of conjecture. I told the foreman to switch to an English-speaking trimmer and nothing more was said about it.
I alternated between New Holland and Bird-in-Hand during the course of the year and had a number of experiences which helped me acquire a more aggressive demeanor than what I was taught at home. I was gradually losing some of my timidity, which I was glad to get rid of.
Every several weeks I had the duty to report very early in the morning for an inspection of the premises before startup, leaving home at 4:30 a.m. On the first morning, bleary-eyed, but equal to the task, I inspected the equipment and environment at the Bird-in-Hand plant. It was quite dirty and I pointed out the offending spots to the foreman on duty, noting each of the areas on paper. He politely nodded but generally ignored the orders. I was just a trainee, what clout did I have? My supervisor was not yet on duty. Some of the equipment was dirty. The giblets from the day before were not cleaned properly. Even whole tanksful of chickens, stored in ice, were found to be less than standard. And there was really nothing I could do about it.
But…without warning, a few USDA government officials from Washington came to the plant that morning before startup. They made the same inspection I did, and they had the clout, and boy did they use it! Three hours after normal startup the plant was once again permitted to begin, after cleaning up much of the previous day’s run of carcasses in those tanks, and the giblets, and the equipment. I was not called into account for Management’s failure. They knew I had inspected the premises but they also knew I had no real authority to enforce anything, being just a trainee.
But one day I did enforce an order, authority or not. I had to stay after the main plant was finished. There were still workers working in the cut-up department where they were cutting up chickens and putting the parts in 60-pound wooden boxes lined with paper. Their habit was to stack several boxes full before sending them to the cooler. The room they were working in was hardly cool and my sense of culinary propriety came into play.
Bacteria thrives in temperatures above 40 degrees; below 40 it is diminished considerably. Much of the problem with processed food is that it is not often dealt with properly; it loses quality and often becomes unhealthy if not sped along its course. My supervisor was not around so I ordered them—politely—to put the boxes in the refrigerator as soon as each was filled. They grumbled but complied.
The premises are always to be “kitchen-clean.” New Holland was one plant that was closest to that designation. But when my turn came to pull early morning inspection, I found something that had been neglected for months, if not years. In the cut-up department there were metal benches about 4-6 inches high whereon stood the workers as they cut up the poultry product. I happened to look underneath one of them and found it filthy. I found this on the Friday before, and alerted the foreman about it, telling him the entire lot of benches where to be steam-cleaned by Monday.
Monday morning I came in and found them untouched. I overturned each one, and told the foreman. The result was that the plant was delayed in startup and Management was not too pleased. Dr. Barsh heard about it and asked me for the details. He told me I should have written down the orders to remind those in charge. It would have saved a headache. Hundreds of dollars per hour are lost when startup is delayed. Employees are paid during the time, etc., etc. It was Dr. Barsh’s responsibility and was part of my training, but the plant was at the mercy of some of our shortsightedness.
One day at New Holland, when I was under the supervision of another supervisor, Dr. Youn returned to interrogate the supervisor in charge (I forget his name) who was allegedly failing in his duties as a supervisor. I often noticed he was the type of person to walk about, disappear for awhile, and generally not be available when some crucial decisions had to be made. Perhaps one of us inspectors complained.
During breaks we, of course, overheard some of the interrogation and were glad we were not in the supervisor’s shoes. The questions were on procedures, where certain government manuals were located, what his duties were. He sat there answering some and unable to answer others. I was a little keyed up by what I was overhearing and during one question on the location of a certain manual, and noting that he was unable to answer, I went over to the bookcase and pulled out the manual and showed it to them. Embarrassed, I quickly put the book back and generally minded my own business. Later Dr. Youn gave him a reprimand, stating that he did not know answers to questions as a GS-11 that a GS-5 trainee could answer. Later, he was transferred to another job in a lesser capacity.
I valued what I learned in all these experiences, but I could not see inspecting chickens for the rest of my life and I started taking leaves of absence more frequently.
Dr. Barsh came back to supervise and one day he became ill. As cantankerous as he was, he refused medical leave. He may have been having a heart attack or something but he did not leave. It would pass, he said. He stayed in the office sweating profusely and dressed down to his undershirt.
He was in no shape to refuse medical attention. He was a four-pack-a-day smoker and his lungs were about shot. He often had coughing fits until he lit up a cigarette. But we each baby-sat him that day. One inspector relieved each of us in turn for a break and we stayed with Dr. Barsh in case he collapsed or something. Yes, it was rather wild.
When my break came, we talked. I told him, “Doc, you ought to see a doctor.” Dr. Barsh gave me a heart-to-heart talk about my increasing absenteeism. He pointed out the benefits of government work, but encouraged me to make a decision either way, whether I wanted to continue in government service. If I continued and got promoted, it would be difficult to quit if I wanted to later on. Now in Career Conditional status I had the option to resign without any marks against me.
As he spoke he idly reached into his pocket for a match, and lit it, putting it toward his lips, until he realized what he was doing. He glanced at me sheepishly and hurriedly distinguished it with a flick of his hand. Then he pulled out a cigarette and started over. A fleeting smile must have crossed my face, but my restraint was admirable. He was not in a humorous mood today.
I took his advice. I had previously been offered a job in the graphic arts industry if I ever wanted to switch careers. I weighed the evidence, the consequences, the opportunities, and resigned from the service of the United States Department of Agriculture, richer for the experience.
One Friday in March I brought in a $6 book from home on ways to save on income taxes. Jenkins eyed it several times during the day and finally asked me if he could borrow it over the weekend. I felt I would never see the book again so I helpfully suggested that if he gave me $6 he could keep it, to the amusement of everyone in the room. A scowl crossed his face and he got up and stalked out of the room, muttering something derogatory about my character.
I had come into the service of the U.S. Department of Agriculture not really knowing what to expect. I was fresh off the farm, not much into the world’s way of seeing things, but eager to learn more about life outside my plane of awareness. Dr. Barsh was my supervisor, a GS-11 government veterinarian. He had been a feisty government worker in his day but now his demeanor was tempered by declining health and many years of service in the agricultural industry, a fact which I was apprised of by other inspectors who knew him in his younger days. Dr. Barsh, I was told, was a real terror then. If his demands for cleanliness and proper procedures in the workplace were not met, he would sometimes snatch off his hard hat and slam it to the floor, exhibiting a temperament generally expected of spoiled brats.
Fortunately, he liked me and we got along fine—except for one day early on when I rubbed his feathers the wrong way. In an unthinking moment I made a rather stupid remark after which he exploded and sent me to the office for reflection, or further reprimand.
At the time I had very keen eyesight. One of the diseases chickens are cursed with is leukosis, which is manifested during post-mortem examination by spots on the spleen or liver, or anywhere else. A single spot, no matter how small, would determine the chicken go be inedible by the rules of government regulation. I happened to see a tiny spot, so I hanged the chicken back on the rack for Dr. Barsh to make a determination as he made his rounds of the inspectors’ stations. He questioned me about it and I remarked that maybe he couldn’t see the spot, it was pretty small. Well, Dr. Barsh exploded, fairly shouting at me and said if he could not see it, it isn’t there, and ordered me off the floor.
It was the first (and last) harsh reprimand I got, but I didn’t know what consequences awaited me as I waited in the government office. He sound just like my Dad. After awhile he came in, sat down beside me, put his arm around my shoulder and apologized for his outburst, something my father really never did. By that demonstration of compassion, I saw a side of Dr. Barsh that appealed to my sense of fairness and found it was not so difficult to stay on his good side.
As I worked on the eviscerating line, inspecting thousands of chickens per day, I also had my duty to study government regulations and procedures of proper inspection of the premises and of the products which were manufactured in the plant: chicken parts, batter-dipped chicken, chicken roll. I had to learn the necessary details of avian anatomy, systemic and local diseases, biophysics, and what my job description as a Career Conditional GS-5 government inspector entailed.
I was initially assigned to government inspection at Victor Weaver’s poultry processing plant in New Holland, PA. That was to be my home station. But I was told to report to the Bird-in-Hand Food Company in Bird-in-Hand in lower Lancaster County across the mountains from New Holland.
Occasionally Dr. Barsh’s boss would come in from Harrisburg to check on us. In meeting him, he informed me that I was entitled to a mileage and per diem allowance since I was actually not working at the station I was assigned to. Ordinarily, mileage is calculated from the home station to the station temporarily assigned. Since I had never been to my home station, I was allowed mileage from home where I lived to Bird-in-Hand, a distance of 110 miles per day roundtrip. This was mentioned a few weeks after I started and fortunately I had logged the miles on my brand-new 1969 Datsun, only for the novelty of keeping track of the use and abuse of a new car—my very first car.
The other inspectors told me I probably wouldn’t get the money. They had filed mileage allowances and often didn’t get a penny, thanks to government bureaucracy. But after Dr. Barsh learned I had kept a log of my driving record, he asked for the booklet for over the weekend and he filled out the necessary papers for me. He told me I could travel back and forth from home if I wanted to but he would like me to stay in a motel for one night, being sure to get a receipt to establish the per diem rate.
We had lots of paperwork to fill out every day and I signed lots of documents in the course of my work. Dr. Barsh was a stickler for detail and proper procedure, and any paperwork that required his signature had to be filled out properly before he even touched it. Apparently his signature meant something—he had that kind of reputation. I got the money, to the tune of over $300 allowance per month for the next two months, until I “graduated” from preliminary training under Dr. Barsh and was transferred to my originally assigned station in New Holland.
The day I began in New Holland was the day I met new faces in a new environment. The crew of seven or eight inspectors wanted to know what qualifications I had, who trained me, etc. When I told them Dr. Barsh trained me, they expressed their confidence in me.
But I had some misgivings about my own expertise, or my own enthusiasm for the job. Often I discarded chickens which were determined to be diseased but other inspectors weren’t as particular. Was I being too discriminatory? According to the regulations, I was apparently on target. Leukosis is a disease which is not known to be transmittable to humans, yet a spot on the spleen, and especially the liver results in condemning the whole bird. The reasoning is that if the liver shows signs of leukosis, the whole bird could be infected. I’ve seen some pretty ugly stuff during my tenure as inspector.
There are a few privileges in being a federal government inspector. One of them is having a plant employee do all the dirty work for you. Insurance regulations do not allow an inspector to handle a knife, so an inspector’s trimmer is required to do the job for him. He/she cuts off a broken wing here, a bruised leg there, picks condemned birds off the line, and is useful to allow inspectors to concentrate on making a 3- to 5-second decision about the fate of each eviscerated carcass passing before him on a moving line.
One day a GS-18 came by—a top-level government official, Dr. Youn. I was alerted about his presence and cautioned that he would be checking out the whole crew as we worked. I made sure I went according to the book. And sometime during the day I spotted him out of the corner of my eye, watching me intently. It was easier inspecting chickens in my own way, rather than by the book, but when I caught sight of him, I switched to the book method. Later we all got the results, and a lecture from our supervisor. (If I remember right, Dr. Barsh was temporarily assigned to New Holland at the time.) He expressed the importance of going by the book, and mentioned that Dr. Youn was disappointed that only one of the whole crew was inspecting properly. Later, he affirmed to me that I had indeed gone through proper inspection procedures. He told me that he was going to recommend I be sent to Gainesville, FL for full training once I passed the Career Conditional status.
Career Conditional status is a probationary period of one year where a trainee familiarizes with government regulations and inspection procedures. After that period, if the trainee wishes to continue in government service, he is given further tests and training and given a hefty GS-7 promotion. The first day of work Dr. Barsh told me to read The Jungle by Upton Sinclair, a book which was instrumental in passing the Pure Food and Drug Act of 1906. It was fascinating reading to me, if rather gruesome.
There are a whole host of ailments a chicken can acquire in its short lifespan: leukosis, airsaculitis, synovitis, and rarely, tuberculosis, being a few of them. Discarded chickens are recycled in some plants, at least at the time I was inspector. They were sent to the cookers where they were rendered into a mass of protein, the tallow (fat) removed and the remainder sent to the grinder where it was pulverized to a high-quality dry fat-free high-protein chicken feed. And it smelled just like regular feed, not oily at all. The tallow was shipped to some soap company.
Another trainee who entered government service at the same time was a Puerto Rican woman, Maria. She was of a different status than the other Puerto Rican people I had met and worked with over the years. She was white and had a cultured bearing about her. Over the several years I had previously worked in a poultry processing plant, I had picked up a handful of Spanish words and phrases. When I mentioned them, she remarked that some of them were street language and not good Spanish. She helped me refine some phrases.
Meanwhile, the Spanish workers found I knew some Spanish, and so did Management. One day the foreman asked me if I would be able to use a trimmer who spoke only Spanish; he wanted to train her to be an inspector’s helper. I told him I was not fluent in Spanish…I would give it a try but if there’s any problem I would have to stop the line oftener if I couldn’t convey the orders, or discontinue using her. So I tried it…until Dr. Barsh got wind of it. He took Maria and me aside and, in no uncertain terms, demanded that government regulations did not permit anything other than English spoken in the service of the U.S. government and we were not to converse in Spanish to any of the employees while working. Maria was dumbstruck. It was her native language. Whether she followed his orders is a matter of conjecture. I told the foreman to switch to an English-speaking trimmer and nothing more was said about it.
I alternated between New Holland and Bird-in-Hand during the course of the year and had a number of experiences which helped me acquire a more aggressive demeanor than what I was taught at home. I was gradually losing some of my timidity, which I was glad to get rid of.
Every several weeks I had the duty to report very early in the morning for an inspection of the premises before startup, leaving home at 4:30 a.m. On the first morning, bleary-eyed, but equal to the task, I inspected the equipment and environment at the Bird-in-Hand plant. It was quite dirty and I pointed out the offending spots to the foreman on duty, noting each of the areas on paper. He politely nodded but generally ignored the orders. I was just a trainee, what clout did I have? My supervisor was not yet on duty. Some of the equipment was dirty. The giblets from the day before were not cleaned properly. Even whole tanksful of chickens, stored in ice, were found to be less than standard. And there was really nothing I could do about it.
But…without warning, a few USDA government officials from Washington came to the plant that morning before startup. They made the same inspection I did, and they had the clout, and boy did they use it! Three hours after normal startup the plant was once again permitted to begin, after cleaning up much of the previous day’s run of carcasses in those tanks, and the giblets, and the equipment. I was not called into account for Management’s failure. They knew I had inspected the premises but they also knew I had no real authority to enforce anything, being just a trainee.
But one day I did enforce an order, authority or not. I had to stay after the main plant was finished. There were still workers working in the cut-up department where they were cutting up chickens and putting the parts in 60-pound wooden boxes lined with paper. Their habit was to stack several boxes full before sending them to the cooler. The room they were working in was hardly cool and my sense of culinary propriety came into play.
Bacteria thrives in temperatures above 40 degrees; below 40 it is diminished considerably. Much of the problem with processed food is that it is not often dealt with properly; it loses quality and often becomes unhealthy if not sped along its course. My supervisor was not around so I ordered them—politely—to put the boxes in the refrigerator as soon as each was filled. They grumbled but complied.
The premises are always to be “kitchen-clean.” New Holland was one plant that was closest to that designation. But when my turn came to pull early morning inspection, I found something that had been neglected for months, if not years. In the cut-up department there were metal benches about 4-6 inches high whereon stood the workers as they cut up the poultry product. I happened to look underneath one of them and found it filthy. I found this on the Friday before, and alerted the foreman about it, telling him the entire lot of benches where to be steam-cleaned by Monday.
Monday morning I came in and found them untouched. I overturned each one, and told the foreman. The result was that the plant was delayed in startup and Management was not too pleased. Dr. Barsh heard about it and asked me for the details. He told me I should have written down the orders to remind those in charge. It would have saved a headache. Hundreds of dollars per hour are lost when startup is delayed. Employees are paid during the time, etc., etc. It was Dr. Barsh’s responsibility and was part of my training, but the plant was at the mercy of some of our shortsightedness.
One day at New Holland, when I was under the supervision of another supervisor, Dr. Youn returned to interrogate the supervisor in charge (I forget his name) who was allegedly failing in his duties as a supervisor. I often noticed he was the type of person to walk about, disappear for awhile, and generally not be available when some crucial decisions had to be made. Perhaps one of us inspectors complained.
During breaks we, of course, overheard some of the interrogation and were glad we were not in the supervisor’s shoes. The questions were on procedures, where certain government manuals were located, what his duties were. He sat there answering some and unable to answer others. I was a little keyed up by what I was overhearing and during one question on the location of a certain manual, and noting that he was unable to answer, I went over to the bookcase and pulled out the manual and showed it to them. Embarrassed, I quickly put the book back and generally minded my own business. Later Dr. Youn gave him a reprimand, stating that he did not know answers to questions as a GS-11 that a GS-5 trainee could answer. Later, he was transferred to another job in a lesser capacity.
I valued what I learned in all these experiences, but I could not see inspecting chickens for the rest of my life and I started taking leaves of absence more frequently.
Dr. Barsh came back to supervise and one day he became ill. As cantankerous as he was, he refused medical leave. He may have been having a heart attack or something but he did not leave. It would pass, he said. He stayed in the office sweating profusely and dressed down to his undershirt.
He was in no shape to refuse medical attention. He was a four-pack-a-day smoker and his lungs were about shot. He often had coughing fits until he lit up a cigarette. But we each baby-sat him that day. One inspector relieved each of us in turn for a break and we stayed with Dr. Barsh in case he collapsed or something. Yes, it was rather wild.
When my break came, we talked. I told him, “Doc, you ought to see a doctor.” Dr. Barsh gave me a heart-to-heart talk about my increasing absenteeism. He pointed out the benefits of government work, but encouraged me to make a decision either way, whether I wanted to continue in government service. If I continued and got promoted, it would be difficult to quit if I wanted to later on. Now in Career Conditional status I had the option to resign without any marks against me.
As he spoke he idly reached into his pocket for a match, and lit it, putting it toward his lips, until he realized what he was doing. He glanced at me sheepishly and hurriedly distinguished it with a flick of his hand. Then he pulled out a cigarette and started over. A fleeting smile must have crossed my face, but my restraint was admirable. He was not in a humorous mood today.
I took his advice. I had previously been offered a job in the graphic arts industry if I ever wanted to switch careers. I weighed the evidence, the consequences, the opportunities, and resigned from the service of the United States Department of Agriculture, richer for the experience.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Ski Trip
Some years ago, maybe it was in the 1970s, I got a chance to ski in the heart of the Pocono Mountains in
The ski lift to the top was a moving rope which you hold onto while you ski to the top. I managed to slide along in a straight line while enroute to the top but then it dawned on me that I didn’t know any of the elementary moves, such as turning and side-stepping. A couple of fellows in the group were from
The view from the top was awe-inspiring. You could see for miles and all you saw were evergreen trees. Here and there the solid mat of trees was interrupted by the white run of other ski slopes. I settled down to the task at hand, trying to get down to the bottom of the slope without attracting too much attention to any of my less-than-graceful endeavors.
I first started with the small attempts—sliding for a short distance, turning as I went along, zigzagging down the slope in short runs. I didn’t care if it took hours. I had all day. I was at least going to learn how to turn in these uncontrollable sticks. At one point I zigged right into a thicket. Embarrassed, I struggled to right myself as inconspicuously as possible. Someone spied me anyway and helped me to my feet. It’s not easy for a beginner to stand up from a sprawled-out position, with skis wedged in the bushes while they (the skis) are attached to your feet. I think the bushes were attached to my feet too. I brushed off the snow and my discomfiture and resumed my self-instruction.
At last I made it to the bottom. My turns were adequate and I could stay upright for longer stretches. I was now ready to ski. I nonchalantly took the lift to the top again and positioned myself for takeoff. This time I decided to go straight to the bottom; no turns, no hesitation, no sense.
A hefty push with the ski-poles propelled me forward. The wind almost whistled through my jacket as I gained speed. It felt good to be able to stand upright while moving along at a good clip, knees bent slightly, balanced perfectly as the bottom of the slope loomed ahead. This is neat! I can ski!
Then I was struck with a terrible realization. I had not paid attention on how to stop! I had spent all my time with turns and recovering from falls that I didn’t know how to stop gracefully at a high rate of speed. To make matters worse, there was a line of people across my path, waiting to get on the ski lift. I hollered “Gangway!” and the line parted. I missed everyone but I had no choice but to deliberately fall down, just beyond the crowd of 30 or more. This time my skis were all tangled up in themselves and I had to unhook them off my feet to get out of my awkward pretzel position. The crowd politely ignored me.
My self confidence was beginning to dwindle, but I went back up the slope again and later tried for the more difficult stretch. I was now more at ease on skis and I practiced stops and continued with turns. Falls were less frequent. After a few runs down the intermediate slope I felt daring enough to try the difficult run. There was an additional ski lift which took you to the top high up on the mountain. Here was a decided drop in population on this slope. In fact, there were only a couple of skiers now and then.
As soon as I saw the slope from the top, all the faith and confidence I had in myself, all the learned discipline I had acquired on the gentler slopes, left me. I could turn back, but whoever heard of anyone going down a ski lift. I resignedly set to work. It was no longer play for me. This time I was rather worried. The slope was a steep, twisting furrow which seasoned skiers took on with ease; skiing from side to side down the slope, out of sight around a few turns to the bottom. Here and there were turns which were next to a steep mountain slope. If you overshot the turn you could easily catapult over the edge into the trees below.
It took me a long time to get down. Luckily, very few people used that slope. I didn’t have to save face. But my ambition to go farther was abated and I limped to the ski lodge, turned in my skis, and sat down to nurse wounds, real and imagined, over a cup of hot chocolate.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Balloon ride
In September of 1986 I went for the ultimate in adventure—a hot air balloon ride. Two friends of mine, Walter and his wife Theresa, wanted to do something to commemorate the ninth anniversary of living in
The weather was perfect; you could see for miles and miles. We arrived early at the Quakertown,
Below you could see the gathered onlookers getting smaller and smaller as our vista expanded. We were on top of the world. There was absolute silence when the flame wasn’t lit. Occasionally you could hear dogs barking, or the murmur of human conversation when we briefly descended. The pilot said he used to belong to a club of balloonists where they had leaf-picking contests—to see who could pick the most kinds of leaves on a single trip. We hovered among the tree tops for awhile. Higher up we could see the skyline of
It was crowded in the basket, standing room only, but each of us had an exclusive view. There were no windows and the top of the basket came up to about chest-height. I leaned out of the basket and looked underneath to the ground 2,000 feet below. My knees felt kind of quivery. I was relieved to hear the pilot’s explanations of the strength of the ropes and balloon, and the dependability of the flame. The temperature in the basket was a pleasant 67 degrees. The sun was setting and the outside air was cooling down. The temperature inside at the top of the balloon was around 215 degrees. The difference in temperature kept us aloft.
The flight normally takes about an hour. However, this flight was anything but normal as we found out later. We started looking for a place to land the craft. There below us was the parking lot of the
With a burst of flame we again soared skyward to look for another landing spot. As we descended once again the air movement along the ridge of trees shifted and we drifted in the opposite direction. I was getting a little apprehensive, but the pilot was calm about it; he knew what he was doing—everything was under control, except for the finicky wind direction. He always allowed enough fuel as reserve. What if we landed in the trees? No problem. In a case like that we would only have to descend through the trees to the ground.
Oh joy! There up ahead was a large open clearing below. We descended as rapidly as possible, about four feet per second. We were also drifting forward and—rats!—we overshot the clearing. We were now in the woods and up the creek! Literally in the woods, just skimming the tops of the trees. The pilot gave a few bursts of flame to gain altitude. The sun was setting now and the air was too cool and the flame was feeding on emptying fuel tanks which produced a flame too cool to heat the balloon to lifting capacity. We stayed at a constant altitude for a short while but it was below the tops of the trees. I reached and pushed on a hefty branch. We lifted right over the tree, the entire craft! But we just went deeper into the woods. The pilot gave repeated bursts of flame to lighten the craft and we still settled gently earthward, right on top of a tall…dead…tree!
I could hardly believe what was happening; things like this happen only to other people, but the pilot calmly instructed us to keep our hands inside the basket so we wouldn’t get pinched as we descended farther. We had only to settle down to the ground. But would you know it!, the balloon snagged on an upper branch and held fast. The basket, with us in it, was still a good 40 feet off the ground, and there we stayed.
When we realized we could descend no farther, the pilot dismantled the burner and took out ropes to fasten the basket to the tree. The balloon rapidly cooled down and after a few minutes it collapsed, draping protectively over us like a canopy; the snag holding fast high above. It was around 6:45 p.m. and the sun was down.
The woods is a nice place to be in the evening as the sun beds down for the night. There is hardly a whisper of a breeze and the air is cool and smells like…like the woods—a clean fresh fragrance. We called and whistled to attract attention. We attracted attention all right! About all the dogs in the adjoining neighborhood must have answered us.
About a half hour later we heard a booming voice in the distance, shouting the pilot’s name. It was the chase crew. We answered but they didn’t hear us. We just waited, knowing that eventually we would be rescued. I volunteered to climb out of the basket and shinny down the tree but the pilot thought it would be safer to stay put until help arrived. Anyway, there was a long distance from the lowest branch to the ground.
The most alarming part of the problem was the fact that we were in a dying tree and didn’t know how strong the limbs were. We were sitting right on top of what appeared to be a strong limb and the limb above us appeared quite strong but occasionally we were startled when the basket shifted with a jolt! But there was no panic, which amazed the pilot—our attitude toward the whole ordeal. I told him this was our first time in a balloon and we were too inexperienced to be scared. But we weren’t perfectly calm either.
The conversation shifted away from the immediate problem. We asked the pilot his name and where he came from. He spoke with a decided British and German accent. Asbjørn Damhus came from
Another hour or so passed and we suddenly heard voices and saw the glimmer of flashlights through the trees. In the darkness we guided them to our spot by calling to them. They were startled to hear our voices coming from high above them and they then realized what kind of predicament we were in. They tramped back through the woods for help, guided the the occasionally barking dogs. They gave the rescuers a sense of direction.
Another hour passed by and the woods then came alive with the chatter of voices and the beams of bright lights. To the rescue came the East Rockhill Police Department and the Perkasie Fire Department and Rescue Squad. They had rappelling gear (the kind mountaineers use) and they carefully instructed us on how to use it. Asbjørn was vaguely familiar with the tangle of harnesses, ropes and carabiners and her helped us put on the equipment. There were no nearby roadways or paths into in the woods for the fire truck to bring its ladder so we had to rappel down by rope.
Theresa was the only woman aboard the flight and they sent up a jump-suit for her to put on, a gentlemanly consideration—she was wearing a dress. They told us to let the lady go first, a not-so-gentlemanly gesture under the circumstances—we did not know if the branch would hold properly. And she never rappelled down a rope in her life. Furthermore, it was quite crowded to put on a jumpsuit. Someone else had to go first.
I volunteered. I was single with no one to mourn my passing if a worst-case scenario would present itself, except for my parents, five sisters, two brothers, about 10 aunts and uncles and over 50 cousins. Oh well. I just have to be careful. I proceeded to put on the harness around my chest and another around my waist and it was connected by the huge buckle, or carabiner. Asbjørn assured us how much weight these ropes and harnesses could hold so we didn’t have to have any qualms about it. But it was rather unnerving to get out of the basket and step out into open space with nothing else to hinder a free fall. It wasn’t like we were in orbit or anything, but we did have the force of gravity to contend with. The speed of a falling body increases 32 feet per second per second. I could hit the ground before I could say, “I hope this thing is safe.”
I legged over out of the basket, entrusted all my weight to the ropes and rappelled down the tree trunk. Rescue was holding the other end of the rope and they played it out as I guided myself down. When Theresa saw that I landed unscathed, she was relieved, knowing what to expect; and there was now room in the basket to don the jumpsuit. I didn’t watch the rest of the rescue; I was escorted out by the ambulance crew and given a checkup (required by law) and we were none the worse for the experience. I checked my watch. It was 10:30 p.m.
I found out that they had videotaped the rescue operation. It is rare to extricate people from tall trees so this taping was requested for documentation for training purposes. One of the flight team told me we were in good hands with Asbjørn. He was an experienced balloonist and he was also a sailor—having sailed as crew with Thor Heyerdahl about eight years before. Whether or not he mishandled the flight is up to the balloon flight team to determine. I wrote them a letter of appreciation and commendation on his behalf on the way he handled us as his passengers. Asbjørn wrote me a letter describing his task of mending the torn balloon fabric and encouraging me not to write off the incident as a bad adventure.
The part of
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Letter Writing
I had been writing to penfriends ever since I was a young teenager, in the 1950s and 60s. I remember Sammy Quayne Lartey from
It was in the 1980s I engaged in letter writing in earnest, especially after I had written letters to a lady in
That correspondence gradually died and it was almost a year when I became aware of it. Since our correspondence had been quite interesting I felt that something must have happened. I didn’t know what would be wrong, but since her husband had leukemia, I felt that there might be something that changed for her.
I wrote a letter, aimed at the idea of something needing prayerful attention. I included the words of a song we used to sing at our church:
A couple weeks later I got a letter from her, written in shaky handwriting. She informed me that her granddaughter had died, and her husband had passed away. She also said that, when she was in the waiting room at the hospital, when her husband was in ICU, friends tried to console her, but all she could think of was “Be still and know that I am God” taken from Psalm 46:10.Be still and know that I am God,
Be still and know I’m He;
On mountaintop, in valley green, above the sky and sea.
Exalted I shall ever be, between the cherubim and thee;
I’ll guide thee, and keep thee, eternally.
I wrote back words of condolence. She wrote back and said that she would no longer be involved with the shut-in list, and that she would not write letters anymore, but that she would count me as one of her dear friends.
This interchange inspired me to keep writing letters to others around the world. I found penpal lists, subscribed to The Letter Exchange, and generally found people all over the world with varying interests.
A woman in
Back in the early pioneering days Pennsylvania was populated with mostly German immigrants and English was hardly heard anywhere. One day a Dutchman was hunting deer in the Lebanon County hills when he grew tired and lay down to rest awhile. He dozed off but suddenly awoke to see an Indian there by him with bow drawn and the arrow pointed at his heart. The Dutchman raised his hands in fright and exclaimed, "Sheess net, sheess net!" (don't shoot). Surprised, the Indian lowered his bow and replied, "O, kennst du aw deitch?" (do you also know German). My cousin told me this joke.
One lady from
My motive for writing was to gain more understanding of the world around me. I had been alone much of the time, and was interested in spreading my wings a bit, to be more sociable. What better way than to launch out into the world by writing to others who may have the same interests, or gain more knowledge by letting them describe their different points of view.
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