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“I had taken yet another job, this time at the Ohio Historical Society.” |
FOR the first time since I went to work on Granddad’s farm in 1942, forty-six years before, I didn’t have to get up and go to work each dayl I was like a kid out of school! My first poject was to finish our basement and build a big clubhouse in it for the grandchildren and their friends. They had a stamp collecting club that we helped them start when Geri’s family lived on Perry Street on the Lake Erie shore. One day Aaron needed something for show-and-tell at school, so I gave him the Commodore Perry postage stamp from my collection and then told him about Perry’s big victory that took place near there during the War of 1812. This got the kids all interested in postage stamps, so I shared my hobby of philately with them.
Another hobby was woodworking, so we began constructing playthings in their big double sized back yard. When I asked the kids what kind of a tree-house they wanted, they got out their “Big Bird” little golden book and showed me Big Bird’s house. I had no money for such projects, so I collected scrap lumber from the merchants at the strip-mall in our neighborhood. Big Bird’s tree house was gigantic -- built on a foundation made of two-by-six joists -- high up in a huge beech tree. It was ideal for PSST Meetings (Perry Street Stamp Traders) when they couldn’t come up to their clubhouse in our basement.
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Gradually we added more playthings -- swing sets, a tower, a playhouse and a platform for their trampoline. A few years later, a storm blew down the beech tree making such a gigantic mess that the local TV station came up twice to tape a news story about it! Then it was back to the drawing boards! We never did get it rebuilt, however, because by that time I was back in the harness of a security guard with another full time job. Retirement on a tiny pension had not been as great as I thought it would be. There was never enough money, and besides, my being home all the time was driving MJ crazy.
I had taken yet another job, this time at the Ohio Historical Society, where I have become immersed in Ohio’s history. Each night I patrol through the various malls: Archeology, Natural history, Ohio History, Civil War, and the “1940’s.” The museum is nearly dark when I make my way through the thousands of artifacts and art exhibits. When I begin my round at the 240-million-year-old Cyprus stump, I feel insignificant in the grand scheme of things in this immense span of time in our limitless universe.
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When I pass through the exhibits of the wild creatures of the Ohio wilderness, posed in their natural surroundings, and seemingly ready to pounce on me, I almost feel threatened. These are the same wolves, bobcats, panthers and bears that our pioneer ancestors watched out for when they cleared their land in the Tuscarawas County forests -- an eerie scene! Then I come to the “First Ohioans” exhibit where a life size diorama of woodland Indians shows them busy working at their crafts in startling realism.
When I stroll through the history mall, and reach the 1920’s it’s like walking through a timeline of my own life. The collection of little cast iron toy cars and trains were part of my world of make believe then, when I was a three-year-old. When I reach the “thirties,” the bootlegger’s still, John Dillinger’s Tommy gun and get-a-way car, Mamma’s washboard and other artifacts of those depression years, bring memories of when hobos begged at Mamma’s kitchen door, and men sat around “Potbellied stoves” discussing Roosevelt’s “New Deal.” The “forties” exhibit with the World War II dioramas, artifacts and taped interviews of war veterans, bring vivid memories of my war experiences. Then I stroll through the displays of post-war products -- early television sets, appliances, cars and manufactured enameled steel homes, and remember how we veterans stood in line to spend our savings on these products.
Then I reach the mall of “Ohio’s Firsts,” that includes many items from famous inventors. These are now historic artifacts, yet were things that we used every day back then. As time spirals at a dizzying speed into our new millennium, I’m thankful that I’m still here to marvel at the amazing new products and technology. At the end of the this mall, I come face to face with a twenty-foot photographic wall mural of Harvey Firestone with his pals, Henry Ford, Tom Edison and President Harding, relaxing with their Sunday papers. This is a perfect graphic impression of my old boss Charley Ashbaugh’s story about poor Harvey always being second rate to Goodyear.
My rounds take me upstairs into the Ohio Archives Building -- Ohio’s giant book box! What fun it is to walk among the millions of books and other archives that tell the history of Ohio. An archivist lets me look in an ancient tax ledger where a clerk, probably wearing a green eye shade, recorded great-great-granddad Hussey’s (sic) first annual tax payment on his homestead in 1825. That would be his one trip to the county seat each year, an all-day ride in his farm wagon. I spend countless hours here during my free time and days off, when the librarians assist me in following the “paper trail” left my ancestors as I try to unravel the mystery of my our genealogy.
I patrol through the Ohio Village, where time stands still, and it is always the “1860’s.” In that darkened village, I stop at the little park by the village pond and watch momma duck nudge her ducklings into the water where they discover that they float and start to paddle around. As I sit in this oasis in the heart of our great metropolis, only the roar of big rigs speeding down the freeway, just over the levy, and the roar of jet engines winding down on their approach to Port Columbus, remind me that this really is the twenty-first century.
I wade through a gaggle of complaining geese and continue my appointed rounds down the wooden sidewalk past the Village doctor’s residence, then by the boarding house, express office, lawyers office, cabinet maker/undertaker, Ladies Aid Society, recruiting office, blacksmith, barn full of animals, drug store, dressmaker, millinery, girls’ seminary, village square, farm houses, village church, hotel and inn, newspaper office, town hall, school house, and finally the general store with the Masonic Hall upstairs. I gaze into the store window at the merchandise of Granddad’s day, and am reminded of wonderful working vacations on the homestead when I was a kid. Granddad would take me to the general store and buy me a straw hat for a quarter and a pair of Oshkosh overalls for a dollar.
My continuing rounds take me to the warehouse complex where we store the artifacts that are not currently on display at the museum or village. It’s Ohio’s giant junk drawer, like that junk drawer at home where we put things that we hesitate to throw away. A corner building is full of old buggies, autos, railroad artifacts and homemade farm implements that will someday have great historic value. I find Granddad’s old McCormick Reaper that allowed him to harvest sixteen acres of wheat each day and was used by four generations on our family homestead. In a corner, I find a box of baggy, pin-striped baseball uniforms, a collection of tin kitchen utensils and a 1946 Chevrolet car that don’t seem worth saving. But, a cleaver presentation artist could someday, build a display that will strike a sentimental chord with those of us who fought in World War II and dreamed of returning home to “baseball, apple pie and Chevrolet!” I also find hundreds of Ohio’s regimental battle flags that remind me of the thousands of Ohioans who died for causes that each soldier cherished more than life itself.
As I write this in 2003, I think of the many ups and downs in my life with very high peaks and equally deep valleys. Fortunately, the highs are much more vivid memories than the lows. The lowest point was the death of my mother, which was so tragic for my family that a half a century does not much soften the bitter memory. Mary Margaret and Dad both suffered deep depression from it, and carried that hurt to early graves.
Except for that, however, each step of my journey through life has been an exciting experience, and my tastes and outlook on life have constantly changed as I grew in knowledge and experience. As a lad, I craved glitter, action, and competition, and couldn’t understand how older people could possibly be happy just sitting around and reflecting or talking. But now, I have reached the age where I have become jaded with new material things and the bright lights of the nocturnal city. After owning six homes and having a score of automobiles, and partaking of the same entertainment over and over, my craving for those pleasures has been replaced by the sweetness of Endymion’s scenes. Now, I would rather rise early, as I did as a child, and stroll along a peaceful lake at dawn. My senses are stimulated by the smell of the clean brisk air and spring blossoms, and by the sounds of the awakening birds. I thrill at the sight of a mother duck and her drake, leading their ducklings across the still lake, through the golden path of the rising sun, beyond. As Keats proclaimed, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” All of the beautiful things in my seventy-seven years of experience are stored in my memory and can be recalled at will to be enjoyed over and over.
The vivid memory of the enchanted evening when Mary Janice agreed to spend her life with me was the high point, and our 53 years together have made them doubly rich for me. I no longer feel sorry for folks in the twilight of their lives, and am determined to store up many more memories to enjoy during these golden years.
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Other fond memories are of the vacation camping trips when the kids were young, and later with them and their children. We trudged up through the snows of Mt. Rainier, stayed in a beautiful lodge high up on Mt. Hood, and in cabins at Crater Lake and hiked through California’s redwood forests.
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This narration reveals weaknesses and mistakes that have changed my life, and that I pray my descendents will not make. It also reveals a manic-depressive tendency that I had been completely unaware of for years, but that no doubt had a very negative affect on my career, and also caused MJ much mental anguish. But as long as I am alive, there is still opportunity to enjoy life to its fullest. Thanks to the indomitable spirit that we inherited from those Murphy and Hursey pioneers, and the strong faith in God that they handed down to us, I am confident that the future holds many more pleasures along my journey from Goshachquenk.
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THE END
