From ’20 to ’20, More or Less

FROM ’20 to ’20, MORE OR LESS

chapter 4

A correction from the previous chapter: My father did buy new cars after that. Seems to me he bought a new ’51, ’53, and ’55 Nash, the last being an Ambassador. Those were good cars. Innovative. Never got the credit they deserved for new things: A transmission designed to save gas with an aspect called “free wheeling.” Also, perhaps the first to have an automatic transmission.   With an overdrive gear! Very difficult to turn over (I guess a low center of gravity?) The first car to have air conditioning as standard equipment. Seats which made into full beds. Starter on the gearshift handle…etc., etc., etc. Nash, an American marvel!

Just wanted to clear up that error.

When we left the farm (which my father sold in order to do some other business) we moved into an old house in Trafalgar, right on the main street, which I found out years later was called Pearl St. Our house had four gables, I think. In 1954, we remodeled it to be a ranch-style look. Inside it was much the same, but had ranch effect design (central hallway between bedrooms, etc.) That was also the year we got indoor plumbing. Finally. Everything changed then, thank goodness.

But, when we first moved, my father built a commercial building in town but on SR135 and a house next door to it. The house was for my oldest sister, Roberta and her husband, Bob, who had served in WW2. The commercial building was masonry with a quonset style roof with arched trusses made of wood; 2 inch materials lashed together in an arch fashion to create the quonset look. The building is still there today with a more common pitched roof.

“Lockie” had a blacksmith shop sort of in the middle of the garage area, then there were two garage openings on the North end, with a filling station on the South end—Texaco, it was. I remember spending several days with him in the blacksmith area, mostly a nuisance to him, I’m sure. He did a lot of plow point sharpening. You didn’t grind those down to sharpen; you heated them and beat them back into shape on an anvil while they were red hot. He was a strong man in those days, that stuff was hard work. He also grind-sharpened mowing scythes, the kind that fit into tractor mounted PTO mowers for cutting hay. That also took a lot of strength. They were several feet long, a system of 3 inch triangle blades which meant you sharpened two edges while holding the whole length in the air. These triangles were mounted on a bar by rivets, as I recall, which would get loose or break if the farmer ran into a rock or something. He fixed those, too. Daddy kept some scrap iron in a wooden box for making a tool or attachment from scratch. I’ve seen him make hitches, replacement parts hard to find for old equipment, etc. My early adulthood carried these memories into my belief mankind can do most anything he sets his mind to do. I thank my father for that seated principle in my life. 

The blacksmithing became less each year as new farming innovations replaced the need for as much repair work. Not sure, but I think maybe 3 seasons was all he did as a blacksmith. The building stayed being a garage and filling station until the mid ‘60s. I spent several hours a week in the filling station/restaurant as a teenager. Daddy and Mommy went on to work at Camp Atterbury after the blacksmith days. Daddy also started doing contract work, building and remodeling which he did until he “retired” at 81.

My greatest memories of the ‘50s, living in Trafalgar run from starting my schooling (actually starting in the Fall of ‘48) and continuing through the Spring of ‘60–12 years in the same building with everyone else in grades 1 through 12—no kindergarten in Trafalgar in those days. My folks were not personally involved in the goings on at the school very much. Once, my father went and told school board people NOT to take government subsidies, it would only lead to more and more government interference. They told him it was out of their hands already. I’m pretty sure he never went back to them about anything. 

During all the years I was in school, my father was also a pastor and/or evangelist in small churches in Indiana, Illinois, Kentucky and a few times in North Carolina. Pastoring was mostly limited to central Indiana, several different churches with classical names: Shiloh, Friendship, Pleasant Valley, Mt. Zion, Bethel, and a few others. He actually started preaching and pastoring a year or so before I was born. He continued to preach till about age 82-83, but slowed considerably after late 70s. The last 30 years at a church which also served as the denominational headquarters in a little town called Fruitdale or Midway, as was the name of the church.

For about 3 years, in the early 50s, he had a tent and did “tent revivals” in small towns which didn’t have a church of the denomination he was. He fit their definition of a “home missionary” —not being sent overseas somewhere. To me, it was always fun to put up the tent and take it down. It was a most of the day job setting it all up: borrow a vacant lot next to someone willing to share electricity, then the old and totally physical way of rolling out the tent sections, lacing them together, get the center pole (it was a 40’ X 40’ tent with one center pole) set to be raised, the corner poles placed, then while several men held it up, the stay poles and staked tie ropes all up into place. Then the electric lines were hung, lights all working, sawdust or woodchips placed as an aisle, then the knockdown pews all set up and the pulpit assembled,  piano carried in and placed just so! Phew!!! A lot of fun! Taking it all down was hard work, but it didn’t take all day.

Through all that, my father and mother never appeared to be angry or upset with one another. Maybe they were, but it never showed, at least not to me. One day I remember well, I think I was about 9 or 10: He was leaving to go to work and my mother said, “You got any grocery money?” He said he didn’t. She said, “How am I supposed to feed these boys? what are you gonna do?” He said, “I’ll pray about it.” And walked out. An hour or so later, a man pulled up at our house and told her he had a half a hog, already dressed in pork chops, bacon and ham for us. His prayer worked pretty good, don’t you think? She traded some neighbors for some other essentials and we never went hungry. We had some very lean years during that era. 

[this morning the song in my head (SIMH) was also a favorite of my father’s: IN THE CROSS:

Jesus, keep me near the cross,

There’s a precious fountain, free to all

A healing stream, flows from Calvary’s mountain.

IN THE CROSS, IN THE CROSS be my glory ever

Till my raptured soul shall find

Rest, beyond the river.

Written by the famous hymn writer Fanny Crosby—1869]

To be continued

Thanks for reading, the Elder