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The site "Po's Peek at the Past" is affiliated with the column "Po's Peek at the Past" published by the Mainline and Morrison's Cove Newspapers of West-Central, PA.
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Remember - There's no place like home... There's no place like home... There's no place like home...  

Commandments From The Great Depression

 "If you're offered food, and you decide to accept it and take a bite, you'd better

finish eating the entire offering." Now, I'm not sure if that preceding line was a

commandment in other homes, but it sure was in mine as I was growing up.

My mom would add, "It's rude to taste something that a woman bakes and then

not finish eating it." As I grew older I deduced that my parents were not only

concerned about hurting others' feelings, but their thoughts on the consumption

of food were also a result of them growing up during the Great Depression

when families couldn't afford to waste anything.

However, what follows is an example of when my parents' stringency came

back to haunt them.

Aunt Ann's homemade buns

My eyes lit up with excitement when I spotted those freshly baked buns one

Sunday morning. We stopped in for a visit like we often did, after our church

service. And the aroma emanating from my aunt's open oven hit this six-year-

old's olfactory senses well ahead of my visual discovery.

This time there was a variety of baked goods on the oven trays, and as usual, I

wasted no time in grabbing a bun as soon as my Aunt Ann placed a little butter

on its top to keep the bun moist.

My worst nightmare

As that warm bun hit my tongue and lips, I knew in a millisecond that it was

not plain bread. It was a bun made of rye. And rye was one of the many things

I couldn't tolerate as a kid. In fact, it was one of the items that made me

downright sick to my stomach.

What did I do? Without so much as giving my situation another thought, I just

ate it - all of it. I knew that making a fuss about it was fruitless. I do remember

that it did not go down easily, and with each swallow, I became more and more

distressed.

As I glanced toward my mom, the expression on her face said it all. She knew

fully well that I had grabbed a rye bun. But like page two of a Paul Harvey

commentary, her face also said "you'd better finish that bun."

There was no way that my mom was going to allow me to give her sister Ann

the impression that she wasn't an excellent baker.

The ride home

I'm not sure how far into the trek home before that rye decided it wasn't happy

in its new surroundings, but I eventually became aware of that fact as I sat in

the middle section of our new station wagon.

My parents were deep in conversation with each other as we headed home, and

I wanted to scream, "I'm ready to vomit!" but I knew better. Another household

commandment was, "thou shalt not interrupt adults when they're talking." We'd

often been told to wait for them to stop speaking before we said anything.

So, I had no choice - I let it fly. Luckily for my siblings, I somehow managed to

miss them, but I have no idea how that happened.

My bewildered parents

Afterwards, neither my mom nor my dad could fathom why I hadn't made a

loud proclamation concerning my impending regurgitation. After I explained

my situations, both at Aunt Ann's and on the way home, they were speechless.

After all, what could they possibly say?

Funny thing about those household commandments after that eventful Sunday -

I don't recall ever hearing them again. Perhaps my dad and mom's arduous

task of cleaning up remnants of rye from the car's interior had something to do

with that.

An Ornery But Lovable Guy

 If you ever heard stories about a certain young man who grew up in a small mining and lumber town in the 1930's-40's, you just might smile as you admired his ornery ways. In his adolescence, that young man would think ahead, and after a heavy snowfall, he'd rise out of bed early and head to the local school bus lot. There, he'd pull the cables off the spark plugs and distributor cap from under the school bus hood. Just in case school wasn't canceled that morning because of the snow, he wanted to be sure he covered all the bases, so he'd hide a cable or two just for good measure, then head back home. When the bus failed to appear that morning, his mother thought that school had been canceled and the kids had a day off.

Years later as a teacher and coach

This young man later served his country in the Korean War, and afterwards worked in the coal mines while going to college on the GI bill. Then he became a high school math teacher and a coach. Once a former student of this man greeted him while shopping in a mall. His shout-out went something like, "Hello coach! I ran cross-country and track for you back in 1974."

Not wanting to admit that the coach didn't remember the runner's name, he replied jokingly, "Oh, hi! When did they let you out of jail?"

To which the former runner proclaimed, "About two weeks ago."

Are you smiling now?

An embarrassing moment

Though the coach's wife tried smiling, she was rather embarrassed by her husband's questioning, and felt like walking away to hide somewhere to avoid the awkward situation any further. Her emotions paled in comparison to what was about to follow years later (more on that in a bit).

Coming home later than expected

Once this ornery, but lovable guy was a tad late after he stopped by a local watering hole in town. When his wife asked him why he was running late, he explained, "There was a huge dog outside the door of the place and it would growl at everyone who tried to leave." He went on to add, "Every time anyone stepped out, they were met with a menacing grrrrr, and they had to turn around and come back in for fear of being bitten."

When his wife refused to believe that story, he concluded with, "Go ahead and call the bar. They'll tell you that I'm not making this up."

I bet you're smiling now.

An Eastern European wedding reception

If you've ever heard of Polish, Slovak or "hunky" wedding receptions, you fully know what kind of celebrations they can be. The events usually offered great food, a live band, a large wedding party, many guests, and an open bar for the attendees to partake of a beverage or two.

The Big Announcement

At one such event, the leader of the band had just announced all the names of the wedding party, followed by an immense applause from the large audience. Each couple in the wedding party appeared from a hallway close to the main area. Lastly, he announced the married couple's names, accompanied by a thundering drum roll, while everyone in the place stood, cheered loudly and started to clap their hands for the newlyweds.

Yes, it was a standing ovation, as everyone expected the young couple to appear from the hallway. Instead, that lovable, ornery guy entered the arena in his dress suit, with a huge smile on his face and drinks in each hand. He had to double-hold the requested drinks from those at his table, because he'd offered that favor to his family when he went to the bar.

He never missed a beat, drum or other-wise, grinning and nodding to those standing around him as he made his way to his table. His nods of approval mimicked those persons receiving the Nobel Peace Prize. But the look on his wife and daughters' faces told another story. Mortification would be a better description of their emotions.

You have to be smiling now!

In his defense, as he tried explaining to his wife, he claimed he was told by an usher in the hall that it was okay to enter at that precise time. That claim though, was never proven, one way or another.

To complete the story

Now, when you hear who that ornery, but lovable man was, it may cause you to laugh even more so. He was none other than my father-in-law, Pete. And I was at that table, with my wife's family. My brother-in-law and I made no attempt to restrain our laughter, despite the embarrassed faces of the women sitting with us. To be honest, we almost burst our bladders then, and still do, when we reminisce Pete's ornery activity that day.

Mourning The Loss Of The Cowlick

 

It's time we realize that the cowlick is no longer with us - at least no longer around to any major degree. Although cowlicks might be familiar to those of us who are members of the baby boomer generation, I'll wager good money that many younger people today have no idea what they are (or should I say, what they were).

I'll also bet that young farm kids today might think they are large blocks of sodium chloride that the cows can lick when they get a craving for a salty treat. In today's society, one rarely sees a cowlick on anyone's head, and even more rare is spotting a cowlick similar to the one sported by Alfalfa on The Little Rascals.

Alfalfa photo, courtesy of Google Images

Reasons for its demise

If a young girl is born with a cowlick in modern times, it's likely never to be noticed by anyone as she grows older. The reasons for this are three-fold. First is the proliferation of hair dressers, salons and beauty parlors, which are found in higher numbers in every city or town in the country, than there are grains of sand on a beach. These salons are well-equipped with numerous hair dryers using heat so intense, they can reshape a steel beam. Hair strands are no match for these appliances which have been known to cause severe droughts in parts of Texas.

The second reason for the demise of cowlicks lies in the chemical make-up found today in solutions of the perm that some women get biweekly at these same salons. These compounds are so powerful that they literally can reshape an old oak tree planted a century ago. It won't be long until we have no need for pruning shears or saws.

Thirdly, comes the advancement of another powerful synthetic compound meant to subdue the most stubborn hair strands. This is known as hairspray. Hairspray is nothing new. I recall my aunts many years ago using it to keep their beehive hairdos standing straight up, two feet high, on their heads for weeks at a time.

I recall an incident one time where my Uncle Frank was stung by something early one morning before he got out of bed. Coincidentally, later that same day, my Aunt Agnes was notified at her hair salon that hornets had taken up residence in her high hairdo. As I recall, her hairdresser simply zapped the insects with another shot of hairspray and the hornet problem was solved.

And as hard as it might be to believe, hairspray today can keep a woman's hair motionless as she walks through a desert during a sand storm. If the spray is allowed to set, like concrete in a sidewalk, there is little chance that hair movement will take place for weeks or even months afterwards.

Reasons for the cowlick demise in a man's world

Since many men today visit the same salons as women, one can deduce that cowlicks have bordered on extinction with them as well. In addition, some men suffer from male pattern baldness and as a result may keep their heads shaved. Today, a man's cowlick has little chance to make it to the advanced stage when it becomes visible.

We can thank the Black men in America for advancing the style of a shaven head. As Dave Barry wrote once in an article in the Miami Herald - "Black men look good with a shaven head. Whereas white men look like a thumb." Now, because of sheer numbers, white men no longer stand out with their heads shaved. They've blended into society as much as cell phones in teenagers' hands. This is great news for balding men, but terrible news for cowlicks.

Historical documents indicate that Betsy Ross tried to make a cap prototype and asked Ben Franklin to try it on. The use of the cap was put off for another 150 years because Franklin refused to wear it. In one of his early almanacs, he declared, "I'd rather suffer a lightning strike while flying a kite in a thunderstorm than wear that on my head."

May cowlicks rest in peace

Just as a mama cow has to eventually let go of her calf after persistent licking, causing the fur to become matted in spots, we too must let go of our cowlicks. After all, they had a good run. And who knows? It is entirely possible that they may make a comeback someday, too. But for now, it's time to wish them peace and say goodbye, much like my Uncle Frank did with those hornets.

Repeating History

 

By Repeating History, I Became A Trendsetter

After completing a recent Google search, I discovered there are a number of people known for statements concerning history repeating itself. The adage that I found that best fits the story you are about to read is the quote, "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”  George Santayana in his 1905 book, The Life of Reason, deserves credit for this thought-provoking quote.

A cool, wet, dewy morning

I was on my way to a doctor's appointment one morning about 20 years ago, and before I left I took our dog out to do her business. Always cognizant of my situation, I rolled up my pant legs first, high above my ankles. This way, even though my shoes would get wet in the grass, at least my pant leg bottoms would remain dry.

I returned the dog to the house, hopped into the car and started to drive to my appointment.

Preoccupied mind

I'm not sure if I was worried about my appointment that day, but it's obvious that my mind wasn't functioning at full capacity.

As I passed by my intended exit off I-99, I found myself having to turn around at the Pine Croft exit north of Altoona, and then travel south to get back into the city.

Then, after parking in the large lot on 9th Street and entering the old Station Mall, I decided to stop at the lav before checking in for my appointment. Imagine my embarrassment when I mistakenly opened the door to the lady's restroom instead of the men's lavatory. A shocked outcry by a woman at the sink in the lav brought this mistake to my attention.

Registering and taking a seat in the waiting area

Finally, after checking in at the medical office desk, I took a seat in the large, crowded waiting room. It was only then that I glanced down, and sure enough, I discovered that my pant legs were still folded up high on my shins. Needless to say, both my shoes and socks were fully exposed. I wondered how many people saw me walking through that parking lot, through the old mall halls toward the wrong lav, and noticed me while I checked in. I not only vowed that I would never do such a thing again, I started to worry that I was truly losing my mind.

I knew for certain, that those who saw me must have felt that Gomer had driven in from Mayberry, and that this had to be his first visit to the big city.

High school basketball season, 20 years later

Last December, as I returned to the car after taking our current dog outside one evening, my wife warned me, "Don't forget that your pant legs are rolled up."

It rained most of that day, and once again, I was aware that I had better roll up those jean cuffs so they wouldn't get soaking wet. My previous experience with my rolled cuffs was at the forefront of my brain, too - or so I thought.

We were on our way to Philipsburg, PA to watch our grandson's high school basketball game. Once there, we parked and walked into the lobby area outside the gym. There, the local parents had set up a basket raffle, concession stand, chance drawings, and numerous other fund-raising opportunities for a charitable cause.

The lobby, the halls and the gym were packed with people. Once my wife finished with her charity purchases, we went into the gym and picked out our seats. It was then that I glanced down, and sure enough, I found my pant legs were still rolled up to the same height that they were when we left our home.

Blaming my wife for not noticing my cuffs was fruitless. Her mind, similar to most women, was on the basket drawings, and winning those precious prizes. Again, I wondered how many people saw this pathetic old man with his jeans rolled high to flood level status. I refused to even even pick up my head to watch the game until after the end of the first quarter.

New franchise idea

My mistake for not remembering history was indeed embarrassing, but it did have a positive side. I've decided to open a new chain of stores called "The Old Man's Shop." And besides being the president and CEO, I will be considered the new, but also old "Trendsetter," with my folded cuffs.

Kids Say The Darndest Things...

 

... and at the worst times, too

If you're a baby boomer, you might recall a television show back in the day entitled, "Kids say the Darndest Things."  The show's host was Art Linkletter, a well-known TV and radio personality at the time. He would present clips of the funniest things that kids would say during his on-air interviews with them.  

I can testify that his presentations were authentic and hit home too, on many occasions.

My phone interview

Early in my teaching career, I noticed an ad for a job opening in the pharmaceutical sales field in a local paper. I figured, what the heck - I'll give this a try. Having a degree in biology and a minor in chemistry, I thought I would be able to adapt my science background and use my knowledge in the marketing field without much trouble.

I sent my resume to the address provided along with a couple of letters of recommendation and my home address and phone number.

I was not expecting a return call so quickly and definitely not on a Saturday, either. It just so happened that my wife and daughters were out for the day doing some shopping in Altoona. I was left with my son Dave Jr. (age two and a half or so) for the day.

Don't interrupt others, especially your elders

My parents taught my siblings and I, that unless it was an emergency, you were not supposed to interrupt others. You were to wait until they stopped speaking and then you were permitted to talk. Basically, we tried to instill the same rules regarding our own kids, too. After all, we only wanted them to be mannerly and courteous.

So, as the interview started on the phone, I thought it would be safe to begin answering questions from the interviewer without much of a chance of being interrupted by any family members.

Early in the phone conversation, the company man informed me that he would schedule a face-to-face interview at another time, if he thought I might be a good candidate for filling the position.

A dancing boy, tugging at my pant legs

The phone conversation had barely commenced when my son started tugging on my pant legs, while the look on his face displayed sheer urgency. I held my pointer finger up toward him, indicating to wait a minute and that I couldn't talk to him just then. 

But his dance became more physical and progressed to jumping in-place.  At the same time, his face turned red with fear.

I tried again using a tacit stop signal with my hand, while my palm was displayed in his direction. It did no good. I realized then that he may have knocked a candle down and set his room on fire, or some other disaster was about to happen.

Making a split-second decision

Finally, after about forty five seconds (in his mind, more like an hour) of playing charades with him, and having no success in getting him to stop his antics, I asked my interviewer if I may be excused for one second because my son required my attention. The guy answered, "okay," but I could tell from his voice that he was not happy with me.

Before I could cover the phone receiver with my hand, my son blurted out, "But, Dad, I have to poop!"

Funny thing, I never did get a call-back to schedule that face-to-face interview and I never heard from that company again.

To read more stories from the author, feel free to go to www.pospeek.com and like us on Facebook.

News

What's New Here on the Peek? 

Please click "follow" on the homepage, right column to keep up with new additions to the Peek. 

Actually, there's nothing ever really new here on Po's Peek at the Past because the theme naturally is concerned with the past - but the links below will provide visitors with a quick way to see the latest stories written or the latest ones to be published in local papers or magazines.  If you find yourself visiting this site only every-so-often, this page should be the one you seek. Just click on the links below to find each story.   Thanks for your patronage.  Dave "Po" Potchak, site administrator

Click to Open

An Ornery But Lovable Guy -  3/20/2025

Mourning The Loss Of The Cowlick - 2/10/2025

Persistent Pains of the Past -1/11/2025

Divine Intervention 11/142024 

Commandments From The Great Depression 8/22/24

Left Alone  7/18/24

Underwear Styles - 5/16/24

Repeating History....  4/18/24

JEEP for sale

 

 

Divine Intervention

 Divine Intervention

Long before football fans became aware of chronic traumatic

encephalopathy...oops!! I just broke a cardinal rule of writing - which is trying to

grab the reader's attention with a good opening line. So, if you're still with me, I will

start anew from scratch.

Back in the day

Long before football fans became aware of concussions and other brain injuries

common to many players, athletes were exposed to a number of medical issues that

were handled much differently than today. There were no certified trainers in the fall

of any of the years (1964 - 1969) in which I played football. But we did have

Assistant Coach Fred Vespa, and he came as close to an athletic trainer as anyone

could at that time.

First aid

Coach Vespa's medical kit looked more like a gargantuan tackle box, but was

adequately equipped with four dozen rolls of tape, a huge bottle containing a

thousand 500mg aspirin tablets, a pair of blood-stained scissors, some band aids,

cotton balls, Bengay (yes, that is a muscle rub ointment), and a few gallons of

antiseptic. Those germ-killers were probably either iodine, Merthiolate or

Mercurochrome (which not only stained one's skin and clothing, but some of which

have since been outlawed because toxic mercury was part of their makeup). Yes, I

did say toxic mercury.

I do remember that the antiseptics had a sting to them when applied to an open

wound, much like getting caught under a black-faced wasp nest with nowhere to run.

I think those antiseptics brought more tears to a player's eyes than any injury ever

did.

Routine diagnoses

For a sprained ankle, so swollen it resembled a ripened red delicious apple, Mr.

Vespa would wrap the ankle tightly with tape and usually say something like, "OK,

you're good to go, get back in there."

For a splitting headache, he'd grab a few of those aspirin tablets and give you just

enough water to swallow them. We weren't allowed a lot of water because it wasn't

manly to drink water during practice or a game. And, during our August football

camps, the water was as warm as the sun's center, about 10,000 degrees Celsius.

It was also obvious that the water container hadn't been clean since it was made new

at the factory. Miraculously, through God's will, no one was sickened by the black

mold lining the inside walls of the vessel.

For a pulled thigh muscle, he'd rub some of the Bengay ointment, which had a

pungent odor of menthol, into your quad and send you on a jog around the practice

field to test your readiness to go. The practice was similar for a pulled hamstring.

A badly stoved finger, bent sideways, was fixed immediately with a hard pull or jerk

from Vespa's hand. The treatment did straighten out the finger, but did little to

diminish the purple color now present in the skin surrounding the joint.

I never knew the standard management for a bee sting because I never knew anyone

that was willing to let the coaches know that he had been stung. Apparently divine

intervention prevented players from suffering anaphylactic shock if someone was

indeed allergic to a sting. No other explanation adequately suffices.

From one who knows

Because I was diagnosed with five concussions myself and probably had another

handful that were not diagnosed during my lifetime, the old treatment for being

knocked out or dazed from a hit to the head had escaped my memory until recently. I

had forgotten all about it. Duh, no kidding! No wonder! How about that!!

You see - each time someone suffers from a concussion, part of the brain becomes

detached from the inside of the skull. That just might have a slight correlation to

one's memory. Or should I say, lack of memory? Today, I tell people, "It's no wonder

I am the way I am."

The secret remedy in Vespa's medical kit

Fortunately, I never lost consciousness while playing football. I did "get my bell

rung" a few times though. You don't hear people using that description as much

today as they did 50 years ago. Not only has the description of a head injury

changed, but thank the good Lord that the treatment for a head injury has changed

quite a bit in recent times, too - divine intervention, again.

When a player was unconscious in my day, Mr. Vespa would dig into his black box

for his secret, never failing, treatment. He'd locate a glass tube (about an inch and a

quarter long) that was covered with a thick cloth material, and proceed to snap the

tube in half with his fingers. The heavy fabric covering the glass tube kept the user

from getting cut from the broken glass. He'd then take the broken tube and place it

under the nostrils of the unconscious player. When the athlete inhaled the

ingredients, known as smelling salts, he would awaken immediately.

By the way, to my knowledge, there was no salt in that miss-named remedy. The gas

emitting from the broken tube was ammonia. Ammonia, as you might know, makes

your eyes water profusely, can burn the hairs in your nostrils and can possibly

damage your sinus cavities - not to mention the fact that over-inhaling the fumes can

be fatal.

I had a few encounters of my own with the smelling salts remedy after being dazed

during practices. It felt a lot like a hot solder iron inserted deeply into your sinuses to

the point where it just falls short of burning the brain itself.

If the unconscious athlete remained comatose, Mr. Vespa would promptly break

open another tube and place it even more closely to the athlete's nostrils. I never did

see a young man not awaken after two doses of this nostril-burning remedy.

"There now, get back in there - and go get em," Coach Vespa would proclaim. The

fact that the player was indeed able to do this, could only have been because of

divine intervention, yet again.

Classmates Never Met

CLASSMATES NEVER MET

by Dave Potchak

 

Within those walls were crowded halls

with classmates never met.

Tormented now and evermore

with sorrow and regret.

Passersby we remember well

but really never knew,

A feeling of remorse today

for not befriending you.

Pleasant greetings should not have been

so difficult to say,

Immaturity and shyness

somehow got in the way.

Perhaps we should inspire youth

It’s not a daunting feat,

To greet others with open arms

no matter whom we meet.

Within those walls were crowded halls

with classmates never met.

Tormented now and evermore

with sorrow and regret.

Those halls and walls are sure to fall

ramparts will crumble, too,

But maybe we are bound to rise

as we will follow you.

When the final class has ended

and bricks are never-more,

Perhaps God’s all-gracious grade book

will balance out the score.

In His luminescent classroom

with bright and lucid view,

I pray that there’s an empty desk

where I may sit by you.

Within those walls were crowded halls

with classmates never met.

Tormented now and evermore

with sorrow and regret.

      

 

Click on photos to enlarge. 

Photo above, designed and submitted by Tom Casti, formerly of South Fork

Photo above: Memorial Display made by Ken Minor, FH Class of '70 for the 50th reunion and gathering.  Lettering by Deanna Jones Fisher

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  

Photo, top of page and photo below, courtesy Forest Hills Year Book, 1970

Left Alone

I've never been that little kid who felt abandoned when he wandered a few steps away from his parents in a crowded department store, but I do have an inkling of how he may have felt. Let me explain....

The largest track meet of the year

As the head track coach at Northern Bedford years ago, there were times when I had to get home early from a track meet. During those times I would usually go home with my wife (who regularly attended most meets) and rely on my assistant coach, Harry Guyer, to supervise the kids on the bus during the trek home.

We had just concluded the West-Central Coaches Meet at Mansion Park in Altoona and I headed to the press box to collect the ribbons that my team members won that evening. We were fairly successful during the meet and it did take some time for the staff to get all of the appropriate awards to the correct coaches.

The meet was huge by area standards. The attendance was good and the parking lots were full of cars and buses. But what happened after the meet was something that has perplexed me to this day.

A mystery

Ordinarily, the boys I coached had a pretty hard time pulling something over on me. (Perhaps, this is because I was no angel myself while growing up.)

For instance, one of my team members somehow got into a locked cage-like compartment next to the gym where the track uniforms were stored, and he promptly handed them out freely to his buddies. I spotted a young lad wearing one later that summer and it took an entire five seconds to determine who the thief was. Solving that crime was easy.

But this was different. I will never know if my team members purposely drew up their devious scheme, or if they really didn't notice that Mr. Guyer was not on the bus that day as our driver headed to the meet. But I do know that I accompanied the team alone that night. And it just so happened that my wife didn't attend that meet either.

All aboard!

As our bus driver prepared to depart Altoona, he questioned if everyone was on board. The kids promptly told him that Coach was going home with his wife and that everyone was present and ready to go. Funny, the driver wasn't aware that the assistant coach wasn't on the bus and that no one was present to supervise the team.

And there I was in the press-box, waiting in line for my kids' precious ribbons as my Northern Bedford bus departed without their head coach.

Everett Area comes through

As I stood in the near-empty parking lot, holding my large brown envelope filled with ribbons, it became apparent immediately that my own bus had left the meet without me. As my feelings of abandonment turned to anger, I happened to catch sight of two remaining buses that had not yet left the lot. One of them was from Everett Area, and I was good friends with their head coach, Larry Bulger. When I asked Larry for a ride home, he was shocked to find out what had just occurred. His shock soon turned to raucous laughter though, after I cooled down. Later, as we stopped for a late dinner at McDonald's on the way home, we both got a kick out of what had transpired.

Silver lining

Not all was dreadful that evening because I got a free meal, courtesy of the Everett Area School District. And Larry and I, along with Everett Athletic Director, Dwayne Gochnour,enjoyed reminiscing many times about what had taken place that evening.

Dwayne even called me at school one day before an upcoming meet and asked if I thought I'd be needing a ride home later that night. The three of us often enjoyed re-living the time I was left alone in Altoona. When I see Larry to this day, we still laugh about the time I missed my bus.

For me - because I never knew if my kids had that scheme planned or not, I withheld all of the ribbons earned that evening until the season was over. Small potatoes, I know, but it was all I could do.

Lies And The Cherry Tree

 Lies And The Cherry Tree

As a child, there was a large tree in our backyard that the members of my family and our neighbors called a chokecherry tree. Our parents told us to never eat the little fruits from that tree, or we would choke to death. The fact was that the tree, in reality, was a wild black cherry tree that started to grow long before I was born. To this day, I don't think that my parents lied to us - more likely, they heard this tale about the chokecherry tree and out of ignorance and caution, they passed on the information to their kids.

Now, most children would simply heed the warnings given by their parents and not allow those unripened, bitter fruits to get even close to their mouths. But my older sister and I apparently were not normal children.

The lies begin

One late spring day as my sister and I were climbing the branches of that large tree, she came up with a great idea. She was about to spin a new yarn about the tree, and since I was only four years old, I was a gullible but willing guinea pig, ready to follow her directions and eager to join her in her adventures.

She then proceeded to place a still-green cherry in her mouth, and also placed a few in her nostrils and in her ears, too. She said it was safe as long as you didn't keep them in those locations too long. After all, she warned, "If you do swallow the cherry seed and survive the choking, a tree would begin to grow in your stomach." Then, she went on to explain, that I'd have to go to the hospital and have it removed by getting an operation. We weren't old enough to use big vocabulary words like surgery, but I had heard of getting an operation before and I wanted no part of that.

Imagine my shock when I placed one of the cherries into my ear and it didn't come back out. I remember worrying and crying, while still in the tree, concerning the impending trip to the hospital, and how I was going to tell my parents that I placed the cherry into my own ear intentionally.

I guess I was a slow learner

My sister didn't help the situation when she explained, "You better go in the house right now and tell Mom what you did. If you don't, that seed will start to grow into your brain and the operation to dig it out in the hospital will be much worse than if you swallowed the seed."

Of course, I absolutely trusted her. After all, I was still waiting for that large piece of burnt coal ash that we found in an old coal pile to turn into a chicken. Yes, earlier that spring, she proclaimed that if you place that particular type of coal remnant under your bed and wait a few weeks, it would turn into a pet chicken. I never did figure out why a sister, three years my senior, would find so much pleasure in telling fibs to her younger brother. Moving on...

A split-second decision

Before my feet hit the ground I knew what I had to do. I ran into the house and told my mom that I was lying in the grass and a chokecherry fell into my ear from the tree above and it didn't come back out. Yes, the guilt I felt for telling a lie was immeasurable, but paled compared to my fears of a doctor digging into my brain to remove chokecherry roots.

As far back as I can remember that is the only time I ever told an outright lie to either of my parents. I may have stretched the truth a few other times, but this was a total lie.

Off to the doctor

As soon as Dad got home from work, my mom relayed the story to him and we were off to the local doctor's office. He found no seed in my ear canal and reassured me that I would not have required brain surgery even if the seed was present. He indicated that he could have taken it out easily. What a relief!

My sister

I don't recall my sister accompanying us to that office. Looking back on that day, I bet she was afraid because my parents were about to become aware of her antics and her fibs.

And, shortly thereafter, my mom found the rock under my bed and made my sister get rid of it. It never did turn into a chicken. I often feel that my sister merited some kind of punishment regarding her chicken and seed tales, but I don't know if she ever got what she deserved.

Lies and a cherry tree - sound familiar?

There must be some correlation between telling lies and cherry trees. I learned long ago, in elementary school, that George Washington once said to his father, "I cannot tell a lie. It was I who cut down the cherry tree."

Turns out, after doing some research, I discovered that he never said that. And there you have it - yet another lie connected to a cherry tree.