Two orchards stood on our farm. One we called the old orchard. This one held apple and pear trees that had gone unpruned for many years. The fruit that they yielded was consistently gnarled and wormy. We seldom went in among those trees because there was a multitude of thorns that grew with a great fierceness. Of the 100 acres on the farm, this seemed to be the only area that was left untended. However, on the far edge of the old orchard was a lovely spring that came out of the ground with sparkling water. My sister, Virginia, once tried to tame the area and weeded around the spring and planted seeds to encourage new growth of attractive flowers. It did take on new form for a season, but the wild vegetation was too much for her, and the thorns reclaimed the spring.
The other orchard sat on a rolling knoll just past our back yard. This orchard consisted of a small grape vineyard, several different kinds of apple trees, two pear trees, and the prettiest little cherry tree. The trees were pruned, and the grass was kept mowed around each one. In the springtime, the smell of the orchard was heavenly. The blossoms of the cherry, apple, and pear trees sent a fresh sweet aroma that announced another booming crop would soon be on the way.
It was here that our family enjoyed many picnics and extended family get-togethers. When I was very little, Daddy built a cinder block fire pit and from that moment on that fire pit was put to good use. Mom’s family reunions were held in our orchard and Daddy would barbeque the best barbequed chicken around. His secret marinade recipe was envied by everyone. As the reunions would fade into the evening hours, adults, as well as the children would sit around the fire pit and roast marshmallows on twigs cut from the apple trees.
In the winter, Daddy would tap the maple trees that lined our road and put frozen buckets of maple sap in a huge pan on the fire pit to cook all day. As the iced sap would melt and eventually start boiling, Daddy would add dozens of egg whites to the liquid. I liked to watch the egg whites start to cook and mysteriously turn to a very dirty froth of debris and impurities. These impurities would be allowed to cook for sometime before they were skimmed away and more egg whites would be added. I am not sure how Daddy knew that the syrup was done, but by the time he started to pour the liquid into jars, it had become a beautiful see-through auburn color. My mouth would water just to think of that sweet syrup over Mom’s pancakes.
And what pancakes we had! Many Saturday or Sunday mornings, or especially when we were entertaining out of town guests, Daddy would take the pancake griddle up to the orchard and put it on top of the fire pit. Mom would stir up a batch of her famous pancakes and we would all gather at the picnic table for pancakes, eggs, bacon, and hot maple syrup. For an added treat, we would have strawberry shortcake, fresh from the morning garden, for dessert.
When Daddy’s long-lost sisters from New York City realized their little brother had a “mansion” in the country, they started making our home their summer retreat. Aunt Mary’s husband, Uncle Bill, was a department store window decorator. In contrast to Aunt Mary, Uncle Bill was a worker and truly enjoyed helping around the farm, even though he was not familiar with farm chores. He tried milking a cow once, but gave that up very quickly.
We were little when Daddy decided to get rid of the chickens; he cleaned out the chicken coop, pulled it up to the orchard, and made it into a playhouse for us kids. Uncle Bill heard about the new playhouse, and he saw his opportunity to put his expertise to work on the farm. On his trip to the farm that summer, he brought a car full of corrugated paper that he put up around the entire inside of the chicken coop. Instantly, we had red bricks and a fireplace that looked like it had real fire. We had a bookcase that looked so real I thought I could actually grab onto the book of Peter Pan.
Virginia, Rodney, and I played house and read books throughout the summer and fall in that playhouse. Many summer nights would find us lying on old quilts listening to the branches of the old apple tree brush on the tin roof. These were peaceful times for me, snuggled up with my big sister enjoying her read to me or tell me a story as I drifted off to sleep. One night, however, my brother Rodney was very disgruntled with me and was determined that only he would spend the night with Virginia. He insisted on telling the story that night…and what a story it was! I remember vivid vampires and wolves gnawing on someone’s leg, but the more Rodney spun his tale of horror, the more frightened he appeared to be. Even with Virginia’s protective arm around me, I was hearing noises outside that made me sure that Rodney’s story had conjured up something really terrible. It was quite a surprise for both Virginia and me, as Rodney, in mid-sentence, abruptly bolted out of the playhouse and at top speed flew to the house and the safety of Mom and Daddy. It was some time before Virginia let him live that one down.
It was in this same orchard where I smoked my first and last cigarette. A girl I knew at school had given me one and dared me to smoke it. I told her I would when I got home, and as soon as Mom left for a quick trip to the neighbor’s house, I ran to the orchard, scurried up the green apple tree, and lit up. I was not real impressed with the first puff, so I thought I would cut the bad taste with a bite of an apple that was not quite ripe. The tartness of the apple didn’t really take the bad taste away, but filled my mouth with a puckering nicotine flavor. I figured after a few more puffs, the taste would get better. So one puff, one bite of apple; another puff, another bite. I don’t remember if I finished either the cigarette or the apple, but somewhere in between puffs and bites, I almost fell out of the tree vomiting. I swore I would never smoke another cigarette again.
My Aunt Marolyn and Cousin Sharon came one time for a week of camping in the orchard. They were “courting” the neighbor boys at the time and so it was convenient for the four of them to sit around the campfire at night and “get to know each other better.” They later married these boys and I like to think they all fell in love in our orchard.
Yes, our orchard was an active place. A place where family gathered, cousins played badminton and croquet, uncles played horseshoes, aunts and grandma visited. It could also be a quiet place to take a blanket and curl up with a good book under any one of the trees.
I visited that orchard last year; it has changed. Many of the trees are gone; the playhouse with the big apple tree’s limbs hanging over it as if to protect those within…all gone now. But the memories of that orchard still play a great symphony in the recesses of my brain, and no one can ever take that away.
© June 23, 2008
Judy Watters
Monday, June 23, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
The Unassuming Witness
Great Aunt Florence…Grandpa’s sister. Even her name described her character. Born in 1891, Great Aunt Florence was already “old” when I was born. The story goes that she was once in love, but her parents convinced her that she was needed on the farm and so she stayed with her aging parents. When her parents died, she was past the age of desiring a husband. Instead, she moved to Chicago and sold books. Not just any books. Aunt Florence had a love for children and children’s literature. So for the rest of her life she sold The How and Why Library (Childcraft). That was before World Book Encyclopedia and Childcraft merged. Aunt Florence was one of the first women hired to walk the streets of Chicago knocking on doors to sell the children’s books to stay-at-home moms.
Whenever Aunt Florence came for a visit, she would try to sell our whole town these “nuggets of joy and learning” as she called the books. My father was always a little annoyed with her walking “our” streets with her books. But he also noted the passion she had for the educational necessity that the books possessed. Yes, we owned a set…we were probably Aunt Florence’s first customer in Wellsboro.
But there was more to Aunt Florence than an assertive sales woman. I looked forward to her visits. She read non-stop and with an avid audience such as I was, she read with great enthusiasm. She had a very soft voice…so soft I had to strain to hear her. The emotion that she put into every character brought each one jumping out of the pages. The poor grandmother who Heidi would visit when she went to take the goats out with Peter…I could see that poor grandmother in her bed. I could also see the rich crippled girl who so wanted a friend and found that friend in Heidi. Bob White and his family of quails running across the field to escape the fox produced a huge lump in my throat.
Every Christmas I knew I would receive a book from Aunt Florence…and they were all different genre. My first biographies came from her. George Washington, Abe Lincoln and George Washington Carver were some of my favorites. But when she read Florence Nightingale, I thought that nurse must have been the most gracious and kind woman in the whole world. Aunt Florence softly and courageously brought Florence Nightingale to life for me. She also taught me the lines that Longfellow penned about her:
Lo! in that hour of miseryA lady with a lamp I seePass through the glimmering gloom,And flit from room to room.
Certain books like Ben Hur brought excitement to her voice. It was amazing how that trembling voice could sound so fierce and yet continue to be soft. It was Aunt Florence who introduced me to Nancy Drew and Spin and Marty. She didn’t read all the books to me…we sometimes shared in the reading and sometimes she would just bring the book to me and ask me to read it so we could talk about it on her next visit.
She brought my first prayer book to me. It was full of beautiful pictures and children’s prayers. Aunt Florence spoke about the Lord as though she really knew Him. This was when her voice got the softest and even sparkled a bit as though there was something exciting about Him. Sometimes she would close her eyes just thinking about her friend, Jesus. I never knew just what to do at those times. But when she had left, I would pretend that I was Aunt Florence and try to see Jesus and talk to Him as she did.
By the time I had my own children, I had met Jesus and knew what Aunt Florence was feeling. I tried to mirror her reading style with my children, but I know I failed miserably. My voice was never that soft and exciting. But I like to think that a little bit of Aunt Florence came through and was evidenced by my little ones so that Aunt Florence’s testimony will never pass away.
© June 22, 2008
Judy Watters
Whenever Aunt Florence came for a visit, she would try to sell our whole town these “nuggets of joy and learning” as she called the books. My father was always a little annoyed with her walking “our” streets with her books. But he also noted the passion she had for the educational necessity that the books possessed. Yes, we owned a set…we were probably Aunt Florence’s first customer in Wellsboro.
But there was more to Aunt Florence than an assertive sales woman. I looked forward to her visits. She read non-stop and with an avid audience such as I was, she read with great enthusiasm. She had a very soft voice…so soft I had to strain to hear her. The emotion that she put into every character brought each one jumping out of the pages. The poor grandmother who Heidi would visit when she went to take the goats out with Peter…I could see that poor grandmother in her bed. I could also see the rich crippled girl who so wanted a friend and found that friend in Heidi. Bob White and his family of quails running across the field to escape the fox produced a huge lump in my throat.
Every Christmas I knew I would receive a book from Aunt Florence…and they were all different genre. My first biographies came from her. George Washington, Abe Lincoln and George Washington Carver were some of my favorites. But when she read Florence Nightingale, I thought that nurse must have been the most gracious and kind woman in the whole world. Aunt Florence softly and courageously brought Florence Nightingale to life for me. She also taught me the lines that Longfellow penned about her:
Lo! in that hour of miseryA lady with a lamp I seePass through the glimmering gloom,And flit from room to room.
Certain books like Ben Hur brought excitement to her voice. It was amazing how that trembling voice could sound so fierce and yet continue to be soft. It was Aunt Florence who introduced me to Nancy Drew and Spin and Marty. She didn’t read all the books to me…we sometimes shared in the reading and sometimes she would just bring the book to me and ask me to read it so we could talk about it on her next visit.
She brought my first prayer book to me. It was full of beautiful pictures and children’s prayers. Aunt Florence spoke about the Lord as though she really knew Him. This was when her voice got the softest and even sparkled a bit as though there was something exciting about Him. Sometimes she would close her eyes just thinking about her friend, Jesus. I never knew just what to do at those times. But when she had left, I would pretend that I was Aunt Florence and try to see Jesus and talk to Him as she did.
By the time I had my own children, I had met Jesus and knew what Aunt Florence was feeling. I tried to mirror her reading style with my children, but I know I failed miserably. My voice was never that soft and exciting. But I like to think that a little bit of Aunt Florence came through and was evidenced by my little ones so that Aunt Florence’s testimony will never pass away.
© June 22, 2008
Judy Watters
A Good Name is Hard to Come By
Daddy taught us our name was as good as our word. If we were ever tempted to lie, steal, or cheat another person or go back on a promise, our name would be disgraced forever. The lesson was seen played out everyday in our father’s life. Daddy never took anything without returning payment for it in some form…whether it was a bushel of corn for a bushel of tomatoes or a bunch of rhubarb for a couple quarts of strawberries. Daddy was an honest man and worked hard to have honest children…well, three children out of four’s not bad.
We had a general store in my hometown of Wellsboro called Dunham’s. Before the A&P or Acme grocery stores came in and took over, our family did all our shopping at Dunham’s. Dunham’s had everything: food, clothes, shoes, furniture, tools, canning supplies and feed for the farm critters. I loved going to that store. It had all the wonderful aromas of fresh baked donuts rolled in with the sweet smell of cow feed. It also had the biggest barrel of peanuts in the shell that I had ever seen.
However, Mom never seemed to have enough money to get any of those peanuts, and I had resigned myself to the fact that only the rich people of town could ever enjoy these wonders. But that barrel always intrigued me. It was strategically placed right in the middle of the store so everyone would have to walk around it to get to anything else. It seemed as if a magnet drew me in the direction of the forbidden barrel every time I entered that store.
I remember one shopping day in particular when I had plotted a most devious plan to taste just one of those jewels. As we entered Dunham’s, everyone knew where his or her section of the store was. Mom got her basket and headed for the meat counter. Sister Virginia hurried to check out the new fabric, and Rodney went right for the toys. I was left to myself to meander around.
In those days, we never heard of kids being kidnapped out of stores. In fact, nothing real exciting had happened in that town for the last 200 years. So Mom had no fear of letting me explore. And for a five-year-old, this old store needed a lot of exploring. I had done plenty of detective work here in the past, but today was not going to be one of those days.
I slowly ambled over to that big old barrel as I cautiously put my plan into action. I was almost eye-level with the top. I started to walk around that barrel. I watched the other people in the store to see if they were watching me watching them! No one seemed to be paying any attention to me. But I wasn’t taking any chances. I continued my pace around that barrel. On about my twentieth trip around, I reached up and started circling the steel rim with my finger. With my finger on the rim, I continued with another twenty or so laps. Round and round I went. My heart was pounding so loudly I figured someone would soon hear it and catch on to my wicked plot. But everyone seemed hard of hearing!
So on my fifty-first dizzying walk, I grabbed one of those delectable buggers and headed for the street. No, I raced to the street. I was really scared. I had just become Wellsboro’s littlest outlaw!
I sat on the curb and held that little peanut so hard it felt like it was burning a hole in my hand. A thorough look up and down the street produced no sight of Daddy. He was out paying the bills and was in one of those buildings, but at the moment I didn’t know which one. What I did know was that he had to have seen everything! Daddy was wise and always knew everything, so this crime was not likely to escape his keen eyes. As I sat there with that hot peanut in my sweaty little hands, I became more and more convinced that the deed had to be undone.
Mustering up all the courage possible, I slowly entered the scene of the crime again. From the door, that barrel seemed to have grown immensely since the last time I had seen it just a few minutes before. My heart was pounding so hard by now; I thought I would have to put a hand over it to keep it from jumping out of my chest. But I didn’t have a spare hand. Both hands were glued to that peanut!
I timidly started my journey all over again. Round and round I went. I looked to see if I was wearing a track through the floor that would take the barrel and me to the cellar. I had been in that cellar one time and didn’t like what I had seen. It was dark and musty, definitely not where I wanted to find myself today.
I found it was much harder getting that peanut back in that barrel than it was getting it out. If someone saw me this time, they would think I was stealing it, and I wasn’t! I had done that earlier! I guess it was on my 100th round that I finally got that peanut back in. What a job! If this was what it was like stealing something, I guessed I would never do that again! But my conscience was not done with me yet.
I was back outside sitting on the curb when I saw Daddy round the corner. Having finished with all the bill payments, he was on his way to gather up the family and groceries. He smiled one of his biggest loving smiles at me and I knew “MY GOOSE WAS COOKED!”
I was quiet all the way home. At dinner I didn’t seem to be hungry, which in itself should have told everyone that there was something very serious going on here. But no one seemed to be paying attention. I sat there wondering when Daddy was going to confront me with my dastardly deed of the day, when he finally said, “Why, Judy, why aren’t you eating?”
I knew it! He had seen me! Why had he let me linger in my guilt for so long? That was downright mean. Why hadn’t he talked to me earlier? Why not just spank me and get it over? And why did he wait so long that my food got cold?
I ran over to Daddy crying, throwing my whole body at him. I begged his forgiveness. In between sobs, he pieced the sad details together. His kind loving face looked down at me. But there was now a new twist to that face, one of sadness. Had I missed that part of his face before? I had never seen that side of him. There was a little tear at the corner of one eye.
“Judy, you make me very sad to hear this. This is not the Judy who I know and love. You realize that you tarnished our name today. I am sorry for you that you have this to live with now. You will never try this again, right?” That was it. Daddy had spoken.
I agreed this was the first and last time for me. That was too much work for a peanut that I never ate! I would like to say that next week Mom bought me a whole bag of those delectable things. But, alas, that wasn’t to be. I did maintain a healthy position each time we went to Dunham’s: as far away from that barrel as possible.
I think back on this episode of my life often. I wonder how my parents instilled that conscience of right and wrong into us kids. Parenting does not come with a manual. There is no chapter named “A Good Name is Hard to Come By.” But I think my dad could have helped to write that part.
© June 22, 2008
Judy Watters
We had a general store in my hometown of Wellsboro called Dunham’s. Before the A&P or Acme grocery stores came in and took over, our family did all our shopping at Dunham’s. Dunham’s had everything: food, clothes, shoes, furniture, tools, canning supplies and feed for the farm critters. I loved going to that store. It had all the wonderful aromas of fresh baked donuts rolled in with the sweet smell of cow feed. It also had the biggest barrel of peanuts in the shell that I had ever seen.
However, Mom never seemed to have enough money to get any of those peanuts, and I had resigned myself to the fact that only the rich people of town could ever enjoy these wonders. But that barrel always intrigued me. It was strategically placed right in the middle of the store so everyone would have to walk around it to get to anything else. It seemed as if a magnet drew me in the direction of the forbidden barrel every time I entered that store.
I remember one shopping day in particular when I had plotted a most devious plan to taste just one of those jewels. As we entered Dunham’s, everyone knew where his or her section of the store was. Mom got her basket and headed for the meat counter. Sister Virginia hurried to check out the new fabric, and Rodney went right for the toys. I was left to myself to meander around.
In those days, we never heard of kids being kidnapped out of stores. In fact, nothing real exciting had happened in that town for the last 200 years. So Mom had no fear of letting me explore. And for a five-year-old, this old store needed a lot of exploring. I had done plenty of detective work here in the past, but today was not going to be one of those days.
I slowly ambled over to that big old barrel as I cautiously put my plan into action. I was almost eye-level with the top. I started to walk around that barrel. I watched the other people in the store to see if they were watching me watching them! No one seemed to be paying any attention to me. But I wasn’t taking any chances. I continued my pace around that barrel. On about my twentieth trip around, I reached up and started circling the steel rim with my finger. With my finger on the rim, I continued with another twenty or so laps. Round and round I went. My heart was pounding so loudly I figured someone would soon hear it and catch on to my wicked plot. But everyone seemed hard of hearing!
So on my fifty-first dizzying walk, I grabbed one of those delectable buggers and headed for the street. No, I raced to the street. I was really scared. I had just become Wellsboro’s littlest outlaw!
I sat on the curb and held that little peanut so hard it felt like it was burning a hole in my hand. A thorough look up and down the street produced no sight of Daddy. He was out paying the bills and was in one of those buildings, but at the moment I didn’t know which one. What I did know was that he had to have seen everything! Daddy was wise and always knew everything, so this crime was not likely to escape his keen eyes. As I sat there with that hot peanut in my sweaty little hands, I became more and more convinced that the deed had to be undone.
Mustering up all the courage possible, I slowly entered the scene of the crime again. From the door, that barrel seemed to have grown immensely since the last time I had seen it just a few minutes before. My heart was pounding so hard by now; I thought I would have to put a hand over it to keep it from jumping out of my chest. But I didn’t have a spare hand. Both hands were glued to that peanut!
I timidly started my journey all over again. Round and round I went. I looked to see if I was wearing a track through the floor that would take the barrel and me to the cellar. I had been in that cellar one time and didn’t like what I had seen. It was dark and musty, definitely not where I wanted to find myself today.
I found it was much harder getting that peanut back in that barrel than it was getting it out. If someone saw me this time, they would think I was stealing it, and I wasn’t! I had done that earlier! I guess it was on my 100th round that I finally got that peanut back in. What a job! If this was what it was like stealing something, I guessed I would never do that again! But my conscience was not done with me yet.
I was back outside sitting on the curb when I saw Daddy round the corner. Having finished with all the bill payments, he was on his way to gather up the family and groceries. He smiled one of his biggest loving smiles at me and I knew “MY GOOSE WAS COOKED!”
I was quiet all the way home. At dinner I didn’t seem to be hungry, which in itself should have told everyone that there was something very serious going on here. But no one seemed to be paying attention. I sat there wondering when Daddy was going to confront me with my dastardly deed of the day, when he finally said, “Why, Judy, why aren’t you eating?”
I knew it! He had seen me! Why had he let me linger in my guilt for so long? That was downright mean. Why hadn’t he talked to me earlier? Why not just spank me and get it over? And why did he wait so long that my food got cold?
I ran over to Daddy crying, throwing my whole body at him. I begged his forgiveness. In between sobs, he pieced the sad details together. His kind loving face looked down at me. But there was now a new twist to that face, one of sadness. Had I missed that part of his face before? I had never seen that side of him. There was a little tear at the corner of one eye.
“Judy, you make me very sad to hear this. This is not the Judy who I know and love. You realize that you tarnished our name today. I am sorry for you that you have this to live with now. You will never try this again, right?” That was it. Daddy had spoken.
I agreed this was the first and last time for me. That was too much work for a peanut that I never ate! I would like to say that next week Mom bought me a whole bag of those delectable things. But, alas, that wasn’t to be. I did maintain a healthy position each time we went to Dunham’s: as far away from that barrel as possible.
I think back on this episode of my life often. I wonder how my parents instilled that conscience of right and wrong into us kids. Parenting does not come with a manual. There is no chapter named “A Good Name is Hard to Come By.” But I think my dad could have helped to write that part.
© June 22, 2008
Judy Watters
Contentment
Some of my closest friends regard me as frugal, conservative, even a penny pincher, but I come by it justly. From a small child I was taught, “a penny earned, was a penny saved.” I was also taught “a penny spent was gone forever!”
Daddy was a chef by profession. He had cooked on merchant marine ships during WWII. Daddy had also cooked in some of the more exquisite restaurants in New York City. When he decided to settle down and raise a family, he found the beautiful, small town of Wellsboro, Pennsylvania, and hired on at Schannaker’s Diner. His expertise at cooking became widely known and Daddy was asked to cook for many great gala events in the town.
But as much as Daddy loved cooking, his secret desire was to be a great farmer. So Mom and Daddy bought a one hundred-acre farm for two thousand dollars. The acreage was beautiful, but the house, two sheds and a barn left much to be desired. The expert farmers around the area laughed at the folly of this city-slicker-would-be-farmer paying such money for that run down farm.
But Daddy never got discouraged, even though every penny he earned as chef went into that farm. Instead, he became a genius at pinching pennies, but not to the detriment of the family. When Daddy felt we actually needed something, he would get it. However, he rarely saw us with a need.
When I was very little, the History teacher in town, Mr. Wooden, built the Y-Drive-In Theater, about 10 miles from home. The dollar-a-car load nights on Fridays were extremely popular, and we kids thought this would be the right price, even for Daddy.
However, Daddy figured everything into that price. Gas would be at least fifty cents there and back. Oil for the car had to be a nickel and the wear and tear on that old car would be more than it could take. Then there would be teasing for drinks, popcorn, and candy. No, this definitely was not a necessity of life.
So my brilliant father came up with what we all thought was a brainy idea. In the summer, our beautiful Friday nights were spent in a unique way. The excitement would build as we kids all scurried up and down the cellar steps to retrieve apples and maple sugar candies. Mom would be busy making the Kool-Aid and packing the basket. Popcorn would be popping in the old popper as the anticipation mounted.
When all was in the basket, Mom and the four kids would jump in the old StudeBaker station wagon and wait for Daddy. I remember the tingling feeling when I would finally see the lights in the house go out. Daddy would come out, get in the car and tell us all to hold on and away we would go…around to the living room window. There we would see the window opened wide and our new black and white TV facing out. Gunsmoke would just be starting. We would roll the windows down to hear the popular Gunsmoke music and then settle in to watch Matt Dillon and Chester nab the bad guys once again!
Daddy was so creative in his own way. He had me convinced that he was the smartest man in the whole world. He taught me that many of my wants were just that. As kids, we never thought we were poor. Financially, I guess we were poor, but Daddy taught us all contentment. We always had clothes on our backs and food in our tummies. And we knew we were loved as we ate our popcorn and drank our Kool-aid in the back of that StudeBaker.
© June 10, 2008
Judy Watters
Daddy was a chef by profession. He had cooked on merchant marine ships during WWII. Daddy had also cooked in some of the more exquisite restaurants in New York City. When he decided to settle down and raise a family, he found the beautiful, small town of Wellsboro, Pennsylvania, and hired on at Schannaker’s Diner. His expertise at cooking became widely known and Daddy was asked to cook for many great gala events in the town.
But as much as Daddy loved cooking, his secret desire was to be a great farmer. So Mom and Daddy bought a one hundred-acre farm for two thousand dollars. The acreage was beautiful, but the house, two sheds and a barn left much to be desired. The expert farmers around the area laughed at the folly of this city-slicker-would-be-farmer paying such money for that run down farm.
But Daddy never got discouraged, even though every penny he earned as chef went into that farm. Instead, he became a genius at pinching pennies, but not to the detriment of the family. When Daddy felt we actually needed something, he would get it. However, he rarely saw us with a need.
When I was very little, the History teacher in town, Mr. Wooden, built the Y-Drive-In Theater, about 10 miles from home. The dollar-a-car load nights on Fridays were extremely popular, and we kids thought this would be the right price, even for Daddy.
However, Daddy figured everything into that price. Gas would be at least fifty cents there and back. Oil for the car had to be a nickel and the wear and tear on that old car would be more than it could take. Then there would be teasing for drinks, popcorn, and candy. No, this definitely was not a necessity of life.
So my brilliant father came up with what we all thought was a brainy idea. In the summer, our beautiful Friday nights were spent in a unique way. The excitement would build as we kids all scurried up and down the cellar steps to retrieve apples and maple sugar candies. Mom would be busy making the Kool-Aid and packing the basket. Popcorn would be popping in the old popper as the anticipation mounted.
When all was in the basket, Mom and the four kids would jump in the old StudeBaker station wagon and wait for Daddy. I remember the tingling feeling when I would finally see the lights in the house go out. Daddy would come out, get in the car and tell us all to hold on and away we would go…around to the living room window. There we would see the window opened wide and our new black and white TV facing out. Gunsmoke would just be starting. We would roll the windows down to hear the popular Gunsmoke music and then settle in to watch Matt Dillon and Chester nab the bad guys once again!
Daddy was so creative in his own way. He had me convinced that he was the smartest man in the whole world. He taught me that many of my wants were just that. As kids, we never thought we were poor. Financially, I guess we were poor, but Daddy taught us all contentment. We always had clothes on our backs and food in our tummies. And we knew we were loved as we ate our popcorn and drank our Kool-aid in the back of that StudeBaker.
© June 10, 2008
Judy Watters
Beginnings
Life is indeed interesting with all its strange twists and turns. It would be impossible to foretell the life of a small baby. Who will he marry? Where will he live?
He was born to Russian immigrants in 1904 in New York City. When they entered the United States through Ellis Island in 1899, the family consisted of dad and mom, Phillip and Rachel Flievowitz Kshir, and 10 children. Since Kshir was not a common spelling to the workers at Ellis Island, the Americans decided the family needed a new spelling. So they became the Sheer family.
Twin girls were born to the couple in 1902 and then in 1904, Nathan entered this world only minutes before his mother left this world. Nathan, a good strong Hebrew name meaning ‘Gift from God.’ Phillip wondered if Rachel would have given him that name if she knew what was to happen to her because of him. With Rachel’s death, Phillip decided he could not care for the younger children, so he placed them in a Jewish Orphanage in Manhattan. The other 10 children were put to work in various menial jobs, in the hopes of putting food on the table.
The first fourteen years of Nathan’s life were spent in that orphanage. He knew his sisters were there, but since the orphanage was so big, and girls and boys were separated from each other, he only knew of the sisters and rarely saw them. In later years, Nathan (or Nick as he came to be known to his friends) seldom talked of that period of his life because it was not something he enjoyed recalling.
The older boys were put in charge of the younger ones and that job was taken very seriously. The little ones were ruled by dreaded fear of the older boys. If a little one were to get unruly, the older boys would just beat the little one until he was bloody, then hold him under the shower to get any trace of blood off of him. That was usually enough to get the others back in line for a while. Nick was a small person. At his mature height he stood only 5’ 2”. So as a young boy he was an easy one to catch and make an example of.
One Hanukkah celebration when he was very young and gifts were handed out all around, Nick got a fire truck with ladder and whistle, but when one of the older boys saw it he made Nick trade with him or run the risk of getting bloodied again. In return for the fire truck, a small plastic ladder with a clown was forced into his hands. The clown was supposed to climb up one side of the ladder and down the other. But the clown had been broken, so he wasn’t able to climb at all.
When Nick turned fourteen, his father came for him. He was put to work as an apprentice to a newspaperman and spent most of his day setting tiles for the printing of the paper. The ink from the tiles made his fingers and nails stay a constant black. He lived with his father and new stepmother. This was not to her liking and Nick and his father heard about that every day. At the end of the first 6 months of Nick’s newspaper job, his father had a cerebral hemorrhage and died.
The stepmother threw Nick out. She said she had no obligation to bring up someone else’s kid. Knowing that he had older brothers and sisters, Nick started looking them up. One after the other, his siblings all turned him down. They blamed him for the mother’s death, since she had died in childbirth with him. One of his brothers told Nick to meet him in the park at 7 PM. When they met, the brother gave Nick a worse beating than he had ever received in the orphanage. The brother was unemployed and angry at the world and saw an opportunity to take it out on the one who had made life a living hell for the past 14 years.
Nick spent many cold, lonely nights on a park bench. Someone told the boy that they were looking for captains’ helpers on the Merchant Marine ships at the docks. So he walked from ship to ship asking each captain for a job. Finally, one captain told him to go get a note from his parents, and he would take him on for one trip and see how he did. When Nick told the captain that both of his parents were dead, the captain barked, “Get on board!” For the next 15 years, the sea was home to Nick and he learned how to cook for as many as 700 men.
Then in 1933, Nick decided it was time to grow land legs. Because of his cooking experience, he was able to land cooking jobs in any of the many restaurants in New York City. He lost a couple jobs because he was Jewish and the head cooks were German, but he looked on the bright side. Nick knew he could always get another job and the experience he gained at each new restaurant just allowed him to add to his cooking abilities.
One night on his way back to his apartment, he met one of the boys who had been in the orphanage with him years earlier. The friend asked Nick to join him at a hot spot and get into the lucrative business where he was making money ‘hand-over-fist.’ Nick was interested. He liked cooking, but he knew he would never get rich. The friend pulled out a ‘gat’ and told Nick he would no doubt need that where he was going. Nick looked at the gun being offered him, thanked his friend and turned his back and walked away. How did a poor kid from the orphanage know enough to back away from this ‘opportunity’?
Nick needed a change. There were two ads in the paper for chef, and they both appealed to him. One was a position at the new La Guardia airport. But the other one was for a chef in the small town of Wellsboro, Pennsylvania. It was time for him to get out of the city. As he opened the door of Schannaker’s Diner on his very first day of work, the most beautiful country girl he had ever seen greeted him. Together they became Mr. and Mrs. Sheer …Mom and Daddy to me!
© June 10, 2008
Judy Watters
He was born to Russian immigrants in 1904 in New York City. When they entered the United States through Ellis Island in 1899, the family consisted of dad and mom, Phillip and Rachel Flievowitz Kshir, and 10 children. Since Kshir was not a common spelling to the workers at Ellis Island, the Americans decided the family needed a new spelling. So they became the Sheer family.
Twin girls were born to the couple in 1902 and then in 1904, Nathan entered this world only minutes before his mother left this world. Nathan, a good strong Hebrew name meaning ‘Gift from God.’ Phillip wondered if Rachel would have given him that name if she knew what was to happen to her because of him. With Rachel’s death, Phillip decided he could not care for the younger children, so he placed them in a Jewish Orphanage in Manhattan. The other 10 children were put to work in various menial jobs, in the hopes of putting food on the table.
The first fourteen years of Nathan’s life were spent in that orphanage. He knew his sisters were there, but since the orphanage was so big, and girls and boys were separated from each other, he only knew of the sisters and rarely saw them. In later years, Nathan (or Nick as he came to be known to his friends) seldom talked of that period of his life because it was not something he enjoyed recalling.
The older boys were put in charge of the younger ones and that job was taken very seriously. The little ones were ruled by dreaded fear of the older boys. If a little one were to get unruly, the older boys would just beat the little one until he was bloody, then hold him under the shower to get any trace of blood off of him. That was usually enough to get the others back in line for a while. Nick was a small person. At his mature height he stood only 5’ 2”. So as a young boy he was an easy one to catch and make an example of.
One Hanukkah celebration when he was very young and gifts were handed out all around, Nick got a fire truck with ladder and whistle, but when one of the older boys saw it he made Nick trade with him or run the risk of getting bloodied again. In return for the fire truck, a small plastic ladder with a clown was forced into his hands. The clown was supposed to climb up one side of the ladder and down the other. But the clown had been broken, so he wasn’t able to climb at all.
When Nick turned fourteen, his father came for him. He was put to work as an apprentice to a newspaperman and spent most of his day setting tiles for the printing of the paper. The ink from the tiles made his fingers and nails stay a constant black. He lived with his father and new stepmother. This was not to her liking and Nick and his father heard about that every day. At the end of the first 6 months of Nick’s newspaper job, his father had a cerebral hemorrhage and died.
The stepmother threw Nick out. She said she had no obligation to bring up someone else’s kid. Knowing that he had older brothers and sisters, Nick started looking them up. One after the other, his siblings all turned him down. They blamed him for the mother’s death, since she had died in childbirth with him. One of his brothers told Nick to meet him in the park at 7 PM. When they met, the brother gave Nick a worse beating than he had ever received in the orphanage. The brother was unemployed and angry at the world and saw an opportunity to take it out on the one who had made life a living hell for the past 14 years.
Nick spent many cold, lonely nights on a park bench. Someone told the boy that they were looking for captains’ helpers on the Merchant Marine ships at the docks. So he walked from ship to ship asking each captain for a job. Finally, one captain told him to go get a note from his parents, and he would take him on for one trip and see how he did. When Nick told the captain that both of his parents were dead, the captain barked, “Get on board!” For the next 15 years, the sea was home to Nick and he learned how to cook for as many as 700 men.
Then in 1933, Nick decided it was time to grow land legs. Because of his cooking experience, he was able to land cooking jobs in any of the many restaurants in New York City. He lost a couple jobs because he was Jewish and the head cooks were German, but he looked on the bright side. Nick knew he could always get another job and the experience he gained at each new restaurant just allowed him to add to his cooking abilities.
One night on his way back to his apartment, he met one of the boys who had been in the orphanage with him years earlier. The friend asked Nick to join him at a hot spot and get into the lucrative business where he was making money ‘hand-over-fist.’ Nick was interested. He liked cooking, but he knew he would never get rich. The friend pulled out a ‘gat’ and told Nick he would no doubt need that where he was going. Nick looked at the gun being offered him, thanked his friend and turned his back and walked away. How did a poor kid from the orphanage know enough to back away from this ‘opportunity’?
Nick needed a change. There were two ads in the paper for chef, and they both appealed to him. One was a position at the new La Guardia airport. But the other one was for a chef in the small town of Wellsboro, Pennsylvania. It was time for him to get out of the city. As he opened the door of Schannaker’s Diner on his very first day of work, the most beautiful country girl he had ever seen greeted him. Together they became Mr. and Mrs. Sheer …Mom and Daddy to me!
© June 10, 2008
Judy Watters
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