V1940-01HSSr
Senior fall 1940 to fall 1941
“Dutch” Anderson was our School Superintendent,
head of HiY and former football coach my freshman year. “Dutch” inspired each of us to do our best
and was very generous in helping in any way he could. He offered to loan Norman Bainter and I his car to drive to a HiY
camp – we thanked him but Dad insisted that we take the bus.
Jack
Cronk was our wrestling coach and history teacher. He was an excellent history teacher. I went out for basket ball and when practicing
at the grade school gym, the ball went up on the stage where the wrestlers were
practicing. Jack had told his boys that
any time a basket ball player walked across the mat they were to challenge them
as wrestlers. Thus I found Dole Townsen
pushing me, and the fellows gather about to see what would happen. So I wrestled back and held my own quite
well – sufficient that Cronk kept after me to come out for wrestling. I did for part of a season and won the
matches I was in.
Dale
Duncan became our new wrestling coach, biology and manual training
teacher. He gave tests at the beginning
of each class and we were seated according to the grade we made – low grades in
front, high grades in back. It became a
joke, Dale would say we will find out today if Landau read his lesson or
not. If I had I was at the back of the
room and if not at the front. Dale was
an excellent teacher and good friend to each of us. He had wrestled at Kansas State and when his coach Pat Patterson
came out Dale brought him to see me while I was at work at Elmer Browns
creamery wrestling 100 lb cans. They
had in mind I’d make a good wrestler.
Alex
Francis was the best coach I ever had.
He could teach how to play the sport as well as instill spirit and
competitiveness. He demanded and got a
lot from his boys, and they a lot form him.
He was a close personal friend to us many, and had a lasting positive
influence. Classmate Noel Tompson was
his sisters son. One day on the way to
track practice Alex came up to me and said, Noel’s getting too big for his
britches. I’d like for you to run the
quarter mile against him. I interrupted
with but you know I can’t sprint, my legs are too short. Alex said yeah I know but you have lots of
stamina, just scare the hell out of him for as long as you can. I said OK.
Noel knew he could out run me hands down and when we took off ran at his
usual pace. I took off as if running the 100 yard dash and never let up. Noel dallied too long and he could not catch
up. Alex never let him forget it – then
entered me in the first quarter of a mile relay? Alex died 2001.
Charles
Hawkes was the school Superintendent, his daughter Marian was in my
class. They moved after my second year,
as did my fourth grade teacher Edith Hertzog – they later married. Charlie was a substitute teacher for one of
my grade school classes and he gave us a problem. You had two buckets and were to measuer a certain amount of
water. I was the only one who worked
the problem right and Charlie seemed to treat me more as an adult after
that. He did an excellent job and we
were pleased to know the Hertzog-Hawks thing worked out OK.
Bert
Hostinski was a terrific and very talented fellow. He had majored in math but was our band
master. He was terrific in designing
marching band presentations and we won many contests. Through Bert I became a 6th grade little drum major
and main drum major for contests, while playing coronet in concert band. Bert had a habit of over sleeping and would
have me stay at his place before a main event to get him up in time. The students adored Bert and would do
anything for him, they knew, understood and loved the guy. Bert would become nervous before a contest
and take a nip to settle his nerves.
Some of the parents smelling his breath took great offense at this and
raise cain with the school board. Bert
was let go and there were many hard feelings about this – and I was caught
between Mahon and Bert – each using me to appraise the other camp. I told Bert parents have gone to the school
board and they to Mahon – where as most of the kids didn’t know this and
thought it was all Mahons fault, thus rotten eggs against his front door. Bert became an intelligence officer with AF
in Italy, and returned to Kstate after the war taking up agriculture as he’d
inherited his parents farm. Bert died
about 1970 or so.
DCHS
Male teachers that influenced our lives
“Dad”
Jorgenson taught shop and had been “Dad” to more than one generation of
kids. He said there was no such thing
as a bad boy. Everyone respected him
and benefited by knowing him.
Nelson
King was our vocal music teacher and helped Bert at contest time. He was a great guy and responsible for
creating our boys quartet consisting of Bill Murphy, Oran Hughs, Vergil “Doc”
Hughs and myself Base. We’d gather
after dinner and go over old sheet music he’d found in the files – our favorite
was The Mosquito Song. We were in
constant demand at ladies clubs and school events to be the entertainment. It was indeed a fun time – Nelson left the
following year and we never heard of him again. The Hughs family moved to Denver as did the Murphy family so we
had to form a new boys quartet Murphy?___, Dwayne Eller, Myron Johnson and
myself.
Harold
Loewen was our science teacher. He
did an excellent job and took over after Dutch as leader of HiY. At a NW KS meeting there was a presentation
on how much our high school was to contribute – it was like five times what any
of the others. It seems that Dutch
Anderson had pledged more than any of the others. This was disturbing to me as we were coming out of the depression
and I knew first hand how difficult it was to sell advertising to merchants to
come up with this money. I was president of our HiY heard complaints of the HiY
monopoly on selling candy at sports events.
At the HiY conference I said we would contribute twice what the next
club did but not the 5x they were asking.
When they saw that Loewen was backing up what I said they didn’t put up
an argument. They backed off in part
because I wanted to know what the money was going for – as I suspected it was
providing depression employment to sponsors – help we didn’t need.
Harry
Mahon was a nice guy but I often
felt I was being used by him. I was
class president, and in general a recognized leader in various activities – and
after the Bert Hostinski matter had gone to the school board for their OK to
set up a student government which they OK’d.
Our interim wrestling coach at the time had made a pass at their baby
sitter, also a high school student and her mother went to the police, school
board, and Mahon. Before dawn the guy
and his family were out of town. I
arrived late due to janitor work at the Farmers National bank and deliverying
the Topeka Daily Capital news paper.
The kids were talking about what happened and filled me in – plus the
message that Mr Mahon wanted to see me in his office. Harry said he felt it would be a good idea, that I as the new
student council president tell the student body what happened – that he had
already called an assembly meeting then ready to start. So I walk with him from his office to the
auditorium where all were gathered.
Harry says I have a few words to say – and I walked on stage to the
micophone. I’m not sure what I said – I
knew everyone already knew – this was just making it official. The meeting ended when I stopped and all
went to their classes. Several of the
teachers stopped me on the way out saying you did a wonderful job, we had no
idea what you were going to say or explain it – but you said it all in a very
nice way. It had gone OK but I felt
that was something Harry should have done, not on one of the students, but that
was Harry’s way.
Paul
Sandy was our basket ball coach and manual training instructor. He’s the one who made the little drum major
batans for Vergil McKinsey and I, adding a wooden knob on the end of pool
sticks provided by Vergil who’s father Jay, a WW I vet, who ran one of the pool
halls. He also rigged the leather
straps that went on the gallon jugs Vergil and I used to carry water to the
football team during a game. Vergil had
home team and I the visitor team. Sandy
was a good manual training teacher but I never felt he was a good basket ball
teacher – Alex taught how to play a sport, Sandy coached, assuming you knew how
to play the game. Sandy also played on
the town team against professional teams as the Globe Trotters who would stop
on their way from KC to Denver. When
they moved to the new high school I bought one of the old bench vices which it
still have and use.
The
Hat Rack: The old high school was
built with a center and two side stair ways.
You went down the side ones to the manual training shop in the basement. Under the stairs, against the manual
training wall were coat rack hangers.
My uncle Lee Kump tells of when he was taking manual training there, one
of the English teachers would get the jump on the rush and come down just
before the bell rang and put on his hat.
This is when the fellows discovered he wore a tupe to cover his mostly
balled head. The students decided to
put some wood glue about the inside band of his hat – then watched through the
door window while he put on his hat in his deliberate manner and left. He didn’t come back that afternoon or for
several days. Few knew he wore a wig
and until a new one would arrive in the mail he wanted to keep it that
way.
Marian
Cathcart: Marian had been school
secretary for years as well as librarian.
I first met her when checking out books from the library in the summer
time. Caleb Smick had hired her and she
acquired his school spirit. Marian was
the greatest cheer leader the school ever had, always up beat and
positive. During WW II she initiated
and maintained a remarkable correspondence with all “her boys” in service. It was natural for anyone to write back to
her to let others know where they were.
Marian solicited and receive overwhelming support from the local girls
in typing, printing and mailing letters at the rate of sometimes two a month. These were done on legal sized yellow
wartime paper, closely spaced with information jammed to keep postal weight
down. When on Guam in 1945 some 27 or
so of us from Decatur county were there, and many of us were able to get
together for brief visits due to these letters. I’ve tried on occasion to Optical Character Read and convert
these to electronic files but found the only way was to hand type them. I did
so on about two of them and attempted to set up a data base. But it became an exhaustive task and I moved
on to other things. Unfortunately so
many of the people are now dead and families have gone many directions – the
bond that bound people then no longer exists.
The persons on those pages are not known by others.
DCHS
Female Teachers that influenced out lives. (Mrs Stowell in shown with here
debaters)
Miss
Douglas: Was a special lady to many
of us, she’d gone to school with our parents and was a neighbor of my
grandmother Landau. She taught
English. I recall how we were given the
story Ivanhoe to read. At first we got
no where as individuals then she began reading the story in class. We were soon eagerly reading the story on
our own, having become caught up in it.
I became caught up in many endeavors and failed to turn in book
reports. At the end of the school year,
without having said anything to me she made it known in a teachers meeting that
I had failed to pass her reading class.
The first I knew of it was when Miss McMullen seeing me in the hall said
we were startled to find that you had flunked!
I knew Miss Douglas was simply putting me in my place – she felt I was
getting too big for my britches. I
would sometimes come into her class that started right after lunch about ½ hour
late. After a couple times she sent me
to Mahan’s office for a permission slip to return to class. She didn’t know I’d just come from Mahan’s
office, I was there at his request. He
was surprised when I returned to his office, I explained Miss Douglas thinks I
was off on my own and feels I should have a permission slip signed by you in order
to return. He said oh yes I forgot
about that, then made out a “good for this year” permission slip. Though he thought that was a good idea, Miss
Douglas was not impressed. I knew she
had delighted in converting two missing book reports into a flunk. She did have me over a barrel because that
did not permit me to play football the following year. So after school was out I went to see her,
selected two books to read and report on.
I got it out of the way in short order – allowing her plenty of time to
feel she had made an important impression on me. It turns out she also delayed in changing the flunk to a pass
until school started the next year and I was not able to play the first game. The football coach was not pleased when he
found she had delayed in correcting the record. I fully understood – life had not been very nice to her and it
gave her a place in the sun. I felt I
understood her and liked her – her heart was in the right place.
Mrs
Hays had been Miss Elvin our freshman year. We were pleased she and Roy Hays, a widower
who operated a hardware store found happiness in marriage. She taught the girls “Normal Training” to be
teachers and was excellent at it. I had
her for American History and sat next to Inez Chambers. It was first class in the morning and I’d
just barely get there on time. I’d ask
Inez to tell me about what was on the first page in the book – armed with that
I could answer her first question. She
always proceeded page at a time. As
soon as she asked someone to tell what was on the page I’d ignore what was
being said and start reading the next page.
I’d keep this up until I was called on.
I believe she figured something was amiss but said nothing. The Emporia state teachers college gave
exams each year that covered the entire state.
Miss Elvin had copies of all the prior tests and insisted we study
them. As I had not been studying as I
should I knew I needed to do something so I would not flunk. Classmate Otis Harmon and I rode about in
my car one evening going over every one of those prior exams, one would ask the
other answer. Some time later when the
results came back Miss Elvin said our class did quite well, in fact one did
very well, in the top 1% for the entire state.
We all expected to hear the name Charlotte Stevenson or Irene Walker –
the recognized brains in the class. We
were dumbfounded when she said I was that person with the highest grade in the
class! Yes, she was a good teacher
providing the material and incentive to learn.
Mrs
Kidd had lost her husband a few
years before and one day wrote a thing on the black board she wanted all of us
to learn, saying it will be helpful to remember in the future when times are
difficult. “The Inevitable can long be endured if due notice is given” At the time it didn’t make much sense, but
later it did. This reminds me of an
event at that time when I’d gone up to the black board taking my turn at doing
something. I was wearing a pair of
tailor made pants, done by my uncle Ray who was a tailor and operated a dry
cleaning business at the time. I recall
when he measured me he asked “do you hang right or left?” then he said I can
see you hang left, most hang right. I’d
never hear the expression before but I can see it would be a thing a tailor
would need to know. They were the first
pair of pants that ever fit me right.
When I walked back and took my seat, the girl in the row behind me
tapped me on the shoulder and said, “we’ve been watching and think you have a
terrific looking butt – those pants fit just right.” I guess I remember because no one had ever said such a thing to
me before – or since. I suspect the
girls even surprised themselves in making such an observation known. Mrs Kidd died this last year at age 107.
Miss
McMullen had grown up on Buffalo street, a few houses north of where we
lived when I started school. I’d known her father who was a house painter
always in demand. It was always a
puzzle to me why she had not married – she had every attribute a man would want
in a wife? Thus I was not surprised to
hear she had found her man at a new teaching job in central KS and was married
before the start of WW II. Though I
never had her for any classes I had taken an art class with her one summer when
I was in grade school and we’d become good friends. She was also a good friend of my mothers – and party to mothers
keeping after me to do my best. I was
always side tracked by multiple interests.
The Pond: One day sitting in class on the second floor
I could see out on the parking lot in back, it occurred to me there was all
that space going to waste – we could build a pond and fill it from the fire
hydrant in the near by city park. I
went to Everet McGee on the City Coucil and talked them into grading out a pond
for us and letting us tap off the fire hydrant. I got an OK from Mahon, and the next noon used my Model-A car to
loosen parking boundry posts to make room.
The grader came and did it’s job and I made a request through the school
speaker for volunteers to shape up the banks.
It filled as shown just before a cold spell. It also froze over – how ever we had not lined it with anything
and the water soon soaked into the ground leaving the surface ice to melt in
the next warm day. If we’d had plastic
sheet then we could have made it work.
The Old Grade School Bell finds
a home: When I was in grade school
Charlie Hawks made it known they were looking for ideas for an entrance to the
football field, which had recently been sodded by volunteer efforts. The had been a movie with Jimmy Stewart the
night before about Army – Navy football games and the Army had a ceremony where
those on the winning team got to ring their bell that was out on display. During the meeting I thought of the Old
Grade School bell that had been resting for years on the north side of the new
Grade School building. We had an art
class under Miss ____ , who told us of Hawks request, so I drew up the
idea. I had given up on anything
happening until the following year when riding my bicycle toward the high
school I saw they had people building the thing I’d drawn up!! The art teacher and Charlie Hawks were
probably the only ones who knew where the idea came from – or the association
with that Jimmy Steward movie.
Originally I had in mind establishing a tradition, like at Holloween
Clean up time which was held in the fall at the football field to have players
Ring the Bell. However the idea behind
it has been lost and the bell just hangs there in silence.
Farm Sale Dad clerked farm sales to supplement
his income. One cold windy winter day during a school vacation he asked me to
help.
After
years of hard work a farmer had decided to give it up, sell out and move away.
He didn't realize the worst was over and things would improve.
The auctioneer went
from one collection of things to another about the farm yard. People gathered
about him in groups, coat collars up, hands in pockets and shoulders hunched
against the wind. You were forever aware of the wind in the Midwest, if it
wasn't blowing you knew it was just resting before starting again. When cold it
could penetrate it's misery to the bone.
Dad had to write
bare handed on a pad while walking about noting each transaction. He couldn't
wear gloves and write, turn pages, tear out checks and make change. It didn't
seem difficult till I tried to help. It demanded a kind of inner fortitude to
keep mentally alert and manipulatively dexterous when your hands ached painfully
from the cold.
<<
Darrell High School Sr Picture, 1941
I soon realized it
was quite a feat to: hear the final sale call and price, to whom, write a
unique description of the item, tell someone how much he owed, add up another’s
purchases, fill out a check for him - against the proper bank - and make change
for someone else. I observed Dad sustain this ritual as the auctioneer moved
about at a pace designed to keep the crowds interest. The scene enhanced my
admiration and appreciation for my fathers ability and what it had taken during
the depression years to keep food on our table. I was always amazed at how many
people he knew by sight, even at a distance, jotting down their names vs a
purchase.
I subsequently
found that he almost memorized things as they took place, he wanted me there to
make change and make out checks so his observations of the dynamic events were
not distracted.
The farmers selling
out had been caught in the jaws of global events. They had just been through a
period of severe drought and things didn't grow. The prices had plummeted due
to a global depression, one of the causes of WWII. And the technology of
farming was changing, you had to get bigger to compete and this required money,
intelligent management of resources and lots of luck. Like a football game,
some won & some lost; some were able to continue, some had to close out. A
young man starting out could not make it unless he had family or friends to
provide him a start. Those without heirs to carry on sold to others. When the
tractor replaced the horse/mule it began the continuing process of farm sales.
In the city the mom & pop stores were giving way to chains to gain
efficiency by size. Farm sales were the free market place at work, it was the
fall season for some and the spring season for others. This farm sale was a
segment out of life.
All manner of
things had been gathered for sale. The most unique was bidding for what was
under a pile of dirt. The farmer had set aside his horse drawn equipment when
he changed to a tractor. The horse drawn machinery had collected tumble weeds
and the combination collected wind blown dirt. During the dust storm years they
were completely covered. The farmer identified what was buried there and the
scrap metal dealers bid for the iron. While the sale was still going their
trucks would be loading. The term "junk" was applied to anything no
longer used for farming and with no trade in value. The country side still
contained huge amounts of iron machinery hauled into the region by rail from
about 1870 to then 1941. All except the most recent farm equipment had become
obsolete. It ranged from old steam tractors to horse drawn harrows, a kind of
rake for smoothing horse plowed ground for planting wheat. The Japanese had
created a market for this scrap iron and the war in Europe drove the prices up
even more. Worthless "junk" now had value for the iron it contained.
Most of the junk
was bought by "Jockco" Hanson or Jalmer Alstrom. They were both
unforgettable characters. You'd think junk was gold and they were collecting
nuggets. They wore tattered clothes and only their energetic manner
distinguished them from bums.
It was at one of
these sales that I first met Jalmer. He seemed to be buying every other item.
Near the end of the sale he waved at Dad and Dad told me to make out a check
for Jalmer to sign. I asked for how much? Dad said never mind the amount we'll
fill in the amount later. I rather quietly asked Dad if the check would bounce,
he'd bought a lot of stuff. Dad just chuckled and told me to catch Jalmer
before he got away. He said there was no problem about the check being good,
the problem was to get Jalmers attention long enough to get the check signed
before he became involved in loading junk and forgot all about it. For some
reason I never correlated "Jalmer" as being Mr Alstrom, the father of
my classmate & good friend Nadine who played Oboe in the school band.
Jalmer collected
and stashed junk on his farm for years. He filled a 1/4 square mile piece of
land near his house with rows and rows of old cars, machinery, washing
machines, etc. Rooms in his house were full of fan belts, tires, etc. grouped
and sized. The farm yard was void of animals and filled with his organized
junk. My mother & Jalmers wife had been good friends as young ladies. In
addition to daughter Nadine, Jalmer had two sons, Max in my wife’s class, and
Keith who has sustained his fathers passion for collecting junk. They are
wonderful people.
Jocko Hanson filled
box cars with his junk as he bought it, most of it going to Japanese steel
mills till the US got into the war. Jalmer never sold his junk during WWII,
except to individuals who needed something to make repairs. People would drive
for miles to see if he had something they needed and marveled at his
collection. His farm was out in the country away from railroads or highways.
Finally he sold the
stuff during the Korean war to a steel outfit in Kansas City. They moved in
with equipment and trailer houses and spent 6 months processing it on the spot
for shipment to the smelter. Jalmer became one of the more well to do men in
the country.
Dad used to prepare
peoples income taxes. Jalmer was his most unique client. Jalmer never kept
books. His filing system was a set of bushel baskets. He'd write a transaction
on a piece of paper, anything that was handy, and toss it in the basket. At the
end of the year he'd haul them into town and give them to Dad. It took some
doing on Dad's part to get him to do this much. The people who helped Dad would
categorize, total and document the results on the tax forms. At one time the
IRS sent a man out to investigate. The more they probed the more they threw up
their hands. It was extremely unorthodox but legal and a convincing display of
honest reporting. For years his income went into scrap inventory with
relatively small sales. It took a trip to the "seventh wonder of
Kansas" to be convinced, it was indeed a wonder.
After the sale we
returned to the office in town and Dad began the process of checking his
receipts against sales. The warmth of the office soon drove out the cold but
our faces remained flushed from being windblown and tiredness set in. It was
then I first appreciated what went on after the bank closed its doors. This was
another of many occasions when numbers were checked, money counted, rechecked
and verified. In my state of weariness I couldn't appreciate the importance of
tracking down an error of a few pennies. My offer to make up the difference so
we could go home to supper only drew a brief but tolerant lecture to the effect
that what appeared to be a few pennies error could turn out to be a significant
error and must be tracked down. Dad disliked this tedium but would stick with
it till things balanced.
Years later while I
was in the Air Corps things didn't balance when a number of us officers drew
duty counting money into payroll envelopes. It had taken about three hours
during time that was otherwise our own - we were anxious to take off and leave
the base. We quickly made up the difference out of our own pockets and called
it good. I couldn't help thinking of Dad and wondered how many jobs he and
others were trying to do when we young bucks were no longer there to help. To
me it didn't seem all that easy back home, even for a banker.
WPA Crew adds on a 20,000 bu bin, It’s Filled, and
Foundation Gives Way!
20,000
bu bin, after repair
The Blower/Model-T
Contraption
Summer of ’41 The Federal
Government recognizing Europe’s shortage of food encouraged farmers to grow
wheat and paid for its storage. All kinds of buildings were converted to this
purpose. Previous surpluses were fed to animals.
The Oberlin Milling
Co. had operated a chicken farm. This included 8 or more, 20x60 ft. frame
buildings with concrete floors, a tile storage building and a basement house.
It was decided to convert the entire operation into wheat storage.
The frame buildings
had been emptied and Emmit White & I were given the task of reinforcing
them to hold wheat. We were experienced at handling and storing grain and Emmit
knew where and how to reinforce the buildings. Beams were placed against the
sides & about 8 strands of #9 wire was threaded from the beam on one side
to the beam on the other side. These strands were then twisted into a steel
cables by use of a 2x4 at the mid point.
Multiples of these were placed from side to side & end to end to
hold the sides and ends, plus from one corner wall to the adjacent corner wall
so the corners would not split out. The
cables were placed about 3 feet above the floor, the region of greatest stress.
Wheat weighs about 60 lb to the bushel and can be piled to an angle of about 60
degrees but will readily flow if the slope angle exceeds that. Thus wheat can
be piled in the middle and behave like water applying the force of it's weight
to the lower portion of the outside wall. These were the days before steel
grain bins and reinforced concrete grain elevators, it was all wood and steel
reinforcing.
We had avoided the
thought of shoveling wheat into these buildings. The process began when I was
assigned to filling the tile storage building and was asked to work nights. I'd
drive the truck into the elevator and open overhead spouts. In 15 minutes the
truck was full. Then I'd drive a mile to the storage building, back into place
and shovel and shovel and shovel! I put in 10 hours of this per night. The
truck filled so fast but took forever to unload. Much wheat was shoveled
several times, like from front to back of the truck so it could be shoveled
through a window. The first few loads were not too bad. I was in excellent
shape and experienced in shoveling wheat. Then about 3:00 am fatigue would
begin to set in. I shoveled right handed, then left handed, then rest to recoup
my energy; then start the cycle again. There was no end to it. No one to talk
with to kill time. In the semi darkness of a half moon it was monotonous. There
were no songs on my lips as my lungs were busy rhythmically sucking in air as
if running the mile. I'd become so tired I'd just fall back in the wheat and
lay there for a time. No one established how many loads to move or how fast to
work. Even when pooped it didn't seem right to just lay in the wheat. The last
loads each night went very slow. Finally that tile building was filled, I sure
hoped the tiles wouldn't crack and spill wheat on the ground; I had an aversion
to thinking of shoveling wheat from the ground into a truck. I dreaded the
thought of more buildings to fill. Thankfully such exhausting work soon passed
into history as equipment’s were designed to reduce the labor.
The day crew had
started on the basement house and I was put on days to help. ,Howard Banta, the
boss and a very pleasant fine person, had commented on how long it was taking.
Those of us doing the work knew we were doing as well or better than anyone
should expect. Howard often joined in the work for an hour or so and would then
go back to the office. Being the boss had its rewards but such bursts formed
erroneous standards for those who had to keep it up all day.
One morning Howard
decided to come along. The basement house was partially filled and two of us
had to get inside and shovel wheat into the corners away from the inlet window.
Howard entered through the window to "mow" the wheat back. I turned
to the other two and said "look Howard thinks we've been working at a slow
pace. We know his habit is to work at the same pace we do. I'll go down with
him and you fellows keep that wheat coming no matter what!" They grinned
and I went below. The cavity below was bigger than any Box Car & we could
have worked for hours without their unloading any grain. Howard and I faced the
window, placed our knees into the wheat and began to shovel, right hand then
left hand throwing the wheat behind us. I set a slow rhythmic pace for myself
which I felt I could sustain for a long time. When switching hands I'd stick
the scoop in the wheat in front of me and stretch. Howard thinking I was taking
a break would stop. Having stretched I'd pick up the scoop and start again,
seeing me start he'd terminate his rest and he'd start again. When I became
tired I just kept on and on and on, so did Howard; bless him, I knew he would!
After the second load I knew he was exhausted and going on grit. I even tried
humming in rhythm with each swing. It was psychologically devastating.
On the way out that
morning there'd been a lot of chatter. After the first load little was said. It
was as if talking wasted energy and each of us were trying to recover any
strength we could. All of us were acting as if it was just a normal days work.
Finally it was noon and we went to our homes to eat. I only nibbled, Mother had
to awaken me from an exhausted sleep to go back. After lunch Howard didn't show
up! We continued the job but at a slower pace.
The following day
Howard was back but didn't join us to shovel wheat. In fact he never thereafter
expressed adverse comment on how fast the wheat was being moved.
Howard’s wife
Connie often drove him to work so she could have the car. That following day
Connie called me aside and asked what in the world had happened. She said Howard
had been absolutely exhausted and that all he would say is that he'd been
shoveling wheat with me. I smiled and told her it was his habit to keep up with
whomever he worked. That he'd been wondering if we were really keeping at it so
we gave him a workout so he could judge for himself. I told her we were pooped
too and glad we could let up for the rest of the day. She smiled but was still
concerned. I suggested she simply convince him to quit when tired, then we
could let up too, it was hard work and we all became very tired. After a few
days Howard was joking with us about it but more important he agreed that
shoveling was doing it the hard way. A few days later he had located a
"Wheat Blower" in another town. I went with him to look it over.
The blower was
mounted on a tow-able four wheeled frame. A flat belt pulley drove a fan which
forced air through a pipe with a long flexible spout on its end for aiming the
blast. A hopper, sized to fit a horse drawn wagon, was placed at ground level
so a wagons load could dump into it. The hopper was connected by an auger
enclosed in a pipe to the air pipe which aimed upward at a 45degree angle. The
drive for the blower also drove the auger. Wheat from the auger dropped into
the air-stream and was thrown 20 feet or so from the end of the spout. Some
wheat mover designs cracked wheat when throwing it. This contraption was
cumbersome and noisy but its air blast didn't damage the wheat and it had been
designed for heavy duty work.
Howard bought the
thing and on the way back we discussed how to power it. He said he didn't want
to buy a tractor unless he knew the blower worked. I said I knew of a Model-T
that could be put in running order, I could probably buy it for about 5 or 10
dollars, it should have power enough to see if the blower worked. He asked, but
how can you hook up to it? I said I
didn't know but I'd figure out something. I was told to go ahead. I became
silent for the rest of the trip wondering if I'd bitten off more than I could
chew. I had no idea how to connect that
Model-T to that large flat pulley about 5 feet above ground, and my imagination
wasn't making any progress. This was a bit more involved than patching rat
holes in a leaky bin with tin can lids.
The first day I
took the blower apart, checked the bearings, made minor repairs, reassembled
and filled it's journal bearing grease cups. I also bought the Model-T. Not
knowing what condition it was in, I took it all apart, removed built up carbon,
ground the valves, put in a new set of rings and tightened the rods. I also
cleaned the carburetor, plugs, set the coils and ran it for a while to be sure
it was all right. I was concerned that it would over heat, besides, the
radiator leaked. I removed the radiator and replaced it with a 30 gallon barrel
which I took to Ed Hunts Black Smith Shop to fit it with inlet and outlet
holes. If it got hot enough to boil at least there was plenty of water.
I removed the drive
shaft but kept the rear wheels operative for towing purposes. I found some old
line shafting and pillow blocks in a storeroom. By use of the grinder in Ed
Hunts shop I fitted the end of the line shaft in the universal joint behind the
transmission. Two 4 x 4 beams were mounted to the frame with V bolts I made at
Ed's and the pillow block bearings for the shaft were bolted to the beams at
front and back. The new shaft protruded about 1 foot beyond the back end of the
car. While in grade school Ed Hunt let
me "help" him by threading bolts on iron pieces he's made at the
request of farmers who were always improvising something. Thus I'd received
apprentice training for what I was trying to do.
I had trouble
finding a pulley which would fit the shaft. The one I found was broken and too
narrow but it fit the line shaft. I located a piece of sewer pipe in back of
the city power plant which would just fit over the broken pulley and had it
welded on. However a flat belt needs a pulley with a slight crown or it will
work off the pulley. So I made a mixture of wheat chaff and belt dressing and
molded a crown on the sewer pipe. I then made a belt from several pieces of 8
inch wide belting. It was now ready to hook up and try out. Before starting
Kindergarten I'd watched the fellows at the old flour mill repair and connect
flat belting before the old mill burned down, thus I felt confident with what I
was doing.
We towed the blower
and "power plant" to the chicken farm and aligned the blower to dump
into one of the buildings. I then coupled the flat belt to the blower and Model
T. I pulled the back end of the car to align and tighten the belt but soon
realized the back end of the Model-T
wouldn't stay put due to the pull & weight of the belt. I needed a
belt tightener. I'd helped my uncle Earl Talley put up and repair barbed wire
fence, so I did as he did. I drove a stake in the ground and used a rope pulley
arrangement, known locally as a "fence tightener", to pull the car
toward the stake and tighten the belt as if it were the barbed wire.
All this had taken
some three days of preparation and I wasn't too sure that the whole thing would
work. I didn't know if the rpm would be right or if the combined contraption
would vibrate apart.
I started it up, it
ran, but the blower was rotating backwards!
D....arn, now what? I recalled things I learned in the Mill as a child
by asking, "why are you doing that?" They would twist their main
drive belt when they wanted the mills machinery to run backwards. Thus instead
of using a flat belt I used a twisted belt to reversed the rotation of the
blower. I was becoming happy with my toy. Howard, more confident than I, had a
load of wheat waiting. We tried it out, it vibrated and made a lot of racket
but threw wheat; it was beautiful to hear & see!
After enlarging the
hopper to accommodate wide trucks it was almost fun to move wheat, it sure beat
scooping! One had to yell to be heard above the noise of the Model-T engine
without a muffler and the roar of the blower, which was probably spinning
faster than originally intended.
The next day
farmers were bringing in wheat which had been piled on the ground during
harvest. We ran the rig around the clock. I took the Model-T headlights off and
mounted them on 2x4 poles thus lighting the area at night. The entire operation
looked crude and improvised, as indeed it was, but it worked like a charm; and
the farmers got a big kick out of it. That contraption probably sold more
commercial blowers, available after WWII, than any sales pitch or paid
advertisement. Farmers didn't like to shovel wheat either and they’d watched a
solution.
I'd made plans to
attend college and had to leave to enroll when only 2/3 of the buildings were
filled.
Howard wrote to me
at school that the Model-T finally gave out. They had continued using it at
other locations and it had been running almost continuously for over a month.
He said what I had been afraid would happen did happen. Someone ran it too fast
with a light load and it threw a rod. It lasted much longer than any of us had
expected. Howard said he never dreamed it would last for the entire job, he'd
anticipated a need to buy a tractor.
I received a letter
from Howard about a month later which included an extra pay check made out to
me. The then new Kansas Labor Relations people had performed an audit and had
determined I had been paid less than their minimum wage for the work I was
doing. Howard was apologetic saying the
audit and regulations came as a surprise to them, they never thought of such
being applicable to them. The regulations
had been set up for industrial work in a city. In reality I had been receiving
a premium wage relative to the Oberlin farming community. I had been paid more
than Top Hand Harvest Pay which was recognized as a peak local wage. As a
single high school kid living at home I'd felt well paid and had been able to
bank most of it to help pay my way through college. This was a transition time from depression wages of 1 dollar a
day plus room and board to over 1 dollar an hour. I don't recall what my wages
were but it was more than $7 and less than $10 dollars a day. These were 6 day
weeks and 10 to 14 hours/days. In a
city anything over 8 hrs was overtime pay, for us in a farming area it was just
all part of the same working day. During harvest everyone worked as long as
weather permitted, and in a grain elevator/mill that could be all summer around
the clock.
By the time of
Howard’s letter the summer had become nostalgia, I had entered the world of
math, chemistry, metallurgy, which consumed my thoughts and energy, new vistas
never dreamed of before had opened up, there was much more than I could
absorb.
Cousins:
Darrell Landau, Bob Redman, Harold Johnson, Lemoin Landau, Jarrell Landau,
Myron Johnson
French
Landau was is service.
The Julia
Bobbitt kids: Margaret, Hazel, Earl, Ila, Ray