The Farm at Wilcox

ProetryPlace Blog 60     haibun: Wilcox

    My older sister and brother and I squirm and stretch in the cramped back seat of the 1932 Buick sedan. For hours we have counted horses on one side of the highway or the other, then buried them when a graveyard appeared. Now the highway, US 41, runs through the tall second growth pine forest of northern Wisconsin. No more horses. No more graveyards.

    My younger brother, in the front seat with Mom and Dad, asks the inevitable, “Are we there?”

    Dad says, “Watch for the marker.”

    We all know he means the roadside plaque that denotes the 45th parallel, the magical marker halfway between the equator and the North Pole. We know then the road to the farm is very close.

    The road is exactly one mile long, unpaved and closely surrounded by trees. The cool, shady passage is doubly welcome on a hot mid-summer afternoon. As we turn off the highway onto the gravel, six voices in unison whisper, “If you’re very quiet, you might see a deer.” Then we laugh. Ritual. And sometimes we do see a deer behind a tree. Or think we do.

    The road at last spills out of the forest onto flat fields and pastures. As we slow at the railroad crossing marked Wilcox, the old barn and its single tall silo come first into view, then the sturdy, gray weathered farmhouse. Smoke from the black kitchen stove curls from the chimney. We can already taste Aunt Annie’s light as air, fresh hot biscuits. She stands in her long white apron on the back porch, smiling her welcome as we pile from the car.

~

    This small farm near Peshtigo, Wisconsin was home to my father. Dear Aunt Annie and Uncle Charlie took him and his two younger sisters in to live with them when the children’s parents both died of tuberculosis at a young age. It is here he took the family for his one week of summer vacation for many years.

    The farm held a fascinating strangeness for children from the city. Even the lack of electricity and indoor plumbing held their own odd measure of enchantment. At the end of the week we invariably plead, “Please! Can’t we stay just one more day?”

    In the 1940s, while the killer, Polio, stalked children and adults on the streets of Milwaukee, my parents sent me to the farm alone to spend the entire summer vacation. Seventy years later, I still think of those wonderful days.

kerosene lantern

circle of warm light

holding back shadows

great cast iron stove

graceful curved legs

steam from the kettle

Sears catalog

tractors, shotguns, brassieres

three hole library

last biscuit, chicken bones

you’re excused from the table

adult talk begins

player piano

The Death of Floyd Collins

again and again

rhythm and music

warm milk from the udder

plays into the pail

fresh milk every day

chicken on Sunday, fat

mice in the granary

headless, bewildered

chicken running in circles

unable to cluck

Ned and Roscoe

strain haunches against leather

wagon wheels groan

neighbors together

chicken, hot biscuits and pie

the grain sacked and stacked

evening shadows

long, cool pump handle

the taste of iron

Richard Allen Anderson     http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com     27 July 2014

ProetyPlace Blog 59

When Less is More and More is Still More

   I’ve been thinking.

    (Not so unusual as you might suppose.)  About my writing. About my next book. About this blog.

    I’ve been writing.

    Poetry. Mostly haiku. Several longer pieces. Some memoir too. Scraps and pieces, disjointed.

    I’ve just about decided.

    I want to meld some of my writings for my next book. The title of this blog, ProetryPlace already suggests some combination of prose and poetry, but I’ve always kept the various genre separate. Now I want to mix them, blend them in some aesthetically satisfying form. Not quite sure how that is going to take shape, but here are some thoughts after doing a little research on the concept.

    First off, my bright new idea of mixing poetic and non-poetic forms of writing isn’t all that new. Been around maybe a millennium or so, in a variety of forms.

    Maybe you’ve read The Divine Comedy written in the early 14th century. It’s an epic piece by the poet Dante, written late in his lifetime. I read it in college and loved it. Well, Dante wrote an earlier work called La Vita Nuova (the new life) when he was a young man to express his love (at incredibly great length) for the lovely Beatrice. This work (I’ve read only snatches of it) is built around 25 sonetta (sonnets) and a few other poetic forms. But Dante uses, often quite long, prose narratives to explain his poetry. Proetry.

    Also from medieval times, a French literary form called chantefable was performed by alternating sung verse with recited prose narratives.

    Probably more familiar, and in English: the plays of Shakespeare. The Bard freely combines prose and poetry in his plays using a variety of techniques to suit the situation.

    The Japanese have been mixing prose and poetry since ancient times. Haiku started its life as a short introduction in verse (non-rhyming) to a much longer essay (renga or renku). The famous Japanese poet, Basho, who wrote in the mid-17th century was probably the most renowned leader in the art.

    Sometime during this period, a form called haibun appeared. and more recently it has been adapted into English. Haibun in English combines relatively short, sometimes lyrical, sometimes matter-of-fact prose followed by one or more related haiku.

An example titled  Sweetgrass from Hortensia Anderson’s collected haibun, The Plenitude of Emptiness:

(available from Lulu Enterprises, Inc., Raleigh, NC)    

    She shows me how to weave blonde baskets with a light hand.

    As we braid the oval reeds with sweetgrass, their delicate but rich

    green runs through the wicker like rivulets after rain.

         darkness woven

         through the tangled leaves—

         summer evening

    I am drawn to haiku by its imagery, its brevity, its difficulty and by the unexpected, sometimes perplexing, turns it takes to shake and enliven my perception—seventeen syllables that stand alone to tell a story or awaken an emotion. Hortensia Anderson’s haiku in her haibun, Sweetgrass, does that, but the brief prose that introduces it enhances and adds dimension to the imagery.

    I respect the ancient roots and traditions of haiku, but have often experimented with the genre in form and content. I am not alone in doing so. Modern haiku in English more often than not tends to be even more brief than the traditional 17 syllable form, sometimes with good effect, sometimes not. A well-known example of English language haiku (by Cor Van Den Heuvel) that still provokes imagery through extreme brevity is the single word

tundra

centered on a blank page.

    It is not necessary to know what was in the poets mind as she wrote to appreciate any poem. It is not necessary to experience the same emotions that stirred the poet’s soul when reading her words. Still, poetry, more so than prose, does attempt to communicate those thoughts and emotions in condensed, intensified or elevated way. Especially haiku.

    I shall continue to write haiku as well as other poems as suits my thoughts and emotions, but I am intrigued by the possibilities of haibun and how the best qualities of both prose and poetry can be further enhanced by their juxtaposition in a single composition, a fusion of the forms into one entity, call it haibun or call it proety.

     Now let me get to work.

Richard Allen Anderson     http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com     20 July 2014

Of Guns and Governments

ProetryPlace Blog 58                              OF GUNS AND GOVERNMENTS

    Starting now, the first week of July 2014, licensed individuals are allowed to “carry,” concealed or openly, handguns in the state of Georgia.

    A license is not required to own a handgun in Georgia, and registration is explicitly forbidden. Essentially the only requirement to own a handgun is that the individual must be at least 18 years old.

    “Carry” means to keep the weapon on one’s person or readily available. A license is required to carry. The carrier must be at least 21 and must have passed federal screening tests for handgun ownership.

    Gun violence seems to be out of control and more prevalent than ever in this country. This is used as an argument both for and against gun ownership and carrying of hand guns. Carry proponents argue that arming every individual for self-defense will deter gun violence—“Don’t mess with me bro, see my gun!” Those in the anti-carry and anti-ownership camp seem to think the opposite—no guns, no violence. Both arguments carry a parcel of truth. Which should prevail?

    The Second Amendment to the Constitution of the United States guarantees the right of individuals to own guns—or does it? The amendment consists of a single sentence: “A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed.” What do the words mean? What was the intent of the framers of the Bill of Rights in 1789? Is the constitution a living document, subject to reinterpretation by each new generation?

    At the heart of the debate is the question of whether the Second Amendment was meant to apply to individual rights or merely to the states’ right and ability to maintain a state militia. The latter view is certainly supported by the lead-in reference to militias, and, in 1789, the term “bear arms” was commonly  applied only to acts and times  of war. Additionally, the issue of state versus federal power was a hotter subject in 1789 than it is now. Thus, until very recently, the Supreme Court in several cases asserted that individuals do not have the constitutional right to possess guns and that local, state and federal governments may regulate firearm possession.

    Still, the amendment does clearly state that the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed. In a 2008 and later cases, the Supreme Court changed its “collective rights” interpretation to one of individual rights and proclaimed that the Second Amendment established the right for individual U.S. citizens to possess firearms. And so it stands today.

    I support the concept of individual rights to own guns, but I consider the Georgia Carry Law to be borderline insanity. This macho, vigilante mentality is full of flaws and dangers and does not effectively speak to preventing the kinds of gun violence that is foremost in the public mind, the unprovoked madman massacres in our schools or streets or theaters.

    I do not know whether these kinds of events can be prevented by more perceptive screening of gun purchasers. In many previous cases, early warning signs were evident, yet preventive action was not taken. I doubt, however, that allowing all individuals to carry hand guns into these venues of violence will have any beneficial effect where it is needed most against such premeditated acts.

    Much violent crime is not premeditated. It is spur of the moment, prompted by sudden rage or distress. Having a finger on an available trigger at such moments can lead to disaster. Most often the perpetrator is filled with regret and remorse moments after the event. Too late for the victims. This is my major objection, aside from ineffectiveness, to free carrying of guns in public.

    I support gun ownership based on my individual right to defend myself, my home and my family. I see this as not only protection against other individuals who would seek to harm me, but protection against a government that might become tyrannical in its regulation or suppression of its citizens. Look only to the Middle East, to Egypt, to Syria, even Iraq. Remember 1776 when our own country was born from revolution against the oppressive yolk of England on its colonies.

    “When in the course of human events . . . .”

    Far-fetched?  I hope so. Impossible? Certainly not. Mistrust of our federal government is at the highest level I have known in my lifetime.

     Consider infringements on the Fourth Amendment in the name of national security. The amendment states in part: “The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects against unreasonable searches and seizures shall not be violated . . . . “ This amendment provides our protection from arbitrary arrest, stop and frisk police actions, wiretaps and other forms of surreptitious government surveillance. Hello Edward Snowden. Goodbye privacy.

    Of course, we routinely give up individual freedoms, recognizing that in many cases they must be sacrificed for the sake of a functional society. Regulatory ordinances control many of our actions, at the same time providing for our protection against the unbridled actions of others. Injury at the hands of another individual or organization can be addressed and rectified by legal actions. Suppression or infringement of individual rights at the hands of government when it oversteps its powers is more difficult to act on. And the government has guns.

    As we celebrate the birth of our great nation, recognize again that an informed and politically active citizenry is the best safeguard against government infringement on our rights and freedoms. Arming individual citizens with handguns on our streets, in our schools, churches, bars, most any public venue in the name of individual freedom is a step backwards fraught with the greatest of dangers and little imaginable benefit.

Richard Allen Anderson     http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com     5 July 2014

ProetryPlace Blog 57

A TIME AND PLACE ODYSSEY

    I hope folks enjoy my funeral service one day as much as we enjoyed my brother, Ron’s.

    Yes, there were sad and touching and difficult moments as we paid our final respects. My voice was unsteady in spite of my efforts to control it as I shared memories of the near and distant past, childhood experiences of young boys growing up in the city.

    Ron’s daughters, Lynn and Lauree, shared poignant memories as they spoke and in the form of picture-boards, collections of photos that depicted Ronnie’s life and accomplishments. Our sister, Audrey, added another photo collection of happy moments of the past. Kites, hobby horses, carvings and other creations of Ron’s able hands and mind were on display around the room. The spirit of celebration of life well lived prevailed, a productive and loving life before the cruel, crippling effects of Alzheimer’s held sway. Now he is free again.

    At the visitation, prior to the service, and later at the dinner his family provided in the church hall, we caught up with family and friends usually scattered over many states. Some we had not seen in decades.

    Two of our four children, Jennifer and Dan, plus Dan’s two children and fiancé were able to attend too, so we had a mini family reunion of our own. On the day after Ron’s service, we gathered for a memorable Sunday brunch at the wonderful Pfister Hotel in downtown Milwaukee. Then we made a quick run to Menasha, 100 miles to the north. While Dolly and I visited friends, Dan, Jenny, et al visited their old homes and haunts and managed to survive one of Mimm’s famous cardiac arrest, butter soaked burgers.

    Monday was departure time. Dan’s crew left early and drove through to Georgia. We left Jenny in Milwaukee after a late lunch and proceeded to drive north again to Sturgeon Bay while she caught an airport shuttle for her flight back to Colorado.

    Sturgeon Bay is in the Door County peninsula, the thumb of the Wisconsin map mitten that juts out into Lake Michigan forming Green Bay to the west. The peninsula is home to many quaint and curious shoreline villages where shops, art galleries, restaurants and tourists abound. Millions of cherry trees and a few wineries occupy the interior.

    Audrey joined us at our rented cottage on Tuesday morning. We rendezvoused for lunch with our cousin Tom and his wife, Sandy, who live in Casco, nearby. Later, we visited one of the wineries, sampling from the great variety of vintages they offered.

    Wednesday, Dolly, Audrey and I visited most of the remaining shops in the county—Ephriam, Fish Creek, Gill’s Rock, Egg Harbor and others—lending our support to the local economy while acquiring a variety of gifts, souvenirs and Wisconsin food delicacies like cherry doughnuts, Original Old Wisconsin summer sausage and Cherry Chipotle Cheddar.

    Early Thursday morning the fishing boats left their moorings in Snug Harbor. Audrey returned to her lovely Wisconsin home, and we commenced our 1066-mile drive back to Georgia. Nine hours and 570 miles later we pulled into the Holiday Inn at Mt Vernon, Illinois to spend the night.

    Here is where the story gets nasty. Simply put, the remaining 500 mile drive was a bitch.

    Interstate construction slowed, stopped and snarled highway traffic on several occasions. Navigating Nashville through a blinding rain storm with bumper to bumper traffic was a white-knuckle experience I will not forget. Had I opened my eyes, it would have probably been worse.

    Then there was the #@%&ing idiot redneck who decided he would set the speed limit for everyone. Try to pass, he speeded up to prevent it. Drop back and he slowed to block the other traffic lane.

    I’d had sufficient occasion on the trip already to use some of my select highway vocabulary in reference to other drivers: dip-squat, numb-nuts, ass-bag—even the seldom used favorite, shit-for-brains. Mr. Redneck was in a class by himself, and I stewed and steamed at a loss for words.

    My definition of redneck does not include geographical qualifications. It is determined by attitude alone, one’s treatment of one’s fellow man. Ignorance and intolerance are highlights. I may have been influenced to refer to the #@%&ing redneck as a #@%&ing redneck because he drove a pickup truck. Had he driven a Mercedes SUV, a simpler and more refined expletive like asshole would have sufficed. Finally he swerved through both traffic lanes and raced off an exit ramp while we bid him a fond, #@%&ing farewell.

    Every motorized conveyance in the state converged on Chattanooga as we attempted to pass through, proceeding with glazed eyes and rapt attention through the agonizingly sluggish congestion reminiscent of a bad head cold. Shoulders and forearms began to cramp, and we left the interstate north of Atlanta to cruise home on rural byways.

    Now we will happily resume our normal hum-drum existence after sorting through the accumulated bills and trash mail, checking the gardens and pond, and scheduling the necessary medical appointments. Details of our Wisconsin odyssey will gradually fade away.  Ronnie will remain ever in our memories.

Richard Allen Anderson     http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com      29 June 2014

Dad's Confirmation Gift

ProetryPlace Blog 56, A Memoir for Father’s Day

DAD’S CONFIRMATION GIFT

    “Here it is!” Mom found the old pinstriped suit, hanging limp and dingy on a wire hanger at the back of the closet.  “It was your dad’s years ago, and it’s still in wonderful condition,“she said with honest pride. Maybe memories more than the condition of the suit prompted her enthusiasm. It was an enthusiasm I did not share nor understand. “Stand up straight and let me check the fit,” she ordered.

    I had grown like a summer weed the past year and passed through time’s one-way portal that made me a teenager. I was rod-thin: six feet of knees, ribs and elbows, not an ounce of fat, inches taller than my father.

    I had taken the required religious instructions, and it was time for our pastor to quiz me and the eleven others seeking confirmation of our religious faith, the affirmation of adult status in the Lutheran Church. The special ceremony that would establish that we were ready to support the ideology of our faith would take place before all members of the Resurrection Lutheran Church congregation in Milwaukee, Wisconsin in just ten days. Mom and Dad sought to assure I would be properly attired for the occasion. My usual jeans and Tee would not do.

    My class of twelve young aspirants would be shorn, shined and dressed to look our very best for the event. Custom said I would wear a suit. But suits cost money. With four young children to clothe and feed, our family budget was always stretched thin, so Mom and Dad were hopeful when they remembered the suit, saved, as all things were, but not worn for years.

    I stood for the fitting, doubtfully inspecting the heavy, wool material, hoping they would see, as I did, that the garment was totally unsuitable. My mother held the suit jacket across my back and lifted the sleeve to check the length against my outstretched arm.  “Okay,” she mused.

    She instructed me to put the garment on and stood in front of me to check the style and fit. She cocked her head, raised a brow, nodded. My shoulders and chest had not broadened to a grown man’s proportions.  The dark blue wool jacket hung on my gangly frame not quite as well as it had on the hanger.  

    The sharpness of naphtha mixed with the musty aromas of past years filled my nostrils.  I felt sick.  Mom, a talented seamstress, said positively, “Uh-huh!”, but I detected the hint of skepticism that crossed her face.  

    Maybe I had a chance. Maybe she would realize that besides not remotely being a fit, the suit was old and ugly. Maybe, maybe the suit would go away.  I felt a flash of hope when the suit was hung away again, but out-of-sight might not be out of mind.

    The next day when Dad came home from work, the family gathered in the kitchen for supper. The subject of the suit was not discussed as my older sister provided stimulating and sophisticated dinner-time conversation as only older sisters can. Maybe the suit is a dead issue, I hoped, but later, in bed, I heard snippets of parental debate.

    “It was a good, expensive suit.” . . .

    “It needs an awful lot of adjusting, I don‘t think I can do it.” . . .

    “What about a new one?”

    “We don’t have the money!” . . .

    “I wonder what old Saul, the tailor, would charge to fix it.”

    I drifted into sleep, free of sartorial responsibility, knowing fate and my parents would resolve the problem, somehow, and I would live with that decision.

    Late the next afternoon, before supper, Dad asked me about the dreaded dark blue pin stripe.  I lied.  “It’s fine,” I said, and added the obvious, “but it doesn’t fit.”  

    “Okay, then, come with me,” he said, and we started our trek of fourteen or so city blocks to find Saul. This was about the same distance Dad walked to work every day and we children walked to school.  The family car, a 1932 Buick, the same age as I, ran fine but was reserved for longer trips through town, an occasional weekend excursion, or the one-week per year family vacation.

    We found the small shop. The single word, Tailor, was lettered in gold on the glass of the dirty front door.  A man‘s suit hung on a headless mannequin behind the small, single front window that advertised alterations, new and used clothing, and suits made to order for men and women.

    Inside, the small shop was dimly lighted and seemed to be unoccupied. I looked with amazement upon the disarray of cloth and clothing strewn about on a variety of tables and wondered how my father knew of this unwholesome place.  Had I known the word, appalled, that’s what I would have been.

    Momentarily, Saul pulled aside the curtain that separated the cutting tables and machines in his back work area from the equally disorganized front counter and display area where we waited.  He shuffled forward and leaned with his stubby fingers on the worn counter while my father explained our mission and showed Saul the dark blue suit.  Finally, the tailor said, in a thick, wet accent unfamiliar to my ears, “No problem, no problem.”  He waved a finger at me and held out the jacket for me to put on.  “Come here boy, behind the counter.”

    I glanced toward my father who nodded. I stepped reluctantly toward the hunched little man in a stained suit. Pins were stuck like bandoliers up and down each of his lapels. I could see that he had eaten eggs recently, sometime that day probably. Spots of yolk on his jacket retained a hint of their color and a faint, repulsive sheen.  Numerous other stains, spots and streaks were older and unidentifiable, blending with the uncertain color of his worn and aged clothing. Tailor, clothe thyself!

    He sat on a stool to measure and assess the magnitude of his tailoring task, while I faced him, feeling as uncertain and uneasy as a guilty schoolboy facing the principal.  Saul draped a measuring tape over this shoulder, then the other. I grimaced and glanced around at Dad. Did he not see the condition of this shop and this man? Was he serious?  How could he expect anything but disaster from any service he sought at this place?  

    Head down, grunting like a rooting hog, Saul pulled the pants and coat this way and that on my body. My shoulders were hunched, and my eyes fixed on my feet while he chalked a mark here and pinned a crease there. Finally he assured Dad that there was a lot of work, but the suit would fit—maybe not perfect, but Okay. The price was agreed. It would be ready in less than a week.

    Still wearing the marked and measured clothing, I saw myself in the suit for the first time in a large, cloudy oval mirror, with Saul, proudly, off to one side and my father standing silently in the background.  I could not disappoint my Dad, and besides, there were no other options. I knew how important it was for our family to conserve and save money. I nodded my head in reluctant agreement, trying to look pleased, eager to leave this place, knowing it would be necessary to return in a week to face the disgusting tailor and retrieve the altered suit.

    We spoke little, if at all, on the walk home. I did not want to face the grotesque tailor again. How could I stand tall in front of church wearing that old, dreary, reshaped suit?  Dad seemed to have something on his mind too.  

    At dinner, I was not hungry. No one raised the subjects of the tailor and the suit at the table.  My sister and brothers always had plenty of newfound knowledge of the day to share. No one seemed to noticed my silence

    My preoccupation with the suit faded as days passed with the endless variations of day-to-day life of a large family. Then, a day before our appointed re-visitation to Saul, the tailor, my father said to me “Get in the car, we’re going shopping.”

     He drove a few miles to a small, family clothing store, the kind that seemed always to have just about what you wanted at a price you could afford to pay—until the malls and department stores put them out of business. “Let’s see if you can find a nice sport coat and some slacks here. Take a look around.”  

    I didn’t bother to ask, but, what about the suit?  I followed Dad’s directions immediately. From the racks I picked a powder-blue coat and tried it on. It fit—no chalk or pins were necessary. The price was reasonable and seemed acceptable to Dad, but I worried where the money would come from.  

    As we drove home with the new coat and slacks in a large, flat box, I shared all the latest news with Dad about school, my friends, and their parents.  Dad just nodded and smiled.  I jumped from the car to open the garage doors, and Dad parked the well-preserved Buick.  We walked together to the house, both proud and eager to share our news, to show Mom the contents of the box I carried so proudly.  I paused at the door to face my father and said, “Thanks, Dad.”

    “That’s okay, Son,” he replied.

                                                             E. C. Anderson, circa 1945

Richard Allen Anderson     http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com     15 June 2014

Remembrance for Ronnie

REMEMBERANCE

    I had not seen my brother, Ronnie, for five or six years when I visited him with my sister, Audrey, in a nursing home last Thanksgiving. The occasional, brief telephone conversations had ceased, too, as he had fallen deeper and deeper into the chasm called Alzheimer’s disease. At Thanksgiving, he made no sign to acknowledge our presence, much less recognize that we were the siblings of his youth. He seemed essentially unaware of his surroundings, his condition, his self. He displayed no distress, nor any joy.

    Ronnie died early in the morning of 28 May 2014. He was 85.

    I have other, better memories of my brother from our youth and from our adult years. Being four years, three months my senior, Ronnie was a mentor to me in many ways. He taught me lessons in self-defense that proved valuable dealing with schoolyard bullies. Other lessons were less overt, learned simply by unconscious observation and emulation of an older male figure in my life.

    Not all that he taught me worked out well, however. He taught me how to hold a baseball bat, how to keep my eye on the pitch and how to swing. Then he taught me to throw the ball high in the air and hit it on the way down in order to practice solo hitting. So I threw the ball high in the air, kept my eye fixed on its descent and swung. Ronnie meanwhile had decided to play a little trick by dashing in to snatch the ball before I connected. He was successful, except I connected with his forehead instead of the ball. It raised a nice egg that he explained somehow to our mother. Had I swung harder I would have cracked his skull like an egg shell.

    One fall afternoon Ron invented a new and exciting game. Woody stalks of some plant had grown tall and tough at the end of our backyard—perfect for fashioning into spears about an inch in diameter with the pocket knife he carried. The hewing and sharpening done, we stood across the yard from each other, a distance of about 55 feet, each armed with a handcrafted spear. The object of the game: dodge the projectile hurled at you by your opponent. I got the first throw. Ronnie zigged when he should have zagged, and the spear struck and stood jutting straight out from his lower leg just as we were called in for supper.

    Ron always had a fascination with and an aptitude for mechanical things. His high school education included many practical “shop” courses where mine focused on literature, science and math. After high school, he owned a series of ever-grander motor vehicles that got as much tinker time as riding time. The first was a Cushman motor scooter, soon superseded by a motorcycle of the style seen in WWI movies. Being underage, I was not allowed to drive these exciting vehicles except in my imagination as I sat on them while stationary.

    Ron soon graduated to four wheels. The first car was a vintage, black Packard coupe that proved too much for even his mechanical skills. By the time I was in high school he was driving a beautiful, yellow Plymouth convertible. This time I got to drive. Without my asking, he lent me that dream-chariot to pick up my date for the school prom—only after instructing me in the proper etiquette of door-holding for young ladies (and a few other tips).

    Ron was stationed in Germany with the Army where he was assigned to the motor pool. I sent him some money to help him buy a Volkswagen. When he returned home, he insisted on buying me a new suit and topcoat as repayment I did not ask for or expect. He was married to Virginia Ware while I was serving my own duty with the Army in France. Shortly after I returned home he stood at my side as best man at my wedding to Dolly Krahn in January 1955. Later that year he and Ginny asked me to sponsor their first born, Lauree, at her baptism.

    Ronnie had a long career with ATT. His first job there and the one he liked best was telephone installer. He loved climbing the tall wooden poles with his strap-on spikes and heavy leather belt as aids. He thought it was great sport and won some company climbing competitions. Closer to retirement, he installed and maintained mainframe computer equipment. It was a job that called on his intellect and ability with electronics more than physical ability. I thought it curious that later, when PCs hit the consumer market, he never owned one.

    Ron and Ginny visited Dolly and me in Pennsylvania while I was completing my graduate courses and research at Penn State, but later, our lives intersected more rarely as our families and domestic responsibilities grew. After my degree, I took a job with Kimberly-Clark Corporation in Neenah, Wisconsin, some 90 miles north of Menomonee Falls where Ron and Ginny built their home. I recall remarking on one of our visits there about the beautiful cabinetry in the family room. I should not have been surprised to learn that Ron had designed and built it.

    He designed and built kites too and flew them in exhibitions and competitions. I often think of Ron that way now, skillfully guiding his beautiful creation, flying high in the bright blue sky.

Ronald, Richard and Audrey Anderson, circa 1939 and with their parents, Edward and Helen Anderson

      on their 50th wedding anniversary in September 1976. (Audrey’s the sib without the beard.)

Richard Allen Anderson

1 June 2014

ProetryPlace Blog 55     http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com