Bringing Home the Duncan Phyfe: Chapter 23

Are The Lights on at Palmer?

Like many of the northern states and provinces, Michigan is a showcase for all four seasons. Springs are lush; summer days are warm and long; autumn runs the hills in melancholy splendor; and winter brings hope of a white Christmas. But before that grand and frosty entrance, there's the empty in-between when trees are bare, skies are gray, and people huddle in winter coats with collars up and everything in place but snow, the consolation of the cold.

During those in-between days, there are two kinds of people: those who wish they lived where it was warm and those who look to the sky for snow. My mom and dad were in the latter group, and one by one, we children joined them there.

To this day, my mother gets goose-bumps at the very thought of snow, and when it actually begins to fall she is beside herself with glee, looking out each window with dramatic sighs and smiles. And once the snow begins to “stick,” she runs to the phone to call those who know the meaning of this magically mystic question: “Are the lights on at Palmer?”

It’s a question she grew up hearing on the phone more than sixty years ago when she lived on Forest and Riverview and could look north one block to see the lights at Palmer Park.

The ice rink itself cannot be seen from there. It's in a deep flat basin surrounded by sparse but sprawling trees. The ice is shaped roughly like a large Christmas stocking with the heel of the sock on the corner of Gratiot Avenue and Garfield, and at the toe of the stocking was a small shelter where skaters could gather to tighten laces or get warm around a pot-belly stove. (The old building has long-since been replaced by a nice facility.) On the far crest of the hill is a playground and picnic area, but the park is most beautiful when the basin is flooded and frozen and the surrounding hills are white and all the lights around the rink are glowing in the falling snow.

It was when the snowy night was perfect for ice skating that Mom’s friends would call and shout into the phone, “Are the lights on at Palmer?” Mom would run to the street to look. They were most often on during weekends, but week nights, if the lights were not on, it meant the ice was freshly "re-flooded" or not yet shoveled for skating.

But if the lights were on, it meant there was good ice, and music playing in the night, and the pot-belly stove in the Skate House was ready to warm your hands and seat. The news would spread from friend to friend, and soon they were all bundled up, laced tight, and twirling on the ice, and the whole scene looked like a giant jostled snow-globe.

The winter before, Mom was still at home when that first snow fell and the phone began to ring; this year, she was married and living a few miles away, when the snow began to fall the Friday evening after they brought home the Duncan Phyfe. Mom’s voice was bubbling over when she phoned home and ask the question for the first time.

“Are the lights on at Palmer?”
“Yes,” her mother replied with a laugh, “You’re the third to call. I wish you were here to answer the phone. It's starting to aggravate your dad. Everybody’s going skating. I told ‘em they could all come over for hot chocolate afterwards.”

And just like that the tradition changed from Mom taking the calls to making the call. It did not occur to her at the time that this ritual had become a tradition. But what else do you call it when that single question is passed on to your children and your children's children who heard it all their lives, and who even now call home to ask as the first snow falls, "Are the lights on at Palmer?" (though no one we know has lived near the park for more than thirty years).

But that night the question was not a tradition--it was asked in earnest, and Mom was giddy to hear the answer!

“Don, the lights are on at Palmer. Let’s go! We've got to stop by Mumma's to get my skates.”
“Are you sure you can skate… I mean what would Dr. Licker say?”
“He said I could still do anything I was comfortable doing. I’ll be fine. I almost never fall, and you’ll be right there with me if I do. Let’s go.”
"If you're up to it, I'm game. I sharpened my skates last week."

As they walked toward the park, they heard the faint music coming from the loudspeaker on the skate house. The following were among the "new Christmas hits" that have since become timeless traditional favorites that will forever remind us of Christmases past: Winter Wonderland was not new. It had come out in the 30's, but many of its recorded versions were new. Bing Crosby's "White Christmas" was not yet ten years old. He recorded "I'll be Home for Christmas" in the middle of WWII [this is a recent cover of the song], and his Melekalikimaka with the Andrews Sisters came out after the war in 1950. [Hawaii did not become the 50th state until 1959.] "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" was six years old. "The Christmas Song" was five years old. "I Yust Go Nuts at Christmas" was four years old. "Let it Snow" was three years old. Gene Autry's "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" was two years old, and his "Frosty the Snow Man" came out in1950, along with "Baby It's Cold Outside," Leroy Anderson's "Sleigh Ride," "Blue Christmas"--not by Elvis but Earnest Tubb, and one of Mom's favorites, "Silver Bells." "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas" had just been written and recorded that year (1951).

Mom and Dad were excellent “pairs” skaters, but that night they took it slow. Dad did all the backward moves. Most of the time they stood and talked with friends they hadn't seen it seemed for ages. It was just like old times to gather in that snow-globe, surrounded by all the familiar shapes of dimly-lit houses.

When it was time to go, they climbed the hill toward Forest, and held each other's shoulders as they put on their skate guards. Then holding hands, they walked under a canopy of bare tree limbs toward what was still for Mom the only place on earth that felt like home.

Three Days after Christmas

Note: This post was written on January 2, 2020, but was "back-dated" to appear below the initial post on this blog. At first, I wrote it only for family as a cathartic means of reminiscing as we grieve with our sister and brother-in-law about what happened three days after Christmas, 2019. It includes pictures of how Kathy and Jack's house looked on Christmas morning as they waited for their children, Ben and Aimee, and grandkids to arrive for dinner. A few days later, Kathy and Jack had come to our house for New Year's. On January 2nd, my wife Julie and Kathy were beginning the anguishing task of going room by room in their imaginations, trying to list "contents." The pictures below were somewhat helpful. As I saw them, their "back stories" came to mind. Many of the items in the pictures can never be physically replaced, but it is those irreplaceable things that represent what cannot be lost: the faith and family roots that help us carry on through difficult times.

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Most Americans decorate their homes at Christmas, but as I looked at the pictures below on Kathy's phone today, I realized that she does with decorating what I attempt to do in writing. She creates a warm and cozy feeling at every turn. She is a lifetime elementary teacher and seasonal decorator. I understand this trait in teachers because my wife Julie  is much the same (as are my three sisters-in-law).Whenever "Aunt Kathy's" house was a bustle with dozens of siblings and nieces and nephews and cousins, we all took time to notice the significance in every decorated corner. Each in their own way highlighted the people, stories, and faith that bring meaning and memory to our lives.

My sister learned the feeling of  "cozy" from the master, our mother, but two other people have helped her achieve it in her home. Her husband Jack is the craftsman behind the tiled or hardwood floors, the colonial trim, banister, etc. Those details took shape over the 40-year maturation of the house. The other person who influenced Kathy's decorating skills is our Uncle Neal.

My mother's sister Jackie married the talented proprietor of "Neal's Floral and Gift Shop" in Croswell, Michigan. Croswell is one of those 19th Century towns from the days when shop owners lived in the "house" above the store. Uncle Neal's "house" was full of beautiful antiques, and every wall and shelf was decorated with the finest things he sold in his shop below. Sometimes there were larger pieces from his store window displays through the years. The rooms were half-museum/half-"Better Homes and Gardens"/half-J.L.Hudson's motifs from days gone by.

Back in the 70's, during Uncle Neal's busy weeks, Kathy worked in his gift shop. His was the kind of fine gift shop that used display antiques like sleighs and buggies; headboards and highboys. The antiques were not for sale but set the tone for the Victorian finery, lead crystal pieces, music boxes, and one-of-a-kind collectibles that set his shop apart from others in the "Thumb Area." I think all of the ladies in our family would agree that Uncle Neal's seasonal artistry helped shape their own tastes for "the most wonderful time of the year."

This kind of decorating is an extension of the Biblical concept of "memorial stones." The idea is not to live in the past but to understand that God uses past moments, events and people in our lives to make us into people in turn help others understand the grace of God.  "Past is Prologue," and as such, we draw upon it, warts and all. God's grace in the past sheds light on His providence in the present.

The pictures below were taken by Kathy on Christmas Day, 2019. (Had they been taken on Jack's camera, they would have been destroyed three days after Christmas.) Had Kathy known they were the last pictures she would have of her home, I'm sure she would have taken many more and included the less decorated parts of the house. But I am thankful for these pictures and the stories each brings to mind (which you can read by clicking the highlighted links).

CLICK ON EACH PHOTO TO ENLARGE:

This is a little display Kathy put up each Christmas in their finished basement: The top three framed pieces are entitled "Are the Lights on at Palmer?" The first is a drawing done by my son-in-law Colton, the second is from Jim and Heather, and the third is from when the Port Huron Times Herald published a poem by the same title written by my brother Paul (1998).

I've told the story behind the question here in Chapter 23 of Bringing Home the Duncan Phyfe.

There on the table is a copy of the story Kathy read to her little brothers each Christmas through the 1960's: Holly and Ivy (as explained in a post called "When Doubt Came Slowly."

The lighthouse on the left of the table is the Fort Gratiot Light, the oldest lighthouse in Michigan, and our mother used to play "dolls" at its base as little girl. The old wooden shoes are homage to the fact that Jack was born in the Netherlands. The two ceramic houses were chosen for their resemblance to Kathy and Jack's house. The glow of this picture and many others is from Luminara candles. It was at Kathy's house that I first saw these battery-operated wax candles that look so real. The technology behind their flicker was first used in Disney's "Haunted Mansion," but most people find them more cozy than frightening--especially at Christmas.

To the right of this display is a small cast iron stove which often took the chill off this beautiful basement family room. That stove came from the finished breezeway of the house that sits deeper in the woods, the house so long in coming spoken of so fondly in many posts at Patterns of Ink.

To the right of the banister in that second picture is a "library" of favorite DVDs and wonderful children picture books. Another room in the house is called the "library" but here is where most of Kathy's printed treasures were kept. More about this at the end of the post.

This fourth picture is upstairs at the front foyer. I dare say that most of the people reading this post have stood in that entry way. As you can see, it was breath-taking at Christmas time. Since Kathy has shared a poem of mine more than once on Facebook called "At Grace,"

Here is a secret: it was at Kathy's house on Thanksgiving that the final version of that poem was written in 2006. The lines:

"...keeping window watch;
then taking covered dishes at the door;
and hugging through coats
that bring in winter’s air.
Staring fondly at the face
come furthest home"

It was this entry way that was in mind when I wrote those lines, It is true for the entrances of all my siblings' and my own homes, past and present, but this entry way where the images of that poem had recently happened when the lines crystallized for that post.

At the far end of the entry is the "study."  If you enlarge this picture, you'll see a "Let it Snow" wall collage that Kathy had just created the weekend before Christmas. More about this corner of the house at the end of this post.

To the right of that entry way was the main living room. My mother and father sat in "seats of honor" at the predecessor of that couch to watch a video photo-montage that we put together for their 40th Wedding Anniversary in 1991.

More than 100 people came to that "open house" at Kathy and Jack's. Hard to believe that this year is my own 40th Anniversary with Julie. (We share wedding date with Kathy and Jack.) Kathy and Jack celebrating 45; Paul and Dee 42; Dave and Jayne 41; and Jim and Heather are celebrating their 28th. Which means that next year the five siblings will be celebrating more than 200 wedding anniversaries. I feel another family get-together at Kathy's house coming on!

At the east end of that living room is the dining room behind which is the bay window where the kids used to perform their "shows" (typically at Christmas). Aimee recently wrote of that window on Facebook. (Warning from Uncle Tom: we have video of those shows so be nice.)

Just steps away from that formal dining room table was a small round breakfast table in the large kitchen, and as you can imagine that is the space in this house where the most living took place. You can see Jack at the far end at the sink, and since that photo shows the company arriving, allow me to share some other photos of these same spaces showing the true treasures of the home...

So that was Christmas 2019, nine days ago, you all remember. It was not unlike the times we all shared with our own families. . . .

But there is a reason for this post:
If you are reading here, you know what happened three days after Christmas, three days after the company left but left-overs were still in the fridge. Local radio stations returned to non-Christmas music and Kathy was preparing for another special group coming on Sunday. Most of us were in that holiday fog my brother Paul posted about that morning. You know the feeling...

It was on that Saturday three days after Christmas and three days  before New Year's Eve when it happened.

Kathy and Jack were out to eat with some friends. The house was empty, and we thank God for that.

Less than a half-hour after they left the house, a total stranger was driving past the house on Sass and saw the glow of flames from the rear of the house. He pulled in the neighbor's long driveway to the house deeper in the woods (the one our family built in the 70s.) and called 911. The neighbor from the rear house tried calling Kathy's cell to make sure they were out of the house,  but the 911 call had set in motion a rapid response and the police had reached Kathy at the restaurant. The two couples left their table and were back at the house within ten minutes. The rest is described at this December 31 post, but I thought it might be meaningful for people to understand the context of this trial by fire.

The morning after the fire, Kathy's oldest granddaughter said on the phone: "Oma, we prayed last night that somehow in the ashes you would find treasures." Looking at these pictures, that prayer might seem like true child-like faith, but guess what? The garage and breezeway, which were added several years after the main house, survived. Cars, tools, and many stored items were in the garage. (I learned today that all the historical family photos from our own mother's attic [and her wedding book] were there, but sadly Kathy's own wedding book was in the house.) 

And in the corner of the house that is left standing is the "study" in the fifth picture above. Inside that room is a large oak roll-top desk that is completely black with ash...BUT...the contents inside which included passports, important papers, and some precious Christmas gifts from three days before were saved. 

And deep in the rubble of that basement which now contains the what remains of the roof, the upstairs, and the main floor. The cast iron stove from our homestead is standing with nothing at all on top of it. Kathy was literally rejoicing that her granddaughter's prayer was answered. Who knows what other "needles" may be found in this blackened "haystack."

The same morning on the same phone call, Kathy's six-year-old grandson asked, "Oma, did our books burn? The ones we always read?" [See photo three.]  Kathy had not yet seen the picture above and even as I write this post five days after that night, she has not seen this site since that night on the front lawn with the fire-fighters. Even so, she knew the answer to the sweet question. "Honey, I'm afraid the books did burn. There gone," she said with surprising calm. 

"All of them?" he added. "I'm afraid so, Sweetheart." 

And with the same sense of hope he has learned from his Oma, he said: "That's okay, Oma. I have them all memorized... I have the whole house memorized. I will never forget any part of it." This from the young boy who enjoyed those vanished rooms just three days before.

I mentioned in the other post that Kathy and Jack kept their plans to be here in west Michigan for New Year's. Hard to explain in the face of this loss, but it was wonderful. We got so much done, and other than the understandable subtext of every conversation, it felt very normal ringing in the new year together. (That's them at midnight.)

I confess that my writing this is in part cathartic for me, but that is true for much of the writing here at Patterns of Ink.  It is my hope that reading this post will be of comfort to my whole family, each of whom could add many paragraphs of their own from our countless times together in Kathy and Jack's house.

Beyond this however, I hope that the links may help explain the roots that help in such a time and the faith that has sustained Kathy since teen years and both Kathy and Jack as a couple for over forty-five years.

One other "treasure" was found beside the foundation of the house outside. Jack's roots are Dutch and many years ago they chose to be called "Oma and Opa." Julie and I gave them this garden stone some time ago when they added the large porch on the back of the house.  They found it in all the debris on Monday. (While I did say the garage survived, that is the siding on the garage behind the garden stone.)

Romans 12:15 tells us to "Rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep."  I know hundreds and hundreds of friends and even people who have never met Kathy and Jack have done just that since the fire that came three days after Christmas, and it is our hope that someday on this same site the pages that seem lost for the moment will be written afresh... and read and turned and loved and shared by those who know the book so well.

© Tom Kapanka, Janyary 2,, 2020

Bringing Home the Duncan Phyfe: Chapter 24

Virg and Bev

They would only skate a few more times that winter, but whenever it snowed, Mom called home to ask if the lights were on at Palmer just to picture it. It's good to have a place to go--if only in your mind--when life begins to twirl too fast.

It was now December, and though this year had already brought many changes, the most abrupt were yet to come.

Dad worked out a deal with their landlord that if they moved out of the "no baby" apartment by December 15th, they could get their entire deposit back. So just ten days before Christmas, Mom and Dad were hauling the few things they from White to Wells Street.

The Duncan Phyfe dinette that blocked the archway had been there three weeks to the day when Dad and a friend carried it back down the stairs to a borrowed pick-up truck—no walking behind the Ford this time. They packed it between the sofa with the spring that came through the center cushion and the mattress of the bed that fell those months before. The Firestone refrigerator and a few other pieces would require a second trip, but it was an easy mile-and-a half move just past Lapeer Avenue toward the river.

This friend that helped Dad move was Virgil Palmer—no he was not related to the namesake of Palmer Park. Everyone called him Virg (as in “on the verge of…”). He worked with Dad at Bell Telephone. Mom had first met Virg in the receiving line at their wedding. Dad had tacked a wedding invitation up on the bulletin board at the dispatch building. They had properly invited all the men at work that Dad knew well, but he tacked an extra invitation on the board as more of an announcement—a way to explain the twinkle in his eye the days before and after his one-week disappearance for the honeymoon.

Dad was surprised that Virg actually showed up because of the invitation on the bulletin board. He was married but came alone since his wife didn't know either Don or Bev. (That would soon change.) Virg was a heavy smoker and his throaty laugh rang out in that little Methodist church as they chatted in the receiving line. It was the kind of laugh that did not adapt to settings. It bubbled up from deep within, gained a raspy edge in his throat, then pulsated out into the air like the song of a handsaw cutting wood. It was the same laugh whether he was standing in the cold beside his Bell truck or elbow to elbow with strangers at a wedding. It wasn’t rude. It was just Virg, and you couldn’t help but like him.

Little did Mom know when she met her husband’s friend that that laugh and vigorous handshake would become an integral part of their life. Not only did Virg help them move from White to Wells Street, but he and his wife, who name was also Bev, began spending more and more time with Dad and Mom after that move.

The friendships of early-married life often begin with existing prenuptial friends and siblings. Gradually new friends enter the scene. If the wife makes a new married friend, the two husbands are forced into social settings and may or may not become friends themselves. This was how it worked for most of my father’s married life… BUT in the case of Don and Virg and the two Bevs, it was the other way around. The wives were along for the ride at first.

It seemed the only thing they had in common was the fact that they were both very pregnant. The two women were quite the pair, waddling together wherever they went. One day when Mrs. Palmer was full term Mom and Dad saw the Palmers from a distance on the sidewalk in front of Sperry’s. Mom began shouting “Hey, Virg and Bev! We’re over here. Virg and Bev!” But they didn’t hear her so she said it louder, “Virg and Bev!”

Finally, Bev Palmer shushed her, and with a red face she waddled up to mom and whispered loudly, “If you’re going to shout it—at least shout ‘Bev and Virg’ instead of Virgin Bev. I mean, look at me for Pete’s sake, and here you are yelling ‘Virgin Bev!’ It sounds blasphemous!” It had never occurred to Mom how the names sounded together, but from then on, she discreetly used Bev’s name first when she called to them in public—and she was equally discreet as she told this story with a laugh to everyone they met for years to come.

Now back to that week in December, 1951.

[This chapter was written on the 28th, but it post-dated and added later in sequence before chapter 25. I decided that it was essential to introduce Virg and Bev before the epilogue.]

A Cistern Empty on a Saturday Night

A Brief Demonstration of

the Tangled Tangents in My Mind

We had a powdering of snow this week, and it made me think of Mom. This will be our first Thanksgiving and Christmas without her. The thought of snow brought this fact to mind because of an old family tradition my mom started over 50 years ago. I've written about before. When the first good snow of the year began to fall my mom would run to the phone to call loved one's far and near to ask, "Are the Lights on at Palmer."

When all the calls were done, she'd stand at the big picture window off and on all night, smiling and singing, "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas!" She had a nice singing voice, and knew hundreds of songs by heart, but more often than not she'd just chirp out the first line of the song like a gleeful little girl at the news of getting a puppy. Snow made her that happy.

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This week's light snow was not enough to trigger the tradition, but we're expecting a good snow this week, and it occurred to me that we won't be able to call Mom. It also brought that song to mind, and then when it came on the radio while I was driving home alone from work, I just had to call my sister on the east side of the state. They, too, had a trace of snow, and she was feeling blue for the same reason.

Did you know "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas" was written by Meredith Willson? Yep-- the year my parents were married, 1951. Willson is much better known for The Music Man, which was one of the albums my mom played when it wasn't Christmas. I got to know that musical well. Willson was from Iowa, and in 1982, when Julie and I visited there to be interviewed for teaching positions, I caught myself singing "We ought to give Iowa a try" on the way home. We did, and in fact, we lived there 18 years, during which time I directed the stage production twice.

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A few years further back, when I was in college, I did a one-man adaptation of the unsung opening number on the train seen below.

Can you imagine one person doing those lines as a “dramatic reading,“ using different voices for five "characters"? It wasn't that hard actually. I still know it by heart. The steam-driven rhythms and iron-wheel pace of that number have worn a groove in my mind. I fear that if I live long enough to someday drool in a nursing home, I'll be shuffling down a tiled hallway mumbling:

“Why it's the Model T Ford
Made the trouble
Made the people wanna go
Wanna get, wanna get
Wanna get up and go
Seven, eight, nine, ten, twelve,
Fourteen, twenty-two,
Twenty-three miles
To the county seat…”

Visiting guests will look on with pity while the passing nurse whispers, “Don’t pay attention to him or he’ll do the whole show.”

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(Stick with me. There's a point to this post...)

Willson’s gift for using words like percussion instruments also shines in Harold Hill’s fast-talkin’, snake-oil song: “Ya Got Trouble,” which provides both the title of this post and a segue to the next:

“And all week long,

your River City youth'll be fritterin' away
I say, your young men'll be fritterin'
Fritterin' away their noontime,

suppertime, choretime, too
Hit the ball in the pocket
Never mind gettin' dandelions pulled

or the screen door patched
or the beefsteak pounded
Never mind pumpin' any water

'til your parents are caught
with a cistern empty on a Saturday night

and that's trouble
Oh, ya got lots and lots o' trouble…”

The line is at 2:20 in this Youtube clip:


Hill knew his conservative River City audience, and “a cistern empty on a Saturday night” meant that someone would have to pump water on Sunday. A hundred years ago that was “trouble” because work of any kind on the Sabbath was to be avoided. A lot has changed since then, but that’s for another post.

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I've shared all these thoughts to introduce the word cistern. The next chapter of the "Unsettled" story is all about how we helped Dad dig our cistern well back in 1970. Read on…
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You might be thinking, “Wait a minute, Tom… you told us about snow and Palmer Park and your Mom's song and all this Music Man stuff just to talk about the word cistern? Why wait for that nursing home? You're already senile!" I often wonder myself.

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Some call it "associative thinking" when one thought leads naturally to another, but my mind is sometimes a tangle of tangents that I alone can sort out. That's one of the reasons it has taken me over a month to get to the chapters about digging the well with dad.

I hope it's worth the wait.

Bringing Home the Duncan Phyfe: Chapter 22

The "Title" Chapter

“Isn’t this fun!” Mom said, turning on the radio and the heater. “At least the car is still warm from me driving it. They’ve started playing Christmas music on some of the stations.”

“Seems kind of early for that,” Dad said.

“It's not all Christmas music. They just started mixing some songs in with the regular ones. I love it!”

"I guess I'll feel more like Christmas music once we get some snow."

"I can't wait for snow and ice skating. It's been cold enough for ice. They’re flooding Palmer Park this week."

"They usually do about now."

Mom turned the dial and stopped when an announcer said, “And here’s that new Meredith Willson hit sung by Perry Como.”

“Oh, Don, have you heard this one? It’s just came out.” She turned it up and began singing along with “It’s beginning to Look a lot Like Christmas.” [Perry released it first, then Bing. The Youtube clip is from a few years after the 1951 recording.]

Mom and Dad’s apartment was at 1427 White Street. The Duncan Phyfe was near Union and 8th Street. By the time the song was over, Dad was backing into the driveway on Union.

“You stay here. This won’t take long.” ........[Dad's '39 Ford was not as nice as the one above.]

“Well, can’t I look at it before we buy it?”
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“Honey, this was supposed to be a surprise. I only told you about it because of the chairs. Trust me. You’ll like it, but if you get talking with these people, we’ll never get home before dark. Just keep the car running and slide over here to my seat.”

Dad knew that once Mom started visiting with strangers, she'd begin pointing out everybody they knew in common, and stand there forever, chatting like old friends. It happened wherever Mom went. He lacked this gift and loved it about her, but when time was of the essence he kindly kept her at a distance from people.
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Dad opened the large trunk of the Ford and used his arms to measure its height and depth. “Hmmmm…” he thought, “This is not going to work.” If the table did fit in sideways, the drop leaf would give him nothing to hold. Lengthwise, with the dropped leaves inside the fenders, less than half of the table would fit in.

“We knew you’d be back,” the woman said, opening the door, “Is that the little lady in the car?” She waved at Mom, and Mom waved back.

“She'd get out, but the table’s kind of a surprise.”

The lady held open the back door as the two men carried the table to the waiting trunk.

"I don’t think it’s going to fit in there,” warned the man.

“I knew it wouldn't, but I'm hoping we can rest the front half in, and then I’ll just hold the legs like a wheelbarrow and walk behind." The table clunked against the raised trunk door. The back two pedestal legs had nothing to rest on until Dad grabbed hold of them.

“Are you sure about this?” the man asked.

“Yeah, this is no problem. It’s just a few blocks,” Dad said with his chin resting firmly on the top edge of the table and his arms stretched straight down to the curved legs that fit perfectly in his gloved hands.

“Aren’t we forgetting something,” smiled the man.

“Oh, yeah.” Laughed Dad, “Can you hold these legs while I get my wallet and remind Bev what we're doing?”

They switched positions. Dad put his gloves in his coat pockets, turned his back toward Mom and tried to hand the man a five.

“Just give it to the wife. My hands are full.”

“Oh, yeah, Sorry. Here you go, Ma’am. Thanks so much. She’s going to love it.” He motioned for Mom to roll down the window. “We’re just going to idle down 8th to Chestnut past White Park to 14th. Just take ‘er slow. Don't touch the gas. Just let it idle. Put it in first gear and put your foot on the brake until I say.

"Now?" Mom said nervously.

"Yes. You got it in first? Now keep your foot on the brake until I say. I’ll be walking behind you holding up the table like a wheelbarrow.”

“Tell her we ate at that table for twenty happy years,” interrupted the woman. Mom heard this and turned to thank her.

“It's beautiful! I can already tell!” shouted Mom over her shoulder, “Say do you know the Daltons around the corner on Chestnut?"

“Honey, not now. We’ve got to go.”

“Hell-O-o,” shouted the man with the table, “I’m still back here.”

“Sorry. Here. I’ve got it.” Said Dad, taking his place and resting his chin squarely on top of the table. “Thanks again. Alright, Bev. Take your foot off the brake and let out the clutch nice and slow.”

The car did not move. Mom had rolled the window up and didn’t hear Dad, but the lady motioned for her to go and the car began to roll down the driveway.

“You sure you’re alright?” asked the old man.

“It’s really not that heavy. Just a little awkward,” Dad said with his face turned sideways and the drawer pull pressing into in his cheek. As the Ford turned onto the street, Dad took one last glimpse at the couple. The lady was pinching her lower lip with worry as the man just shook his head and waved. Dad turned his head forward and rested his chin on the table top. This was slightly more comfortable but he could see only the sky, tree limbs, and street lights, which had not yet turned on.
.
He had never calculated it, but it was actually 7/10ths of a mile to their apartment. His breath rose up like smoke in the cold air. “It’s just a few blocks," he reminded himself, "We'll be home in no time." He smiled at his cleverness and began reciting his favorite lines of Edgar A. Guest, which had become his mantra for moments such as these:

Somebody said that it couldn't be done,

But he with a chuckle replied

That "maybe it couldn't," but he would be one

Who wouldn't say so till he'd tried.

So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin

On his face. If he worried he hid it.

He started to sing as he tackled the thing

That couldn't be done, and he did it.

.
The rhythm of the Guest’s poem seemed to match the rhythm of the soles of his shoes slapping left-right-left-right on the pavement. As they turned from 8th onto Chestnut, it occurred to Dad that he had not put his gloves back on and his hands were already cold. "That's not good," he thought but smiled and skipped ahead to some other lines from the poem. This time, conserving his breath, he did not say them out loud.

With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,

Without any doubting or quiddit,

He started to sing as he tackled the thing

That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

.
He turned his head to the side in time to see 9th Street sign passing by. Two blocks down—only six more to go.
.
Inside the car, Mom had a unique disadvantage all her own. Because the trunk was up, she could see nothing out the back window. And with Dad walking in the center of the car, she could see nothing in the side mirror either. She kept her feet flat on the floor, and just idled ahead at a comfortable pace as the radio played in the background.
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They passed the Dalton's house, and Mom began wondering who else she knew on Chestnut Street and hoped that none of them looked out their windows right now. She would be happy to show off the table once it was in their apartment, but she could only imagine how silly it looked sticking out the back of their clunky old Ford with Don walking behind it. She waved at perfect stranger on the corner of 10th Street to draw attention from the back of the car. The lady did not wave back. She just pointed at the car to make sure her children saw it and they all laughed. Seeing no cross traffic, Mom rolled through the stop sign at 10th Street. So far so good. Hold that thought.
.
There is something I must tell you while we pause to catch our breath in this story: There are no stop signs between 10th and 14th on Chestnut, and while it appears to be perfectly flat, there is in fact a slight change in elevation between 10th and 12th streets. One would never notice this change if simply walking or in a car listening to music, but there is in fact an unperceivable downhill grade.
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If you reading this on the high-speed internet, [work with me here] read this paragraph and then open a second window to the following link. Don’t watch the clip now--just play the audio as background, because one of Mom's favorite sing-along songs from the Swing Era came on the radio. It is this Andrews Sister classic, “Hold Tight.” Once the song begins, come back and continue reading the story.
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As I was saying the change in grade between 10th and 12th is barely perceptible from the INSIDE of a car, but if you are OUTSIDE of that car, walking behind it, holding a Duncan Phyfe table in both hands with your arms stretched downward as if glued to a heavy wheelbarrow, and if your chin is resting on the table top with your mouth open for air as if imitating a roasted pig with an apple in its teeth, and if your feet have been slapping the pavement in the same rhythm for three blocks…when the tempo of those slapping feet begins to pick up ever so slightly…YOU DO NOTICE IT.
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“Bev. Slow down. You’re picking up speed.” Dad yelled into the dusk, but Mom was inside the car singing with the Andrews Sisters.

Hold tight, hold tight, a-hold tight, hold tight

Fododo-de-yacka saki

Want some sea food mama

Shrimps and rice they're very nice
I like oysters, lobsters too,

I like my tasty butter fish, fooo

When I come home late at night

I get my favorite dish, fish

Hold tight, hold tight, a-hold tight, hold tight

Fododo-de-yacka saki

Want some seafood mama.

.
She kept looking in the mirrors but could still see nothing wrong as she smiled as sang out loud:

I want some seafood Mama

Oh won't you give it to me

cause I'm as happy as can be

When the seafood comes to me

La-da-da La-da-da La-da-da

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The car had been going between 3 and 5 MPH before 1oth Street. She was now going between 6 and 7 MPH. Next time you're driving a car, idle down a street and watch the speedometer. You can barely tell the difference between single-digit speeds from INSIDE the car. But next time you're on a treadmill. Up the speed from 4 to 7 MPH and jog like your pushing a loaded wheelbarrow. The difference is huge.

.

Dad had run track in high school, and as we know, his idea of a picnic was swimming to Canada and back. Dad was in excellent condition, but he was beginning to get out of breath. He couldn’t tell if he was truly winded from walking faster and faster or if he was in an early stage of PANIC knowing that he had absolutely no way of getting his wife’s attention.

“Bev! Bev! Slow down!” he screamed with what breath he had. Dad now fully understood the importance of being able to swing his arms while walking, but his gate was beyond “walking” and approaching a jolting trot. Even if he could let go with one hand, the car itself was out of his reach. There was nothing to pound on.

“You can do this, Don,” he coached himself and tried to remember every foot race he had ever run. “Just keep calm and keep your stride,” he said turning his head to see the 12th Street sign go by in a blur. It was then he heard the faint sound of the Andrews Sisters coming from the inside of the car. “No wonder she can't hear me!” He screamed in his head.

Ho,ho,hold tight won't cha hold tight, Hold tight

Fododododo Yacka sacki

want some seafood Mama

Shrimpers a-hand ri-hice a-hare very nice...

.
Dad was now running as fast as he could behind the open jaws of a ’39 Ford, knowing that at any moment he could miss a beat or lose his grip and fall headlong into a pile of splintered Duncan Phyfe. 13th street passed. “She’ll have to brake to make the turn at 14th,” he thought. And sure enough, the brake lights came on but only to ease the corner. Catching a second wind, he screamed once more.

.
“Bev! Stop the car!” Then between breaths, he shouted each word by itself. “Bev… Stop... Stop!
.
Inside the car, Mom sang the last note with the trio and then faintly heard Dad yelling through the back seat. Instinctively, she stepped on the brake. The car lurched to a halt. Fortunately, Dad’s face was sideways while he was yelling and the soft part of his cheek slammed into drawer, which helped break the impact of his temple against the edge of the table. The pain went unnoticed. He was so happy that his feet had stop running. Still he could not let go of the table. Angry and out of breath, he had no energy to yell another word, which was very fortunate for Mom who came around the trunk lid to see this image for the first time.
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[I'd like you to imagine this snapshot as I have many times through the years. Mom standing there with her hand on her mouth, her pregnant overcoat bulging, her feet in low boots with fur around the top. Dad holding a table by the legs with his face resting against the drawer, steam rising from his winter jacket. You may agree with me that it is suitable for a Norman Rockwell print or even a porcelain figurine. If I had such a piece of art, it would hold a place of honor in my home.]
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Finally, Dad had enough breath to ask...
.
"Do you have any idea how fast you were going?"
.
"Don, I did not touch the gas. It was just idling like you said."
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"Bev, I was running as fast as I could. One more block and it was over."
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"Now I know I have seen you run way faster than I was going."
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"Let me explain, Bev. I was not running. My head was not running, my arms were not running, my body was not running--only my legs were running and they were about to fall off." Mom's hand went to her mouth. "It's not funny, Bev."
.
"I'm not laughing," she mumbled. "I'm so sorry, Don. Here let me hold that while you rest."
.
"No. I'll be fine. Just give me another minute and help me put my gloves on."
.
"Oh, Don. Your hands must be freezing."
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"Actually, I can't feel them." he muttered. "I don't know what I was thinking. I should've brought some rope. I should've had my glove on. I should've had you stop at each corner..."
.
"And I shouldn't have been singing with the radio..."
.
"Yeah--what was that all about? Here I am about to have my own personal train wreck and you're in there singing 'La-da-da, La-da-da.'"
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"I'm sorry..." she was going to say more, but from the front of the car through the open door, came Gene Autry's classic tune. "Here comes Santa Clause." Mom's hand covered her mouth again. She could see in Don's eyes that he was approaching that fine line men cross when they’re almost ready to admit that their current predicament will someday strike them as funny, but this was clearly not yet the time to laugh. Recognizing “funny someday” moments while they’re fresh is the secret to marital bliss.

.

"I'm sorry, Honey. This isn't funny. I'll go turn it off."

.

"Let it play. I don't care." Dad said on an exhale and no hint of a smile. "I'm ready. Just roll down the window. Keep your foot lightly on the brake and pretend you're strolling along side the car. Go that slow."
.
"Got it. Slow. Like I'm strolling along side the car."
.
"Alright. Let's go. We're almost home."
.
The last two blocks were uneventful. Gene Autry's homespun voice echoed faintly off the passing houses as the strange silhouette of a car and man lumbered down the lane. One by one, the street lights flickered on as they rounded the last corner home.

.

With a steadying hand from Mom, Dad hefted the table upstairs, and put it in the archway between the kitchen and the living room. There was simply no place else to put it. He was standing on the far side and had to turn sideways to inch past it into the kitchen. He was about to say once again that this table was a bad idea, but he was silenced by the incredibly happily look on his wife's face.

.

Mom stood so as not to block the kitchen light that shone down on her Duncan Phyfe and smiled. "Thanks, Don." she whispered.

.

It was not until some time later, when the bedroom light was out and their heads were nestled in the dark, that Dad began to laugh and Mom joined in.

.

Unsettled Chapter 32: "Six Toilets in a Row"

So where does one begin to take apart a building piece by piece? The roof? The floors? Top-down or bottom-up? Well, Dad decided to salvage the old schoolhouse from the inside-out: that is, leaving the roof and shell of the building in tact to keep people and the weather out as long as possible.

On our first Saturday of work, the outside of the building went untouched, but inside we removed all light fixtures (which proved to be of no future use or us); took the chalk boards from the wall without breaking the heavy sheets of slate (which proved to be of no future use to us). We removed all inside doors with their trim. And then the fun began.

With mallets and hammers we busted out the plaster interior walls between the vestibule and the bathrooms. It was the only way to make the rooms light enough to begin taking out the sinks and toilets. These fixtures were white with a small blue American Standard imprint and pitted chrome hardware, circa 1930's. There were two sinks and toilets in the boys bathroom and three sinks and four toilets in the girls bathroom.

Dave and I had never worked up close and personal with toilets before. Fortunately, it had been years since they had been used. They were dry as bones, but still... imagine the faces of two boys reaching with wrenches around, under, and inside of these old johns to unfasten them from the floors and wall.

“Just think of all the butts that sat here through the years,” Dave gasped, holding his breath and tugging on the lag bolts in the floor.

“I’d rather not think of that,” I said, removing the seat from the stool beside his. “I don’t know why Dad wants me to take these seats off. What are we going to do with six toilets.”

“It’s bad enough we’re keeping the toilets. I’m glad we’re chuckin’ the seats,” Dave said. “Besides, these kind of seats are never used in houses.”

I held the black U-shaped seat up as if seeing it for the first time.

“I never thought of that. So why are public seats open in the front like this?”

“It’s more sanitary. Think about it,” Dave paused as if considering further explanation, but I was suddenly grossed out. A shiver went from the fingers holding the seat all the way down my spine, and I tossed the big horseshoe across the room onto a pile of broken sheet rock.

“Everything all right in there?” Dad yelled from the ladder.

“Yeah, It’s fine,” I said. “We were just wondering what we’re going to do with all these toilets.”

“Well, I’ve got three bathrooms planned in the house. I don’t know if we’ll use those or not, but we've got to haul 'em off either way so load them into the van. I’m almost done here. I’ll come give you a hand with what’s left in there.”

By lunch time, the van was loaded with the six toilets, five sinks, and two drinking fountains. We all felt particularly dirty, but after washing up with water from our five gallon camping cooler, we were clean enough to scarf down a few sandwiches and get back to work.

By nightfall, all the ceiling tiles were down and the batting of dusty fiberglass insulation from the ceiling and walls was neatly piled in the corner. This stuff used to be called Rockwool. It does not contain asbestos, but it's prickly and our forearms itched for weeks. We did not have dust masks and didn't think to wear rags around our faces. In no time our nostrils were dark as a chimney sweep's and our handkerchiefs soon looked like small canvases of modern art in splatters of black snotty paint.

The worst part about that first day and all the days of salvage work to follow was that the Dad had long been in the habit of working until dark, but during the schoolhouse weeks, we worked 'til dark and then still had another hour of work in going to the property to unload that day's treasures into the barn.

That first Saturday we drove the old blue utility van Dad bought from his friend Virg Palmer. It had been a Michigan Bell truck and still had the yellow siren on top to prove it. (That’s the van there in the picture of my friend Bob Johnson riding on the tire swing from Chapter 30. Bob was the only guy I knew who had multiple pairs of white jeans.)

Dad drove the van and Dave usually got the passenger seat. I rode on the spare tire tossed in the back. But that first Saturday night, I sat not on the spare but on a wobbly toilet just behind the gap between the seats. When we got to the barn, we unloaded the toilets in a row against the inside north wall. It looked much like this picture--except our toilets weren't as clean and had no seats.

The toilets stayed in the barn like that for about a year. Mom insisted that her house was not going to have those old nasty things in it, and Dad eventually saw it her way, busted them up with a sledge hammer and dumped them at the land fill. There was one funny thing that happened with the toilets a couple weeks after we put them in the barn.

My friend Bob Johnson had come with me to work at the school one Saturday. (That's Bob riding the rope swing in the picture with the van above.) After a long day of pulling and de-nailing lumber, we had a load of boards to put in the barn late at night. Bob had been in the barn before but not since the six toilets arrived. When the lights came on and Bob saw all that porcelain, he laughed and asked the same question we had asked:

"Whoa! Mr. K. Why do you need all these toilets?"

"Well, Bob. Ya see," Dad paused for effect, "We plan to build a really sh*tty house." [except he didn't pronounce it with an asterisk] Then he laughed hard at his own joke. Bob was speechless.

Now I realize that many readers will find nothing wrong with my father's lame attempt at some bathroom humor. After all, Bob's question was a perfect set up for that line. But you have to understand that my Dad was our Sunday school teacher. He was chairman of the Deacon Board at church. Bob had known and worked with my Dad for years and never heard the slightest cuss word come from him. Dad's joke was so unexpected, so out-of-character...that Bob just stood there stammering, eyes wide. He couldn't even manage a courtesy chuckle. Dave and I would never have attempted such humor with Dad, but whenever he did, we typically snickered. This time, however, we just winced in the awkward silence.

Dad quickly stopped laughing and said straight-faced, "We don't know what we're going to do with all these toilets, Bob. We've got plenty to spare if you ever need one."

Only then did Bob come out of shock. "We're all set for toilets, Mr. K," he smiled.

It's a little anecdote that Bob and I never forgot. It is funny only in the odd and innocent context of the world we knew at that time. Perhaps it's a detail not worth sharing, except as a reminder that adults are sometimes put on pedestals, and pedestals are a risky stage for vaudeville. On the other hand, a life truly worth looking up to knows when to kick aside the pedestal and settle for a stool.
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