Great technology

I’m working my way through dad’s slides, scanning them.  I’ve accumulated small expertise in scanners  the last couple of years I’ve used them.  No depth of understanding, only a trial and error accumulation of what mouse clicks perform which part of the job.  For manipulating scans I had Photoshop on my last computer, version 2000.  As in eleven years ago.  I gave Picasa a go when I got the new computer, and quickly declared it way over my head.  I ended up with Windows live photo gallery.  The logo looks like an askew marigold. As my mother said about so many things, it’s built for comfort, not for speed.  Even does things my eleven year old Photoshop couldn’t envision.  I like it.

Two hundred of the four hundred odd slides I selected are scanned and edited.  I continue to admire my dad’s camera skills.  He encountered pictures in the army; he spliced together aerial photos to make reconnaissance maps.  This was the 1920’s; I’m sure the maps all were of Georgia.  He acquired cameras I saw him use when I was a child.  There were a couple of large format cameras, some bellows Kodak’s.  A tripod.  Light meters, of course.  In 1953, just before he went on an assignment to England, he bought a Kodak 35mm camera that he used for the next twenty odd years.  He only used color positive film—slides—and his choice was Kodachrome 24 or 48 ASA.  Forty and fifty years later the slides look like the first day out of the box.

I think how impressed my dad would be with the scanner, and even more with the editing tools.  He didn’t leave me any red eye to deal with, but there are many pictures I know he’s pleased I have cropped to feature his subject.  And I’m happy I didn’t give up on the scanner I thought was about ten inches square, but arrived in a small suitcase with the usual absent instruction manual.  I don’t do well with on-line, I need to keep my finger under the line of instruction I am following until it’s in my head.  Oh, well.  I’ve got it down now.

Here is the oldest slide in the box, my sister Janice in 1954.

And here is a slide from 1968, my Aunt Ruth and her Aunt Eva.  Aunt Ruth is dad’s next to youngest sister and Aunt Eva is Eveline Cecelia Hogue, a younger sister of dad’s mother.  I got rid of a lot of the laundry, dad, but I’m not good enough to turn the remaining sheets into something else.

One last confession.  I bought a new camera last year.  It only takes eight pictures, which really irritates me, but I’ve worked around it in the little bit I’ve used the camera since I bought it.  I’m going to Wisconsin next week and want to take the camera so I decided to spring for a bigger memory card than the original equipment.  I found a person at Office Max who knew which card would fit into my little Kodak, and even upgraded myself from the 4GB she recommended to 8GB, only ten dollars more.  “Would you like me to put it in for you?”  “That would be so nice!  Wait a minute, there’s a card in there, though,” as she was sliding the new card into the slot.  “No there’s not.  It’s empty.”  An ahha moment—no wonder the screen says internal memory full after eight pictures.  Can you believe I can actually scan and crop slides.

Turkey Adventures

Jan and I were real city girls when we moved here.  An occasional raccoon in the trash was our total experience.  Here we had skunks in the front yard, fox (who moved into the front yard in broad daylight with their cubs the year the 17 year cicadas came popping out of the ground), hawks, coyotes, and our neighbor reporting Sasquatch in his woods across the street from us.  They have nothing on turkeys.

We would see the flock of turkeys down by the fire station, five miles north, then in the park five miles east, then somewhere else, until one day they were in our front yard.  We were invaded by wild turkeys.  We became turkey experts and learned they roost at dusk in the highest available spot.  We live on top of the hill.  They went even higher.  Our roof.  The turkey patriarch settled down each night on the studio chimney.

They got up at dawn, about the time the dogs went out and started their morning walk up the street.  Turkeys stand up, stretch, spread their wings and lift off.  Some lazy turkeys used the slope of the roof to gain lift momentum, sliding down as they lifted up.  We lost both front awnings to turkeys who misjudged the angle of the slope, went over the edge and through an awning.  Now we have metal awnings on the front, replacing the destroyed canvass awnings.

The turkeys went air born not to leave, but merely to get from the roof to the ground.  Once on the ground they walked up the street with Jan and the dogs.  Each morning she had a squawking, crowd behind her, beside her, in front of her, wings outspread, half running to keep up.  At the head of the street they would spread out in the field and not be heard from again until dusk.

Linda saw the turkeys at our house and said she needed a new turkey feather to put in her Shaker Woods hat.  “Not to worry,” said Tom, the hunter.  He was on medical leave at the time, foot in a cast from chasing a foolish dog into the neighbor’s horse corral and breaking something.  She and Tom were on the front porch. A turkey walked up the ramp, Tom leaned over and grabbed a handful of turkey tail feathers.  The turkey kept on walking, Tom kept on holding on.  The turkey dragged him across the porch, Linda holding him back for dear life as the turkey proceeded down the steps.  Tom balancing precariously on the edge, Linda holding him from going over the edge in his cast, yelling “Let Go Tom,” and the turkey kept on walking.  Tom let go.  Turkey lost no feathers.

Jan searched the internet for a solution and read that turkeys look for a place to roost at dusk.  Ah Ha.  If turkeys are not here at dusk, turkeys will not roost on our roof.   She rounded up half a dozen brooms and passed them out when the turkeys walked down the street as evening fell.  Even a broom to Tom, his leg in a cast.  The orders to her troups—no turkeys in the yard.  Turn them back.  Line forms at the street.  Don’t let them on the property.  Slow, steady, wait for the whites of their eyes.  Now men, present brooms, drive them back.  Up the street.  Up the street.  Up the street.  Don’t stop until it’s dusk!  In less than a week she had them roosting in our neighbor’s trees, where they could spy on Sasquatch.

Eventually the herd of turkeys moved on, we replaced the awnings and thought no more.  Until we had the roof replaced.  “Lady, do you know how much shit is on your roof?” 

Thanks for the memory, Pearl.

  

Few questions answered

The long anticipated transcript of records of the Lytle children arrived yesterday from Children’s Services.  There was not a lot of material, as the records officer had warned me several times in conversation.  Six very short paragraphs (three to six lines each) of information. But interspersing it with what I already know was interesting.

There are interesting tidbits.  Their records indicate that Mr. Lytle left the family in Coalmont, in 1918, and did not appear in court in Pennsylvania.  Interesting.  Children’s Services records indicate that some time after that he was located in Colorado Springs, Colorado and died there of tuberculosis in 1930.  Aunt Laura chronicled the children and their mother were back in Akron in 1915 and her father stopped at the home, probably in 1917 or 1918, asking his wife to be reunited and was turned down.  Perhaps some support action was filed in Pennsylvania, and George stopped in Akron and then kept going west.  Apparently Maime Lytle could keep her family together from 1915 to 1918.

Children’s Services records also show a letter from Peebles County Juvenile Court dated July 19, 1930 noted the passing of Mr. Lytle and indicated letters dated 1924 from his daughters Helen and Ruth were found in his possession.  So, all three daughters wrote to their father.  I cannot locate a Peebles County in Colorado (or even in the United States), so I will see if I can get a copy of that letter.  It would be interesting to know how a Juvenile Court would be involved in the death of a middle aged man.

The transcript says the family came to the attention of the Children’s Home in 1918, as Mrs. Lytle had difficulty in providing for her children alone.  She was not in good health and earned only nine dollars a week when she was able to do housework. She was a diabetic; the disease took her life at age fifty eight. The transcript says there was no documentation for the next several years, and does not say when the children were taken into the home.  Aunt Laura writes she was there at age ten, or 1921.  My newspaper account of Uncle Bill says he went from the Home to Orient at age 12, or 1921, so it seems he was already there, and probably my dad, too.  They could easily have been in and out, being cared for when their mother ran out of funds.   

Then, in March 1924, according to the transcript, the family was involved with Juvenile Court due to hardship and in August, 1924, my dad was placed in Charity Latch School and then readmitted to the Children’s Home several days later.  In September, 1924 he left the Home and joined the United States Army.  That supports the in and out theory, and since dad was 17 on the 28^th of August, 1924, I’m sure he was at the recruiting station shortly thereafter.  Charity Latch School!  I can only wonder.

In November, 1924, Laura and Ruth were returned to the care of their mother.  Aunt Laura was 13, then, and Aunt Ruth 11.  Aunt Laura writes that two weeks after her 14^th birthday, in January of 1925, she and Aunt Ruth were taken on a “picnic” and turned over to the convent school.  She lived there in Cleveland and graduated a two year vocational course while Aunt Ruth went to Cathedral Latin High School for a year before returning to another relative and then going on to a nursing degree.

From remarks of my mother during my childhood I understood my Grandfather Lytle had been in prison for non support of his family.  It does not seem to have been down to that, but it appears some action was afoot, as he did not “appear in Court in Pennsylvania”.  I do not know how long it takes a person to waste away from tuberculosis, but there was a span of fifteen years when he provided no support for his children.  There seems to have been plenty of blame to go around, Maime for leaving because she did not like moving and George not giving a damn when she left with four little children and one on the way, and she only twenty six years old. 

I’ve exhausted most resources I can imagine in unraveling my father’s childhood, and that of his siblings.  I’m still curious about Peebles County and Charity Latch School, both of which names could come right out of a Dicken’s novel.  If Maime did the best she could (and she probably did), Aunt Ruth was the most charitable in saying “Isn’t it tremendous what kids can live through.”  If George did the best he could, who knows.  He certainly kept the love of his daughters.

Aunt Helen Rita

Age 18

Made in America and Barberton, Ohio

Mom and Dad were always conscious of the country of origin of products they bought.  I can’t imagine it was a problem when they were children, or even young, married adults.  There wasn’t much money chasing any country’s goods in the 1930’s.  But the end of the world war produced a shift many weren’t noticing.  My parents did.

I was maybe seven or eight, standing patiently in O’Neils, one of Akron’s two major department stores, while my mother sorted through a table of rubbers and boots.  For those not past retirement age, we wore rubbers to school on rainy days, over our shoes to keep them dry.  I’ll bet more rubbers were left at school than any other accessory, proving to parents that leather shoes could survive to walk another day without being the encased in rubbers.

Mother was attempting to match up lefts and rights in the same size for some member of the family when she turned the rubber over and read the country of origin.  Japan.   She was outraged.  “This is the rubber capital of the world,” she said to no one in particular, “and these rubbers are made in Japan.”  She took her complaint to the department manager and we left without new rubbers for some child.

Listening to our parents we learned that with few exceptions foreign goods were inferior and even shoddy, and certainly didn’t keep people in this country employed.  Even the doll I got for my fourth birthday was made right down the road, in Barberton, which I knew then and now.

Amosandra doll

Sun Rubber Company

Barberton, Ohio

A few weeks after I was four years old I lay on the couch in the living room, drifting in an out of consciousness.  Neighbor women came and touched my forehead.  I looked up and the doctor was looking at me.  Then I was in the hospital and men and women in white uniforms were picking up needles longer than me to stick in my arm.  “This won’t hurt,” they said.  I knew they were lying and screamed.

The next time I woke up I was in bed with the little black doll, Maggie, I had received for my birthday.  I was glad to see her.  I was also starving.  Starving!  A large, white uniformed woman asked me if I was hungry.  Was I ever!  She would be right back with something to eat.  She returned with a tray with a selection of jello’s.  I could pick one.  I cannot eat jello to this day.

But, I had my doll baby.  Maggie and the bed and I were rolled to another part of the ward where I was under a window.  I could look across the street and see children playing at a playground.  I could also look down and see some work going on.   There was a large hole in the ground, and a black man at the bottom of the hole.  The other workers at the top were throwing bricks down to him and he caught them with his bare hands.  Pretty soon his hands were bleeding and the bricks kept coming.  I jumped up and down and screamed and screamed.  When people came I couldn’t make them realize what was happening to the man in the hole.

Then they took Maggie away and my parents were there to take me home.  I asked for Maggie and Mom and Dad said I’d get her back in a few minutes; she had been taken away to be sterilized, so she wouldn’t have measles germs on her.  Someone came in with Maggie, and she was white. The person with Maggie explained all the brown came off in the sterilizer.  I wouldn’t take her; it wasn’t my doll!  My parents may have brought her home, but I don’t recall ever seeing her again.

There was little sentimentality in our house.  Things happened, get over it, get on with it.  I was no longer interested in dolls and never had another one.  Even at four I could understand it would have been smarter to wash that baby with soap and water than throw her in a pot of boiling water.  That was just dumb.  I keep the story of the rubbers handy, but it’s become part of the story of the values of community that my parents understood.  As for the man catching bricks—I was another fourteen years understanding that one.  It could not have happened in the black and white neighborhood I grew up in and didn’t come back to me until I left my insular childhood world.

A folk story

The folk revival was firmly established when I started college.  Heck, I even knew about Pete Seeger.  My dad didn’t agree with his politics, but he agreed with McCarthy’s even less.  Around the house mom sang the big band tunes.  Dad played Latin stuff like Tico Tico.  I listened to WAKR on my red transistor radio and didn’t have an opinion on either Pat Boone or Elvis.  But when I went to college I went right down the folk rabbit hole. 

I saw the Lettermen, the Kingston Trio and more.  Folk music was the topic among the kids I hung with.  We spent afternoons playing albums.  I don’t remember the first time I saw the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem, but I did, and they went straight to the top of my chart.  They had two or three albums available in the very early sixties, and I played the vinyl off them. 

When I married my folk albums were packed away.  My husband hated them.  But they were unpacked and back on the stereo when we divorced, nine years later.  Along came the magic of 8 track tapes and recording equipment, and I was in business; all my albums could be played in the car.  The drive to work was a lot shorter.

My girls liked the music, too.  I guess.  It was all they heard.  But they didn’t complain.  There often was a third girl in the car, too, Chrissy, who lived next door and was Beth’s good friend. Here’s an old 110 film snap.  You can see Beth’s black Irish hair, Shelly’s Teutonic blond hair, and almost make out that Chrissy and her brother Mark have beautiful red hair.  I turned heads when I walked through a store with those three girls!   I could hear minds turning and opinions forming.

The girls each were a year apart and their average age was about eight when Chrissy’s mother dropped by one day to tell me I was enabling the girls to form good opinions of reprehensible behavior.  The three of them were enamored of the Clancy Brothers version of William Bloat and could be found and heard singing it in both back yards and out on the street.  “It glorifies murder and suicide,” she told me. 

I told her I’d heard worse versions that included clotted blood and thought it could even be considered an early advertising jingle.  Or, heavy handed chauvinism.  In any event, the girls didn’t unlearn the song and Chrissy was still allowed to come over.

In a mean abode

On the Shankell road

Lived a man named William Bloat

And he had a wife

The bane of his life

Who always got his goat

And one day at dawn

With her night dress on

He slit her bloody throat

Now he was glad

He had done what he had

As she lay there stiff and still

Till suddenly all of the angry law

Filled his soul with an awful chill

And to finish the fun

So well begun

He decided himself to kill

Then he took the sheet

From his wife’s cold feet

And he twisted it into a rope

He hanged himself

From the pantry shelf

Was an easy end let’s hope

With his dying breath

And he facing death

He solemnly cursed the pope

But the strangest urn

Of this whole concern

Was only just beginning

He went to hell

But his wife got well

And she’s still alive and sinning

For the razor blade

Was German made

But the rope was Belfast linen